Sophie's Run (6 page)

“No, George,” he said, as gently as he could. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t love you. I never told you I did, or would. I did say I was bad news.” He, too, sat down at the kitchen table. We made quite a tableau, the three of us.

George suddenly got up and left the table. Five minutes later, she was back, dressed in demure jeans and sweatshirt, face clean of makeup, hair in a ponytail. She looked much younger now, eighteen or twenty at the most. Like a lost fresher. Dan and I both realized at the same instant that that was exactly what she was.

“I’ll be going now,” she said in a small voice. “Thanks for…um, everything.” And before Dan could say anything, she turned and left.

“Oh my God, Dan” I admonished. “Have you
any
idea what you’re doing? Poor old George here…she was practically a babe-in-arms. She was only putting on an act to get to you. Don’t you ever
see
those things?”

I was surprisingly angry. Dan looked sheepish.

“She said she was twenty-five. I believed her. What should I do, ask for ID?”

“Well, maybe you should!” I shot back. “One day, you might not be so lucky. Dan, for God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, then muttered something about midlife crisis.

“Oh, come off it,” I advised. “You’ve got almost everything you want. We’ve talked about this whole relationship thing, remember? I really don’t care who you shag, but make sure you don’t pick someone who’ll get really hurt. Poor old George…” I petered out.

To be fair, Dan looked shocked to the core. He retreated to his studio and I didn’t see him for the best part of a week. He barely left the house, and he didn’t invite anyone back. Perhaps George had done him a favor and taught him a lesson.

One Friday afternoon, when I finished work early and had nothing to do, what with Rachel and Jordan busy planning their wedding… Well, I got home to Dan’s house and he was there, and he was out of his studio. In fact, he was in the lounge reading a book, a rare pastime for this here rock star of mine, and he was also humming a tune. I had been hearing snippets of this tune on and off all week on the few occasions when I had seen Dan, and it was very catchy. I had found myself humming bits of it at work today.

Anyway, there he was, not busy, not sulking, but just there. When I walked in, he jumped off the sofa and greeted me like a long-lost friend, big hugs and all. He pressed a gin and tonic into my hand and dragged me into the kitchen.

“I told you I could cook,” he announced, and opened the oven door with a flourish. I could just make out a dish filled to the brim with what looked like hot cheesy sauce. It smelled delicious. I took a closer peek but he shooed me away, telling me to sit down at the table, which he had already laid for two.

“What is this?” I managed, totally taken aback.

“Just a little treat,” Dan announced cheerfully, pulling the rack out of the oven and revealing a perfectly cooked, mouth-watering lasagna. “To apologize for my very bad behavior and my long sulk.” He set the steaming dish on the table, narrowly avoiding knocking over an open bottle of red wine.

“I got garlic bread, too…” he continued, deftly retrieving it from the oven. “Oh, and salad.” He scurried to the fridge.

I sat in awe. “This is fantastic,” I managed eventually. I was eyeing up the garlic bread which looked homemade. “Did you make this?”

“Of course,” Dan assured me. “I did tell you I could cook. I just need time, and inspiration.” He spread a napkin on my lap like an expert waiter and sat down to join me.

“Wine, madam?” he asked in a serious sommelier voice, bottle already poised and pouring.

“Oh yes, please,” I breathed, somewhat overcome. Then I spied a fancy-looking envelope lying on the kitchen counter. Ever curious, I got up to retrieve it. It was addressed to me.

“Hold on…” I muttered, “what have we here?”

Dan was looking a bit nervous. “Erm,” he started, and cleared his throat. “Uh, I have a pretty good idea what that is. I was going to feed you first though… You know…soften the blow a bit.”

Blow? What blow? What
was
he talking about? This wasn’t a dreaded brown envelope, nor a bill. The envelope was thick lilac paper with little printed daisies scattered prettily in an arch along the left hand side. In fact, it looked like a wedding invitation. I smiled. Who did I know who was getting married? Oh, what fun.

I turned the envelope over in my hands, ready to open it, when I caught sight of the sender.

Dan caught me looking and got up quickly. He took my hand, the one with the envelope, and looked me in the eyes.

“You don’t have to open this now,” he said gently. “Have some dinner first. Here, finish your drink at least…”

He knew. He was such a kind man, trying to distract me from this disaster in the making, but I had to open it. I had to read it.

I slid my index finger through the top of the envelope before he could stop me. Out fell several bits of paper, but I caught the lilac card in my hands.

Ms. Dina Erin Belling

and

Mr. Timothy Renfrew

request the pleasure of your company

at their marriage

at Portreath Castle, nr Plymouth

on Saturday, 14 July,

at 2p.m.

I turned the card over and over in my hand, but there was nothing else. No name, no personal address or note of any kind. I felt like somebody had kicked me in the stomach.

Dan had been reading over my shoulder. “Oh dear,” he announced, somewhat too cheerfully for my liking. “They might at least have put your name on it.”

Well, yes. That, and a few other things, I thought. And what was the point of this? Overcome with strange emotion, I felt jittery and I had to sit down. Tears were pricking the back of my eyes, and I had to sniff to keep them at bay. Dan was making a good job of trying to ignore my discomfort.

“Cheeky buggers,” he announced to no one in particular. “Leaving the invite so late.”

I ignored him and picked up the envelope again. The handwriting was definitely Tim’s, and I shivered in dismay. “I’m not going,” I declared.

Dan laughed at me.

“Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.” I sulked, but he laughed harder still.

“I’m not going, and you can’t make me,” I declared once more.

Dan sat me down at the table again and spooned out some lasagna for me.

“Here,” he pronounced. “Eat. It’ll make you feel better. And drink, too,” he added as an afterthought.

I dutifully took a large gulp of wine.

“Steady on, now,” Dan warned. “I didn’t mean, get plastered out of your mind. Here, eat something.” He picked up the spoon for me, making as though to feed me like one would a child. I glared at him.

“Just why exactly are you so upset?” Dan probed gently.

I duly considered the question. Why
was
I so upset? I supposed the answer was that Tim and I hadn’t exactly split up on amicable terms. I couldn’t possibly show my face at his wedding.

“I. Am. Not. Going.”

Dan gave a theatrical sigh but took the bull by the horns.

“Of course you’re going,” he told me in his most insouciant voice. “In fact, we’re both going.” And, seeing my shock and horror, he added, “It’d be rude not to, after they sent
such
a kind invite. Come on…” he coaxed. “It’ll be a laugh.”

“But…” I stuttered, feeling flustered at the turn of events. “But,” I continued, “you’re not invited.”

“How do you know?” Dan was being obtuse. “It doesn’t say anything on the card.”

“Well, exactly. That would be how I know.”

“Rubbish,” Dan stated. “Who goes to a wedding on their own? Who?” He looked a challenge at me. I refused the bait.

“Not many people,” I started cautiously, but was mercilessly interrupted.

“Bollocks. Nobody, that’s who. And you’re not nobody. So, we’re going, both of us.” He rubbed his hands with glee.

I tucked into my lasagna while I mulled this over. Actually, the food was rather fantastic, and as it warmed my insides, I warmed to the idea of going to this wedding with Dan. I gave an involuntary smile.

Dan had been watching me closely and saw the weather change on my face. “There now,” he grinned back, “that’s my girl. We’ll have a great time. We’ll be the evil guests… We…” he paused for thought. “I know! We’ll get blindingly drunk and disgrace ourselves by singing loudly. We’ll be the worst guests ever. We’ll…”

“Hold your horses,” I interrupted. “I think utmost grace and poise would be much better weapons here.”

“Hm,” Dan concurred doubtfully. “But not much fun. However, if it’s grace and poise you’re after, let’s send an acceptance card, right now. Make it official, before you change your mind.”

And so we sat down companionably on the sofa, laptop between us, another bottle of wine on the go, while designing our very own acceptance card.

“Tim might not like this,” I surmised, examining the end result a little dubiously.

“Tim can go to hell!” Dan declared, but quieted down quickly when he saw the thunderous look on my face.

“Grace and poise,” I reminded him.

Dan raised his eyebrows. “Okay… He might be a tad surprised, that’s all,” he backtracked obligingly. “Now…for expedient delivery…” He scrolled through the contact list on his smartphone. “There.”

He dialed a number and spoke briefly. Within twenty minutes, a bicycle courier had turned up and collected our masterpiece.

“Mission accomplished,” Dan announced happily. “Ah, it’ll be great. I love a good wedding.”

Meanwhile, I was having second thoughts. About going, and about our hasty means of accepting the invite.

“Now don’t you go looking glum,” Dan warned me. “I need your help with something.” And, when I didn’t react, he persisted. “Right now, if you please?”

“Okay,” I shrugged. “What is it?”

Dan jumped up with extraordinary alacrity. “Come on,” he urged, “I want to show you my studio.”

“Studio?” I echoed. “I thought you needed my help with something?”

“I do, you’ll see. Come on, this way.”

Down the stairs and into the basement he took me. I had never been down here before, hadn’t needed to visit his sanctum. We reached a sturdy door that led into a smallish, wood-paneled room. Three empty music stands graced the center of the room, and at the back nestled a drum kit, several six strings and two bass guitars. By the opposite wall, an impressive-looking keyboard sat on its stand. Immediately to the left there was a thick glass door, leading up a few steps into the mixing room.

“Go on up, have a look,” Dan encouraged with a proud smile. I dutifully heaved open the heavy door, climbed the steps and sat down in one of the leather-padded executive swivel chairs.

“Wow,” I said, commenting on the comfort of the chair and the fact that it rocked slightly as well as swiveled. Oblivious to my meaning, Dan glowed with pride.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” he beamed. He made a sweeping hand gesture, taking in the mixing area with all its little buttons.

“This is”—Dan broke into a voice-drumroll—“a 24-track recorder with switchable balanced or AES/EBU digital inputs, balanced analog insert points, metering and controls on the front panel, and it is also compatible with a USB 2.0 drive.”

He looked at me expectantly, but I had absolutely no idea what he had said.

Indulgently, he offered, by way of clarification, “The 24 tracks make it really easy to get amazing live and rehearsal recordings, and it sets up very quickly. This little baby can deal with analog inputs, records to a quality broadcasting format and also lets me plug in a standard USB 2.0 drive so I can transfer it all to my workstation.”

All right, I had understood bits of that. I could compute “live and rehearsal recordings,” I understood “sets up quickly” and I had in fact heard of a “USB drive,” although the meaning of the numbers escaped me.

“Wow,” I breathed, deeply impressed if still confused. “Amazing.”

Dan burst out laughing. “You haven’t got a clue what any of that means,” he guffawed. “And why would you?”

“No, indeed,” I concurred. “But it sounds impressive… even if it doesn’t look like much.”

Dan chuckled. “Technology has come such a long way. You were expecting a huge mixing desk with hundreds of buttons and dials, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, this little thing here does all of what the old desk would have done, plus a lot more. It’s simply amazing. It’s powerful enough to lay down tracks with the band that could be put straight on an album… I only got it a few months back. Anyway, this is where I need your help.”

Before I could ask anything, he had lightly tapped a button and the song that he had been working on filled the room.

A beautiful, mournful electric guitar opened the song, with an acoustic guitar mimicking the theme and setting the rhythm. Very gently, the drums took over and a bass tap-tapped along. The sound gave me goosebumps.