“May I ask what’s going on here?” he uttered.
“Um, no,” Rachel retorted testily. “But may
I
ask what’s going on here? What are you doing in my friend’s flat? And where is she, anyway?”
George gave a big sigh. “What is it with this flat?” he asked of Maisie, clearly not expecting an answer, because he addressed Rachel immediately.
“We’re renting this flat, as of today. You can check with our agent at
YourHome
. And before you ask, we don’t know of any Sophie.”
Rachel stood in stunned silence. Sophie was renting her flat out? Through an agency? The implications were complicated and many.
She definitely knew
, was Rachel’s immediate guilty thought.
George appeared to be speaking, but Rachel struggled to hear. She shook her head impatiently and the sensation cleared.
“What is it about Sophie?” George was asking. “Are there any more of you likely to come round looking for her? You’ve got to understand that it’s ever so slightly unsettling. Perhaps we need to look for another place?”
“NO!” Rachel shouted quickly, surprising herself and the young tenants. “No,” she continued more calmly. “Please stay. I’m sorry to have bothered you. It’s just…it appears that Sophie left in rather a hurry, and she doesn’t seem to have told anyone and—”
“Yeah, well, we noticed
that
,” George cut in sarcastically.
“What do you mean?” Rachel inquired.
“What I mean is that we had a visit not four hours ago from a
very
deranged looking man in search of Sophie, too.”
Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. “Dan was here as well?”
George raised his eyebrows. “Dan? Can we expect a visit from him, too?” And, seeing Rachel’s confusion, he elaborated, sounding somewhat annoyed. “No, it wasn’t Dan who came by earlier. His name was—” He turned to Maisie for confirmation. “Steve, was it?” Maisie nodded.
“His name was Steve. Now
his
story was that he’d had a row with Sophie and had come to apologize…”
Steve?
Steve had been there, tonight, to apologize for a row? Rachel was utterly shocked. What had happened to Sophie’s ordered life? She shook her head once more to quiet the buzzing that had risen in her ears.
“Steve and Sophie had a row?” she muttered to herself. “Oh God, no, that can’t be right. So
that’s
why she wanted to meet up on Monday.” Rachel could feel the cogs turning in her brain as relief at not having been found out warred with residual guilt and confusion.
Where was she?
Noticing that George and Maisie were still staring at her, Rachel rallied to close the conversation properly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’d better be going now. Please, if you do hear anything from her, tell her I’m sorry, and to get in touch. Please.”
Without waiting for a reaction from the couple, Rachel turned and fled. She had to get home and think this over.
Sophie—gone?
What an extreme, and surprising, reaction. Looking deep in her soul, Rachel recognized that Sophie’s move was probably not a million miles away from her own desperate bid for change when taking a swim in the Thames. Maybe she had flipped and drawn a line. Without telling anyone.
Well. Without telling her friends.
But she had probably told Rick. No, scratch that. She
had
to have told Rick. She had made arrangements. After all, she still needed to live, and eat, and pay bills. That was probably what her quick visit to the office had been about.
She had flipped and gone, but she had not
flipped out
. Which meant…
Rachel grinned.
Which meant she could be found. She might not want to be found; but found, she would be. Rachel simply had to work out a way so they could make up with each other, and all would be well.
~Dan~
Dan’s alarm clock went off at an uncharacteristically early nine a.m. on a Saturday morning in early September. But, even more uncharacteristically, Dan was already up and dressed. He was in the kitchen clutching a mug of tea when he heard the alarm. He debated for a moment whether to go and turn it off but decided to let it beep itself out. Wearily, he sat at the kitchen table. The deadline that he had given himself after his heart-to-heart with Jodie had arrived. He had until lunchtime to do what he dreaded most—face the music, sort it all out.
Damn.
He didn’t consider himself to be a mean man, or a dishonest one. But he knew it was extremely uncomfortable addressing emotions head-on. Explaining the disaster he had wreaked and apologizing for it was his worst nightmare. Finding the right words, speaking coherently, that didn’t come naturally to him, not face-to-face. Only in writing songs and lyrics.
Dan sat bolt upright. That was it! He had three hours. Of course. He would knock together a song. Sophie loved his songs, she would listen.
He could write a song in three hours, easy. It wouldn’t be polished, perfect, or finished, but it would do. And he would find the right words.
Full of energy now, Dan bounded down the stairs to his studio. He grabbed a notepad and jotted down the thoughts that were jostling for attention in his head, the things that needed to be said. He picked up his acoustic guitar and started strumming idly, mulling over the events of the past few weeks.
When Sophie had started seeing Steve in earnest after she came out of the hospital, Dan had made himself scarce. He had known, from the first time that Sophie had told him about Steve, that she was deeply smitten by him. Dan had patiently sat through many a talk about Steve and had found himself enthusing that Steve sounded a really
nice, kind, wonderful
man. He hadn’t wanted to say all these nice things, but he and Sophie, they were history. They couldn’t be lovers, it wouldn’t work out. That was what she had told him in no uncertain terms in Paris. She was right, of course, but that hadn’t stopped him wanting, and regretting. So in secret, and without really being aware of it, he had formulated his cunning grand plan. If he played by her rules, and stuck it out, and stayed her friend, then maybe, one day, just maybe, they could be together again.
Thus he had resolved to be there for her, always, in whatever she was doing, without any sexual complications, innuendos, or anything complicated. It had been hard work, especially when she had moved in with him for a few short weeks, but he had done it, and he had never abused her trust.
When, quite out of the blue, this thunderbolt-and-lightning malarkey had started, Dan had seen no other option but to play along. It hurt him deeply to see Sophie’s eyes a-sparkle with love for this different man. In a weird way, Dan had fancied himself in the role of the tragic lover, supporting his loved one and making the ultimate sacrifice.
If you love someone, set them free
.
That had been well and good and
noble
. Yet Dan was of flesh and blood and he had needs. He had felt her loss more acutely than he imagined possible when he had surrendered her to Steve. For weeks and weeks, he had shut himself away, waiting for the pain to recede, the heartache to dull.
Quite randomly, he had bumped into Rachel one day in Harrods. Rachel, who was struggling to put her life back together. Rachel, whom he had known alongside Sophie for years and years. Rachel, who was very much lonely and single, just like himself. They had lunch. They had dinner. They had sex.
It was a tremendous release. It felt good. A little naughty. Possibly just a touch on the spiteful side.
Exciting
. Afterwards, he was overcome with remorse. She was on the rebound after all, was recovering from serious trauma, and he worried that he had abused her vulnerability. She laughed him off. “I know what I’m doing, and I needed this,” she assured him.
For a couple of weeks, they coupled every few days. The last time was on the bank holiday Monday, five days ago. That occasion was a watershed, a wild, delicious, bitter-sweet sea-change that had brought their dalliance to a screeching halt. He nearly expired with mortification when, mere minutes after their mutual climax, Rachel spoke to Sophie on the phone.
“This is mad,” Rachel declared after she had agreed to meet Sophie later. “I don’t know what we were thinking. How am I to look Sophie in the eye? Let’s not…let’s not do this anymore.”
Dan shrugged and concurred. He had loved being with Rachel; she was a fantastic girl. Yet she hadn’t captured his heart. Nobody but Sophie could.
“I was afraid I would hurt you,” he ventured cautiously.
“You didn’t. You haven’t,” Rachel objected vehemently. “The only person who’ll get hurt here is Sophie. We are total idiots. Suppose she found out? How do you think she’d feel?”
Dan’s heart sank. That was a terrible prospect indeed. He had never before experienced guilt about any of his conquests even when Sophie knew about them, but he had crossed a line with Rachel.
So they went their separate ways, for all intents and purposes, as though nothing had happened between them. Except he knew it wasn’t
quite
as simple as that. Their game was up. He hadn’t yet told Rachel, but he knew that Sophie
knew
.
It had taken him a little while to figure it out, but when he checked his phone after Rachel’s departure, there were several missed calls from Sophie. He tried to return them, but she didn’t pick up.
The following day—Tuesday—when he left the house to meet with the band, he snatched his keys from the bowl in the hallway, only they weren’t his set. He knew from the key ring that he held Sophie’s set of keys in his hand. His knees buckled and he had to sit on the stairs.
“Jenny,” he called out to his housekeeper. “Do you recall Sophie’s keys being here?”
Jenny dusted everywhere every day. She noticed things. She would tell him that the keys had been there for weeks. Perhaps she had been here when Sophie dropped them off and—
“Nope.” Jenny bustled in, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “They’re new. They weren’t here on Friday before I left.”
She might as well have punched him in the solar plexus with a rolling pin. The implication nearly killed him. Sophie had visited. She had been in the house. There was no other way the keys would have got there. She had been there. She had probably dropped by the previous day, after she had tried to call him. She had been in the house while—
It didn’t bear thinking about. Recalling the moment of realization showered Dan in a thousand types of red-hot guilt, and he shivered.
He had called Jodie that very minute and confessed the sorry mess to his sister. He had wanted a friendly ear and absolution. Alas, her reaction had come as a bit of a shock. Rarely one given to swearing, Jodie had deployed her entire catalogue of insults against him.
Tosser, arsehole, fuckwit, bastard
and
idiot
had been at the harmless end of the spectrum. He had held the handset as far away from his ears as possible and still her voice had resonated, loud and clear all the way from her flat in LA to his house in Clapham.
“Do you really think she knows?” he had asked, hoping against hope that Jodie might say no.
“After everything you’ve just told me? I’m very much afraid she probably does. It adds up, doesn’t it?” Jodie had replied, a little calmer. “How could you
do
this to her? When you love her so?”
Dan had been stunned. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, c’mon, big bro, it’s so obvious. For your sake and hers, you go and talk to her. Make sure she’s okay.”
And he had promised her.
Nonetheless, he had let the entire week pass, cutting it really close to his deadline, before he had found the courage to overcome his inner demons and rouse himself to go to face Sophie.
And that time was now.
He finished his song. He called it,
Undo Your Hurt
, and it contained all the truthful and sincere words from his initial draft, reordered and substituted in places to scan for singing, but the sentiment was there. The tune would need tweaking, and he would have to decide whether to make it voice-and-guitar or voice-and-piano only, but he knew that it would be a simple, no-frills, haunting song.
For his immediate purposes, the guitar version would have to do as he couldn’t possibly lug the piano across London.
~Dan~
Dan parked his car directly opposite Sophie’s flat. Not for him today to turn up by limo. He locked the steering wheel in position and sat back, looking up at her window. It had been weeks since he had been here, and he felt strangely excited despite the apology marathon he was about to run.
He had wondered what to say to make her listen. The core of the truth, he had decided, would be the best option.
“I am a complete bastard,” he practiced to himself. “And I am more sorry than you will ever know.”
Five seconds. Would that be too long, too much to say? Would she have shut the door by then?
“I’m-a-complete-bastard,” he said again, faster, urgency lending conviction to his voice.