Sophie's Run (13 page)

“So what? It’d be great if it were awful. More laughs!” He had a merry twinkle of anticipation in his eyes.

How could anyone be so self-assured?

“Anyway,” he continued, “as it is somebody’s birthday, I suggest you get into the shower and make yourself presentable. We have things to do!”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I burst out, blushing deeply with embarrassment. “Happy Birthday, Dan!” I gave him a big kiss on the cheek and a big, strong hug. “Happy, happy birthday,” I gabbled again. “Sorry I forgot, it was this stupid dream…”

Dan grinned benevolently. “Never mind, get yourself ready. I’ll order breakfast.”

“But-but-but,” I stammered with confusion. Breakfast? Room service? This was more like the Dan that I knew of old, but I wasn’t entirely sure whether I should tolerate him. “I got your present here… Let me get it.” I made for my suitcase, but Dan propelled me toward the bathroom, laughing.

“I can wait. I know what you’re like, get yourself sorted and you’ll feel much better.” He shut the bathroom door behind me, nearly forgetting to switch the light on for me.

“Thanks,” I yelled, reluctantly yielding to the wisdom of his suggestion.

“Welcome,” he yelled back.

Half an hour later, freshly showered and blow-dried and made-up, I felt more like a human being again. I had told myself sternly to chin up for Dan’s big day—I wanted to make it fantastic, and I had a very special present indeed to give to him. Finding a good present for Dan was almost impossible as he owned nigh on everything he had ever wanted. Yet a birthday required a present, however small, and a round birthday
definitely
merited a gift.

He was a sensitive chap and he loved words. He always wrote his own lyrics, and I knew he appreciated a nicely turned phrase. So I had decided it had to be a book. He did own books. Quite a few, actually. A lot of them were technical ones relating to music and composition, and he had a few biographies of famous musicians and fellow rockers. He even owned a few novels, including at least one Booker Prize winner.

But this one was different. This one was
mine
.

Well, technically, it was ours.

It was a very personal present, but I thought he would appreciate that most.

I had written it over a couple of years, in little bits here and there, and even done a bit of editing on it. Nobody else had seen it, and I didn’t think anyone else would ever see it. But for Dan, today, it was perfect.

It was the story of us, our story, or our not-story, as it were. It was a funny, and honest, and occasionally a little bit sad rendering of our romance two years previously. I had printed it out, at great pains, on paperback-size paper, double-sided and formatted like a book. I had added a dedication to him, and just for him. I had designed a cover. Finally, I had used all my contacts at work to persuade a printer I knew to run off a one-time-only copy of the cover, and bind it all together like a proper paperback with the pages that I had already printed. It looked and felt absolutely real.

There was an awful lot of me in that present, and I had my heart in my mouth when I retrieved it from my bag.

“Oh, a present!” Dan was wide-eyed with surprise. “How lovely. Sophie, you shouldn’t have.” He looked at me with big, excited eyes.

“Now, now,” I warned awkwardly, “Don’t get too excited. It’s only a little something.”

Dan shook his head in a “yadda yadda yadda” kind of gesture and picked at the wrapping paper. “May I?”

“Of course,” I said, “just don’t… Well, don’t expect too much. It’s—”

But Dan had already opened it. “It’s a book,” he exclaimed, sounding quite delighted. Then he did a double take on the title and the author.

Sophie’s Turn
.

“It’s your book,” he squealed, sounding almost girlish. “Oh my God, oh my God, why didn’t you tell me?” He flipped through the pages eagerly.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I qualified. “It’s not like I signed a mega publishing deal. This is a one-off copy, for you.”

Dan paused in his perusing. “A one-off? For me?” he repeated, then clicked. “You
made
this? For me?”

I nodded, having temporarily lost the power of speech in the effort not to cry. I was feeling unaccountably emotional.

“I wrote it, too,” I added, somewhat superfluously.

Now Dan was speechless. Instead of a response, he sat down and had a proper read of the first few pages.

“This is about us,” he stated.

I waggled my head noncommittally, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Is it a diary?” he pondered out loud.

I latched onto the idea gratefully.

“It is, and it isn’t. What we had was so beautiful, and so unique… Well, I didn’t want to ever lose it. I didn’t want to ever forget those days. Not one tiny little bit of it. How I felt. What we did. What
you
did.”

He flinched.

“No, no, I mean the wonderful things you did,” I amended hastily. “It’s all in there. It’s a happy story. And really, it ends happily for both of us, you’ll see. If you don’t like it—”

“I do. I
do
,” he said emphatically. “I’m just surprised. And touched. Nobody has ever given me something quite so special before. This is unbelievable. All that work, and that effort…”

He petered out and turned the book over in his hands. “It looks so real, like it’s been properly published. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble for one copy, for me.”

I could have sworn he was moved.

No, looking at him reverently turning the book over in his hands, I
knew
he was moved. And that, in turn, moved me.

Goodness, I was going to cry again. I couldn’t cry
twice
on his birthday.

Thankfully, our breakfast arrived and we were both distracted from our musings. Saved by the bacon! We both tucked in hungrily.

Dan wouldn’t tell me his plans for the day. “You’ll simply have to play along,” he kept reiterating as he dragged me out of the hotel and onto the
Ku’damm
.

It was midmorning on a sunny Tuesday in July. The amazing boulevard was busy with tourists and office workers, but the atmosphere was relaxed. There was a definite hint of holiday in the air.

Dan walked me down the
Ku’damm
, past the
Gedächtnis-kirche
and right down another unpronounceable road, always consulting his children’s guidebook.

“Where
are
we going?” I asked again, but I only got a suppressed murmur of “nearly there, nearly there” by way of response.

Suddenly, I realized that we were approaching the famous
KaDeWe
department store. How exciting. Would Dan want to go for an explore, or would that be too boring for a man?

But yes, we stopped outside and Dan looked at me expectantly.

“We’re here,” he announced with a flourish of his hand. “Kah-Dey-Wey. Or”—he looked in his guide again—“
Kaufhaus des Westens
. Department Store of the West.”

I nodded eagerly, keen to get in.

“Hold it, hold it,” Dan urged me, grabbing my hand. “You have
got
to appreciate this before you go in. This”—he waved at the department store—“isn’t just a department store. This is Europe’s
biggest
department store. Welcome to”—he took another quick look at the guidebook to be sure of his facts—“welcome to over sixty thousand square meters of shopping. I’m sure we’ll find your dress in there.”

I was rooted to the spot. Dress? What dress? What for?

Dan snorted with laughter. “The wedding? On Saturday? Let’s get your amour.”

The wedding, of course. I had never even considered what I would wear. I had assumed I was going to find something suitable in my wardrobe. In a flash I realized that wouldn’t do. Dan was right. I needed something new.

Oh no, I bloody didn’t. What I needed was not to go.

My emotions must have played on my face, because Dan held on more tightly to my hand and cajoled me along. “Come on now, it’ll be fun.”

I muttered a murderous comment under my breath and dug my heels in. We must have looked like an exasperated father with a truculent five-year-old, Dan pulling and me dragging my feet. But Dan was stronger, and he was determined. Suddenly, we were at the information desk on the ground floor, and Dan negotiated with a customer service lady. He was talking about an appointment with a personal shopper.

Ha.
Fat chance, you probably needed to arrange a date three weeks, nay, three months in advance.

But—what?

The lady picked up her phone and spoke rapidly in German. In all that foreignness, I latched on to the few words that I could understand. Two of them were extremely familiar, involving as they did, “Dan” and “Hunter.” The third one appeared to be “
Freundin
”—girlfriend?

Dan held a finger to his mouth, indicating I should hold my silence. The lady put the phone down and offered Dan her most dazzling smile.

“Mr. Hunter,” she began in excellent English. “A personal shopper is expecting you. She will be delighted to assist you and your friend. If you’d make your way to the ladies’ department on the second floor, please, she is waiting for you there.”

And then—I swear she was blushing, and I could tell what was coming—yes, she summoned up the courage. She proffered a piece of paper and a pen. “Would you mind… I’d love your autograph.” She blushed more deeply still. “I’m a huge fan.”

“Of course,” Dan agreed graciously and swiftly wrote out his name for her. “There you go.” He handed her back her piece of paper and their hands brushed against each other. I had to suck in my cheeks to stop myself from laughing out loud. Not at her, per se, but because it was all so cute. And obvious. And because I had been there, myself. Dan intercepted my look and nudged me in the side.

“Stop smirking,” he admonished in a barely audible voice. I obediently rearranged my face into a less irksome expression and even managed to give the lady a big smile myself. She was so excited, she barely noticed me anyway. She was already busy showing off her trophy to her colleague.

“I’m surprised,” I ventured. “I thought you wanted to remain unrecognized.”

“Well…” Dan sounded evasive. “This wasn’t really anything much to do with me. You’ll see.”

I was intrigued, but he didn’t give me an opportunity to ask more questions. We went up on the escalators in the central light well, and I had to admit, this truly was a spectacular place. Everything was bright, airy, and very elegant. Every floor boasted high ceilings, and there was plenty of space between the extravagant displays. The escalators rose toward a glass roof that looked to be spanning the width of the top floor, and I longed to go all the way up.

“Later,” Dan whispered, his eyes having followed my gaze. “The top floor is all food, we’ll have lunch there.” He took my hand and pulled me off the moving staircase on the second floor.

Soon we were ensconced in a private dressing room with a cup of coffee each and a big prospectus of ladies’ fashion, while the personal shopper was off collecting a selection of dresses for me based on rather cryptic instruction from Dan. “Get the lot,” he instructed her.

The lot?

And there, she was back with a rail full of amazing looking dresses. Dan sprang to attention and flicked through the dresses one by one, muttering under his breath, “Too long—too green—too flouncy…”

He caught me looking. “What?” he laughed at my surprised expression.

“I didn’t know you were a regular Gok Wan.”

“I’m not,” Dan chortled modestly. “But I know you. Remember that black Donna Karan number I got you once?” I nodded dumbly. The man had the memory of an elephant. And anyway, how could I have forgotten that memorable date, when he whisked me off in his stretch limo and handed me a bag with a suitable dress for the evening? I had slid it on, in the limo, completely dubious. And it had fit like a glove. In fact, that little black number still ranked among the best-fitting dresses I had ever owned. Dan had bought that dress completely blind, with no size guides or measurements or anything. Just his image of me in his head.

“…
and anyway, I’ve done plenty of shopping with my sister,” he continued merrily while I was reminiscing.

I latched onto this new piece of information.

“You have a sister?” I asked, utterly surprised.

Dan merely nodded, still sorting through dresses.

“How come I didn’t know about her?” I demanded. Dan puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “We don’t see each other often. And she’s just never come up in conversation before. You never asked whether I had siblings, so…”

I spluttered into my coffee. “Sorry,” I retorted a tad archly. “It’s not exactly the first thing that springs to mind when you date a rock star, is it?”

“No worries,” Dan shot back. “I never did ask you whether you had any siblings, either.”

I decided to ignore that barb and persisted. “So what’s her name?”

“Jodie. She’s my kid sister. I’ve kept her private but she’s become famous in her own right, in her own way. She’s always jetting off to places like LA and New York and Paris and Sydney.”