Sophie's Run (7 page)

Dan’s beautiful, throaty, powerful voice came in on a sad and soulful lyric.

You and me…

We were meant to be…

Now it’s history…

Why can’t you see…?

There was a rather lengthy gap while the instruments continued their work, and then his voice was back, this time in what was obviously going to be the chorus. Another verse, another gap, another chorus.

Dan let the music fade out before he spoke. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” I offered truthfully. “But—I don’t know, it feels a bit unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” he probed.

“Well, there seems to be something missing. What’s with the long silences?”

“Ah,” Dan said jubilantly, “I was hoping you’d pick that up. See, this is meant to be a duet, man and woman singing to each other. I wanted to try something new. Obviously, I’d like to sing the male part but I don’t know who’s going to take the female part yet.” He paused.

I was still rubbing emotional goosebumps out from my arms.

“And?” I prompted, when he didn’t continue.

“It’s kind of getting difficult to finish the song without a female voice. I
think
it’ll work but I can’t tell for certain. Would you help me?”

“Sure. But what could I possibly do?”

Dan regarded me levelly. “I want you to sing.”

I nearly fell off my chair. “What, me? You are kidding.”

Dan shook his head. “I kid you not.”

“But Dan! I can’t sing. I’m the world’s worst singer. I can’t even hold a tune alone in the bath.”

“Yet you sing in the choir,” Dan offered calmly. He had clearly given this some thought.

“Well, yes…but that’s different,” I tried to explain. “There are lots of us and I’ve got sheet music—”

“Aha,” Dan pounced with a flourish. “If it’s sheet music the lady be needing, I can help you.” He rifled around in a big pile of paper and extracted a handwritten score.

“There you are. That’s your…that’s the female part. Please?” He gave me his best little-boy-lost look. “Just try? I want to hear what it sounds like with the two voices together. Please?”

One gin and tonic and the best part of a bottle of wine spoke before I could think.

“Okay,” I heard myself agree. “But you better coach me. And if it’s terrible, you’ve got to wipe it all out.”

“Deal,” Dan said, and we formally shook hands. Thus we set to work. First of all, he taught me my lines. Having a score actually made things a lot easier. As long as I started off on the right note, I could do it. I was jolly impressed with myself.

After twenty minutes, Dan declared me ready for a trial. He installed me in the recording room with a microphone and a music stand, put headphones on my ears so I could hear the backing track, and off we went.

I had never, ever had so much fun before. It was intoxicating, heady, mind-blowing.

Dan had me sing the female part in a number of different ways before deciding on one he wanted to keep. He played it back to me a few times and recorded me all over again. I nearly melted when he gave me a big beaming thumbs-up from the mixing room.

Next thing I knew, he was warbling on about two-part harmonies, and we were in the recording room together, singing
together
, laying down the chorus.

“Shouldn’t we do that individually?” I asked when we took a little break. “Wouldn’t that be much…cleaner? Safer?”

“Well, yes,” he agreed. “It would. And we will go back and record it individually as well. But doing it together gives it a lovely live feel, a real feel. I’ll play around with it all for a while and see what’s best.” He looked at me briefly, then added as an afterthought, “Best for when, you know, I do the actual recording, with whichever singer is in on the project.”

In all the excitement, I had forgotten that we were only doing a demo. I felt the teensiest stab of disappointment, but stamped on it quick and hard.

“Unless…” Dan continued softly. “Unless you’ve changed your mind? What do you think about it being you?” Seeing my confused expression, he thumped me lightly on the shoulder and gave me a hug. “Nah, only teasing. Let’s finish this up and see what we think about it by the light of day, shall we?”

And that was exactly what we did.

When I finally fell into bed, exuberant and overexcited, at three a.m., I was convinced I wasn’t going to be able to sleep with the fizz and enjoyment of it all. Not so! I dropped off quickly and had a long and dreamless sleep.

When I woke up to sunshine streaming into my room, the whole recording interlude seemed totally unreal.
Had we really done that?
I wondered, as I lay in bed, idly watching sun-beamy patterns on the ceiling. This was almost as surreal as having a one-night stand. Not that I had much experience in that department, but it seemed like a good analogy.

I flexed my toes under the duvet, luxuriating in my lazy lie-in. But suddenly, I remembered the invite to the dreaded wedding. My heart thudded in my chest. Had we really sent an acceptance card? A homemade one? By courier? Worse still, had I somehow committed to actually going?

Oh. My. God.

What a totally awful thing to do, all of it. How did I get into these messy situations when Dan was around?

Oh yes, and Dan.
What had he been playing at?
I ruminated, pulling my knees up to my chest.
Had his grand dinner been merely a ploy to get me to agree to this stupid wedding plan?

And while I was thinking about ploys, had dinner been merely a prelude to the vocal seduction? Had
that
been his grand plan?

I nibbled my thumb. That was much more likely. He’d clearly had this whole thing mapped out before I got home. I turned and stared out of the window, where I could make out wispy shreds of cloud scudding by on an incredibly blue London sky.

Yes, he had probably planned a dinner to make me more receptive. I giggled. I would never have put my voice on some sort of 24-track extra blah-di-blah device without a full tummy and a bit of Dutch courage. I thought about this some more. Should I feel outraged, or something? I wasn’t really sure. I felt like I had been manipulated, but in a good way.

Contrary to all my protestations of the previous night, I actually found the prospect quite exciting, in a purely hypothetical kind of way, of course. After all, we had shaken hands on the recording being only a demo. But I did quite fancy hearing it again, maybe one more time. Just for me.

So I went to look for Dan, but no Dan could be found. I padded all over the house, right down to the studio—but it was empty and deserted. I consulted a clock; it was only midday. Dan never left the house before midday, he didn’t even
get up
before midday. Where the heck was he?

I tried calling his mobile, but I heard it ringing upstairs somewhere, so he had not taken it to wherever he had gone. Bummer! I paced around the kitchen, agitatedly nibbling my index finger. What was he up to?

First things first, I needed some breakfast. I chumped on my toast with a vengeance, and I drank several gallons of coffee. Gradually, I forced myself to slow down. There was no way of tracking Dan down while he didn’t carry his mobile. And in actual fact, there was no great urgency, either. I would probably see him later tonight, or some time tomorrow, and he could play the demo to me then. Who knew, if he had enough time, perhaps he might be convinced to play around with it a bit more. Meanwhile, I had a Saturday to get on with.

I picked up the phone again to ring Rachel, but only got her answerphone, and her mobile went straight to voicemail as well. Where was everybody today? Grudgingly, I left a message, suggesting afternoon coffee on the King’s Road somewhere, and got dressed and left the house for a spot of shopping.

Several shopping bags later, I finally sat down in a little coffee shop at the Sloane Square end of the King’s Road and ordered a mocha. I sat by the window, looking out at the busy comings and goings, and felt quite calm and content. Sometimes, you had to stop and say, “Life’s good.” This was one of those moments.

I surveyed my shopping exploits. I had bought several throws and cushions for my soon-to-be-refurbished lounge. I had found some fabulous crystal candlesticks. Admittedly, I didn’t know if they were real crystal, but they looked very boho and chic.

I had also been very naughty and ordered new sofas. After all, the insurance would pay for it all, and there was quite a long delay before the shop would deliver, so why not get organized? I had spent a good hour trawling around a specialist little sofa shop that would make my sofa to spec. I had trial-sat on dozens of sofas, looked at yards and yards of fabric, and finally made my choice. Soon I would have an L-shaped five-seater sofa with lovely fat cushions in a dusky off-pink. It would look stunning on my new cream carpets with the throws and cushions I bought.

The only thing missing was my best friend to share in my triumph. I had rung several more times and left another voicemail, but Rachel was AWOL.

I chewed on my lower lip. There was something going on for her today. I knew there was, I simply couldn’t quite remember
what
it was. Something to do with Jordan; some kind of party.

I shrugged, resigned to the fact that she was busy. I could have rung someone else but I didn’t really feel like it. And anyway, Rachel would ring me back eventually.

The call came at ten to ten that night.

I was in the middle of a DVD and halfway through a bottle of wine when my mobile chirruped into life. I was still alone in the house, having seen neither hide nor hair of Dan all day. So after a yummy takeaway from the local pizza place, I had decided to relax, all by myself, with a glass of wine or three, a huge bag of chili flavor crisps, and Jason Bourne.

Given the late hour and my slobbed-out state, it took me a few seconds to locate my phone. “Don’t ring off, don’t ring off,” I muttered under my breath while I paused the DVD and brushed crisp crumbs onto the floor. Quickly, my search led me into the kitchen and to my handbag, which I had left sitting on the counter. Naturally, the phone stopped ringing just as I finally found it and the display went blank. I stared at it, annoyed.

“I jolly well hope you’ll ring back, whoever you are,” I announced to thin air, and sure enough, the phone rang again. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Rachel?” I answered, having clocked from the display that it was her. A torrent of sobbing unleashed through the earpiece. I had never heard anything like it.

“Rachel?”
I asked again, trying to make myself heard over the crying. “Is that you?”

More sobbing.

“What happened? Rach?” An ice-cold finger of dread tingled its way down my spine and a terrible sense of foreboding lodged in my tummy. “Rach? Are you okay?”

“Sophie.” Rachel’s voice eventually emerged from among all that sobbing, although I had to strain to hear it.

“Sophie, please come quick. Please. Come now. Please!”

Goosebumps spread all over my arms, and the kitchen tilted slightly with transferred panic. I tried to stay calm, and to instill calm.

“Of course I’ll come,” I said loudly and clearly. In fact, I was already slipping on my shoes and grabbing my keys.

“Where shall I come to?” I asked. “Where are you?”

“Please, please, hurry,” Rachel sobbed into her phone. “You’ve got to come. Please!”

She was hysterical; she was completely beside herself. Had she been with me, I might have slapped her to shock her out of it. As slapping wasn’t an option, I opted for shouting instead. “I’M ON MY WAY,” I yelled. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

I left Dan’s house, slamming the door shut without locking or alarming it—sorry, Dan!—and frantically tried to locate a taxi.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” I shouted again.

My mobile crackled and hissed. It sounded like Rachel was calling from Outer Mongolia.

“…
party…” I eventually made out. Progress.

“WHOSE PARTY?” I inquired. “WHERE?”

I saw a yellow light working its way down the road. “TAXI” I shouted even louder, and practically jumped in front of it to stop it. I wrenched open the back door and fell inside.

“Steady on, love,” the cabbie advised me. “Where’s the emergency?”

“I don’t know yet,” I replied hurriedly, returning my attention to the mobile phone.

“Rachel,” I pronounced as clearly as I could. “Rachel, focus. Where are you? Where do I need to come?”

More sobbing and hysterics. I was about to blow a fuse, when some words came forth.

“Party boat.” Sobbing and sniffing. “Putney.”

Right, I could do something with that. Not very much, but at least I could get the cab moving.

“I’m in a cab,” I told Rachel, putting on my most reasonable and reassuring voice. “We’re on our way to Putney. Where in Putney should I come?”

“Party boat,” was all Rachel would say. And then, chillingly. “I can’t do this anymore.”