Sophie's Turn

By Nicky Wells

Slapper. Slut. Adulteress. These are hardly words that Sophie Penhalligan would normally use to describe herself. Yet this is exactly how she is behaving, all things considered, even if she isn’t quite married to Tim yet. And it’s all happening because her past is coming to tempt her! Nine years ago, she met her teenage idol and rock star extraordinaire, Dan, up close and personal. Well, almost. Now Dan has crash-landed back in her life.

Sophie is happily embroiled in a relationship with Tim, her boyfriend of two years. Until recently, she was con_ dent Tim would eventually propose—probably as soon as he could get his act together. But just as Tim’s persistent inaction is beginning to cast a cloud over their relationship, Dan’s sudden reappearance turns Sophie’s world upside down.

One fine day in Paris, Sophie suddenly finds herself engaged to Dan while her erstwhile fiancé Tim is...well, doing whatever it is Tim does back in London. What is she to do now? Who wouldn’t give anything to meet their favorite star, let alone marry him?

Find out how Sophie gets into this impossible situation, and how she turns it around, in Sophie’s Turn, the honest, funny and sometimes bittersweet story of one woman’s entanglement with a rock star.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sapphire Star Publishing
• Release date: Aug 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781938404221

Nicky Wells

Rock On! Nicky Wells writes fun and glamorous contemporary romance featuring a rock star and the girl next door. Nicky loves rock music, dancing, and eating lobsters. When she’s not writing, Nicky is a wife, mother, and occasional teaching assistant. Originally born in Germany, Nicky moved to the United Kingdom in 1993, and currently lives in Lincoln with her husband and their two boys. In a previous professional life, Nicky worked as a researcher and project manager for an international Human Resources research firm based in London and Washington, D.C. Visit Nicky on her blog where you can find articles, interviews, radio interviews and, of course, an ongoing update on her work in progress, the second and third parts of the Rock Star Romance Trilogy. You can also follow Nicky on Twitter and find her on Facebook and Goodreads. Nicky is a featured author on the innovative reader/author project, loveahappyending.com and has also joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association

Book preview

Prologue

Would you marry me?

The wind was tearing at Dan’s words, and Sophie thought at first that she had misheard.

Sophie Penhalligan, would you marry me?

Make no mistake, there it was again. Sophie twisted round so that she could see Dan a little better. The old-fashioned merry-go-round seemed to go unreasonably fast, and her horse and Dan’s horse were rising at wildly different intervals. But still, when he shouted his proposal at her for the third time, she could match his lip movements to the words. Yes, he was saying what she thought he was saying.

Sophie let out a huge whoop of joy as she leant backwards on her horse, almost toppling off with delight. Of course I would, she responded. In an instant!

And so she would. If.

If it weren’t for the fact that Dan was a mega rock star. And for the small matter of Tim, her actual, real-life fiancé.

The carousel ride over, Sophie and Dan hung on to each other, giddy with excitement and emotion. Dan produced a little box. This is for you. If you meant it.

If I meant what? Sophie asked, taking the box and opening it. She let out a small gasp.

Holy microphone. A ring. A real, proper, big, glitzy ring. With diamonds—yes, lots of them. The ring of all rings. A ring to put Tim’s little affair to shame—immediate pang of shame for this thought, but it wouldn’t be silenced.

Dan wanted her to be his wife. Her, Sophie Penhalligan. She had dreamed about this moment since she had pinned his first photo on her bedroom wall as a star-struck teenager over ten years ago, and yet she was at a loss for words.

She was already engaged. And all right, so she had rather wantonly and quite conveniently forgotten about Tim while she had been on tour with Tuscq; had told herself that staying in Dan’s room wasn’t a big deal; had let Dan convince her that sleeping together while on tour didn’t count. But still, she was engaged. This wasn’t like her, or was it? Why, oh why, couldn’t things be different? This was what she wanted, had wanted all her life.

Yes, she said, loud and clear. "Oh Dan, yes, I will marry you."

Oh, dear God.

Now what?

How had she got here? What should she do?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Because I am Sophie, and this is my story. And before you judge me, let me go back all the way to the beginning…

Chapter One

Oh no, I’m going to be so late! I shouted in dismay, having caught a look at the office clock and realizing that I should already have left. Half an hour ago.

"Late for what? Your oh-so-romantic dinner with the lovely Tim?" Rachel enquired from her vantage point at the desk next to mine. Even today her voice dripped with dislike for Tim.

Late for my lovely romantic dinner with Tim, I confirmed wearily. I was tired of my best friend’s persistent loathing of my boyfriend, but that couldn’t be helped right now. I brushed the worry firmly from my mind. After all, it was our second anniversary today, and I had booked a table at Fischer’s. I shut down my computer and scrambled together the contents of my handbag while trying to figure out if I had forgotten anything mission-critical before I left for the weekend. No, all clear.

Gotta dash, see you tomorrow! I called over my shoulder, already half out of the office and on my way to the ladies’ room for a swift change and last-minute repairs.

How could I have forgotten the time on this, the most important day of the year, our second anniversary? Relationship anniversary, that is—not wedding anniversary or even engagement anniversary. Still, we had been going out for two years, and there was not a cloud in sight on the bright, sunshiny sky of our relationship. Apart from Rachel, of course.

The Tube was packed and absolutely boiling. Traveling sardine-style would do nothing for my looks or composure, but I didn’t have a choice. The fact that it was the end of July and London was in the grip of a killer heat wave didn’t improve matters at all. It was so hot in my carriage that I felt close to fainting and my nose was firmly stuck in someone’s sweaty armpit. Nonetheless, butterflies of excitement wobbled in my tummy—our two-year anniversary. What would the night bring?

As we kept pulling in and out of Tube stations, strangely, inexplicably, and quite unexpectedly, my mind wandered back to another fateful train journey…one that I had taken almost ten years ago.

The train pulled into Edinburgh Waverley station and I panicked. What on earth was I doing? I lowered the window, awkwardly fumbling outside to reach the door handle, and let myself off the train. I was traveling light. My tiny rucksack carried only my purse and the barest of overnight essentials. I wasn’t planning to stay the night, really. But what was I planning? What had I been thinking when I got on that train, going after four blokes ten years older than my humble nineteen years? Well, in truth, I was only interested in one of them, but even that was a completely one-sided matter at this time.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and I had about two hours or so to get to wherever I needed to go. But, of course, I still needed to find out where they were playing tonight…

I snapped out of my memories abruptly as the Tube screeched to a halt at Tottenham Court Road. I decided that I couldn’t brave a change of Tube lines and headed for the escalators to walk to Charlotte Street. It would be hot, but at least I would have a small chance of catching a breeze. Outside the station, I tried Tim’s mobile to let him know that I was late. He abhorred tardiness and no doubt would be in a foul mood when I got there. But there was no reply, which was weird. Maybe his battery was dead? No, that wasn’t like him. More likely, he had gone into a sulk. The infamous Tim sulk, Rachel had dubbed his peculiar periodic outbursts.

I flung open the doors to the restaurant like a demented woman, eager to salvage any second I could to reduce my delay and equally eager to get the benefits of Fischer’s fully-functioning air conditioning. I scanned the room and spotted the table for two by the window, just as I had requested. Except there was no sign of Tim.

The maître d’ came toward me. Can I help you, madam?

Er, yes, I’ve booked a table in the name of Sophie? And Tim? For two, I added, somewhat superfluously. For six-thirty tonight? The maître d’ consulted his watch, raising one accusatory eyebrow.

I know, I know, I’m sorry I’m so late, but my partner should be here already, I offered.

You are the first of your party to arrive, he informed me sternly. However, we did keep your table as you had emphasized the personal importance of this event several times.

Yes, that’s right, it’s our second anniversary, I confirmed, relieved that the table was still ours and confused that Tim wasn’t there already.

And madam would still like us to bring a bottle of champagne at the end of your meal as a little surprise?

Oh, absolutely, yes. That would be fabulous, thank you. I hoped Tim wouldn’t go ballistic at this extravagance, but it was a special day and, if need be, I would pay for it all by myself.

While the maître d’ showed me to our table, I briefly wished I could just go home. Friday nights were not good nights for me. As I worked in the international news section for Read London, my job was hectic, to say the least, and the Friday night deadline was always the big one to put the Saturday paper to bed. On some Fridays, I would lose the ability for coherent conversation at around lunchtime. And so Friday nights were mine, just mine and mine alone. Not nights for Tim. Not nights for Rachel. Not nights for traveling home to see my parents. Just nights for me—a hot bath, a video, a glass of white wine, and some Thai chili prawns with garlic bread.

Yet strangely, I suddenly recalled, Tim and I had met on a Friday night, at a charity function that we had both attended at the Houses of Parliament. Tim had been there for his accountancy company, which had footed the bill for the fundraiser; I had been there for Read London. We had both been sufficiently bored to gravitate toward each other and finally made contact over the buffet, where I had been stuffing myself with green olives. Surreptitiously so, I had hoped, but it turned out that Tim had spotted me.

His opening line was, Go on, give over, you’re not the only one who’s starving here. Okay, not the best chat-up line in the world but said with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and I dutifully surrendered the last two olives to him, pointing out that I might therefore faint with hunger at any minute. He promptly invited me for dinner, and we slunk from the function like two naughty teenagers.

Things progressed from there. Not quickly, but nice, slow, and gentle. Dinner did not lead to the obligatory get-to-know-you-bonk. Instead, Tim turned out to be the perfect gentleman, taking me home in a cab, seeing me out with a chaste peck on the cheek and a promise to call. And after a proper interval of two-and-a-half days, he left me a message at home asking whether I might be available for dinner again sometime, perhaps followed by a movie? Thus had begun the nicest courtship I had ever experienced. There were dinners, flowers sent to the office, little presents now and then, lots of talk about ourselves and our hopes for the future. Eventually, I stayed the night at his and then he stayed the night at mine. We slipped into our relationship like we had always been together.

Obviously, I mused, two years on, things were a little more mundane. Tim didn’t necessarily send me flowers to the office every week any more. Actually, I couldn’t really remember the last time he had sent me flowers at all, but that was not the point. The point was that we had a unique thing together and I was sure that we would get married. I expected him to propose any time soon; he was just waiting for the perfect time. Tonight, for example, was a prime candidate.

Except…where the heck was he? I woke from my reflections by the shrill ring of my mobile. Tim.

Hi, I began in my most patient, sweet voice, but his angry shouting cut me off.

Where are you? He shouted so loudly that even the people at the next table heard it, and I instinctively shushed the phone.

"What do you mean, where am I? Where are you?" I hissed back.

I’m at the restaurant. At the restaurant which, I hasten to add, has no reservation for us.

You’re kidding, right? I looked around furtively, expecting Tim to pop up behind one of the potted palms sporting a huge balloon and shouting surprise!

I’m not kidding. They don’t have any tables left here at all.

I was nonplussed. Tim, where are you? Really?

I’m at Fischer’s, of course, Tim assured me.

No, you’re not!

I am!

You can’t be. I’m at Fischer’s right now. And, before he could try to refute this absolutely certain fact, I added, for good measure, "I’m sitting at our reserved table in the window. Right now. As we speak."

There was a silence at the other end.

At Fischer’s, he repeated.

Yup, I confirmed. And then it dawned on me. You’re not in Haymarket, are you?

Of course I am! That’s where you told me to go!

Men. There you had it. They couldn’t get round to organizing an anniversary dinner for their partner, and then when you took the initiative, they didn’t even listen to where they were supposed to take you. Luckily, I had gone out with my fair share of idiots over the years, and I had long since stopped getting upset about small details like this.

"Honey, I told you to come to Charlotte Street."

You didn’t! We were going to Haymarket because it’s easier to get to the house from here.

Ah, the house. That would explain it—maybe he had rigged up some surprise there for after dinner? Tim’s house was in South Kensington, in Garden Mews—a darling little place just by Imperial College.

"I booked Charlotte Street because it’s easier for me to get to from work and… I insisted, before he could get a word in edgewise, …and it’s easy to get back to either of our places from here." Take that!

Another silence at the other end.

Oh. Right. I see, Tim managed eventually. What shall we do now?

Well, I’m sitting here quite comfortably, and I’m quite happy to start munching on some olives, I said with extra emphasis, but the meaning was lost on him.

Right, right, of course. Okay. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll get there as fast as I can.

Joy! I had a few minutes to relax, check my make-up, and treat myself to a pre-starter all of my own. I informed the hovering waiter that I would like a bottle of house white—Tim could always pick something more refined later—and a big helping of prawns while I waited for my much-delayed partner.

Chapter Two

When Tim eventually turned up, it was him who, for once, looked sheepish and apologetic, whereas I sat at the table cool and composed. By now it was almost eight and Tim was clearly hungry. I handed him the menu, but he already knew what he wanted—after all, he had spent half an hour reading it at the other Fischer’s. The waiter was hovering again and was gratified to hear of our swift decision.

I’ll start with the rustic fish soup with grilled country bread and then I’ll have the scampi, please, Tim launched in straightaway. Predictable choice, but it still dismayed me. The scampi was the least expensive main course, and I started to worry again about how Tim would react to my extravagance. Ah, sod it; I would make it my treat if he went into a huff. Never mind that he earned almost twice more than I did, I could still foot the bill for a fancy meal every now and then.

"And I will have the salmon capers and the scallop and lobster ravioli," I announced gleefully. Tim’s eyebrows went into orbit, but he didn’t say anything.

And would the gentleman require a different bottle of wine to go with the main courses? the waiter enquired diffidently.

Er… Tim hastily inspected the bottle of house white that I had been quaffing. I think we’ll stick with this for now, thanks.

Very well, sir.

Phew. Orders accomplished, I leant forward eagerly—let romance commence! Only it transpired that Tim wasn’t quite ready. He was still upset about the mix-up. He couldn’t work out whether it was his mistake or mine, and that bothered him a great deal. Despite my best efforts and high expectations, the atmosphere was strained, even after our starters arrived. Tim had gone into one of his broody moods, and I needed to jolly him out of it. Perhaps it was time for the pressie?

I placed my little wrapped box on the table. Got ya something! I said coyly, heart hammering away in my chest. Tim was difficult with presents. He had everything—and if he didn’t have something, he tended to buy it.

Tim looked at me, surprised. A present? What for?

Could he be serious? Only one way to find out. Well, open the card! He duly did, and his eyes went round and wide. He hadn’t forgotten, had he? He couldn’t have!

Oh Sophie…it’s our second anniversary! Gosh, I’m really sorry!

Sorry? About what? About it being our anniversary? About having forgotten that it was our anniversary? I looked at him with anticipation. He couldn’t have forgotten. He never forgot things. He was probably building up to something.

Sophie, love, I clean forgot, what with all the stuff going on at work right now…is it really the thirtieth of July today?

He had. Forgotten. He had actually forgotten it was our anniversary. I was stunned. And a little hurt, although of course I couldn’t really show it. Or could I? No, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

It is the thirtieth today, actually, but it doesn’t matter, I ventured, gulping down what seemed to be massive amounts of air that didn’t want to go into my lungs. Go on, open it. He might as well, now.

You sure?

Of course I was sure, but I didn’t trust my voice so I just nodded encouragement. Tim carefully peeled the bits of sticky tape off the paper, and then slowly unwrapped the box, meticulously folding the paper all the while. He found the box. He rattled it. He turned it. And turned it again. And finally opened it.

It’s a watch, he stated in amazement.

I thought you might like a new wrist watch. You know, you like being on time and all that.

Ouch! Totally the wrong thing to say after tonight’s fiasco, but it had just slipped out.

He took the watch out of its box. It was a chunky affair with big silvery links and a nice, bloke-ish round face. It would look great on his wrists, which was why I had picked it. I had a thing for guys’ wrists. I loved how that little bone sort of stuck out on one side and all the little hairs extended over the delicate skin. Tim never showed his wrists off properly, and I had thought this watch might do the trick. I guessed that that made it a half-selfish present, but even that didn’t quite justify his reaction.

It’s…well, it’s a good idea, he conceded. Only…

Only what? I couldn’t keep a slight note of hysteria out of my voice.

Well, it’s… it’s kind of last year’s, he whispered, and I could see the last year’s floating over the table in big capital letters.

At that moment, our main course arrived. I gave the waiter a watery smile and then bowed my burning face deeply over my steaming plate of ravioli. As little tears plopped out of my eyes and added salt to the sauce, I could barely see my food. My ears stung with shame. Last Year’s—I got it wrong again.

I lifted my fork to my mouth in a mechanical motion, one time and again. Occasionally I groped for my glass of wine. I didn’t have a clue where to go from here. The evening was a complete disaster. He had forgotten our anniversary—worse still, admitted to having forgotten our anniversary. Honestly, couldn’t he have made something up? Like he had some surprise planned for us? Or something? Anything? And now, this. I felt humiliated and hurt.

Oh, Soph, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Tim’s voice was all honey and sugar, but the regret was sincere. Look here. He reached across and lifted my chin up with one gentle index finger. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.

And then he did the unthinkable. He got up from his chair, walked around the table, and gave me a big, big hug. I’m really, really sorry. Look, I’ve completely messed up. I’m a complete idiot. He hugged me again. He usually avoided public displays of affection, but he hugged me again. Unfortunately, that simply reduced me to more tears, noisy ones this time. Oh Soph, don’t cry! I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I promise. Don’t cry, please don’t cry!

The more he insisted, the more hysterical I got. Right, he said. I obviously need more penitence. Right. He stepped back and cleared his throat. I was still staring at my plate, transfixed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him grab a knife and whack it sharply against his glass, which broke at the force of impact.

Ladies and gentlemen, Tim roared. He stood up straight and he…he seemed to be addressing the whole restaurant. Ladies and gentlemen, he repeated, may I have your attention please.

Silence fell across the room.

Tim cleared his throat again. Right. This is somewhat awkward, but my name is Tim Renfrew. This here is my beautiful partner, Sophie. He paused, giving everyone a chance to look at my tear-stained face.

As you can see, Sophie is rather upset. This is because I have been an utter and complete pillock tonight. Not only did I get here almost an hour late, I also forgot that it’s our second anniversary today. And then I had the ill-grace to criticize the lovely, lovely present she gave me. At this, he held up the watch for everyone to see. When, in fact, I don’t even have a present for her. The assembled diners let out a collective gasp. My hysteria was about to tip from one extreme to the other. What was he doing?

And for this, ladies and gentlemen, I want you all to bear witness as I apologize to my beautiful Sophie. He turned round to me.

Soph, he said in a somewhat softer voice. I really am very sorry. Please accept my apologies. Will you let me make it up to you? Will you forgive me?

I couldn’t find my voice fast enough, so he went on. For if you don’t—forgive me that is—I will have to continue to make a complete idiot of myself in front of all these people. But… He cast around furiously for an idea. But! If you do forgive me, I’ll take you to Paris next week for a make-up, romantic mini-break for two.

Bloody hell! My head jerked up as though it was pulled on a chain. Did he say mini-break? Did he say romantic? Did he say Paris? Where did all of that come from?

I’m serious, he shouted. A cheer rose from the restaurant, and the diners clapped. You go, mate, someone heckled from the back, and everyone laughed, me included. Go on love, you gotta forgive him, the lady at the table next to ours shouted. Well, what could I do?

All right. I accept, I said in the grandest voice I could muster, and Tim swept me off my chair to give me another big hug. This bode well for our wedding day, if we ever got there. Thank you, he whispered in my ear. I really will make it up to you. I’m inviting you for the trip of a lifetime.

I giggled, and then shuddered. The trip of a lifetime. How I wished he hadn’t said that. I had already had the trip of my lifetime. Not something that I had told Tim about. And I doubted that Tim, bless him, would be able to outdo that experience. I picked up the dessert menu to hide my flaming face as the earlier flashback to my fateful Edinburgh trip made another impromptu appearance:

I surreptitiously picked up a paper from the newsstand in the station to examine that night’s concert listings. Tuscq…Tuscq…come on, where are you playing tonight? I couldn’t find the right event, and the letters danced in front of my eyes as I flicked through the pages with ever-increasing speed. I couldn’t have gotten the date wrong. I couldn’t. All right, so I had been quite tired when they said they were playing Edinburgh in two weeks’ time and how did I fancy joining them for the grand finale of their tour…but I was good with dates and details, and I had double-checked. Twice. How uncool was that?

Sophie, you really are an idiot, I admonished myself.

Can I help you? the shopkeeper enquired. I looked up in dismay. Had I spoken aloud to myself?

Erm…do you know if a band called Tuscq is playing here somewhere tonight?

Tuscq? Why, of course. It’s the talk of the town. All the kids are going. Kids? I flinched at that description. Not many kids at the Tuscq gigs I had been to before. I hoped he had used the term loosely.

Ah, good. I breathed a little sigh of relief. At least I had got the date right. And where would that be, do you know?

No idea. But, he pointed a finger, The magazines might tell us. He picked up a copy of Kerrang! that I hadn’t spotted before and skimmed through to the rock listings.

Ah, here we go. The Hall. He beamed at me delightedly. Starting at eight.

Eight o’clock. That was good news; I had more time than I thought. And how do I get there? Is it far from here?

Not at all. It will take only five minutes or so to walk.

I examined my reflection in a shop window as I strolled down Princes Street. I didn’t look like a wild-child haring after a rock band on a whim and without any real notion of what she was doing. In fact, I didn’t even really look like someone who would be off to a rock concert. Okay, so I had the permed blonde mane that was obligatory for hard-rockers and fans alike, and I was wearing authentic cowboy boots. But my trousers were jeans rather than leather, and the denim was embarrassingly clean and untorn. My winter coat was dark blue, and the jumper I wore underneath was baby blue. I had picked it because it brought out my sparkling blue eyes, but it really was the most unsuitable item of clothing for this event in my entire wardrobe.

Ah well, too late to change that now. Besides, I wasn’t really after sex. Granted, I had traveled all this way to see the band, but I wasn’t really a groupie, was I? What I wanted was just a slice of the action, the thrill of being there with them, being backstage and playing at fulfilling my fantasies. Everything else would take care of itself.

I walked on, half lost in thoughts, until the street opened out into a big square. I faced an enormous round building slightly reminiscent of London’s Royal Albert Hall, except it was a little more austere. And there was an enormous crowd outside already, even though the concert wasn’t due to start for another two hours.

But far from being kids, these were grown people. Hard-core rockers and their girlfriends, done up in leather gear and chains and long hair. Smoking and swilling lager. They thronged and swirled together like an ant heap, and they all seemed to know each other. There was a lot of shouting and laughing. And then there was me, little me, in my baby-blue jumper. I swallowed hard.

Chapter Three

Tim didn’t bat an eyelid when the bill eventually came, despite my extravagant prawn starter and the bottle of champagne. By then, we were well loved-up, and it was as though the events of the evening had cleared some kind of tension that had been accumulating for weeks.

We decided to go on to Tim’s, and Tim hailed a cab. It was still stiflingly hot, and I was glad not to have to go on the Tube again. We snuggled into each other’s arms in the backseat, and I could see the cabbie smiling at us in the rear-view mirror.

What do you want to do when we get home? Tim asked, nibbling gently at my ear. He hadn’t done that for a long, long time. I sighed contentedly.

Oh, I don’t know. Open the windows, light a few candles, and have a glass of wine, perhaps? I tried to salvage some of my customary Friday night relaxation regime.

Sounds like a plan. I have a nice Chardonnay in the fridge, Tim consented immediately.

Dusk fell as we sat in the lounge, windows wide open, lights off, and candles burning. It finally started to cool down a little. I vaguely felt that we ought to have been getting a little more intimate than cuddles and kisses. But then again, we were both feeling drowsy from the food and the wine. So we simply sat flicking lazily through thirty channels of Friday night cable television, wrapped in a happy little cocoon of post-argument afterglow even without the make-up sex. My mind drifted again and my subconscious pulled me back to myself in Edinburgh all those years ago:

In Edinburgh I was, but I didn’t have a ticket. Okay, so I didn’t want a ticket—I wanted to go backstage. But as it was, a ticket would have been helpful to get in, at least. And, of course, the concert had been sold out for weeks. That had been the reason Darren had said I should really, really see this show: It’s gonna be the best one on this tour.

I loitered under a lamp post for a little while. The crowd gathered around the main entrance facing Festival Square. The backstage entrance had to be quite literally round the back somewhere. I walked up and down a few times, trying to get my bearings. I turned right and eventually came to an alleyway that led behind the hall, secured by a gate.

My heart thumped wildly in my chest. Could this be it? Gently, gently, I sidled up to the gate, feeling like some kind of undercover agent, or perhaps a thief. There I was, touching the railings. Locked. Of course, they’d be locked. But…I was amazed to find a door-sized pedestrian entry that had been set into the gates. I grabbed the handle and turned it. Unlocked! I held my breath as the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

I stepped through and closed the door-gate behind me. I was in!

We must have fallen asleep because I certainly had no clue where I was or what had happened. I was still reeling from the remembered excitement of having found that backstage door when Tim suddenly sat up straight next to me—still on the sofa—and whispered excitedly, Do you hear that?

The candles had long expired and the room was pitch dark, with the curtains blowing eerily in a breeze.

Do I hear what? I murmured drowsily, barely able to shake off the much-needed sleep that had claimed me.

It’s raining! Tim declared excitedly.

I strained to listen and, indeed, there was a patter of thick, summery rain drops on the cobblestones outside. Quite a deluge, in fact.

So it is, I confirmed.

That’s great news! Tim announced and got up with alacrity.

It is? I wasn’t quite sure I followed what was happening here. Normally, I would have welcomed the rain, particularly after such a hot day. But as far as I could gather, it was still quite hot and the rain seemed to be making the humidity worse.

It sure is. Tim had by now disappeared in the kitchen and seemed to be rummaging in a cupboard. I can finally get those slugs, his muffled voice explained.

Slugs, I repeated, completely baffled.

Yeah! I’ve been waiting for an occasion like this for ages.

Slugs, I repeated again, comprehension dawning on me. He had been going on for a while about the slugs that were forever ruining his precious container-grown lettuces.

You want to go out in the garden? Now? To kill the slugs?

That’s right, he shouted. Finally. Tim reappeared in the lounge, brandishing a giant bag of NO-SLUG pellets.

Do you know what time it is? I asked incredulously.

No idea, and don’t care. He grinned wickedly and exclaimed, in a mock-exterminator voice, Prrre-parrre to die, slugs.

I squinted at the DVD player under the telly, trying to focus on the green blinking digits of its clock. It’s half past midnight, I issued.

So? I’ll be back in a tick. You snuggle yourself up in bed. And with that, he exited, excited as a little boy on Christmas Eve.

I did as told. I snuggled up gratefully in bed. Tim’s bed was perhaps the thing I liked most in his house. Tim was a man full of contradictions. Despite earning somewhere in excess of eighty grand, he was really miserly on some things, like dinners and cabs. But then he splurged on other things—things he called the little, essential luxuries in life that normal people don’t pay enough attention to. Bedding was a case in point. Tim’s bedding hailed from the most expensive stores in town and was pure Egyptian cotton. He had it professionally cleaned and pressed every week, and so his bed always had a fresh, crisp, snuggly quality to it. Perfect bedtime bliss. With the whole bed to myself, I was asleep again before my head properly hit the pillow.

An hour later, I woke with a raging thirst. Still no sign of Tim beside me, so I dragged myself out of bed and padded down into the kitchen. As I poured myself a glass of juice, I stared idly through the large French windows giving onto Tim’s small garden. It was still raining, but a little more gently by now, and the garden looked dark and mysterious. Hang on—dark and mysterious? Dark?

I walked up to the patio doors and peered outside. I could just make out a figure at the back of the garden digging by the beam of a torch. What on earth?

I opened the door and hissed, What are you doing out there? Tim turned around, and I was blinded instantly by the glare of light.

Oi, I shouted involuntarily, Turn that light off.

Sorry, he whispered and walked up to me. To my astonishment, I realized that he was wearing his old miner’s hat. He had picked it up at some car boot sale a while ago, and it usually lived in the display case in the lounge as some kind of exhibition piece. My

Reviews for Sophie's Turn

[stephanie_keyes-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

How many of us have dreamed of a romance with a rock star? Imagine this. You not only get to MEET your all time favorite band, but you embark on a whirlwind romance with its number one member! It's a dream come true for most of us. Sophie's Turn serves that up on so many levels. The dialogue is hilarious, the characters are endearing, and you really don't know how it's going to turn up. I truly enjoyed it.

If you're looking for a new read that will bring back your glory days and rekindle that tour magic, check out Sophie's Turn. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

[mypennameonly · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Sophie's Turn is Nicky Wells' fictional autobiography of Sophie's Penhalligan's love affair with the two men in her life, Dan Hunter and Tim Renfrew. There's a lot of turmoil in her life as she struggles with whose marriage proposal she should accept. On one hand you've got Tim who's been with Sophie the last two years, on the other you've Dan, the super rock star, who Sophie once had a teenage crush on, and now has re-entered her. Two guys each have their own positive qualities Sophie adorns, as well as the negative ones Sophie wishes they didn't. In the end who does Sophie marry? Is it Tim? Is it Dan? Or could it be neither one, which would leave her all alone and still looking for true love to come her way. I'm not going to say. You'll need to buy the book for yourself to find out. One thing is certain, once you get pulled into the story, you'll want to find out how it ends.

[literarychanteuse · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved the British humor and the whole idea of the heroine's rock star fantasy becoming reality. She had to deal with tough moral decisions and her choices reflect what a lot of women would choose. Great ending and over all a very fun chicklit book!

[Emmie Lou Kates · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Even though I'm almost in tears that this didn't end how I thought it would, I forgive you Nicky. This is a great read and keeps you guessing with it's twists & turns. Now I have to read the next book to see if Sophie finally comes to her senses.

[nsjlh_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book and I did not click in the beginning. I felt the transitions between past and present were confusing. I stuck with the book and about a third the way through it finally clicked for me of what was going on. Even though I didn’t love the book, it was a cute story. I liked the main character Sophie. She was a lot of fun. Her best friend was great. She really made the connection between the two guys. We should all have a best friend like her.I did like Dan as well. While he was not pushy, he was sweet and knew how to make the moves. Who wouldn’t want to fall in love with a rock star? Or have a rock star pay that much attention to them. I was a little skeptical about the band coming back and having their time again, but it worked. Lots of fun going on in this book with the young love and relationships. If you like the fairy tale idea of meeting up with a rock star, give this book a try.