The Unfinished Tale Of Sophie Anderson (8 page)

"Told you," whispered Dave.

"It was such a nice bollocking though," I replied. "So non-confrontational. So new-age."

"So patronising." Okay, maybe I wasn't the only one then.

When the meeting ended most people ran for the clocking out machine. I went back to my bay and began the end-of-day ritual. As I was rinsing my cup out, Tom appeared behind me.

"Are you busy tomorrow?" he asked.

"No," I blurted out a little too keenly. I liked people to think I was always busy in some way or another instead of having the social calendar of a prison inmate. "Why?"

"Fancy a bit of Christmas shopping in town?" he said.

"Shopping?" I replied. I was off to a poor start.

"Yeah. Christmas is only a few weeks off. You aren't just shopping online are you?"

"Of course not," I lied, remembering how my virtual 'basket' was already full and only waiting for pay day to arrive.

"We could grab a coffee or something," he said.

"Yeah. Okay. What time?"
Good, that was much better.
I was getting the hang of it just as the conversation looked about to end.

"Is eleven too early for you?"

"Eleven is fine."

"Good. Let's meet at the Costa near the market. Do you know that one?"

"I think so. I'll find it anyway."

"Great. See you then. Have good evening."

"You too."

He left and my heart resumed beating.
Had he just asked me out on a date?
Could I think of it as a date? It was shopping. Friends went shopping. Me and Mel went shopping. But this was Tom and he'd never asked to do anything with me before. Why now?

I was caught in an emotional maelstrom all the way home and even when I'd got changed into my lazy jogging pants and settled down on the settee it still hadn't passed. I felt happy -
really
happy that tomorrow I'd be seeing Tom in a non-work environment. But what was it about? Why had he asked me? I ran through a few scenarios. Female advice for what to buy his new girlfriend? His mum? Did he just see it as a work-mate thing? Was I about to make a complete fool out of myself by thinking there was more to it than just two mates going shopping? What the hell was I supposed to wear? Practical winter garments with
zero
attraction factor or did I slap on the make-up and do my hair and...

Mel was home before I'd come to any kind of conclusions either way. As soon as she walked in I accosted her.

"Tom's asked me to go Christmas shopping tomorrow!" I almost shouted. "What the hell do I wear?"

Before she could reply I noticed that she looked awful. Pale, drained, like she'd had the worst news possible. "Mel, whatever is the matter?" I asked. My mind ran to Jake.

"Mum rang," she said, dropping her handbag to the floor. "Dads been taken ill."

"Ill? Is it serious?"

"Kind of. They think it's his lungs. He woke up early this morning with chest pains, saying he couldn't catch his breath. Mum thought it was a heart attack but when the ambulance showed up they said one of his lungs had collapsed."

"Is it the smoking?" I asked. I knew Reg could get through two packs a day easy. He'd been warned before but it hadn't put him off the habit. I knew that because every time Mel went to visit she came back stinking of the stuff.

"More than likely. Anyway, I've just come home to grab some clothes and stuff before I drive over there. Work has let me take some time off on
'compassionate leave'
so I might be gone for a few days."

"Mel, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, not really. I'll give you a call when I get there and keep you informed."

"Are you okay to drive?" I asked. She really did look terrible.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. They say he isn't critical but it's serious enough that I need to be there. Just in case..." With that her smile broke and she began sobbing into her hands. I rushed over and threw my arms around her, breaking out into tears myself. Hadn't Mel had enough to deal with? It just seemed so unfair to have to deal with her Dad's illness too, just as she was getting her life back on track. And here was me, bubbly with joy for going out with Tom and all the while my best friend has heartbroken.

"I need to get a move on," she said, squeezing me and pulling gently away. "It's a long drive."

"Make sure you stop for a coffee," I said. "And ring me the moment you get there."

"I will."

7.

When she'd gone I sat down and sighed. I felt guilty. I felt like I should have gone with her but I knew that she wouldn't have let me. If only I hadn't told her about Tom the moment she'd walked in I'd have been able to cover it up, to quickly text him that I'd have to cancel. But, selfishly, the thought of doing so upset me even more.

I poured myself a glass of wine and my mind made up loads of excuses like
'well you wouldn't have been much help anyway'
and
'what could you have done?'
. It's funny how hard you work to excuse yourself from all kinds of selfish crap. The truth was I was glad I could still see Tom. There. I said it. I felt horrible but that was just what it meant to be me.

Just as I was draining the glass my phone chimed. For once it was there in front of me and when I opened the text I saw that it was from Mel.

DON'T FEEL GUILTY. YOU DESERVE TO HAVE SOME JOY. I HOPE IT GOES WELL AND YOU CAN MAKE IT UP TO ME BY TELLING ME ALL THE GORY DETAILS TOMORROW NIGHT.

This started me crying all over again. The next one came hot on its heels and I had to wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my pyjamas to see it properly.

WEAR YOUR NICE JEANS, THOSE BLUE LEATHER BOOTS AND YOUR WARM WINTER COAT WITH THE SPARKLY SCARF ON THE BACK OF MY DOOR. HAIR IN A PLAID. SMALL AMOUNT OF EYELINER. HE LIKED YOU IN OVERALLS. HE DOESN'T WANT TO SEE A TART X X X X X X

I told myself to stop crying or I'd be all puffy eyed in the morning. But I couldn't help it when I realised how much I cherished our friendship and how glad I was she'd come into my life. In high school we hadn't really been the best of friends. I'd been the slightly chubby victim and she'd been the hot, trendy girl the boys all ran after. She got the invites to the parties and I just tagged along. Some days I felt like I was still doing that, just tagging along behind her as she ran through her hectic life, still asking for girly advice, still desperate to be like her. To have her confidence. To have her looks.

I was still flattered that she'd come to me for help when Jake had gotten out of control. Of all the people to run to, she'd come back to me and I didn't think she realised how much that had meant to me, to be trusted with something like that. I only wished I'd done more.

Later that evening, as I was finishing the last few chapters of Mr. Reacher, my phone buzzed again.

GOT HERE SAFE. DAD STABALISED AND OK. JUST IN HOSPITAL SO WILL RING YOU TOMORROW NIGHT. HAVE FUN AND PRACTICE SAFE SEX LOL X X X X

I snorted a laugh and began tapping back.

WE WILL USE YOUR BED X X X

The reply took only a few moments to come.

NOW WHO'S THE DIRTY COW? X X

In the morning I jumped straight in the shower to make sure any trace of Riley's was out of my hair. Then I rooted in the clean laundry pile (I still hadn't got around to putting it away despite all the free reading time I had) and found matching underwear for a change. I took Mel's advice and put on my best jeans, noticing they felt a little bit slacker around the waist (whoop!) and tried them with my new shiny blue leather boots I'd bought in the summer but hadn't gotten around to wearing yet. I had a nice loose knit jumper that I'd thought about last night and when I put the three together I was pretty happy with the result. All it needed now was my overcoat and the scarf.

It was a beautiful thing and I'd been jealous of Mel the moment she brought it home and she knew it. I don't think I've ever seen her wear it but there'd been times when I'd put it on behind her back, looking in the full length mirror she has on the back of her door. Yeah, I know, it's a scarf but for me it was a big deal. I didn't really care for spending hours in front of a mirror trying to make myself look amazing, I mean, I'm a welder for most of the week and looking pretty isn't really a job requirement. But sometimes I noticed something - a pair of boots in a Goth shop, the right tone of blue in a pair of New Look stone-wash jeans, a scarf, and they captivated me. I wanted them. I dreamed about them. This scarf was just such an item and I'd secretly coveted it since the day Mel had come home with it, screwed up in the bottom of a Primark bag like it meant nothing to her.

The moment I put it on with my coat I knew I had to get it off her. It was made for me, it was
so
clearly made to go with this outfit that the minute Mel came back I decided to demand it from her. I'd take nothing other than 'yes' as an answer. It may cost me my friendship, my flat, my life, but I was going to have that scarf!

I felt ready to meet Tom and as I got my phone and my keys I even dared to spray on a little of one of Mel's favourite perfumes she'd left on the side, the one in the tiny pink crystal shaped bottle.  She'd never notice. I was aware of the wild butterflies again as they danced around my insides but I figured that if I kept moving and never stopped to dwell on it then I'd be okay.

Town was only a short bus ride away and I fancied some of the mulled wine that they sold in the flag market this time of year. My plan was to get there early and steady my nerves with something alcoholic and to have a bottle of red that early in the day wasn't really a wise move. So I took the bus and got off just before the station, digging my hands into my pockets the moment I stepped out of the warmth and into a blisteringly cold winter morning.

Making my way through the crowds of shoppers, I noticed that the place seemed busier than usual, or perhaps it had more to do with the fact that I hadn't been shopping for a long time. ASDA didn't count - no super market did. That wasn't real shopping, that was just some kind of weird maze designed by marketing strategists to make you part with more of your money. At least in a town like Preston you got some kind of freedom of movement but it didn't stop them trying to rope you in. Walking down the high street became a kind of gauntlet where you crossed over several times at precise moments using your wits to avoid the street hawkers, the charity muscle and the Big Issue sellers. I think the charity guys were the most aggressive, stepping into your path and actively stopping you from moving so they could pretend to be your best friend whist they forced money from you at clipboard-point. The key was to be fluid, to move at varying speeds and slip in with the big families or groups and put them between you and the heavies. That way there was more chance of them collaring those poor people than you. Oh, and never NEVER make eye contact! EVER. Nothing screams 'weak victim ready to hand over cash' more than eye contact with the clipboard Nazis.

So I played this game all up the high street until I reached the flag market. It was a large, open space flanked by some of the oldest court buildings Preston boasted and it earned its name by being paved with enormous stone flags. Normally the area was left vacant unless there was some special event on but at this time of the year Preston tried to host some kind of 'Christmas Markets' to compete with the bigger cities like Manchester or Edinburgh. There were rows of little 'log cabin' styled shacks all selling odds and ends, trinkets, sweets and the like and it was all themed in tinsel and fake snow and all the stuff you expect from Christmas markets.

The stall I wanted was on the fringes near the hot-potato man. He had a cast iron stove with two gigantic vats of mulled wine warming away, giving forth that liquid Christmas we all wanted to sup on. The aroma of cinnamon and cloves and all kinds of spices fought to gain the upper hand against the greasy burger stalls. It would never win, but just by being there it made a stand against the tacky none-sense of the Christmas season with a certain degree of class.

I joined the queue and rubbed my hands together, wishing the scarf now had matching gloves. It wouldn't matter - in moments I'd be filled with the warmth of the season in liquid form. It had the power to dispel all 'humbuginess' and cold, all thoughts of...

"Hey," said a voice behind me. I turned and there was Tom, rubbing his calloused hands together and blowing into them like we were extras in a Christmas special of 'Downton Abbey'. "Great minds think alike, I'm told."

He was dressed in a navy-blue pea coat with the collar turned up and a pair of light coloured jeans. He wore brown walking boots with thick tread soles that looked like they'd seen plenty of action on footpaths and mountainsides and his hair had actually been styled! Well, sort of - I could see the effort but it still looked rushed like he didn't really care. It gave him a ruddy glow, the aura of a man who was so confident in himself that he didn't need frills to prove it.

"Hey," I replied and suddenly realised that my plan had failed miserably. It would take at least fifteen minutes for the wine to do its work and by then all manner of mistakes could have been spilled out of my mouth. Tom would hate me, think me a complete idiot and leave early before I could feel the fortifying effects of the distinctive Christmas blend.

"You're not driving?" he asked.

"No. You?"

"Nah, I don't get to do much drinking during the week so I thought I'd treat myself to a few of these."

"Same," I said. It was my turn and the red-nosed server with the wooden ladle looked expectantly at me. "Two cups please," I said. I passed one to Tom and paid for them and we walked away, standing in one of the few empty spots.

"Very kind of you," he said, blowing across the steaming drink. They always served them in plastic mugs so you could go back and get a refill for less. Both me and Mel had a pair from last year except those were green and this year they were brown with the Preston lamb on the front.

"Are you alreet?" I asked in the usual Lancashire way. It nicely covered up the fact that I'd just burned my top lip by drinking too fast.

"Yeah, a bit cold," he replied. "You?"

"I'm good thanks." In Lancashire the phrase 'alreet' wasn't really meant as a question but more of a greeting to someone who in turn replied 'alreet' with the same tone as a question but without the expectation of an answer. Outside of Lancashire, and sometimes with people who were dying to tell you that they weren't 'all-reet' you sometimes actually got an answer. I can promise you, these people were never 'all right' and insisted on telling you why.

"They're making an effort this year," I said, pointing to the tacky stalls with my mug. "Do you think they actually make enough money to pay the rent?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Let's ask."

He led the way over to one of the narrower sweet stalls that drew the eye immediately with its vast array of multi-coloured confectionery just begging to be tasted. There were all kinds of toffees, sweets, bubble-gum and chocolate, all laid out in trays without the rubbish packaging, ready to be sold by the paper bag, just like we remembered in our childhood. My favourite, Turkish delight, was off to the left and I could've bought the whole bloody tray. There were all different kinds and colours and all sprinkled with icing sugar waiting to dust your top and fingertips when you ate it.

"Alreet, Tom!" cried the man behind the delights. I looked up from drooling to see a familiar looking guy in a bulky body warmer and those fingerless gloves that the law says all market stall holders must wear.

"Alreet John - how's business?" said Tom.

"Brilliant, bro. Made a killing this morning with all those greedy little children knocking around. Might even stay late this time seeing as though we're doing so well. Are you shopping?"

"Yeah," said Tom. "Might as well make an effort."

"As long as you get me something decent," said John, smirking. "GAME have just released the special edition of..." Tom waved him away and laughed.

"You'll have to see what Father Christmas brings."

"Oh yeah, Mum rang before. You've to go round and help shift the table."

"What the hell for?" asked Tom. "I thought it was on wheels?"

"Not that one. The other one. Apparently Sarah is bringing her new fella round."

"Have you met him yet?"

"No," laughed John, turning to a mother who'd just appeared with her two toddlers. "What can I get you love?"

I found myself smiling. How did some people have a way of making you feel part of the family without even trying? I realised that John's face was familiar because they were brothers. But who was Sarah?

As he served the Mother, Tom turned away from him and said, "Sarah's been keeping this new flame from us for six months now. I don't think my Mum and Dad are impressed and so we're expecting something to happen at Christmas."

"Who's Sarah?" I asked.

"Our sister." John finished and turned back to us, putting the money in one of those belts market stall holders always have. Another law I suppose. "John, this is Sophie - we work together."

John reached over the counter and extended a hand to me. "A pleasure," he said. "You must have some patience to put up with this prat."

"Oy!" said Tom playfully.

"He's not all bad as far as bosses go," I said.

"Give it time. Try being his younger brother, then you'll see how much of a 'boss' he thinks he is. Can I get you anything?"

"I'm okay, thanks," I said, still thinking about the Turkish delight. Tom shook his head and we said our goodbyes.