Nothing New for Sophie Drew: a heart-warming romantic comedy, Katey Lovell [booksvooks .txt] 📗

the bottom of the tub my stomach hurt and I feared I might be sick. The sweet creaminess coating my throat was no longer pleasant, and although I wasn’t quite at the Bridget-Jones-listening-to-All-By-Myself level of wallowing, I wasn’t far off. The film had been a bad choice. Calm down, Sophie, I thought, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Clear your head. I’d learnt the technique from sexy yoga guru Leo in the YouTube video I watched when I was feeling healthy and virtuous. Sometimes, rarely, I even joined in with the exercises.

I focused on my rhythmic breathing until I felt calmer and stronger. Stretching across the settee, knocking over the empty ice cream tub so the gloop-covered spoon landed on the rug, I retrieved my mobile and dialled the eleven-digit number that was etched in my brain.

Five minutes later it was over; Darius and I had made arrangements to meet the following week. I rang Mum immediately after because although the romantic film had made me believe in happy-ever-afters I couldn’t believe I’d contacted Darius. I couldn’t decide if it felt like a step forward or a step back.

Mum’s jubilant chatter about how she’d started knitting for the twins was a welcome distraction from my confusion. Not only that, the conversation prompted me to rifle through the craft supplies I’d stashed away in plastic storage crates on top of my wardrobe.

I needed the comfort of crafting, the security of it. Creating something new always helped me organise my mind; working methodically through a pattern to make something from nothing being a fail-safe way of sorting out the jumble of mess inside my head. If a twisted ball of wool could be transformed into something useful and practical with nothing more than a crochet hook, then surely the knots of confusion in my brain could be worked out too.

I spent a solid cathartic hour sorting through my stash after talking to Mum. There were so many materials I’d impulse-bought; skeins of scarlet thread to make Christmas decorations, balls of soft merino wool to knit winter hats, fat quarters of fabrics I’d planned to stitch together to make an heirloom patchwork quilt. There were half-completed cross-stitches and tapestries, miniature bottles of glass paints and a dented metal tin containing an assortment of pretty buttons and beads. So much potential waiting to be made into something beautiful.

I chose a thick, fluffy wool that was soft to the touch, a bright raspberry shade that left me craving sorbet and cosmopolitans, and selected the thickest needle from the wrap containing my crochet hooks. My fingers automatically formed a pretzel-shaped loop and started a chain, and before long I had the beginnings of a scarf. The repetitive motion brought calm, and working without a pattern freed my mind from thoughts of Darius. Best of all, it hadn’t felt like a waste of time because the scarf was growing, absorbing my mixed emotions and turning them into something productive.

Four balls of wool and three hours later, I’d finished the scarf. Although it was a simple pattern and just one colour, I’d been pleasantly surprised by the result. Having taken a break from my hobby after furiously felting my way through the split from Darius (nothing quite like stabbing something with a pronged needle and concealing it as art rather than voodoo), I revelled in the sense of pride that took over as I held the scarf in my hands. It wouldn’t have existed if it wasn’t for me. It’d still just be wool, four spherical balls.

Searching through my supplies, to look for a way to embellish the scarf, I was disappointed. Although there were reels of ribbons – matt and satin, patterned and plain – I couldn’t see anything suitable.

There were plenty of ends of wool though, leftover threads from previous projects – a small amount of rose-pink from when I’d made a bonnet and booties set for Marcie’s little granddaughter and an off-white that I’d used to knit a matinee jacket for Noah. The texture of the wool against my skin brought back all the emotions I’d felt when knitting it – the joy for Nick and Chantel and the excitement at our family growing, tinged with a hint of sadness – envy even – that it wasn’t me, as the oldest child of my generation, providing Mum and Dad with their first grandchild. Maybe I’d start making something for the new babies soon, once Chantel had her sexing scan.

Crafting is powerful. Mindful. Wonderful. To me it’s a form of therapy, keeping my mind and my fingers occupied when I feel stressed.

Why had I ever let Darius dampen the joy making things brought me? I’d taken his unkind remarks to heart, let his opinions affect my own decisions. I’d compromised myself a thousand times over.

Moving the small skeins of wool to one side, I pressed the lid of the box closed and moved the crate back to its usual place. Up there it would be out of sight, but no longer out of mind. I was mentally making a list of the people I could make gifts for this Christmas, even though it was only April. There were card-making supplies in the box too, patterned squares of paper, rubber stamps and all kinds of stickers and washi tapes. The possibilities were limitless.

The realisation that I could have new things without spending money hit me. I didn’t need to buy things, I could make them, or refashion what I already had. Etsy sites were full of upcycled goods people had added their own detail to to make them more desirable.

I held that thought as I looked at the scarf, draped over the back of the settee. A few crocheted flowers sewn around each end would give it a cute kitsch look.

I pulled a thinner crochet hook out of the wrap which I’d purposely not packed away and began creating, glad there was something in my life I could control. Crafting is