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

“See you soon,” he echoed.

When our call ended I headed back to the bathroom to look at my reflection. The water I’d dampened my hair with earlier had encouraged loose messy waves, and although the bags under my eyes were still there, they no longer looked as puffy. My skin was far from flawless, but instead of reaching for my foundation I applied a thin layer of day cream and a slick of tinted lip balm, forgoing all eye make-up.

I expected a downtrodden version of myself to be looking back at me, but my reflection didn’t look downtrodden. She looked like a woman who persevered.

I didn’t even change out of my comfy clothes, black yoga pants and a loose-fitted cerise T-shirt. They were clean enough, and Max wouldn’t care what I was wearing. Most importantly, I was happy wearing them. When you’re not feeling on top of your game you need to do whatever you can to make yourself feel better, and comfortable clothes were a form of self-care for me. If other people didn’t like it, then bully for them. Plus, Sundays were supposed to be lazy days. No one can be arsed on a Sunday.

A small flicker of pride sparked in my chest. Maybe I was growing up, after all, because I realised that while being loved by other people is special, loving yourself is the best love of all.

Fuelled by takeout coffee (without my usual blueberry muffin accompaniment because I was saving myself for the cakes Max had promised) the two of us hit the hospital fete. The warm weather had encouraged people to come out and support the event, with the sideshow stalls doing a roaring trade. Lucky dip barrels entertained easily-impressed children and swarms of people hovered around the WI stand of home-made preserves. Were there really so many jam fanatics in the North East?

“How are you really doing?” Max asked, as we passed the hook a duck stall. The paddling pool hadn’t even got any water in it, the rubber ducks sitting on the dry plastic base of the pool. A sign stated the lack of water was for health and safety reasons. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you last night.”

Max’s worried face was at odds with the pretty floral bunting strung out across the hospital grounds and the jaunty music being played by a band of steel drummers (who knew there were steel drummers in Newcastle? Not me, and I’d only lived here all my life), and smiled weakly. “I feel dreadful for my brother and his wife. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make everything okay.”

“Just be there for them. That’s all you can do.”

“I know.”

I sipped at my caramel latte. The sweetness of the syrup pricked my taste buds, but the bitter tang lingered.

“They’ll reach out if they need you, I’m sure. They know you’re thinking of them.”

Max slid his arm around my waist and it was as though his hand was on fire, burning my skin through my slobby clothes. I sizzled at his touch.

We continued to stroll, wordless, around the fete.

Max pointed out the tombola stall. The thing I love most about it is how there’s no skill required. A lot of it’s luck. You might win a bottle of Baileys, you might win a tin of soup, you might not even win at all. Tombolas are a metaphor for life, when you think about it.

“I’ll treat you,” he said, reaching for his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “I did promise.”

I picked six raffle tickets out of a cardboard box covered in stripy wrapping paper, desperately hoping that at least one of the tickets would end in a five or zero. We had no luck with the first five numbers. I felt like Charlie Bucket when his birthday Wonka bar didn’t contain a golden ticket. Unfolding the sixth and final ticket, I let out a squeal of delight.

“670! We’ve won!”

My eyes scanned the tables of arbitrary objects. It looked like they’d once been in numerical order, but had ended up higgledy-piggledy as the event had gone on. I couldn’t spot 670 anywhere.

“Can I help you, pet?” asked the older woman who was running the stall. She reminded me of my auntie Lynne; her foundation was too orange for her skin tone and the bright pink lipstick she was sporting had made its way onto her front tooth.

“I’m looking to see what I’ve won,” I said, showing her the winning ticket, “but I can’t see it on the table.”

The lady made her way to the section of the table that was home to the prizes labelled with tickets in the six hundreds, a puzzled look crossing her face when she realised nothing had a green 670 stuck to it.

“How strange,” she muttered, flashing the pink smudge on her teeth. “I could have sworn I saw that just five minutes ago.” She moved along the table, picking up items and turning them to examine the numbers on the tickets sellotaped to their front. “A-ha!” she said finally, with a triumphant smile as she held a candle in a jar aloft like a champion boxer holding a title belt above their head. “I knew I’d seen this somewhere. It was just hiding.”

She handed it over, and I instinctively pulled off the lid, sniffing the pink wax. It smelled of raspberry ripple ice cream.

“Thank you,” Max said.

“Yes, thank you,” I repeated, replacing the stopper.

We browsed the other nearby stalls – bric-a-brac (nothing appealing on offer), a second-hand book stall, a roll-the-penny sideshow that brought to mind church fetes from when I was a girl guide.

That’s when I noticed two tables next to each other displaying handicrafts. “Let’s go and look at the jewellery,” I said, although that did the crafter a disservice – there were a diverse mix of crafts on show.

The lady smiled as we approached, matching dimples appearing in each of her doughy cheeks as though she’d poked herself in the face