Nothing New for Sophie Drew: a heart-warming romantic comedy

appointments. My fringe was long too; long enough that I’d taken to sweeping it to one side and holding it in place with a grip so it didn’t flop about irritatingly in front of my eyes. However, my hair didn’t look hideous even though I’d missed my usual monthly appointment. It just looked longer. The ends weren’t splitting and, although my roots were peeping through, my natural shade was only a fraction darker than the colour I’d adopted back in the Darius days. The truth is, since stopping the spray tans (another former habit which had become a necessary cutback) my colouring had changed. Everything was that bit more muted, my skin more biscuit than orange (along with my scent, from smothering myself head to toe with an award-winning own-brand self-tanning lotion Kath had recommended). The natural hair colour I’d previously thought of as dull complimented my new-found skin tone.
Once I’d chosen my outfit, eventually settling on a favourite designer ditsy-print dress, I ran a brush through my tousled hair and liberally spritzed myself with perfume. After wolfing down a yoghurt, brushing my teeth (using the very last of the toothpaste) and grabbing my over-the-shoulder bag from the peg next to the door, I was ready.
As I’d skipped down the sun-drenched street, the heady scent of honeysuckle assaulting my nostrils, I’d instinctively known it was going to be a good day. With sunshine and flowers, how could it be anything else?
I inhaled until I was dizzy, high on floral fumes.
I’d grossly underestimated the dangers of popping into town for a few essentials. There was the lipstick and blusher that had all but jumped into my basket in Boots, and a sale at my favourite high-street clothing shop which had sucked me into the store. I’d tried on a teal-green jumpsuit – gorgeous, with a deep V-neck which made the most of my God-given assets – but even with the generous discount the price on the tag was well beyond my newly-tightened means. I’d reluctantly told the sales assistant it had been too short in the leg, even though it had fitted like a dream.
The next hurdle had been bumping into Kath outside Ann Summers (I hadn’t wanted to dwell on what might be in the bulging carrier bag she was clutching).
“Come for a coffee,” she’d urged. “We never see each other out of work these days.”
She’d pointed to a coffee shop, one of the major chains you find on every high street, that sells the most delicious chocolate layer cake. Rich and moist and melt-in-the-mouth.
My stomach had betrayed my will by grumbling. Loudly. Loud enough that Kath had taken it as an affirmative and guided me helplessly towards the overpriced latte and cake that yes, I’d badly wanted, but wouldn’t have caved and bought without her encouragement.
Every guilt-ridden sip of my coffee had burned my throat as I’d listened to Kath share the gory details of her latest conquest. A postgrad student from Colorado apparently, who was into role play, she’d added with a cheeky nod towards the Ann Summers bag. After that I’d quickly made my excuses, scared she might whip out a French maid’s outfit or naughty nurse’s uniform.
I’d breathed a sigh of relief as I’d set foot inside the pound shop. Admittedly, I’d looked furtively at the passers-by to make sure no one I knew saw me going in, but once inside I was amazed. It smelled a bit funny, like the cleaner had gone overboard with the bleach. In fact, the smell wasn’t dissimilar to the toilets at some of the less salubrious bars in town on a weekend.
Some of what they were selling was tat, but I’d also spotted my usual brand of toothpaste, for half the usual price, and a four pack of my favourite chocolate bar. Ooh, and the branded teabags Jane favoured that I could take to work, and some of those nice chocolate-coated oat biscuits. When I checked my basket it was pretty full, especially as I’d also thrown in a variety of cleaning products (all the while knowing that despite my good intentions they’d most likely end up, unused, under the sink).
I left the shop laden with bargains and, although it was money I probably could have saved, my body was abuzz with the rush that shopping brings. Granted, buying disinfectant and scourers wasn’t as exciting as buying a new outfit, but just being in town was a step up from the supermarket, which had been the limit of my shopping experience since the day of the dreaded call.
A willowy mannequin in one of the windows was dressed in a beautiful silk maxi-dress I knew would look amazing on me, and I wondered how much longer I’d be able to resist buying new clothes. My wardrobe was fit to bursting, so it wasn’t as though I was short of things to wear, but I’ve always had a passion for fashion. I don’t want to wear the same clothes day in, day out. I like variety, having a choice, but sadly the days of buying top-brand names are in my past. Maybe when I’d made a dent in my debts it’d be different, but what was I going to do until then?
A sadness washed over me, and although I knew it was a first-world problem, I pulsed with anger too. I worked bloody hard. Didn’t I deserve nice things?
I gazed longingly at the shop windows as I dodged the shoppers coming toward me, weaving in and out of groups of teenage girls heading to the cinema, grumpy men who looked like they’d rather be anywhere but the town centre on a Saturday lunchtime, grey-haired women juggling carrier bags stuffed with purchases.
That’s when I saw it. It wasn’t identical to the jumpsuit I’d tried on earlier in the day – the colour a dark cobalt blue, the neckline more demure – but the cut looked equally as flattering. I stopped abruptly to look in more detail, my brows furrowing as