Chapter 8 Sophie
S OPHIE
Sophie doesn’t hear a single scream from the suite up the hallway. Her noise-cancelling earbuds are doing exactly what they promised, and all she hears are the dulcet voices of Oprah Winfrey and Nigella Lawson on the Christmas edition of Oprah’s Be You podcast. It’s not a podcast she subscribes to – Oprah’s a bit rah-rah for her taste – but she likes to keep her finger on the pulse of what the celebrity chefs are up to.
Nigella’s telling Oprah that her weight loss was thanks to ‘being a little more choosy’ but that she’s always embraced her curves at every size. Sophie rolls her eyes. She thinks about how every episode of Nigella’s TV show ends in the trademark sneaky late-night treats straight from the fridge. Everyone knows you don’t get that thin raiding the fridge for chocolate mousse at midnight.
When Oprah launches into an ode to the fat women she admires, Sophie hits the stop button. She keeps the earbuds in and shuts her eyes, breathing in the silence.
She’s made it, Christmas Day is almost over. The distraction of an international flight and settling into new accommodation has been a blessing. She should plan something similar for next year. But it’s a whole year before she has to think about Christmas again and the horrors it brings to mind. What’s important is that she’s survived another Christmas Day. Surviving is what Sophie does best.
Right on cue, her phone vibrates with an email from her mother.
Sophie!
I’ve been trying you all day, darling.
Hope all is well? Is there phone reception in Venice?
Happy Christmas anyway. May the peace of the Lord be upon you, sweetheart.
I’ve sent you a little gift, I hope you get some use out of it!
Do give me a call when you can. I’ll try you again in the morning.
Love,
Mum xx
She clicks on the attachment. It’s a one-year membership to a diet app.
She punches out a reply to her mother, reads over it, then immediately deletes it. Instead she copies the link and texts it to David.
Sophie only talks with her brother over text messages once every couple of months or so, mainly to share memes. She sees him in person even less than that, although he and his wife, Courtney, only live an hour’s drive away.
But it is Christmas Day, after all, so it’s as good a day as any to send a text.
Merry Christmas and all that.
Behold, my present from our dearest mother ...
Merry Christmas yourself.
Ha! Court got a virtual mosquito net from Oxfam.
Sophie snorts.
Poor Court. That’s worse than mine.
What’d you get?
One ticket to Bublé at Rod Laver Arena in February.
Mum has the other ticket.
My Christmas present is being her driver. Just call me David Uber.
D’Uber for short.
I prefer my rap name Lil Dube.
God I love you, you big dag, is what Sophie thinks. Catch ya later, is what she writes.
Still smiling, she opens up the document she started working on this evening, the feature about Il Cuore. She’s got nothing more than the title, ‘Il Cuore: A Canal-side Palate Paradise’, and a whole heap of photos of the restaurant and kitchen she took this evening.
She clicks on a shot of Rocco grinning ear to ear as he carries a stack of empty glasses. She zooms in on him, closer and closer. The closer she zooms, the hotter that Italian man gets.