Sophie’s Choice

Sophie’s Choice by Chris Green

I haven’t seen Sophie since she moved up north, so I am surprised to find her in the wines and spirits aisle in my local Tesco. She is studying the Sauvignon Blanc range. This was always her favourite tipple. I tended to go for Italian red. Sophie and I parted on bad terms, but we may now have the opportunity to put that right. It wasn’t my idea to break up. This was Sophie’s choice.

‘Hi Sophie,’ I say. ‘Lovely to see you. You’re looking good. What are you doing in these parts?’

‘Do I know you?’ she says.

‘Come on, Soph! It’s Matt,’ I say.

‘You’re mistaking me for someone else,’ she snaps. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with my shopping.’

I entertain the idea that I might be mistaken, and this is not Sophie. It is five years since I’ve set eyes on her. And the mind can sometimes play tricks. But this woman’s appearance is ticking all the boxes. She is a little fuller of figure, perhaps, but she looks about thirty-five, which would be spot on. She is about five foot five and wears her skirt and fitted jacket the way Sophie used to wear them. Sophie was fond of charcoal tights like these too, and block heels. Her hair is slightly fairer perhaps, but Sophie was forever changing her hair colour. But those sparking cerulean blue eyes are unmistakable. Even when she is angry. In police procedural terms, here we have a 99.9% match.

Having added a couple of bottles of wine from the top shelf to her shop, she pushes her trolley determinedly towards the checkout. I follow with my basket, a few steps adrift, and line up behind her. I try once more to initiate a conversation.

‘If you don’t back off and stop harassing me, I’m going to call Security,’ she says.

A burly uniformed security guard is hovering nearby. I pick another checkout while keeping an eye on Sophie’s movements. Why is she giving me the bums-rush? Our breakup had been sudden. Until then, things had been fine. We had our spats. All couples do. But we had some memorable times together. We had many great holidays in exotic locations, a stimulating social life and sensational sex. We didn’t even have the responsibilities that come with having children. We were free to do what we wanted, when we wanted. We had a good life.

I make it through my checkout ahead of her. I wait outside. When she comes out, I try once more to clear the air.

‘I was only thinking about you the other day, Sophie,’ I say. ‘I was reading a novel set in that place in Ibiza where we saw the UFO.’

‘What are you talking about?’ she says. ‘Who are you?’

A man in a black BMW drives out of a parking bay and beeps his horn. He gets out and opens the boot for the shopping, a strapping dude in a muscleman t-shirt and skinny-fit jeans. His arms are a veritable tattoo fest. He looks my way. He is not smiling. Fortunately, my car is parked close by. I head for it, briskly.

It may be a foolish thing to do, and something I have never attempted before, but as they draw out of the car park, I find myself following them. Sophie won’t know I drive a grey Tiguan, and it is a pretty nondescript car, the type you would not notice. It is probably the private detective’s model of choice. I expect Billy Hats drives one. It is early afternoon, and there is not much traffic on the road, so I have little difficulty in keeping a safe distance behind.

We arrive at Descartes Avenue, a leafy suburban road on the Philosophers’ estate, and the BMW pulls into a driveway. I make a note of the house number, and keeping my head down, drive on by. I have no plan of what to do with the information. I’m not thinking of becoming a stalker, but I feel Sophie’s address is something I should be aware of. I don’t even know the name of the northern town she ran off to. As Sophie did not do social media, and we each had our own group of friends, I never discovered her whereabouts. Not that I tried so hard, but perhaps I should have.

On Tuesdays and Saturdays, I see Magda. She comes around after work, and we have something to eat and go to bed, or go to bed and have something to eat. There is no set pattern. But the relationship is probably going nowhere. Magda is married. I don’t know why it has to be Tuesdays and Saturdays. This is Magda’s choice. Perhaps her husband has a similar arrangement on those days. I don’t ask. It is none of my business.

Our schedule gives me scope to do other things on the evenings I don’t see her. On Mondays, I have a class in The Roots of American Jazz at the college, and on Fridays, I usually go to The Blind Monkey for a pint or two. But for the rest of the week, I am left twiddling my thumbs. At thirty-seven, I fall into that category between the more gregarious younger interest group and the glad to have got all of that over with older age group. People my age are likely to either be in settled relationships with young families or are socially inept.

On Thursday evening, I am driving home from work with nothing on my agenda. On the spur of the moment, I decide to take a detour to Descartes Avenue to see if anything is going on. There is a silver Mercedes A-Class parked on the drive at number 66. No sign of the black BMW. Not sure what conclusions to draw from this, I park up a little way down the road under the shade of a London plane. I can wait here a while to see if there are any developments. Perhaps the Mercedes is Sophie’s car and her tattooed lover is out somewhere in the Beamer. But the Merc was not there the other day. Maybe lover boy is a dealer in luxury cars. But it doesn’t feel right. After all, this is suburbia. There must be something more sinister going down.

I don’t have to wait too long for a development. Another Tiguan draws up, a top of the range model with dark tinted windows. Nobody gets out. Could this be Billy Hats on a stake-out? If in the unlikely event it is, why is he too watching Sophie’s house? I’m not even sure that Billy Hats exists, or if he is a fictional private detective. Perhaps it’s a name I picked up from a Darius Self thriller. But it is clear someone is watching someone here. And number 66 seems to be the focus. Perhaps it is part of an undercover police operation. I can’t hear the blues and twos yet, but I need to stick around to find out what is going on.

A broader, more tattooed version of last week’s bruiser emerges from the house and gets into the Merc. Sophie’s choice in men has taken a tumble in the years since she we split up. These guys look like seasoned gangsters. There is no sign of Sophie. The Merc drives off at a pace. Seconds later, the Tiguan follows. There’s no point in joining the pursuit, the Merc could pull away easily should ir come down to it. I’m not sure what to do about Sophie, though. Is she part of some underworld gang? Might she be in danger? What could I do about it if she were? Probably nothing. She may, of course, be in the house. But, even if she is home, she is not likely to be in the mood for a visit from me. After a few minutes with no further comings and goings, I head for home.

There has been a jazz revival lately, so I am kept busy at Brass and sometimes work late. Along with Magda’s visits on Tuesday and Saturday and my evening class, my week suddenly seems quite full. I stop off at Tesco some evenings for a bottle of wine on the off-chance of bumping into Sophie again. But other than this, my amateur sleuthing takes a back seat.

Lee Shirt comes into Brass to buy a new mute for his trumpet. Lee is an old friend. We go back to our days in The Hat Band, a colourful jazz combo. I don’t play any longer, but Lee has stuck with it. The band sounds good. I don’t think they miss me that much.

‘I saw Sophie last week,’ Lee says. ‘She was with a big guy with a shaved head. I tried to get her attention, but I don’t think she saw me. They were going into Barclays.’

I am tempted to ask what kind of weapon her friend was carrying, but I resist.

‘Are you sure it was her?’ I ask, instead.

‘Not one hundred percent, mate, but Sophie is pretty stunning and always dresses like she’s going somewhere special, so I’m fairy sure. Don’t know what she was doing with this mean-looking dude, though. He was built like a WWE wrestler. He didn’t seem like her type. A bit odd, don’t you think?’

Magda remarks that I seem distracted during our lovemaking.

‘You used to give me big rogering and make me sing out,’ she says. ‘Now I am left waiting for good seeing-to. Have you been visiting Valentina Vamp?’

I apologise and begin to tell her about Sophie and the hoodlums.

‘So you want this Sophie too,’ she says. ‘Am I not enough for you? Or perhaps you are liking these big boys now. Is that what it is? ‘.

‘No, look….’

‘Any way it’s Sophie’s choice who she sees. Perhaps big boys give her good rogering.’

Once you are on the lookout for someone, you imagine you see them everywhere you go. On the street, in the pub, in the queue at the post office, at the waste disposal site, in the back garden, everywhere. Wish fulfilment, I suppose. Sophie isn’t remotely interested in jazz. Years ago, she threatened to take my saxophone to British Heart Foundation if I didn’t stop playing it around the house. One morning I imagine I see her come through the door of Brass, Obviously, this is not really Sophie. She wouldn’t be seen dead in baggy jeans and a John Coltrane t-shirt. I let Joolz go across to see what she wants. Joolz has just started, and he is keen to make an impression.

She ignores Joolz and comes over.

‘I’ve been the victim of identity theft, Matt,’ she says. ‘They hacked my email and got my bank details. They even cracked the facial recognition on my private files. Everything. Matt, someone who looks like me is impersonating me. There are now photos of me all over the internet. I got a fellow on to it, a private detective, but I haven’t heard from him for a while. ’

‘Not so good, but that might help to explain a few things.’

‘Help me reclaim my identity, Matt. I haven’t even got my birth certificate. You’re bound to have some of my old paperwork. You never throw anything away. I didn’t have a number for you or email or any other way to contact you. So I’ve driven down from Yorkshire to see you. I know it was my choice, but I’m sorry I left you with no warning. Not so much as a note or a forwarding address. Water under the bridge now, but I want you to know I feel bad about it. I hope you haven’t been too miserable.’

Copyright Chris Green, 2025: All rights reserved