Nothing New for Sophie Drew: a heart-warming romantic comedy by Katey Lovell (best autobiographies to read .txt) 📕

one of my best friends. Misguided? Yes. But she’d be devastated if she knew her comments had given me a run of sleepless nights as I mused over the pros and cons of Darius and Max. My current frugal lifestyle meant the newness of Max appealed, but I couldn’t rid myself of the sense that Darius and I had unfinished business.

“Go on then,” I said. “You knock.”

Eve played out a tune on the solid brass knocker, a rat-tat-a-tat-tat that sounded unnaturally loud. It probably had to be loud so Johnny and Tawna could hear visitors arriving from the far end of the house. It was a bit different to my place, where any knock on my neighbour’s door caused my walls to shake.

Tawna swung the door open with a flourish and a squeal, before throwing her arms first around me and then around Eve. She clearly didn’t share our qualms, excitement bubbling out of her every pore.

“You’re here! It’s great to see you. I’ve been so looking forward to today, we’ll have so much fun.”

I cringed with guilt as I disentangled myself from her lithe limbs. She was right, the dress shopping would be fun, and the three of us hadn’t spent nearly enough time together since my birthday.

“Me too,” I said. “And I’m glad we’re all choosing dresses together.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to choose bridesmaids dresses without your input, would it? Although you know I wouldn’t choose anything hideous. I’m not into lavender puffball dresses anymore.” She laughed, referring to the time she won the May Queen competition (of course she won – teenage Tawna had been equally as beautiful as present-day Tawna, and had aspired to be Miss World one day). She’d worn a satin dress that made her look like a china doll and had slept in plaits for a week to give her poker-straight hair zigzagged waves.

“Yeah, lavender’s never been my colour,” Eve joked, as we entered the house.

Although Tawna and Johnny had lived in it since their engagement, I still couldn’t get used to this being her house. It was in Gosforth for one thing (which meant it was bloody massive – almost a mansion) and was immaculate for another. That was down to the cleaner who came twice a week rather than my friend, who wouldn’t dream of doing anything that might damage her nail extensions, but nevertheless everything about the house screamed upmarket. Not only was it posh, but everything was sparkly-new; like a show home, right down to the vase of fresh red roses on the hallway table and the overflowing fruit bowl at the centre of the kitchen island. The vivid colours of nature contrasted starkly with the starched white of the cabinets and work surfaces, illuminated by strategically placed spotlights that showed the room to its best advantage.

“Come on through. Johnny’s at the gym so we can spread out in the conservatory. I’ve got a stack of magazines for us to look through before we hit the wedding dress shops, to give us an idea of what we’re after.”

My ballet pumps padded along the tiled hallway, through the kitchen diner (which was probably twice as large as the whole downstairs of my house) and into the conservatory, although that made it sound like a small sunroom rather than the full-on extension it was. It had one of those roofs with a central point, so the room looked like a big top from a travelling circus, minus the bright coloured canvas. All the colour was outside, in the landscaped gardens. Rhododendrons and rose bushes, fuchsias and ferns, and a whole host of other botanical beauties I couldn’t hazard a guess at naming were kept perfectly pruned by one of Johnny’s gardener friends. I pushed down my envy as I compared Tawna’s garden to the collection of half-dead potted plants that littered my kitchen windowsill. But there was no competition, it was the Chelsea flower show versus the reduced section at B&Q.

“Make yourselves comfy, and I’ll fetch us some drinks.” She waved her hand in the direction of an expensive-looking teal three-piece suite I’m sure wasn’t there last time I’d visited. “I got some fizz in especially, and none of that cheap rubbish. Only the best for my girls.” She beamed.

Eve and I did as we were instructed, our bottoms bouncing as they connected with the firm cushions of the settee, confirming its newness.

The coffee table was piled high with bridal magazines, all boasting the absolute must-haves for the picture-perfect big day. Headlines screamed “Silk or lace?” and “Twenty unique table favours” from the covers, but the publications had one thing in common – the dresses the beaming “brides” on the covers were wearing all cost more than my monthly pay cheque. When we’d gone shopping for Tawna’s dress at the tail-end of the previous year the prices hadn’t shocked me. Since I’d started counting every last penny the thought of paying hundreds, or even thousands, of pounds for a dress that’d be worn once now horrified me.

“I’ve folded down the pages of the bridesmaids dresses I like best,” Tawna called from the kitchen. “To give you an idea of what I’ve been thinking.”

Eve and I exchanged another loaded look. Tawna wasn’t sticking to a strict colour scheme, instead going for a rural theme to match the village church her and Johnny had chosen for the wedding itself and the luxury country house reception, which meant we had no expectations. Other than the absence of lavender puffballs we’d not been given so much as an inkling of style or colour palette.

I picked a magazine from the top of the pile, immediately taking a dislike to the couple on the cover. A dark-haired “groom” modelling a well-cut navy suit looked lovingly at his “bride”, a slender woman with caramel curls wearing an ivory dress with a voluminous layered tulle skirt. Even though I knew it wasn’t real – it was two attractive people who’d been paid to pretend to be wildly in love