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

The jewellery she was selling was cute – drop earrings with shimmering beads, adjustable rings with Scrabble tile letters attached to the band, old-fashioned friendship bracelets of knotted embroidery threads like Eve, Tawna and I used to make back in primary school. The decoupage photo frames were nice too, and the sets of doll’s clothes made with pretty printed fabric.

“You make some lovely things.”

“Thank you,” the lady said, flashing her dimples once more. My praise was enough to encourage her to put down her needles, the squarish white knitting hanging like a flag on a pole. Probably a back-piece of a cardigan, I thought.

“Anything you’ve particularly got your eye on?” she asked, and I was drawn to the Scrabble tile rings, the large black S bold against the creamy tile, the small “1” in the corner less dominant, but still there.

“I love the rings.”

“They’re always popular,” the woman said with a nod. “Kids and adults all love them.”

“How much are they?” Max enquired, picking up the S ring I’d been looking at.

The lady told us the price, and before I had time to argue, Max paid for the item and slipped it onto my finger. Third finger of my left hand, although I’m sure that was pure coincidence.

“You shouldn’t have.” I was mildly embarrassed at the attention – maybe even a show of affection – in front of a stranger. “I do love it though, thank you.”

I fully extended my fingers to get a better look at the ring, and the lady placed her palm across her heart and aahed. I felt my cheeks getting hot. I was probably as pink as my hoodie.

“Aren’t you two the sweetest couple.” She beamed, picking up her needles once more. “Enjoy the rest of your Sunday, won’t you?”

We both smiled and nodded, and I mumbled a thank you as we moved to the next table. The crafts weren’t as high-quality, and although the bookmarks and keyrings on display were eye-catching, closer inspection showed they’d been hurried. There were a few loose ends and unsightly blobs of glue where the maker had been heavy-handed.

“Anything you like the look of?” Max asked.

“I don’t think so.” I could make better myself, and the woman behind the table looked miserable as sin as she hid behind a pinboard covered in home-made badges to take a puff of her e-cigarette. She wasn’t subtle, but even if she had been, the sickly-sweet smell would have given her away.

As we moved from the smoking woman, fighting against the tickle of a cough building in my throat, I thought of my craft stash. The pleasure crafting brought me, the joy of sourcing perfect resources for a project… I wanted more of that in my life.

“Do you remember I told you I love making things?” I blurted, then blushed again as Max stopped walking. “Like the things on those stalls,” I added.

“I know what making things means,” he teased. “And yes, I remember. Are you any good?”

I looked down at the ring on my finger, where the tile skimmed my knuckle. “Yeah. I’m really good, actually. I’ve been thinking about what you said about doing it professionally.”

If he found my comment big-headed he didn’t show it.

“Brilliant. You should. Maybe you could show me some of the things you’ve made sometime.” His eyes shone as they connected with mine.

“Maybe,” I replied coyly, although I’d need to give the house a deep-clean if Max was going to pay a visit. No one ever came to my place except Tawna and Eve, and they didn’t count. Over the years they’d become blind to my borderline hoarding, and although my selling sprees had cleared some clutter my house would never be considered tidy.

We pottered around for a while, bumping into Oz and Isla who encouraged me to guess the name of the teddy (I plumped for Keegan. The teddy was a panda, and everyone knows black and white means the Magpies, the mighty Newcastle United. The other option was Alan, as in Shearer, but someone else had already nabbed that).

“Feeling lucky?” asked a suited man with a clipboard. He looked way too formal for a fete. I must have given him a bemused look, because he said, “Because you were having a go on ‘guess the name of the bear’. We’re an international company specialising in medical training. Our UK headquarters is moving from London and we’re going to be based right here in Newcastle. We’re already establishing links with the hospital, including pledging to donate a percentage of our annual profits to the hospital charity funds. All we’re asking is for people to sign up to our newsletter, and for each person that signs up we’re donating a pound to the hospital charity. We promise not to flood your inbox, but we will keep you up to date with company news and the overall total we have donated to the cause. Also, one lucky winner will be selected at random to win five thousand pounds.”

“Just for signing up?”

“Just for signing up,” the man confirmed.

“Go on then.” Max took the Biro from the man and wrote down his email address. I nosily tried to read it, but struggled, because not only was it upside down, but he was left-handed, so as he moved the pen across the page he hid what he’d written. I’d always had a thing for left-handers. I don’t know why.

“I will too. It is for charity, after all.” My writing looked loopy and childlike under Max’s jagged scrawl.

The event was drawing to a close, the crowd thinning out, but I wasn’t ready for my time with Max to be over. He’d been a wonderful distraction from worrying about Chantel and the twins, exactly what I’d needed, so when he suggested going for a drink at a nearby pub, I jumped at the chance.

“Have you been here before?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“It’s nothing special,” he said,