DWC Short Story: Self-Made Sophie (And Other Mythical Creatures)

Sophie Langton was, by her own emphatic description, “utterly, entirely, and deliciously self-made.” She deployed this declaration with the rhythmic precision of a seasoned public speaker – at networking events, in Instagram captions, and once, during a disastrous first date, which concluded with her suitor making a theatrical show of paying for the entire meal before vanishing into the ether of unanswered texts. The self-made narrative was Sophie’s opus, her magnum opus, her raison d’être, and quite possibly, her only raison d’être.

At twenty-nine, Sophie had diligently ticked all the requisite boxes of metropolitan success. A swanky flat in Notting Hill, rented of course, but decorated with an artistic flair that implied outright ownership. A vintage Vespa, sleek and impractical, which she possessed but, for various complex legal reasons (read: she’d never quite got around to taking her motorbike test), couldn't legally operate. And then there was Langton Lifestyle, her small but undeniably buzzy online enterprise, where she purveyed hand-poured candles, each whimsically named after a forgotten literary heroine (think “Clarissa Dalloway’s Contemplation” or “Jane Eyre’s Ember Glow”), and posted motivational reels bathed in the sort of divine lighting usually reserved for celestial beings or infomercials about wrinkle cream.

The secret to her triumph, she frequently proclaimed, was a triumvirate of unshakeable principles: “discipline, oat milk, and absolutely no help from anyone whatsoever.” This last point was delivered with particular emphasis, usually accompanied by a meaningful stare into the middle distance, as if daring the universe to challenge her singularity of effort.

Until Esther.

Esther arrived on a Thursday. Sophie remembered this with an almost forensic precision because she was sporting her emerald green “Girl Boss Vibes” jumper, a garment she wore only on days of peak entrepreneurial vigour. She had just finished filming a reel of herself sipping espresso – a prop, she loathed coffee – and nodding sagely at her laptop, an activity that made her look intensely busy without actually requiring her to do anything.

The doorbell chimed, a surprisingly melodic two-tone that cut through the faux-productive silence of her flat. Sophie, in a rare deviation from her ‘do not disturb’ protocol, opened it. On her doorstep stood a woman holding a pie. Not a homemade, rustic, charmingly misshapen pie, but a perfectly symmetrical, factory-produced pie, still in its cardboard box, looking suspiciously like it had been liberated from the chiller cabinet of the local M&S.

“I’m your new upstairs neighbour,” the woman announced, her voice possessing the sort of warm, rolling cadence that suggested Yorkshire. “Thought I’d bring a peace offering before I start assembling flat-pack furniture and swearing at it with the fervour of a sailor in a gale.”

Sophie blinked at the pie. It was a peculiar offering. “You baked this?” she asked, a sliver of genuine curiosity piercing her carefully constructed façade of disinterest.

“Good heavens, no,” the woman declared, a short, sharp laugh escaping her lips. “I bought it. Life’s too short for pastry, wouldn’t you agree? I’m Esther. Moved in from Sheffield. Needed a change, didn’t I?” She ended the sentence with a rhetorical flourish, as if daring Sophie to disagree with the universal truth that everyone, at some point, needs a change.

Sophie, who typically regarded neighbours with the same enthusiasm she reserved for unsolicited Facebook event invites – largely as an unnecessary intrusion into her perfectly curated existence – found herself oddly charmed. Esther was a riot of understated rebellion: rainbow-striped socks peeked out from sensible trainers, and her hair possessed a sort of unapologetic frizz that defied any attempt at taming, a natural halo of untamed curls. She seemed like the sort of person who could crochet a full-sized blanket without becoming insufferably smug about it.

“Come in,” Sophie said, the words escaping her lips before her brain had fully processed the monumental deviation from her usual 'no unexpected visitors' policy. It was a slip, a momentary lapse, but one that felt surprisingly agreeable.

Over lukewarm coffee – Sophie’s barista skills were, like her driving skills, purely theoretical – and a surprisingly acceptable shop-bought pie, they chatted. Esther revealed she had been a secondary school English teacher, a profession that explained her calm demeanour and unnervingly perceptive gaze. Her current ambition, she announced, was to write a novel, a revelation that both intrigued and mildly irritated Sophie. Writing, Sophie felt, was a solitary, tortured pursuit, not a casual hobby one picked up after a career teaching verb tenses to adolescents. Esther, however, laughed easily, made no mention of “hustling” or “monetising her passion,” and seemed entirely unbothered by the notion that literary success might take a while, perhaps even a lifetime.

“I love your business,” Esther said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Sophie’s laptop, which still displayed the image of her sipping imaginary espresso. “Langton Lifestyle. You’ve done rather well for yourself.”

Sophie beamed, puffing up with the satisfaction of a cat basking in a sunbeam. “All me. Blood, sweat, and beeswax.” The beeswax part was a recent addition to her self-made mantra; it sounded artisanal.

Esther cocked her head, her frizzy halo shimmering faintly in the Notting Hill light. “No help at all?” she asked, her tone gentle, almost inquisitive, but with an underlying current that Sophie couldn't quite decipher.

Sophie’s grin tightened, a fractional, almost imperceptible shift. “Not a shred. Didn’t even do business school. Just… figured it out. Pure grit and a robust Wi-Fi connection.”

Esther said nothing, merely made a thoughtful “hmm” sound, like someone mentally bookmarking a detail for future reference, or perhaps, for a game of Trivial Pursuit.

Over the ensuing weeks, Esther became a regular fixture in Sophie’s carefully curated life. She popped round often, always bearing gifts that ranged from the practical to the delightfully eccentric: homemade banana bread (Esther clearly had a more adventurous relationship with her oven than Sophie), spare rosemary filched from her burgeoning windowsill herb garden, or a half-read novel she thought Sophie might enjoy. Her earrings were a source of constant fascination for Sophie, miniature works of art shaped like clouds, tiny teacups, or even, on one memorable occasion, miniature garden gnomes. Once, while expertly unclogging Sophie’s stubbornly blocked kitchen sink, Esther delivered an entire, impassioned monologue about the nuanced differences between “chaotic good” and “lawful neutral” alignments in role-playing games, a topic Sophie knew nothing about but found herself utterly engrossed in.

Sophie found herself opening up to Esther in a way she hadn’t in years. Most of her friendships, she realised with a pang of self-awareness, were either transactional – mutually beneficial connections for social media engagement or business leads – or purely online, existing solely within the carefully filtered confines of Instagram updates and mutual flattery. But Esther didn’t seem to care if Sophie’s hair was frizzy (it often was, despite copious amounts of anti-frizz serum) or if she hadn’t posted a single motivational reel in three days. Esther cared about things like poetry, the optimal flakiness of pie crusts, and whether you’d actually consumed anything resembling a substantial lunch. It was unsettlingly refreshing.

One evening, after a particularly arduous day battling an uncommunicative Amazon supplier and attempting to film a candle-making tutorial where she inadvertently glued her favourite “Work Hard, Be Kind” jumper sleeve to a marble coaster, Sophie collapsed onto her plush velvet sofa with a theatrical sigh.

“I envy your calm, Esther,” she declared, dramatically throwing an arm over her eyes. “Everything in your life seems to smell like cinnamon and quiet contentment.”

Esther grinned, her frizz catching the light. “That’s just because I accidentally smashed a Yankee Candle in my rucksack last week. My bank card still smells faintly of spiced apple, which, while pleasant, does make me question the fundamental integrity of its plastic.”

They laughed, a genuine, unforced sound that echoed pleasantly in Sophie’s usually silent flat. Sophie poured wine, a generous splash into each glass, a subtle sign of her growing comfort with Esther’s presence.

As they sipped, the conversation meandered. “Do you ever visit your hometown?” Esther asked, her gaze steady.

Sophie made a face that suggested she had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon. “Not really. It’s one of those places with more pigeons than ambition, you know? And an alarming number of roundabouts.”

“Still. They must be proud. Your family?”

“Don’t talk to them much. We’re not close.” Sophie shrugged, affecting an air of detached indifference. “I mean, they weren’t exactly supportive. My mum wanted me to marry the butcher’s son. Apparently, his father had a very secure pension. I told her I had higher aspirations than a future steeped in pork scratchings.”

“Did you ever work for him?” Esther asked, her eyes twinkling. “The butcher’s son, I mean. Did he have a charming smile and an aptitude for portion control?”

“What? The butcher? God, no,” Sophie scoffed, genuinely appalled by the mental image. “I worked at a petrol station for about a year while I figured things out. Sold crisps and motor oil. Not quite the glamorous launchpad to a multi-million-pound lifestyle brand, is it?”

Esther nodded, a subtle gesture, as if tucking away another jigsaw piece into some unseen mental puzzle.

Later that week, Sophie was attempting a live stream, demonstrating the art of creating a “Literary Luminary” candle (a rather ambitious concoction of frankincense and old book smell). Mid-sentence, her ring light, a crucial component of her online persona, flickered and died with a pathetic sigh. Sophie cursed, a rather un-“Girl Boss Vibes” expletive, dropped her phone, and ended up filming the inside of her nostril for a good thirty seconds. Her followers, bless their peculiar hearts, found it immensely amusing. Sophie did not.

“I swear this building is cursed,” she grumbled to Esther afterwards, pacing her living room. “The electrics are held together with wishes and sticky tape. I’m going to DM the landlord again, and this time, I’m sending a strongly worded emoji sequence.”

Esther raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Isn’t your landlord your godfather?”

Sophie froze mid-pace. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, like a particularly surprised goldfish. “How do you know that?” she asked, a faint note of panic entering her voice.

“You mentioned it once,” Esther replied calmly, sipping her tea, which smelled, inevitably, of cinnamon. “Said he gave you a ‘great deal’ on rent when you first moved to London. Something about helping out his favourite goddaughter.”

“Well, yes,” Sophie floundered, trying to regain her composure. “But only because I’m such an exemplary tenant. Never late with the rent, always return my recycling bins to their designated spot, never once caused a major flood. He knows good value when he sees it.”

“Mmhmm,” Esther said, taking another sip, her eyes crinkling at the corners. It was a non-committal sound, a hum that conveyed a wealth of unspoken observations.

The next time they hung out, Esther arrived with a stack of old photo albums. They were the sort of albums that screamed ‘past’: faded covers, plastic sleeves, and a faint, nostalgic smell of dust and forgotten memories.

“Found these while unpacking the last of the boxes,” she explained, placing them on Sophie’s coffee table. “Want to see my awkward phase? It’s truly magnificent, a testament to questionable fashion choices and even more questionable haircuts.”

Sophie laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound. “Sure. But I warn you, mine lasted from eleven to twenty-five, and occasionally resurfaces on days when I accidentally wear clashing patterns.”

They flipped through photos of Esther with braces that seemed to consume half her face, with impossibly wide flared trousers, and with hair that seemed to be actively rebelling against all known shades of human colour – a vibrant, inexplicable orange. One particular picture made Sophie do a double-take. It featured a younger Esther, beaming, holding a surprisingly large trophy, surrounded by a group of other girls, all of them looking slightly dishevelled but proud. Sophie squinted.

“Wait. That’s me.”

Esther smiled, a gentle, knowing smile. “Yep. Eleventh from the left, just behind the girl whose hair looks like a badger’s backside.”

“What is this?” Sophie asked, her finger tracing the outline of her younger self. “Year Ten creative writing competition?”

“Correct,” Esther confirmed. “The regional finals. We were in the same group.”

Sophie stared. Her memory, usually so vivid and meticulously curated, offered no flicker of recognition. “But… I don’t remember you.”

Esther shrugged, a casual, almost dismissive gesture. “I was quiet. And you were busy being dazzling. You had that story about the talking badger who solved mysteries. It was brilliant.”

Sophie felt a flush creep up her neck. Dazzling. It wasn't a word she often associated with her teenage self, who had mostly felt invisible, desperate to escape the confines of her small town. “I wasn’t,” she mumbled. “I just… I wanted out. You know? Out of that town, out of that life. I felt like I was suffocating.”

Esther turned the page of the album. “I do.” Her voice was soft, laced with an understanding that transcended mere words.

There was a comfortable, companionable pause, filled only by the rustle of old photographs.

“You know,” Esther said softly, finally breaking the silence, “you’ve always been brilliant. Even back then. But perhaps not quite as completely on your own as you like to suggest.”

Sophie looked up, her gaze fixed on Esther’s calm, kind face. “What do you mean?”

Esther put the album down, closing it gently. “You talk about being self-made, Sophie. And you’ve certainly worked incredibly hard. But you had that English teacher, Miss Carter, who entered your story into that national competition, remember? The one that led to your internship in London, the one you always say was your big break.”

“Oh. Miss Carter,” Sophie said, the name tasting strangely unfamiliar on her tongue.

“She fought the headteacher for that, you know,” Esther continued, her voice even. “Said your writing was too good to rot in a small-town classroom. She saw something in you when you probably couldn’t see it yourself.”

Sophie looked down at her half-empty glass of wine, swirling the liquid thoughtfully.

“And that petrol station job?” Esther pressed on, gently. “You once told me your uncle gave it to you after you dropped out of uni. Said he’d give you a place to figure things out without being a burden to your parents.”

Sophie was quiet, the words hitting her with the quiet force of forgotten truths.

“And your first investor—the one who gave you the funds to buy candle supplies in bulk and properly launch Langton Lifestyle—was a friend of your mum’s from the Women’s Institute. Your mum put you back in touch with her, didn’t she? After you’d almost given up.”

Sophie swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. “She did.” The admission felt heavy, yet strangely liberating.

“I’m not saying you didn’t work hard, Sophie,” Esther said, her voice softening further, devoid of judgment. “Goodness, no. You did. You’ve been brave and clever and relentless. You’ve built something wonderful. But maybe the story you tell—the one where you did it all alone, battling the elements with nothing but a single match and a dream—isn’t quite the full truth.”

Sophie stared at her wine, a kaleidoscope of forgotten faces and unacknowledged kindnesses swirling in her mind. “Why does that feel so… embarrassing?” she whispered, the word a raw admission.

“Because our culture’s obsessed with self-sufficiency,” Esther replied, her voice laced with a quiet wisdom. “We’re fed this narrative that true success is built by lone wolves, by individuals who pull themselves up by their bootstraps and never look back. But nobody really does anything completely alone, Sophie. We stand on the shoulders of giants, or at least, on the shoulders of quiet cheerleaders. And when we pretend we do it all ourselves, we erase the people who showed up for us in quiet ways, the ones who offered a hand, a kind word, or a timely loan without expecting anything in return.”

Sophie said nothing for a long while, the silence punctuated only by the distant hum of Notting Hill life.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t spoken to my mum in over a year.”

“Why not?” Esther asked, gently.

Sophie took a deep breath. “She said she was proud of me. And I… I told her she didn’t have anything to do with it. That I did it all by myself.”

Esther winced. “Ouch.”

“I thought I was being honest,” Sophie continued, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. “But maybe I was just being… defensive. Or perhaps, a bit of an idiot.”

Esther smiled, a warm, reassuring expression. “You were protecting your story, Sophie. It was a good story, a powerful one. But you’re allowed to rewrite it. You’re allowed to make it bigger, more inclusive. You’re allowed to acknowledge all the supporting characters.”

The next day, fortified by an extra-large oat milk latte (her genuine addiction) and a surprising surge of courage, Sophie called her mum. They talked for forty-five minutes. Sophie cried twice, a surprising but cleansing release of emotion. Her mum cried once, a quiet, tearful “I always knew you’d do it.” They planned to meet for Sunday lunch, a rare and momentous occasion.

Later that afternoon, Sophie posted a new reel. It was different from her usual polished productions. This one was raw, unedited, just her, a smudge of candle wax on her cheek, holding a chipped mug that, on closer inspection, said: “I am not a self-made woman. I am a community creation.”

The caption was equally unvarnished:

“Turns out, I didn’t do it all alone. And frankly, it’s a much better story when I admit that. Thank you to everyone who helped me build this life—seen and unseen. The teachers, the uncles, the Women’s Institute legends, and the friends who remember more than I do. Especially you, Mum.”

Esther liked the post within seconds, her virtual thumbs-up appearing like a small, digital blessing.

Two months later, Esther finished the first draft of her novel. She dedicated it to “the quiet cheerleaders, the background believers, and the friend who remembered more than I did, reminding me that even the most determined architects need a solid foundation.”

She named one of the characters Sophie. The character was feisty, ambitious, slightly oblivious, and utterly charming.

And every Thursday, a tradition born from a simple act of neighbourly kindness, they still met for pie. Sometimes it was store-bought, sometimes it was homemade, and always, it was shared. And Sophie, for the first time in a very long time, felt truly and deliciously complete.