Dream a Little Dream

  ‘Are you really going to compartmentalize them like that – Dream Brett and Real Brett?’ she asks, moving her hands from left to right as though I’m storing each of them in tiny boxes. ‘It’s going to get really confusing.’

  ‘Get? Get? It already is,’ I squeal, rolling my head back on to the pillows in despair. ‘Are you sure I’m not dreaming still?’

  ‘Definitely not, but I can pinch you to prove it if you like,’ she offers, crabbing her little fingers towards my arms.

  ‘No thanks,’ I grumble sadly. ‘What am I going to do? I’m meant to be learning the ropes from him at work. I can’t do that now.’

  ‘Of course you can. You’ve just got to stop thinking of Dream Brett. It’s probably because you’ve thought of him so much that this infatuation has grown so huge.’

  ‘I’m not infatuated,’ I stammer, hating how utterly bonkers that sounds out loud, but unable to stop my cheeks from blushing and contradicting the words I’ve spoken.

  ‘Yeah …’ Carly nods, raising an eyebrow in my direction. ‘Clearly. In that case, stop thinking of the dream version of the guy and he might disappear.’

  ‘But I like him,’ I moan, puffing my lips out as I think of all the fun we’ve had together.

  ‘And I’d really like not to be on the cusp of parenthood, but these things happen and we need to roll with them,’ Carly says sardonically. ‘It’s time to say goodbye to Mr Dreamboy and start living in reality.’

  Talk about tough love.

  A little whine of sorrow comes from my soul as I pick up my sandwich and continue to nibble on it, pretending to be immersed in whether Brandi Glanville and Lisa Vanderpump will ever patch up their troubled friendship while actually thinking about Dream Brett.

  What’s worse than a real-life problem? One that exists totally in your mind and is therefore out of your control to put an end to.

  I can’t guarantee that I’ll stop thinking of him.

  I can’t even guarantee that I want to.

  And I certainly can’t guarantee that I’ll stop dreaming of him.

  I just have to try my best to see Real Brett as a totally different person altogether, but then, let’s face it – he is!

  16

  The ground beneath my bare feet is dry and earthy as I walk along the path set out before me – one single straight line placed in the centre of a never-ending rapeseed field, continuing on for as far as I can see. With the hot sun warming my shoulders, I hold out my hands and touch the tips of the yellow flowers as I go, enjoying the sounds of the birds in the trees and smiling to myself every time a rabbit or fox makes its way across the opening of my countryside haven.

  I walk and walk, taking in the blue skies and the strong smell of the fields – feeling calmer with each step I take. I know that, by remaining on this path, I will be led somewhere safe, happy and content – I will be led home.

  Far in the distance, a head pops up above the yellow flowers. Two eyes watch me for all of a second before falling back down and disappearing.

  I stop and stare – willing the face to show itself again, so that I can be sure that it’s him.

  But there’s nothing.

  After a few moments, I give up waiting and continue along the path, although this time I feel sadder than I did before. As though I’m missing something. The calmness I held at the start has been disturbed and shaken. Instead, anxiety has taken hold and makes me wary.

  I’m nervous as I walk. Even though I know I’m heading somewhere I want to go I now have doubts over my desires.

  A head appears again to my left, right on the horizon, and makes me jump. I turn and face it – face him – but just as our eyes lock he’s gone again.

  I run.

  I ignore the path dictated to me by the mud on the ground – even though it’s what I think I need and will take me to safety – instead, instinctively, I run into the yellow, trying to reach where he was. Where I know I want to be.

  I run and run and run – the crop whipping my hands and legs as I speed past – leaving them stinging, the rabbits scurrying away from the intruder in their peaceful playground, the sun becoming hot and unbearable.

  But the blanket of yellow before me never changes. I never get closer to the spot where I thought I saw him. I’m like a hamster on a wheel, running round and round and never reaching my final destination.

  I stop, gasping for air. Looking all around me to see if I’ll see him again.

  There!

  Over to the left!

  He’s gone again, but this time I’m on to him, this time I’ll find him.

  I run, faster than before and with even more frantic determination. Not caring that my black dress is being torn by the effort or that I’m disappearing into the unknown.

  I run for what feels like hours, but find nothing.

  Nothing.

  I cannot find that face.

  It dawns on me that he is an illusion. He isn’t there, even though I’d like him to be.

  Perhaps the real him is waiting for me back at home, I realize, thankful that all is not lost.

  I turn to walk back to where I came from so that I can return to the safe path that was laid out for me, but there’s no trace of the route I ran. The flowers have blown back together as though I’d never invaded their serene space.

  I’m stranded without a clue of how to get out.

  A face to the left.

  I gasp with excitement, ready to go again.

  A face to the right.

  I stare in confusion.

  Then another, and another, and another. Dozens of Bretts along the horizon and in the field – those hazelnut eyes all staring, all mocking.

  I try to run away from them now, away from their taunting and lies – but it’s no use. In every direction I turn there’s a new face bursting up through the flowers to surprise me.

  I close my eyes and I scream.

  I sit up in bed with a jolt, glad to be awake and away from the never-ending rapeseed field, but still feeling unnerved at the chaotic sight of dozens of Dream Bretts ridiculing me so heartlessly. It’s the first time Brett has done anything to unnerve me in my dreamland and it leaves me feeling tearful and confused.

  Breathing deeply, I regain some calm, remembering that it’s only a dream and nothing to be worried about.

  Only a dream …

  To dispel one would be to shrug off the whole lot … I’m not sure that’s what I want.

  I reach under my pillow, find my phone and press the display button. It’s three-thirty in the morning.

  I roll over, close my eyes and try to get back to sleep, but all those heads keep bouncing up in jest – hundreds of different versions of Dream Brett pinging into view, but none of them the real him.

  The real him …

  How laughable.

  Giving up, I grab the remote and put on the TV – hoping late-night reruns of Countdown will empty my brain of this torment.

  I switch off my alarm when it eventually sounds a few hours later and think about calling in sick. However, Carly comes into my room at seven-thirty and practically forces me out of bed by stripping the duvet off me so that I’m freezing cold and exposed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I shriek, shattered from being up in the night.

  ‘You’re going in,’ she orders. ‘I’m not letting you skive.’

  ‘And what about you? If you’re allowed time off to hide away from all your shit then why can’t I?’

  ‘Fair dos,’ she shrugs, dropping my bedding on the floor. ‘I’ll go in too.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, shocked that she’d make such a snap decision like that, but then, this is free-thinking Carly – full of spontaneity and Josh’s baby.

  ‘Yeah. I’m bored here anyway – there’s only so much crap I can watch and eat.’

  And with that she storms out of the room and starts getting ready.

  Looks like I’m going in, I sigh – really wishing I could roll back over and dream the day away … as
long as they’re good dreams of me and Dream Brett having a whole host of adventures and none of the twisted crap where I can’t find him. Last night’s dream was just cruel in comparison to the dream the night before.

  If I mull over the turn of events any more I’ll be forced to change my mind and avoid the office, so I slide off my bed and throw some clothes on – not really giving it much thought or caring what I look like. The office has seen me in far worse than the weekend’s worn jeans and my old school Disney jumper with Mickey and Minnie on the front.

  The weather outside is abysmally grey and wet so, grabbing my umbrella, I walk through the park feeling sorry for myself, unable to stomach the thought of walking along the canal and past The Barge Café – the place that holds poignant dream memories … I’m in a foul mood and can’t wait to go home and back to my bed – providing my dreams have something nicer to offer.

  Annoyingly, the short commute into Soho is quicker than normal and I arrive at my desk earlier than ever. More annoyingly, though, the next person to arrive is Real Brett. I notice him walking in and shaking out his umbrella by the front door, but keep my head buried in the diary in front of me – begging that he’ll think I’m super busy with something important and leave me alone.

  It doesn’t work.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he asks, striding over with his soggy umbrella still in his hand – he really should’ve left it by the entrance rather than dripping water all through the office.

  I feel a tut brewing and stop myself – I am not my mother.

  Real Brett leans on my desk with his free hand, waiting for a response.

  I look up at him and, without necessarily meaning to, I frown. Well, my mother would’ve been far more direct.

  ‘Clearly not,’ he concludes from my grumpy expression. Pause. ‘Nice jumper.’

  I look down and see Mickey and Minnie grinning up at me like two lovesick buffoons and instantly wish I’d worn something else.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble.

  ‘I’m sure I have one just like it – but perhaps I shouldn’t admit to that,’ he laughs to himself. ‘Fancy a coffee, then?’

  ‘You don’t like coffee,’ I say bluntly.

  ‘No, but I can still make you one – it’s just a little button on the machine, right?’ he asks, walking through the empty office towards the kitchen area. ‘It can’t be that hard.’

  I look back down at Jonathan’s diary and try to find some little task to do – rather surprisingly, there’s not much I can get on with until he gets in.

  ‘So it turns out there’s all sort of buttons and crazy contraptions,’ Real Brett shouts across the office. ‘What sort do you want? Big one, small one? Black? Milky?’

  I sigh and lower the organizer on to the table. Uncrossing my legs, I get up and walk over with a bit of a strop.

  ‘A small one … an espresso.’ I say, peering my head around the door to find him looking perplexed while studying the various buttons in front of him. ‘Bottom left.’

  ‘Nice,’ he nods, pressing the button on the machine and looking relieved that the ordeal is over.

  ‘Argh,’ I yelp, quickly grabbing a cup and popping it underneath the spout just before the boiling hot liquid comes squirting out.

  ‘Well, that could’ve been a disaster,’ he winces.

  ‘Could’ve,’ I puff.

  We both stand there in silence, awkwardly watching the coffee slowly fill the cup. I’m completely aware of his breathing and the way he pulls his bottom lip through his teeth with a little squeak.

  I try my best to block out the thought of his lips, feeling my cheeks blush slightly and trying to remind myself that this guy in the kitchen is not the one I’ve had obscene sexual chemistry with.

  I don’t know this dude.

  Not really.

  ‘You know Ned’s just got married and that he lives in Dubai now?’ offers Real Brett before nodding, as though confirming that what he is telling me is actually true. ‘I looked him up last night – funny how friends we were so close to now only exist on our computers as a bunch of photos and status updates.’

  Facebook! I’d searched on there again last night but was still unable to find anything. Not that it’s something I can ask about – I can’t exactly admit that I’ve been stalking him, can I? Plus, I’m not even sure I want to find out more about Real Brett – it was Dream Brett’s profile I was looking for and that obviously doesn’t exist.

  ‘It’s the world we live in,’ I shrug.

  ‘I guess. Sad though,’ he sighs. ‘Hey, so how are the rest of your mates? Josh, Dan, Carly and that.’

  ‘They’re all really good,’ I nod, not really having the enthusiasm to expand my response.

  ‘Didn’t you and Dan hook up at one point?’ he asks, deep in thought. ‘I’m sure Ned told me that.’

  ‘At one point,’ I say with a frown, miffed at Dan’s mention but interested to hear the two had once been talking about me – that we weren’t just some kids at his friend’s brother’s uni. ‘That ended.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Say no more. Guess you guys don’t see much of him, then.’

  ‘No, we do.’

  ‘Oh.’ He frowns and purses his lips, his confusion at my revelation thankfully stopping him from asking further irritating questions.

  ‘Right, thanks for this,’ I half-smile, grabbing the coffee from the machine and holding it up. ‘I’d better get on before Jonathan gets in.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, pouring himself a glass of cold milk.

  ‘Milk?’ I ask, stopping before I get to the door.

  ‘Yeah, I know – my mates all rib me for it. Say I’ve never really grown out of the baby stage. What can I say? I just like milk,’ he admits, before taking the glass to his lips with a grin.

  ‘Right, well …’ I leave the room, unable to stop a smile cracking on to my lips at the sight of his sheer delight over his guilty pleasure.

  ‘Sarah, nice to have you back,’ booms Jonathan as he walks passed. ‘All better I trust?’

  ‘I hope so,’ I say with a slightly uncomfortable-looking face – best to give myself a bit of leeway in case I feel the need to escape later on.

  ‘Good,’ he booms. ‘We need to carry on sorting out the Christmas party plans, but first, I want you in the boardroom at ten.’

  ‘Eeek!’ I hear Julie squeak at me when Jonathan’s out of earshot. ‘Here we go – your first time contributing.’

  Suddenly I feel very nervous as I straighten up my new notebook and pen on my desk, my grumpy mood being replaced with anxiety.

  The Development team is made up of three official members of staff: Damian, a skinny redhead with a lisp who’s the head of the department, trout-mouth Louisa and Real Brett. It’s a small bunch, but relatively big compared to other production companies out there who did away with their Development departments years ago to cut back costs – preferring instead to pool ideas from the rest of the eager staff in the office to save money. Which could probably be the more realistic reason why I’ve been asked to contribute any ideas I might have without any increase in salary.

  Even though I’ve worked in this office for eight years and am as comfortable here as I am at home, I feel stupidly nervous when, at nine fifty-eight, I walk the measly sixteen steps from my desk to the boardroom. Suddenly it feels small and exposing – and nothing like the comfy room I’ve wandered into countless times for a gossip out of earshot.

  Jonathan doesn’t come along to formally welcome me to the team as there’s been some problem with a director on a show being made in Turkey (he shouted obscenities at one of the couples relocating for some unknown reason and they are now refusing to film with him), so instead he sends me in alone.

  Real Brett is already sat at the eight-seater table when I walk in, so I have a sticky moment deciding where I want to sit – anywhere opposite will mean I have to look at him (and I can’t trust myself not to ogle his beautiful face or frown at it), next to him means I won’t have to see him b
ut we might have some fleeting bodily contact (and I certainly can’t predict what crazy reaction would come out if our knees brushed under the table). By a quick elimination process I whittle the chair options down to two – both on corners, but one where Real Brett would be looking more at me and the other where I’d be looking more at him. It’s a tough decision to make when trying to think through every possibility.

  I’m hurried along by Damian.

  ‘In we go,’ he says in a slightly irritated tone before whizzing round and sitting directly opposite Real Brett.

  I decide to go for the spot where I’m looking towards Real Brett, but he’s facing elsewhere – I don’t think I’d handle having his eyes on me during this whole meeting, and at least this way I can busy myself in my notepad if necessary.

  ‘Hi folks,’ Louisa pouts, sauntering in carrying her iPad and iPhone, permanently looking as though she’s about to take the perfect selfie.

  ‘Nice to have you here with us, Sarah,’ she says with an insincere smile as she sits in the spot I dismissed, right in Real Brett’s eyeline.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, surprised that she’s not being overly welcoming, especially as we’ve never been on bad terms.

  ‘Almost feels as though Jonathan’s sneaking his spies in to check up on us,’ she laughs – although it’s not a real laugh, it’s faked so that she could get the comment out without looking like a bitch.

  ‘Spy?’ repeats Real Brett, raising his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘To get you up to speed, Sarah,’ says Damian, completely ignoring the prickly mood that’s been created by Poutmouth Louisa. ‘We’re currently working on ideas that aren’t just your bog standard “Moving to Benidorm” type shows – they’re a bit dated and we want to find something a little more current to get the younger audiences back – whether that’s through rethinking shows and ideas we already have or coming up with entirely new concepts. Ideally we’d like to target Channel 4 or MTV, but ITV2 or ITVBe could also work depending on what we come up with. Reality shows have changed dramatically over the last few years and we need to keep up and ultimately overtake.’

  I nod to show that I’m listening, adding in a thoughtful frown for good measure. One thing I know a lot about is reality TV … in fact, if I were on Mastermind it would be my specialist subject.