Dream a Little Dream

  ‘Sorry Mum, I was just cooking dinner with Carly,’ I say, walking out of the kitchen and back into my room. She might’ve been lovely to Carly when she heard the news, but I’m expecting an ear-bashing of a reaction now – especially as she’s had a whole twenty-four hours to mull it over and stew on it. Her daughter’s best friends raising a bastard … whatever next!

  ‘Ah, and how is she?’ she asks with something bordering on compassion.

  ‘Really good.’

  ‘Good,’ my mum repeats, with no hint of anything containing disgust or disappointment. If anything she sounds genuinely glad that Carly’s doing well.

  ‘What a shock,’ I say, suddenly wanting to invite this conversation with my mum, seeing as she’s not being very forthcoming with her opinion – something that, bizarrely, puts me on edge. It seems I must actually enjoy knowing exactly what she thinks on every single matter in my life (and anyone else’s). ‘You must’ve been surprised.’

  ‘Hmm …’ she says thoughtfully. ‘Such a lovely couple, though. I’ve always liked Josh.’

  ‘Yeah …’ I find myself saying, wondering what her reaction would be if it were me getting knocked up by lovely Josh out of wedlock (or even a public relationship for that matter). Perhaps I’m being too hard on her.

  ‘And how’d today go?’ she asks, changing the subject.

  ‘Really well! My boss wants me to develop my idea further,’ I say, enjoying sharing real good news for a change – rather than an exaggerated truth, or a tale of half-truths.

  ‘That’s amazing news,’ she shrieks for what must be the second time in two weeks, but also my whole adult life. It’s a sound I could enjoy hearing a lot more.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I mumble, feeling a bit bashful at this new emotion she’s throwing my way in abundance.

  ‘I’m so proud.’

  Wow.

  That single comment is enough to get my tear ducts working.

  20

  ‘What did you want to be when you grew up?’ he asks, looking ahead at the road, his grip loose on the steering wheel in his hands.

  ‘The Queen,’ I answer straight away, it’s not something I have to think about. ‘You?’

  ‘Tom Jones,’ he replies, equally as quick.

  ‘So it was really a question of who, rather than what for both of us,’ I laugh.

  ‘Exactly. There was something about that Welsh lothario that had me hooked. Still quite fascinated with him now,’ he adds, brushing his fingers through his shaggy blonde hair.

  ‘Total GILF.’

  ‘Now that’s gross,’ he laughs, his face screwing up in mild disgust.

  ‘True though,’ I giggle, looking out the car window at the beautiful blue sky above.

  ‘I used to have nightmares when I was younger – proper night terrors – and the only thing that used to calm me down was when Mum put his Greatest Hits on my walkman and let me fall back to sleep with my headphones on,’ he admits.

  ‘Hardly soothing.’

  ‘It’s not all about ‘Sexbomb’ – in fact, hardly any of it’s like that. It’s more soulful and moving.’

  ‘I believe you,’ I smile, enjoying the look on his face as he passionately talks about his idol – the way he licks his lips and squints his eyes, as though really focussing in on his love for Sir Tom.

  I wish I loved something as much as that – I don’t even think my adoration of Kimmy K could compete – even though I’m currently sat wearing a tight white dress (showing off my pert boobs) which wouldn’t look out of place in her wardrobe.

  ‘You should listen to one of his albums,’ says Dream Brett, still championing his idol. ‘Especially the old stuff. ‘Without Love’ has to be the most amazing song of all time. His passion and delivery are just out of this world.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard it,’ I say, mentally wading through the music collection in my brain but finding no Tom Jones archived in there at all.

  ‘Really?’ he asks in shock. ‘It was huge. Elvis covered it the year before, but it was Tom’s version that was the biggest hit in the charts.’

  ‘You’re really geeking out right now,’ I laugh, reaching over and placing a hand on his arm. My fingers give a little squeeze.

  ‘Ha. I really am,’ he says, turning to me with a bashful smile. ‘All I’m saying is, there’s a reason why he’s known as “The Voice” and why he’s classed as a king to anyone who’s Welsh.’

  ‘You’re not Welsh though, are you?’

  ‘No … just love him,’ he smiles with a shrug, looking a little embarrassed.

  ‘And I love you too, boyo,’ says a deep, gravelly Welsh voice from the back seat.

  Dream Brett practically jumps in his seat with excitement.

  The car is no longer forwards – we are no longer driving anywhere.

  ‘Tom!’ he squeals.

  ‘All right, kid?’ says Tom Jones in his trademark lilt, leaning forward in the seat and reaching out a hand for him to shake. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good,’ Dream Brett says, taking his hand – delighted to have his god in the back seat of the car.

  ‘Good, good,’ Tom repeats before lifting a microphone to his lips.

  The car disappears. Instead of sitting, we’re on our feet, in a theatre with thousands of other people crammed in around us, watching Tom Jones strutting up and down the stage singing Lady Gaga’s ‘Do What You Want (with my body)’, accompanied by a big band and a dozen singers.

  The audience is hot, steamy and loving every thrust Tom makes in their direction, like a sex-crazed bunch of teenagers at a One Direction concert, even though they’re all around my age.

  Brett is behind me, his hands on my hips as we sway along to the beat. Side to side we rock, the heat of the room making our bodies sweat – that and the suggestive lyrics of the song.

  I raise my hand in the air and close my eyes, feeling the music and atmosphere brush over me – making my nipples tingle.

  Brett grabs my hand and spins me around to face him.

  His mouth is on mine – kissing me passionately, his hands skimming my breasts before finding their way to my back and pulling me in closer.

  We get lost in the crowd.

  Lost in the music.

  Lost in each other’s touch.

  I open my eyes as he opens his and see his cheeky smile grinning back at me.

  I look down coyly, playing the sexy vixen he turns me into – but when my eyes next meet his, the hazelnut has morphed into green.

  Green.

  All I see is green.

  That’s not right.

  I wake up with a frown on my face as my alarm goes off, although largely glad that I’m not about to see the fall-out of the new eye-colour in my dream state.

  Is Dream Brett going to get replaced with Real Brett now? Is Dream Brett slowly going to fizzle out, leaving me with totally inappropriate dreams about a work colleague that I can’t compartmentalize as someone completely different to the guy I’m hanging out with in my sleep?

  Now, that would be awkward.

  Correction.

  That would be more awkward than the crazy situation I’m already in.

  I don’t want to give my subconscious any wild ideas about erasing Dream Brett, so I grab my phone to shut off the alarm, and look up Tom Jones on iTunes, downloading one of his greatest hits collections (there are many to choose from). My dad used to be a big fan, so I already know a lot of the songs on the album – I listen to them on repeat as I get ready for work.

  In fact, I listen to it on shuffle for the whole journey into town and am still enjoying it when I get to my desk in the empty office.

  I’m loving ‘Burning Down the House’ so much that I can’t help but give a little dance as I wait for my computer to start up – my head flops along to the music as my shoulders jump around to the beat. There’s something about songs like Tom’s and others from his heyday that just set you free, removing all your inhibitions and almost liberating you in
a wild way. God, I wish I were alive in the sixties or seventies when the sexual revolution took place – I can totally understand how music led the way to such a huge social release and guided youngsters into a carefree existence. I would’ve been a total groupie, along with the likes of Pamela Des Barres – and felt utterly cool being one.

  ‘What are you listening to?’ Real Brett shouts, as his grinning face pops up in front of me.

  I yelp, jumping out of my seat in shock.

  ‘What the – ’ I manage, clutching my chest and feeling as though I’m on the verge of having a heart attack.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he says, guilt creeping across his face as his splayed hands move towards me, unsure whether to touch me or not. He decides not to, so they just linger awkwardly in the space between us.

  ‘I didn’t see you come in,’ I breathe, whipping the headphones out of my ears and mentally knocking my head against my desk. I sit facing reception – I should’ve seen the doors open as Real Brett arrived.

  ‘Oh, I was already here,’ he muses, visibly relaxing a little now he can see he’s not about to have to perform CPR on the drearily grey (and somehow spiky) office carpet.

  ‘You were?’ I frown.

  ‘I was in the kitchen,’ he says, gesturing towards it with his head. ‘Making toast. You want some?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I mumble.

  ‘Really? I’ve brought in some of my nan’s homemade raspberry jam. It’s pretty amazing – she’s won all sorts of local awards for it. You know, at fêtes and stuff. Nothing official.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I sigh, although almost tempted by the jam.

  I can’t help but find the fact that he’s brought his nan’s concoction into work with him quite sweet and endearing – I can imagine Little Old Lady Last sending him home with a few jars, worrying that he’s not getting a varied enough diet now that he doesn’t live with his parents (or does he?), and making him promise to look after himself. Any guy who fusses over his grandparents and shows them a little bit of love (displaying that he has a real heart buried underneath any crappy laddishness) gets me in a flap – you can fake your existence to anyone but your elderly granny and grandpa. That’s a fact.

  This sort of behaviour never fails to make me go a little weak at the knees.

  I don’t want to be weak at the knees over Real Brett.

  No thank you.

  No.

  I try to block out the spark of intrigue he’s ignited in me – all of a sudden I want to know more about his family life, his sweet little old nan, and whether or not he’s flown the nest and moved into his own pad.

  I wonder if he takes his dirty washing home at the weekend.

  Maybe his nan does it for him before she sends him off with food for the week.

  Maybe he’s an orphan.

  Enough!

  I don’t want to know any of this stuff.

  ‘You’re early,’ I note flatly.

  ‘You’re early,’ he says with a cheeky shrug, his eyes glittering.

  ‘I’m meant to be early,’ I snap, realizing that since he’s started we’ve been the first two people in the office almost every day. Perhaps I should go back to being late again and mooching in unnoticed ten minutes after everyone else with a takeaway coffee cup in my hand.

  Darn this sudden urge to better myself.

  Although, truth be told, there’s something peaceful and calming about getting up that little bit earlier and arriving at the quiet office with time to gear myself up for the day ahead. Just a shame I’ve acquired regular company.

  ‘So what made you get your groove on this morning?’ he asks, lifting up my headphones without waiting for an answer and placing them to his ears. I glimpse down at my phone and see that ‘Give a Little Love’ is playing.

  A lump forms in my throat as I wait for a reaction.

  ‘Never had you down as a Tom Jones fan,’ he says, nodding as he purses his lips – his eyebrows raising skywards as he listens.

  I shrug, deciding not to share the reasons behind it being my soundtrack of choice this morning – or the fact that I’ve only owned a Tom Jones album for the past hour and fifteen minutes and have since morphed into a superfan. He might be in his mid-seventies, but man alive can he sing a good tune.

  I watch Real Brett nibble on his bottom lip as he listens and find my own mouth open and pouting outwards in response – my lips edging their way closer to their desired landing spot. I suck them in and put my hand over my mouth – shushing them and their naughtily slutty behaviour.

  Real Brett places the headphones back down onto my desk, but before he can comment we hear his breakfast spring up out of the toaster. He simultaneously grins and nods at my discarded headphones as he walks back to the kitchen.

  It’s a look I can’t read, and that bothers me. Does the reaction mean that Real Brett likes Tom Jones too or that he finds it hilarious that a woman my age is listening to him? If he does like him, have I found a similarity between Real Brett and Dream Brett? And how does that make me feel about my newfound appreciation of Tom Jones?

  I might be overthinking this whole thing … maybe. Besides, it makes no difference if he does love Sir Tom – they’re two entirely different people … beings … spirits.

  Oh bollocks.

  Whatever they are, they’re different.

  I turn to my computer to get on with some work, just as Real Brett starts singing ‘Sexbomb’ in the kitchen. I can imagine him shaking his little hips as he butters his toast and spoons on his jam.

  I do my best to block him and the image out.

  ‘So, what are we up to today?’ Real Brett asks as he stands in front of my desk and bites into his breakfast.

  My tummy grumbles at the sight of the gooey red jam – complete with the pips. It really does look delicious.

  ‘You sure you don’t want some?’ he asks, motioning towards the slice of heaven in his hand.

  ‘Erm, no thanks,’ I manage, reddening as I realize I’ve been salivating in his direction (and not for the first time).

  ‘Not even a bite?’

  His eyebrow raises just a fraction, making me wonder if that was a suggestive little remark on his behalf. Surely not … but was it?

  ‘No,’ I mumble, picking up my notebook and seeing what’s on today’s agenda. ‘I actually have to do some bits for Jonathan and then the Christmas party …’

  ‘Again? You spent all day yesterday doing that.’

  ‘There’s a lot to sort and it’s only three weeks away,’ I shrug.

  ‘Must be riveting.’

  ‘Yep …’

  ‘Are we living it up at Hawksmoor or slumming it in Nandos?’

  ‘Don’t knock Nandos,’ I say flatly.

  ‘Clearly not … a fine eatery,’ he nods, pursing his lips.

  ‘Their wings are to die for.’

  ‘As is their chilli nut mix. Good nuts are hard to come by.’

  I find myself wondering if his talk of nuts is another sexual comment, but not a single flicker of amusement or recognition that it might be construed in that way crosses his face, so I imagine it’s actually me with the filthy mind. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found myself in that situation – when I was seventeen (and extremely sexually charged) Luke Green (the fittest boy in the year) asked me if I wanted to ride his horse the following Saturday. I turned up to the stables wearing a mini skirt, push-up bra and heels, only to find him mucking out in his wellies and dirtiest comfies. Turns out he actually meant for us to spend the day riding his horse Troy. Apparently I’d displayed an interest in his hobby a few weeks before (I’d have said anything to get him to look at me) and had since forgotten.

  Oops.

  ‘We’ve actually hired a spot in one of the function rooms of a hotel around the corner. It’s a new place called The Nest,’ I tell Real Brett in a self-impressed manner, pleased with the plans Jonathan, Julie and I have made. It’s not often we all agree on the office parties – Jo
nathan prefers to do something cheap and cheerful, Julie likes anything where there’s drink and loud music and I’m a tad more sophisticated with the whole thing – preferring the idea of it being on a par with the Oscars. I love seeing everyone in their finery sipping on bubbles and really celebrating the end of the year together. Usually my ideas are vetoed – but when I forwarded them both an email from The Nest telling us about their opening deals for the winter period they both jumped at the offer. It’s a fab place too – they’ve really managed to blend the lavishness of a London hotel with the cosiness of home. I love it.

  ‘A hotel?’ Real Brett scoffs.

  ‘Yeah?’ I question, surprised by his disbelieving tone.

  He raises his eyebrows and puffs out his cheeks before shoving another chunk of toast into his mouth and gnawing on it.

  I manage to stop a snarl appearing on my face – I love to see a man enjoying his food, but I’d rather they didn’t look so caveman-like doing so. At least he keeps his mouth closed, I guess.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask, wondering whether we’ve made a mistake.

  ‘A work’s do in a hotel?’ he swallows. ‘Hotel rooms to run off to … ?’ he says, whilst nodding his head encouragingly, willing me to complete the rest of his thought. ‘You’re asking for trouble.’

  A hot flush crosses from my cheeks down to my chest – even though I know he’s not suggesting for a second that the two of us book ourselves into a room and drunkenly bonk all night, it’s still a thought that shockingly enters my head and the space between us.

  Not that I’d want to with Real Brett.

  Obviously.

  No thanks.

  Right?

  ‘This is Red Brick Productions – the closest we get to any drunken antics is Julie downing shots of tequila and insisting everyone strut their stuff on the dance floor. She might not look the sort – but she’s got a seriously fierce twerk on her,’ I state.

  ‘And that’s how it starts,’ he laughs, his shoulders shaking as his head bows into his chest.

  ‘Hmmm … I’ll bear your concerns in mind, but I think it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Hopefully you won’t be wishing you’d gone with the Nandos option,’ he quips.