Dream a Little Dream

  ‘Fuck you,’ I spit.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘Why can’t you just bugger off? You’ve got the girl, why can’t you just let me have my friends and live happily ever after with them?’

  ‘Maybe they don’t want that.’

  Even in my dreams I know there’s truth to that. My friends aren’t pawns in our game of love and hatred. They’re real people with their own thoughts and freewill – they’re not either of ours to claim, although I wish they were. I wish I could bag them all up and whisk them off to some faraway land, away from Dan and Lexie.

  ‘Why wasn’t I good enough?’ I whimper.

  ‘It wasn’t about you.’

  ‘To me it was. To my heart there was only you and me, and you tossed me aside without even a second thought – on the first day Lexie entered your life.’

  ‘She was different.’

  ‘She was perfect.’

  ‘She was fun.’

  ‘I was fun once,’ I bellow, suddenly annoyed that my entertaining side got snatched away by such an ungrateful twat. I was a hoot when we were together. I was always giggling and laughing – making him laugh until he cried. How can he say I wasn’t fun? I was fun. I was the joker, his personal fucking clown.

  ‘Debatable,’ he scoffs, his eyes giving a little roll of agitation.

  I see red, my eyes bulge out of my head like a character from Who Framed Roger Rabbit and steam gushes from my ears.

  ‘What was that?’ I snarl, daring him to say it again.

  But I don’t wait for a reply, instead I snatch the glass of red wine from his hand and chuck its contents in his face.

  ‘What the … ?’ he asks, shocked, wiping the liquid from his eyes.

  He calmly grabs the glass in my hand and repeats the action on me.

  Tit for tat, I realize as the red liquid runs down my face and seeps all over the big puffy white dress I’m wearing. The sight of it reminds me of all the dreams I’d collected of our future together. How I thought we’d buy our own place, get a puppy – get married, and live happily ever after with our two children in the suburbs.

  That dream has been massacred, just like this dress – in my mind I’m like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill on her character’s tragic wedding day and the image causes a fire to burn in my stomach.

  I glare at Dan, my nostrils flaring at his wonderfully formed face and ridiculous good looks.

  I roar, a sound that growls from deep within and scratches at my throat as it’s released.

  Snatching the pillows around Dan, I shred them to pieces with my razor-like nails, then I grab photoframes from the wall and crush them under my feet as I hurl them to the ground, snatching up chairs and flinging them across the room and into the walls.

  I’m out of control.

  I roar and roar and roar.

  Snarling in an ugly, beastly manner while Dan cowers with his head in his hands, unable to even look at me and see the mess he’s turned me into.

  As music fills my room a cloud of confusion fills my brain. My head is heavy as I open my eyes and frown at the sunlit room.

  I never want to be in a situation where I explode like that. I never want to feel so out of control and angry …

  Funny that feeling of anger – it’s popped up a few times in my dreams (like when I became The Hulk and slammed Alastair’s canoe into the water) – that build-up of furious energy and raw madness that causes a blast of outrage to fly from the centre of my soul and smack into my victims …

  I don’t for one second think I’m going to succumb to those feelings and lash out at my nearest and dearest, but it’s unnerving to know that rage is there within me, lying dormant.

  If I think about it, I’ve got so much anger buried inside.

  Anger at Jonathan for not valuing me sooner and seeing that I’m all kinds of epic, anger at my mum for making me feel like shit most of the time, anger at my mates for being Dan’s mates too – and anger at Dan for still being in my fucking life.

  Dan …

  He is a large part of my simmering anger simply because I’ve left so many things unsaid and brushed his betrayal (mostly) under the carpet for the sake of others. Perhaps it’s actually not healthy to bottle it all up like I have.

  But what can I do about it now?

  Talk to him?

  Phone him and ask for a little closure chat, detailing all the ways in which he screwed me over and ruined the last two years of my life?

  Seriously?

  What kind of desperate person talks to her ex about how jaded she feels, knowing that he’s fully moved on with someone else?

  It’s also worth noting that there’s absolutely no way I’d be able to talk through it all (even now) without getting into some sort of state. Maybe not the furniture chucking, dirt-talking mess in my dream, but definitely a weeping, snotty and needy version of myself … I’d rather that side of me didn’t come out to play in public.

  But what can I do about this anger that’s obviously stirring inside me? Will it all subside slightly when Grannies Go Gap is a stonking success and I’m given a promotion and make my mum prouder than ever? Well, that would be a start, I guess.

  I’m not in the best of moods as I head out of the house. I grunt out my coffee order, barge my way through to a seat on the tube and land with a huff when I’m eventually at my desk.

  But just as my disastrous mood looks like it’s going to linger for the day, I open my emails and am struck with hope.

  ‘I think I’ve found our first case study,’ I grin at Real Brett a few minutes later as I stand next to his desk and wave around a piece of paper containing a printout of the email that’s just arrived in my inbox.

  ‘Tell me more,’ he nods, sipping on a pint of milk as he pushes away from his desk, leans back in his chair and spreads his legs invitingly in my direction – an action I’m sure is only suggestive in my head and not intended by him to be anything other than him sitting comfortably.

  ‘She seems quite sweet,’ I say with a cough, scanning the sheet in front of me and selecting which bits of information are best to share as I will my cheeks not to embarrass me. ‘Her name is Ethel Snart and she lives on her own in the same house in Maida Vale that she’s lived in for sixty-three years.’

  ‘Hopefully she’s redecorated a few times,’ he muses.

  ‘I’d like to think so,’ I agree before swiftly moving on. ‘She’s eighty and married her late husband Samuel when she was just seventeen. They had five children – Joshua, Joseph, Jackie, Josie and Connie – and she now has twelve grandchildren and four great grandchildren.’

  ‘Big family.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod, biting my lip. ‘She says she’s been getting computer lessons from one of her grandsons, which is how she found our little shout out on Age Wise – I told you that was a good idea.’

  ‘You did,’ he says, raising an eyebrow while putting his drink back down on his desk.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Let’s go see her and find out more.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Can’t do any harm,’ he shrugs. ‘Want me to give her a call? I could see if she’s free this afternoon,’ he suggests, holding his hand out for the paper in my hand.

  ‘That would be great,’ I breathe, feeling triumphant that not only am I on the cusp of moving my idea forward but I’m also now able to delegate jobs to others.

  Before I have a chance to walk away from his desk and head back to my own, Real Brett picks up his office phone and dials the number Ethel’s left for us in her email.

  ‘Ringing,’ he tells me, putting his hand over the receiver.

  I decide to stay put and listen to their exchange.

  ‘Still ringing,’ he frowns.

  I never put him down as the impatient type. Although, I guess it’s not him who I’m really thinking of, but rather adventurous, chivalrous, benevolent Dream Brett, who has yet to do anything seriously wrong – other than hiding from me in a rapeseed field.


  I manage to suppress a longing sigh and focus on the task in hand – getting hold of my first courageous granny!

  ‘Might take her a while to get to the ph – ’

  ‘Mrs Snart?’ Real Brett asks interrupting me, his attention snapping back to the phone in his grasp. ‘My name is Brett Last. I work at Red Brick Productions … a television production company. You emailed us about a show we’re working on. Yes, that’s the one …’ he says, turning to me, his nostrils flaring and his eyes widening with amusement. ‘Yes, you sent my colleague Sarah an email about yourself. We were wondering if we could come and visit you to hear more … Yes, me and Sarah, the lady you emailed … Would this afternoon suit at all? Fantastic … Yes, after two can work for us,’ he says with a smile. ‘Perfect, see you then.’ He puts down the phone and lets out a chuckle. ‘Now, she seems like a real character.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, mirroring his excitement, thrilled that she’s already making such a positive impression on us both and amazed at the change in my mood from this morning. ‘And she’s up for us going to hers today?’

  ‘Yes, but not until after two,’ he says with a serious look. ‘There’s a Cagney and Lacey re-run that she wants to watch before that.’

  ‘Lives her life by the TV guide – now that’s my kind of woman,’ I say, making him laugh. He clearly hasn’t taken the comment quite as seriously as I meant it.

  ‘Shame her grandson hasn’t taught her how to use iPlayer yet – that’ll be mind-blowing for her. She’d never leave the house then.’

  ‘And that’s the opposite of what we want, Mr Last!’ I say, puffing air from my cheeks and walking back to my desk – adrenaline pumping through my veins at the excitement of my project potentially being brought to life by a little old lady in west London.

  A few hours later, we leave the office together and head towards the tube, striding along Shaftesbury Avenue and down the steps of Piccadilly Station.

  It’s feels funny being out of the office and in the outside world alongside Real Brett – I’m so used to walking with Dream Brett that part of me feels it’s beyond natural, as though it’s something I’ve done dozens of times before without giving it too much thought. But the other part of me realizes that Real Brett is essentially a stranger and not someone I know very well at all (besides a few drunken nights in my very early twenties and some chats in the office about jam, Tom Jones and coffee). It’s a weird tug of emotions in my head. Especially when I forget myself momentarily and look over expecting to see Dream Brett but see this older and more worn version instead. Still attractive, but different.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ he asks, glancing up at me and catching me staring at him with the loving expression I’d intended for Dream Brett. Yikes. He definitely notices the look as he screws his lips inwards, as though he’s trying to stifle a smile.

  Bugger.

  ‘What?’ I ask, trying to hide my embarrassment.

  ‘That I’m randomly working in your office after not seeing you for a decade or more.’

  ‘Not given it much thought,’ I lie.

  ‘Really?’ he asks, surprised, his face showing the faintest flicker of disappointment that I’ve brushed the whole thing off so dismissively. ‘Of all the offices in London, I walk into yours. Weird.’

  ‘I guess. It’s a small world,’ I shrug, my hand grabbing for my Oyster card in my coat pocket but clumsily dropping it on the dirty tiled floor beneath my feet as I pull it out.

  ‘That’s what they say,’ Real Brett murmurs before touching in with his own Oyster card and walking through the barriers.

  Without waiting for me, he strides towards the Bakerloo line, leaving me to fumble around trying to pick up the card I’d dropped and get through the machine – which annoyingly bleeps at me angrily because it knows I’m in a hurry and have already shown myself to be a complete tit. I wait a few seconds, try again, and then scurry after Real Brett once it opens for me, feeling like a comedy character from a slapstick film – the only thing missing is a limp and a cane.

  A train arrives as soon as we get to the westbound platform. Without saying anything, we board and sit in the only two seats available – two side by side. We sit in silence, with Real Brett staring straight ahead.

  With my hands placed on my knees, I scan the carriage and sigh expectantly.

  Real Brett still says nothing. Instead, his eyes stay facing front while he sucks in his lips, and pulls them through his teeth slowly. It’s a repetitive action – one that he alternates between his upper and lower lip – when one comes out the other goes in. I’m not sure whether it’s something he’s just doing without thinking to pass the time, or whether he’s doing it on purpose to stop himself from talking to me.

  I know I’m used to brushing him off and being a first-class idiot, but I oddly feel deflated at the thought of offending him – and I majorly feel as though I have, seeing as he’s not being all jolly and in my face as usual like a Labrador puppy.

  ‘So did you and Ned go to UCL together then?’ I ask, wanting to erase the atmosphere filling the carriage.

  ‘Yeah,’ he nods.

  ‘Did you live in the same halls?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you know each other before that?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Right,’ I sigh, irritated to be the one receiving one-word answers for a change. I much prefer it when he’s buoyantly upbeat – at least that’s readable.

  ‘I mentioned you to Alastair last night – he said you should come down and join us for a pub quiz.’ I wasn’t going to say anything about Alastair, and I certainly wasn’t planning on inviting him along, but that’s what tense, unreadable situations do to me. They make me involuntarily act in ways I regret instantly. Agonizing silences make me want to leap in and fill them with whatever words spout out of my mouth first.

  ‘Pub quiz?’ he asks, pulling his mouth down at the sides as he mulls over the invite.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He nods but stays quiet.

  Oh for God’s sake this is tough.

  ‘I wonder what she’s going to be like,’ I say, changing the subject after another humongous pause.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ethel.’

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ he shrugs, suddenly seeming not so excited about the whole thing.

  He’s not being moody or huffy – he’s just being indifferent. I hate indifference with a passion. Especially when it’s aimed at me. I much prefer being given something to work with – positive or negative. This is such hard work.

  I decide to give up the anger-inducing task of trying to strike up conversation and watch the couple in front of me instead – keenly snogging each other’s faces off without caring that they’re in the presence of strangers.

  Oh to be young, foolish and going at it with such ferocity on a Friday afternoon in broad daylight.

  Eighteen minutes later, after I’ve ogled the inappropriate pashing more closely than is considered polite (well, sometimes you just can’t ignore these things), we’re ringing the doorbell of a small house in Maida Vale.

  ‘Who is it?’ asks an elderly voice behind the frosted glass.

  ‘Brett and Sarah – we spoke on the phone this morning,’ Real Brett replies.

  ‘We did?’ she asks, sounding confused.

  ‘You emailed us,’ I add cheerily, hoping this isn’t about to fall flat on its face before we’ve even made it inside.

  ‘Oh, on the world wide web – YES!’ she cheers before unchaining the lock on the door and opening it a fraction. Once she sees our faces smiling back at her she mirrors the expression before opening it fully.

  Ethel is dressed in pale blue trousers and a pink cotton jumper, with the collar of her white blouse poking out and folded over the top along with a small pearl necklace. On her feet are dark blue corduroy slippers, which, I must say, look like the comfiest shoes in the world – I wouldn’t mind a pair for slumming around the flat in.

  She?
??s every inch what you envisage when dreaming up an old lady with her kind wrinkled face, button nose, little gold-rimmed glasses hanging from her neck on a gold chain, and short grey hair set to perfection in the classic rollered style.

  She’s instantly likeable and I mentally fist pump the air – visually she’s perfect for Grannies Go Gap.

  ‘Well, come in, come in. You’ll catch your death out there,’ she ushers, closing the door behind us and putting the chain back across. ‘You can put your shoes on this,’ she says, pulling an immaculate Sainsbury’s bag from her pocket, unfolding it and slowly bending over to place it in the corner of the hallway next to the stairs.

  She looks up and beams at us both, her hands waving to prompt us into doing what we’ve been told.

  We do.

  ‘Can I get you both a tea?’ she asks, walking us through to the living room and gesturing for us to take a seat.

  ‘We don’t want to put you out,’ I say.

  ‘Nonsense. I fancy one anyway.’

  ‘Why don’t I make it?’ suggests Real Brett.

  Ethel looks at him suspiciously, as though the idea of a man in her kitchen making a brew is preposterously absurd. ‘No … no, it’s all right,’ she says, fighting a frown that’s trying to break through on her wrinkled forehead. ‘Won’t be a minute – kettle’s already boiled.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, while sitting on the heavily patterned brown sofa. ‘Just shout if you need a hand.’

  Ethel nods before walking out.

  Looking around the room I’m amazed at the amount of stuff in it – dozens of pictures of Ethel with the same bunch of people (some black and white, some in colour) at various different family celebrations adorn the walls and cover the retro seventies wallpaper. In some patches, though, the faded orange and brown flower design manages to peep through, giving a glimpse of what’s lurking beneath from years gone by. More photos are displayed in a collection of different frames on the brick fireplace and the windowsill, occasionally masked by newer, unframed photos placed in front of them.