Dream a Little Dream

  ‘Oh!’ says the dancing man, dropping his arms and lowering his heels, seemingly startled at being cut short.

  Julian puts down the last of the bowls on the trolley and strides over, straightening out his gingham flat cap as he approaches. He is shorter than average (although that could be down to his age – has it actually been scientifically proven that people shrink as they get older or is that just a myth?), has a head full of white hair, a nose that looks like it’s never stopped growing (complete with wispy hairs to match those sprouting from his ears) and a twinkle in his sparkling blue eyes that explains why he’s everybody’s friend. Even before he opens his mouth to speak I know that I’ve fallen utterly in love with him and want to adopt him as my new granddad.

  ‘Lovely to meet you both. I’m Julian,’ he says with a nod and a fancy flurry of his hands.

  ‘We guessed,’ I grin, feeling like a little girl entranced by his wonderful persona.

  ‘Want to sit down in here and talk?’ asks Fiona. ‘I can grab you some tea and biscuits. Won’t be a second.’

  ‘Great,’ I say to the back of her flaming head as she walks straight out without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Sit, sit, sit,’ beckons Julian, pulling out a chair for me and willing Real Brett to do the same for himself. ‘Annabell from Age Wise called me yesterday and asked if she could put me forward for this – I’ve never done anything like it before,’ he admits, adding a grave tone to his voice – although I think it’s more for theatricality than to express his own concerns.

  ‘Neither have I,’ I whisper, unable to wipe the grin from my face. ‘This is actually the first programme I’ve ever developed. I’ve no idea what I’m doing.’

  ‘New for us both then,’ he says, raising his eyebrows before looking at Real Brett expectantly.

  ‘I have done this before and I do know what I’m doing,’ he confesses.

  ‘Well someone has to,’ Julian replies with a shrug, winking at me.

  ‘Before we get started,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘I just need to ask you one question which you must answer truthfully.’

  ‘I’ll do my best …’

  ‘Have you ever been outside the UK?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? You’ve never been on a plane?’ I ask in the slowest and most coherent manner I can muster without it bordering on patronizing or rude.

  ‘No,’ he says adamantly. ‘Flo had a thing about planes.’

  ‘Flo?’ asks Real Brett, allowing Julian the chance to open up on his own without us prodding him too much.

  ‘My wife,’ Julian says without a flicker of emotion other than delight at uttering her name. ‘A fine woman who insisted we kept our feet firmly on the ground at all times.’

  ‘So you’ve never holidayed in France or gone on a Mediterranean cruise?’ I question further.

  ‘Wish I had – those things look great. But no, no we never did any of that. Flo had relatives in Scotland so we used to go up there whenever we got the chance – immerse ourselves in the Highland fling.’

  ‘You’re quite the dancer then?’ asks Real Brett.

  ‘Oh, yes. We met through our love of dance. Blackpool ballroom in the summer of 1955,’ he remembers, closing his eyes and returning to that moment as though he’s in a Hollywood film about to leap into a black and white flashback of that important day as they enchantingly waltz around the dance floor. ‘We were both competing.’

  ‘So you were both professional dancers?’ I gasp, instantly loving the romantic visions that it triggers off in my imagination of floaty fabric sashaying from elegant bodies as they glide around the majestically lit dance floor.

  ‘Well, I could show that Craig Revel-Horwood a thing or two, that’s for sure,’ he says under his breath before giving a cheeky wink.

  ‘Didn’t you travel the world with that, then?’ asks Real Brett.

  ‘Could’ve done. Should’ve, I guess. I’d worked hard to get to Blackpool and that was meant to be the start of everything – but Flo had an elderly mum back at home who she didn’t want to leave and I didn’t want to leave Flo. So I didn’t,’ he pauses. ‘I followed Flo, the love of my dreams, up to Scotland, where she cared for her mother and I worked as a porter in a hospital. We stayed up there until her mum passed – then we moved down here.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever regret not continuing with your dancing?’ I ask, wondering how it would feel to work so hard for something and then just give it up one day because I’d met someone I liked the look of. I don’t know if I could ever be so selfless – maybe that’s why I’m doomed to a life of being referred to as the jilted ex.

  ‘Regret? There was nothing to regret,’ says Julian, shaking his head vigorously.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’d sooner pirouette my girl around our living-room and receive her full love and attention than perform for some know-it-all judge in a penguin suit,’ he declares.

  ‘Nicely put,’ smirks Real Brett, raising his eyebrows at me before nodding in agreement with Julian.

  ‘I want to show you something. Do you want to come up to my room?’ Julian asks, looking directly at me.

  I look at Real Brett, unsure whether it’s entirely appropriate to go into a pensioner’s room.

  Just as he catches my eye, Julian cuts in.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re allowed. There’s no rules about girls being in my room,’ he winks. ‘They think we’re too old for that …’

  I blush as a laughing Julian leads us up a set of stairs (I resist getting too excited about this meaning he’s fit enough to tackle them), down a long corridor and into a room that’s probably the size of my bedroom at the flat. Not large enough to swing a cat (why would you ever want to), but spacious enough to make you feel like you’re not existing in a box.

  Nevertheless, the sight of it seizes my heart.

  What strikes me immediately is the stark contrast between Ethel’s home and Julian’s room in the care home. Ethel had every possession surrounding her in a place that was undoubtedly hers – filled with memories of the decades past (even though she failed to recall a large chunk of them). But here, Julian has a small wardrobe for his clothes – one dresser to keep and display his treasured items, a single bed and a bedside table. It’s stark, barren and lacking in any sort of personality or warmth.

  It’s not Julian.

  It’s a room in a home, waiting for its current inhabitant to move on to whatever comes next before it can be filled once more with a newcomer preparing for their last days to be spent in that same room, sleeping in that same bed.

  I wonder how many occupants that bed has had since being here …

  I can’t help but feel sad at the thought of a lifetime of living being whittled down to this.

  ‘Here’s what I wanted to show you,’ Julian says, grabbing something from his bedside table and holding it out for us to look at. ‘A picture of my Flo. My girl.’

  It’s a black and white picture of a young woman in a polka dot swimsuit, holding a Mr Whippy ice-cream in her hand. She’s grinning at the person taking the picture, which I’m assuming is Julian, rather than at the camera lens and her eyes are doe-like – filled with youthful love and admiration. Written on the back in pencil, Julian has inscribed, ‘My girl Flo, September ’55’.

  ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ Julian beams, turning the picture back to himself so that he can have another look. ‘And what a body.’

  I sneak a glance at Real Brett and see him watching Julian in awe. It’s not just me our new friend has enthralled.

  ‘Seriously,’ says Julian, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How on earth could I ever regret that.’

  Quite.

  When he takes the picture to his lips and kisses it, I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from crying.

  What a lovely man.

  ‘If you could go anywhere in the world,’ asks Real Brett. ‘Where would be your top choice?’

  Julian puffs out
his lips and blows a raspberry as he puts the picture of Flo back on his bedside table, his empty hands finding his pockets as his heels rock forward and back.

  ‘You know, I should say to go visit my son in America – he lives in New York. Got some important job over there. No idea where he got his brains from …’ he shrugs, tapping his head while simultaneously knocking on the wooden door of his wardrobe – trying to emulate the sound of his skull being nothing but an empty shell.

  Real Brett guffaws beside me, clearly taken by Julian’s humour.

  ‘I’ve not seen him in a few years,’ he admits, winking at Real Brett through the sad admission.

  ‘Well, I guess you seeing him again would be nice,’ I say, squirming slightly at the thought of the show becoming more of a Surprise Surprise segment where people get reunited with long-lost family instead of the inspirational thrill-seeking show I’d loosely intended.

  ‘But,’ Julian says, wistfully. ‘I don’t think many of these young travellers go to America, do they?’

  ‘Some do,’ shrugs Real Brett.

  ‘Hmmm … Well Patrick’s not like me and his mother, he’s not a performer and he’d hate taking part in anything like this,’ he says, pulling a face to express his disdain. ‘So why waste the ticket?’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, not wanting to change his mind but intrigued to hear more about this unusual family dynamic.

  ‘I can pop and see him on the way back …’ he says, seemingly enjoying the thought. ‘I could be a seasoned traveller by then. It would give me something to talk to him about. He’s always been quite the jetsetter, has Patrick.’

  There’s a tinge of sadness to his admission, so this time I decide to leave it there and not prod further. I’m sure we’ll find out more in good time.

  ‘So, not New York – for now,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ he confirms, shaking his head.

  ‘Then where?’ asks Real Brett, smirking at Julian. ‘The world is literally your oyster.’

  Julian puffs out a lungful of air and looks around his lacklustre room.

  ‘Anywhere,’ he says courageously. ‘Everywhere,’ he adds, the cheeky sparkle in his eyes returning as he boldly opens up a world of possibilities.

  ‘You know what, Julian,’ I say, elated to have found such a wonderfully characterful man. ‘I think we might just be able to make that happen.’

  The three of us stand grinning at each other – knowing that we’re on the cusp of an epic adventure.

  23

  I wake up to the sun shining through the gap in my curtains, spreading a thick strip of light across the room and on to my face. I lie there looking at the way the light bounces through the space, feeling calm and serene.

  Turning on to my side, I’m aware of my skin sliding across the coolness of my silk sheets. I’m naked. Totally naked. Not like me – I prefer to wear a baggy old t-shirt and a pair of comfy knickers (Bridget Jones style) to bed, just in case something happens. Not entirely sure what I’m waiting for (a fire, burglar, my mum turning up unannounced), but it’s nice to know I wouldn’t have my foof and baps out if anything did.

  So, my nakedness.

  I look to the floor and see a pile of discarded clothes – an actual mound of clothes, some belonging to me and some belonging to … who?

  A whistling in the kitchen causes me to hold my breath before my body dissolves and relaxes at the sound.

  I groan and shimmy my bottom around, loving the sensation it sends through me of naughty sexiness as the sheets glide over my bare breasts and stomach. I’ve blatantly woken from a night full of satisfying sex as I feel glowing and wonderful.

  ‘Coffee?’ Dream Brett offers, his voice low and gravelly as he comes through my bedroom door bum first – although, sadly, it’s covered up in a pair of white Calvin Klein boxers, I still manage to admire its peachiness.

  As he turns to face me I let out a sigh at the sight of his face. He looks deliciously dishevelled with his hair ruffled, creased-up face and the morning shadow of rough stubble on his face.

  ‘Thank you,’ I smile, delicately holding the sheets across my body as I reach up for the mug.

  ‘Actually,’ Dream Brett says, taking the coffee back from me and placing our mugs together on the bedside table. ‘I want to do this first.’

  Joining me on the bed, he straddles me and cradles my head in his big, manly hands. Leaning over me, his hazelnut eyes twinkle as they gaze into mine.

  We stay like that for a moment or two and I’m in heaven – enjoying the comfortable feeling of being utterly exposed, loving being able to admire every little fault and flaw on his perfect face – from the little wrinkles around his eyes to the tiny, almost invisible, scar below his right eye.

  And he inspects me.

  I glimmer at his scrutiny, knowing he won’t falter or wane at what he might find, knowing that every mark and blemish has a story to tell.

  When he’s seen enough, he strokes his thumbs across my cheeks, his face lowering as his mouth finds mine for a soft, loving kiss.

  ‘Hmm …’ he groans.

  I let out a chuckle as a fuzzy feeling invades my head.

  ‘That’s a fucking great way to start the day,’ he murmurs, placing both arms around my shoulders and pulling me into his chest, holding me tightly.

  I feel secure, safe and loved …

  I feel important.

  Suddenly we’re up, dressed and out of the flat – looking like the perfect couple as we hold hands and walk along the sunny canal towards the station in our warm winter coats.

  As we pass The Barge Café, Dream Brett drapes his arm around my shoulder and brings my body into his.

  ‘Our special place,’ he says, his lips talking into my hair and making my scalp tickle. ‘I’ve been wondering – what was your first impression of me?’

  ‘When?’ I ask.

  ‘When you saw me sitting in there.’

  ‘I was just grateful you weren’t reading porn like the schoolboys next to you,’ I smile.

  ‘Atrocious behaviour,’ he chuckles after a playful tut. ‘But seriously … ?’

  ‘Well, I’m here, aren’t I?’ I laugh, cuddling into him.

  ‘True.’ Pause. ‘I felt like it was meant to be. That we’d been drawn back together for a reason.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, taken aback by the sentiment in his words.

  ‘Chance encounters don’t just happen for no reason,’ he shrugs. ‘There’s always some greater purpose behind them. People come into our lives because they’re meant to – they usually leave when they’re meant to too, but what does it mean when they come back?’

  ‘That they should’ve stayed away the first time?’

  ‘Or that they were never meant to leave?’ he asks slowly. ‘Food for thought.’

  ‘Yeah … I sigh.

  When I open my eyes, my first thought is of Real Brett, not Dream Brett, and that terrifies and excites me all at once – I’m not sure how I feel about my dream feelings spinning into truth, or about how the line between reality and make-believe seems to be blurring with the two men merging into one romantic catch.

  Do people really enter our lives for a reason? Is that what I believe? If so, why have I been dealt the heartbreaking situation I’ve found myself in with Dan. Surely he’s served his purpose now (it was probably to break my soul into a million pieces so that I could claw my way back into society and find a desire to live life to the max – that’s what it would be in a film, anyway). Isn’t he meant to have buggered off again by now? Or is Real Brett here to repair the damage and make me see how beautiful opening up your heart to someone can be?

  Destiny.

  Fate.

  Meant to be.

  Written in the stars …

  I’m not sure I believe any of it, and I’m doubly unsure over whether I need any guy swooping in to give me life lessons. I’m still hurting from the last wound, why would I open my heart for another so willingly?

  It’s a thought I ponde
r as I shower, blowdry my hair and get dressed into the same blue swing dress I wore for my interview a few weeks ago.

  ‘Are you going to your quiz tonight?’ Real Brett asks later that morning as he settles a coffee on Julie’s and my desks.

  Since learning which buttons to press on the machine (and that a cup should always be placed beneath the spout to collect the boiling brown liquid as it falls), Real Brett has taken it upon himself to become our personal refresher boy, bringing us drinks every few hours. It’s a kind gesture, and one that would be awkward if I were the only one benefitting from it – but seeing as Julie is being treated too (a fact she loves), I choose to just enjoy each new drinks arrival rather than question it, even if it does give him licence to open up a conversation several times a day.

  When Real Brett questions my evening plans, Julie looks up at me, grinning behind him – her eyes dancing with delight, obviously sensing a little bit of office gossip on the horizon.

  ‘Erm, that’s the plan,’ I say trying to ignore her as she performs a little celebratory jig with her arms. I make a mental note to correct her later on before nonsense gets whispered around about the two of us.

  ‘And who’s on the team?’ he asks.

  ‘Alastair, obviously. And then Carly, Josh, Natalia, Dan and Lexie.’

  ‘As in Dan your ex?’ he asks with a bemused frown.

  ‘I said we still saw each other,’ I shrug, feeling my cheeks redden a little bit at the unusual set-up.

  ‘And I take it Lexie is …’

  ‘The perfect one he left me for and is subsequently marrying in a few months’ time,’ I confirm, finishing his sentence for him in case he couldn’t quite fit the pieces of the fragmented puzzle together.

  Julie dramatically flings her head forward on her desk, in mock despair at my tragic situation – ironic, as I feel like doing the same on a daily basis.

  ‘Nice,’ Real Brett responds, pursing his lips and looking baffled. ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Carly’s pregnant with Josh’s baby.’

  ‘What?’ shrieks Julie, her head pinging back up like a jack-in-the-box.

  ‘Oh yeah …’ I say, sheepishly, realizing too late that I’ve just announced their bun-in-the-oven news to my co-workers, even though Carly and Josh are trying to keep it between close friends and family for now.