A Million Dreams

by Dani Atkins

  I smiled gently as his words peeled back another revealing layer of the woman he had loved. I would have liked his late wife, I realised. I knew it with the kind of certainty that made me sad, because I’d never got the chance to meet her.

  ‘Do you still have many of her pieces?’ I asked innocently, totally unprepared for the boyish grin that took up residence on Liam’s face as he answered me.

  ‘Two bedrooms full of them, and half of the attic,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll show them to you some other time,’ he said, as though it was a foregone conclusion that I would be in his home again one day. That was a surprise, because it wasn’t anything I had imagined would ever happen again.

  ‘Did she ever have an exhibition, or sell them through a gallery?’

  The grin disappeared in an instant, and I could see that for some reason my question had saddened him. ‘No. Never.’ I’d asked the wrong question, and Liam wasn’t just shutting the door on our conversation, he was positively slamming it.

  And now, totally unexpectedly, a courier had arrived at Crazy Daisy with an enormous rectangular package. Long before Natalie had helped me to peel off the layers of brown paper and protective bubble wrap, I already knew that Liam had gifted me the picture I had admired in his lounge. I was so touched that my eyes were already swimming with tears, making the briefly worded card attached to the back of the painting difficult to read.

  This one always makes me smile. I hope it does the same for you.

  Liam

  ‘Where will you put it?’ asked Natalie, thinking far more practically than I was doing right then. It was a big thing for him to have given me one of Anna’s paintings, especially as I suspected he’d allowed very few to leave his possession since she had passed away.

  ‘Well, it’s too big for my lounge,’ I said, already knowing exactly where I wanted to hang the piece, ‘but it will look perfect over there.’ I nodded towards a large blank wall beside the counter. ‘That way, everyone who comes into the shop will get a chance to see it.’

  ‘Hmm…’ said Natalie, still sounding uncertain as she squinted at the painting one last time. ‘Perhaps it does look like flowers,’ she conceded eventually. ‘Maybe we should add poppies to our next order from the wholesaler.’

  I smiled, feeling an unexpected lightness of spirit as I hunted in the back room for a hammer and some twine to hang the painting. If this was what Liam had hoped to achieve with his extremely generous gift, then his plan had worked perfectly.

  *

  I might have run out of family members I could comfortably talk to about my legal situation, but there was one person I could confide in, someone who’d unexpectedly become a new and welcome fixture in my life. It started when I’d phoned to thank him for the painting.

  ‘Are you really sure you want to part with it?’ I’d asked, because it felt like the right thing to say, even though I would already miss the painting, which every single customer had commented on since I’d hung it in the shop.

  ‘I wouldn’t have given it to you if I wasn’t sure it was going to the right person.’

  An unfamiliar emotion rippled through me at his words. Not quite pride, not quite happiness, but certainly something in the same ballpark.

  ‘Well, I promise to take good care of it, and if you ever change your mind and want it back, then you only have to ask.’

  The sound of Liam’s laughter rumbled down the phone. ‘I’m not in the habit of asking for my gifts back, Beth. The painting is yours, to keep.’

  The next day, I’d sent him a photograph of the painting hanging in pride of place in the shop, with the caption ‘My view at work today’, and he’d sent one straight back of an in-tray stacked impossibly high with files, saying ‘And this is mine’. And that was how it began, with silly photographs – most of his showing Sally doing something cute, and links to amusing internet memes. It was innocent banter, with absolutely no flirtatious undertones. There were no ‘x’s after our messages, but after a fortnight I stopped pretending that my only connection with Liam was his position in the legal firm who were working on my case. Almost without me being aware of it, he had carved out a small spot in my life, and it was a very long time since anyone had done that.

  Perhaps that explains why Liam was the first person I reached out to… after it happened.

  I’d slammed my front door behind me as though I was being pursued, and leant back against it as I tried to control the panicked tempo of my breathing. With tears still coursing down my cheeks, I pulled out my phone and dialled his number. The need to reach out to someone who would understand, the need to reach out to him, was a reflex I didn’t even stop to question.

  It had all started that afternoon with a name and a phone number scribbled on a canary yellow Post-it note. It was stuck in the dead centre of my desktop screen, often the only place in the back-room office where it wouldn’t get lost beneath snipped stems, flower heads and offcuts of ribbon.

  ‘Bridget?’ I queried, peering at Natalie’s almost illegible scrawl.

  ‘Oh yes!’ exclaimed the author of the note. ‘I forgot to tell you someone had rung.’

  I smiled indulgently. I’d hired Natalie for her artistic skills with flowers, not her abilities as a secretary, and this wasn’t the first time I had almost missed a message.

  ‘What did she want?’ I asked, clearing up the workbench, which as usual was in a state of organised chaos.

  ‘She’s getting married and wanted to discuss hiring us to do her wedding flowers. She wondered if you’d be free to meet her after work this evening at The Crown, at half past six.’

  I frowned. I didn’t mind meeting clients out of work hours. Evenings were very often the only time some couples had to discuss their plans in depth, but I wasn’t in the habit of conducting my business in the local pub.

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘Well, I checked your diary and told her that it would probably be okay, but I took her mobile number so you could reschedule if you had other plans and couldn’t make tonight.’

  That’s the thing about being single and living alone without even the benefit of having a pet like Sally waiting for you at the end of the day. You are, pretty much, permanently without a valid reason to say ‘no’. Even so, I would still have preferred to choose a more appropriate and professional location than The Crown.

  I glanced at the clock. It was almost five thirty, so probably too late to change the plans Natalie had agreed to. I tried to shrug off a vague feeling of disquiet, which had sprung up from absolutely nowhere. I just wished I’d spotted Natalie’s note earlier in the afternoon, when there had still been time to do something about it.

  ‘Am I meeting with her and her fiancé?’ I asked Natalie. ‘Did she give you her surname, or any idea how soon her wedding is?’

  Natalie managed to look both guilty and embarrassed at the same time. ‘Oh God. I’m really rubbish. I didn’t ask any of that.’

  I smiled and shook my head, letting her off the hook. ‘That’s okay. Just try to get a few more details next time.’

  Natalie was chewing on her lip and I could see she was still worried. ‘It’s okay, really it is. It’s all business,’ I said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Everything’s fine. I don’t suppose she happened to let you know how I’d recognise her?’

  For the first time, Natalie smiled broadly. ‘She said you couldn’t possibly miss her, because she has bright red hair.’

  *

  I was looking for a woman with Ed Sheeran’s colouring, and had walked the length of the bar three times without finding anyone who remotely fitted the bill. Five more minutes and then I’ll cut my losses and go, I promised myself, looking up and giving the sympathetic-looking barman a passing smile. I realised he probably imagined that I’d been stood up on a date, and that made my smile grow even wider, because in a way I guess you could say that I had been.

  And then the doors of the pub flew open and the woman I’d come there to meet stood between them.
I’d been looking for entirely the wrong kind of red, imagining it to be the kind that nature gifted you with. Bridget’s was the shade they painted postboxes and buses in, and made no apology whatsoever for coming out of a bottle.

  She scanned the bar and even though I don’t imagine she knew what I looked like, her face broke into a wide, tooth-filled smile. ‘Elizabeth!’ she called out, her voice carrying so loudly that several heads at the bar turned in my direction. My polite smile of greeting felt a little weak as I quickly closed the distance between us. There was something about Bridget that had sent my inner antennae into overdrive. Perhaps it was the use of my full name, which hardly anyone had used since the day of my christening. Surely Natalie would have told her my name?

  ‘It’s just Beth,’ I corrected, holding out my hand in greeting. She hesitated for a second, but I didn’t judge her for that; some people simply aren’t comfortable with the formal greeting. Bridget’s dark-purple nail varnish was beginning to chip, and her hand was a little unpleasant, the palm sticky with perspiration, but neither of those were good enough reasons not to like the woman I’d come there to meet. And yet I didn’t like her. The feeling was instant and instinctive, and over the years I’d learnt to trust my judgement; even if it seemed irrational, it was rarely wrong.

  ‘It’s all business’, I’d said to Natalie, and I reminded myself of that as I suggested we find a quiet table in the corner of the saloon. Crazy Daisy was doing fairly well, but not so much that I could afford to turn away a lucrative wedding booking just because I’d taken an illogical dislike to the bride.

  ‘Shall I get us something to drink before we begin?’ I asked pleasantly. ‘At this time of the evening they’ll probably still do us some tea or coffee if we ask.’

  ‘I’d sooner have a rum and Coke, if it’s all the same with you.’

  I told my mouth to smile, and I suppose it must have done as instructed, even though inside I was scowling. I used the time it took for the barman to fix our drinks to practise a little attitude adjustment. We had got off on the wrong foot here, but I was honest enough to admit that the problem was with me rather than Bridget. I pasted what I hoped looked like a genuinely friendly expression across my features and carried our drinks back to the table.

  ‘Cheers,’ Bridget said, clinking her glass against mine with such gusto that small splashes of the lemonade I was drinking speckled the back of my hand like dewdrops.

  Wresting back control, while trying to make it clear that even though we were in a busy pub, this was still a business meeting, I drew a reporter’s notepad and pen from my bag. Bridget watched me with slightly narrowed eyes as I flipped to a clean page and carefully wrote ‘Bridget and…’. I paused with my pen hovering a centimetre or two above the feint ruled line. Bridget looked at me blankly for a moment. Her heavily pencilled eyebrows rose a little.

  ‘Your fiancé,’ I prompted gently. ‘What’s his name?’ It certainly wasn’t intended to be a tough question, but she seemed to need a beat or two before supplying me with the answer.

  ‘Jerry.’

  The nib of my pen almost made contact with the paper. ‘Is that with a G or a J?’

  ‘Huh?’ All right, this was beginning to feel a little strange. ‘Oh, it’s er… it’s with a J,’ she said, shaking her head a little as though she was now done with my Gestapo tactics.

  I printed the name of her fiancé slowly and carefully, giving both of us a moment. What on earth was wrong with me? I usually had no problem getting on with people. In fact, customer contact was probably my favourite aspect of being in retail. But today it felt like pulling teeth.

  ‘So when exactly is your wedding?’

  At least she appeared to know the answer to that one. ‘The seventeenth of November.’

  ‘Oh, on a Tuesday, that’s unusual,’ I commented, gently double-checking that I’d heard her correctly. It might be a fairly redundant skill in any other business, but for a florist it was always useful to memorise where the Saturdays fell throughout the year.

  Bridget took a long slurp of her drink, draining a sizeable amount from the glass before lowering it back onto the table. ‘It’s cheaper midweek.’

  That was undeniably true, so I just smiled and wrote down the date on my pad. ‘And I presume you already have a venue booked?’

  If she answered this one with a ‘no’, we were probably both wasting our time here. But Bridget had her answer ready and waiting. With a smile that looked just a little smug, she revealed the location of her wedding. ‘Hamley Manor. Do you know it?’

  I closed my eyes for a second, and behind them an image of a cream-coloured invitation appeared, with my name and Tim’s embossed in silver writing above the name of that venue. I forced my lips into a smile. ‘Yes, yes I do. It’s a lovely location for a wedding.’

  Bridget’s eyes were small and bright, like a bird’s, I thought, a little ungenerously. And there was definitely something about the way they were studying me now that felt decidedly avian. It’s almost as if she knows that I got married there, whispered a voice silently in my head. I ignored it, because how the hell would she know something like that? This woman was a total stranger to me. Her appearance was far too distinctive; if I’d ever met her before, I wouldn’t have forgotten it.

  ‘Have you given much thought to the kind of flowers you’d like? Did you bring any photos or clippings with you today?’

  ‘No,’ Bridget said, draining the remainder of her glass and replacing it on the table. I didn’t offer her a refill, a deliberate oversight that made her lips tighten momentarily. ‘Was I meant to?’

  I shook my head, still trying to convince myself there wasn’t something majorly ‘off’ with this appointment. ‘No. Not at all.’ I launched into my usual wedding flower spiel, but although Bridget’s eyes never once left my face, I didn’t think she was paying attention to a single word I was saying.

  ‘What colour scheme were you and Terry thinking of?’ I asked.

  Bridget gave me a long, calculating look, her mouth twisting into a reluctant smile of admiration. ‘Jerry,’ she corrected. ‘With a J, remember?’

  She was toying with me, the way a cat does with a mouse, and suddenly I didn’t really care how much money I was walking away from, I didn’t want to work on this woman’s wedding.

  Bad acting apparently runs in my family, because there would be no Oscars handed out for the way I suddenly smacked my own forehead and gasped in faux dismay. ‘Oh no! I’ve just remembered, I already have another booking on that day. I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to help you after all.’

  ‘I thought you said Tuesday weddings were unusual,’ Bridget observed, and there was something in her voice that made my pulse beat a little faster. ‘That’s such a shame, because someone I know recommended you highly.’

  I flipped the notebook shut and slid it back into my bag, still willing to go through the pretence that this woman really was getting married, which was something I now seriously doubted.

  ‘This friend of mine was hoping to book you for her own wedding, but her plans are all on hold now. She’s going through a really difficult time career-wise. Quite a few people where she works have lost their jobs recently.’

  ‘These are difficult times, financially,’ I said, waiting for the metaphorical bullet to be fired. She had come here ready armed, that much was obvious, and she wasn’t about to let me leave without saying her piece.

  ‘Indeed. She works at the Westmore Clinic. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?’

  I felt the colour leave my cheeks; it went quickly, in one draining rush. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Hmm… apparently there’s some huge compensation case pending. But I think you probably know all about that, don’t you, Mrs Brandon?’

  Mirroring my own manoeuvre, Bridget delved into her shoulder bag and pulled out a notebook. ‘Would you care to make a comment? I can promise you my newspaper would be willing to pay very handsomely for an ex
clusive interview.’

  I got to my feet so rapidly I almost knocked over my chair. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Bridget shook her head, as though dealing with a recalcitrant child. ‘You disappoint me, Elizabeth. You must know that getting the public on your side will only help your case. I could do that for you.’

  I could feel tremors begin to run through me, as if I was suddenly in the throes of a fever. I only hoped the reporter couldn’t see them. ‘There is nothing to discuss, because you’ve got the wrong person.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Perhaps the child’s birth mother might be more willing to talk to me.’

  A small spark of relief ignited within me, because the confidence in her voice had ebbed slightly. Bridget might know exactly who I was, but I was almost certain that Izzy, Pete and Noah’s identities were still a mystery to her. Thank God.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve made a huge mistake and have wasted not only my time but also your own in arranging this pretence of a meeting.’

  It felt good to see the doubt flicker behind her eyes, even though she tried to mask it with nonchalance.

  ‘I really am getting married, you know.’

  I shook my head slowly in disbelief at her utter gall. ‘Then good luck…’ She opened her mouth to reply, but I jumped in before she could. ‘…to your fiancé. I imagine he’s going to need it.’

  *

  My fury lasted for the rest of my journey home. But at some point during the fifteen-minute drive, the adrenaline that had powered me out of the pub like an Amazonian warrior had dissipated into trembling reaction. I was crying without realising it, or even knowing why. I’d done nothing wrong. I hadn’t given the reporter any information she hadn’t already known, and yet somehow I felt as though a crypt door had been forced open, and all manner of unpleasantness was now going to find its way through the opening.

  They don’t know who Noah is. He’s still safe, I tried to reassure myself. But it didn’t matter how many times I repeated those words, I still felt as though we were all playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek, and that every lowlife reporter was now sitting in wait chanting: Ready or not, we’re coming to get you.