Oh fuck! Oh fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck!
The uneasy feeling engulfs me as we continue to walk home in silence, albeit with our arms remaining linked around each other’s. Physically we look the same as we did two minutes ago, but now our brains are charged – we’re both clearly off in our own little worlds and, on my part at least, mulling over what we just said or, rather, didn’t say.
‘What are you thinking about?’ I ask eventually, my voice giving a little squeak.
‘I don’t know actually … I don’t think I was thinking about anything,’ he says, screwing up his face.
‘Really?’ I reply, frowning as we walk past a group of drunken teenagers who’re loudly arguing over the significance of mistletoe.
I don’t buy the notion that not a single thought has passed through Brett’s brain since we last spoke. Our minds are never still – there is always something being processed, something being pondered upon … How can he not have been thinking about anything?
‘You must’ve been thinking about something,’ I grumble, aware that I sound slightly insane and unsure as to what I want him to say.
(Well, no, that’s not quite true – I want him to admit to having been thinking about our glittering future.)
‘Wait,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘There was something.’
‘Oh?’ There’s hope …
‘I was thinking about Christmas Day and whether my nan’s going to be making her cranberry sauce.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s just as good as her jam – you’d love it. I’ll save you some, though,’ he grins, nudging into me.
Well that’s enough to put me firmly into a strop. I sulk the rest of the way home, not really engaging with any of the meaningless conversation that Brett comes out with – although he seems to be perfectly happy talking to himself about his Christmas Day ponderings (after the sauce he starts to wonder whether the Doctor Who special is going to factor in the death of Clara Oswald or not, and whether his mum would’ve bought Quality Street or Roses for the Christmas treat table). He doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve clocked out, or that I’m mightily pissed off at him for not recognising in the slightest that I’m pissed off at him.
He remains bright and oblivious all the way home, staying cheerful as we brush our teeth and get ready for bed, then merrily planting a kiss on my lips without even flinching when my lips don’t kiss his back.
Even when I roll over and put my back to him (wanting distance between us and trying to hammer home the fact that his attitude has irritated me), he follows and curls his arm around my body – totally blind to tonight’s faux pas.
He snores within minutes, leaving me seething into the darkness as I lie under his heavy arm.
I stay awake for hours, working myself up over the significance of Brett’s dismissive stance on our future … flitting between full-on anger at his indifference and fear of the unknown, and what’s to become of us.
4
I wake up to find Brett sat on top of the covers with his back to me. He is fully clothed and the smell of floral soap fills the air – which means that he’s already got up, showered and dressed before even stirring me, which isn’t like him. He usually wakes me up the second he catches his first morning breath – or at least seeks out my naked body with a wandering hand.
Something stops me from saying anything to him. Instead, I sit and watch, trying to figure out what he’s doing.
Suddenly his shoulders start moving up and down, the force of them causing the whole bed and then bedroom to shake. He’s sobbing, I realise with a jolt.
A howl, an earthy, guttural howl, seeps from his mouth and echoes through the cold air around us.
‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ he croaks, clearly in pain.
‘What do you want me to say?’ I ask, confused and bewildered at the sight and sound of him being so broken.
‘What do you think you should say?’ he asks with a hint of bitterness.
‘Erm …’ I panic, feeling as though I’m being tested.
‘Quickly.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Yeah?’ he questions.
‘Yeah …’
‘I’m sorry too.’
‘For what?’ I squeak.
‘The end,’ he says flatly, with little to no emotion. ‘Everything ends.’
‘And everything begins,’ I say pathetically, not fully grasping what’s happening.
The conversation makes absolutely no sense, but as he gets up from the bed he picks up two huge birdcages, as though they’re suitcases, and heads towards the door – without even looking back.
I’m hit with a realisation.
He’s leaving me.
‘Why?’ I ask, desperation pouring out of me, willing him to stay.
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t you love me?’ I whimper, my face contorting into something ugly.
‘Sometimes love isn’t enough,’ he replies – his voice flat and uncaring.
‘Of course it is. Love is all you need … All you need is love.’
‘Are you quoting Beatles’ lyrics?’ he frowns, glancing back at me.
‘Love me do …’ I plead.
‘Sarah …’
‘Give me love …’
‘Stop it,’ he demands, shaking his head. ‘That was a George Harrison song anyway,’ he mumbles to his feet.
‘He was a Beatle,’ I answer defiantly.
‘But he sang it when the band was over.’ Pause. ‘Apt, I guess …’
‘We’re not over,’ I shout, bashing the duvet with my fists.
Brett sighs as he looks at me, the expression on his face one of pity.
It stops my whining, my lashing out, my shouting …
I’m still.
‘Is there anything I can do to change your mind?’ I beg.
His face screws up at the question as he heads out of my bedroom door, towards an awaiting sleigh that’s resting on a mound of snow. He slings the birdcages into the back, throws on a red jacket and hat before climbing aboard.
‘It would never have worked,’ he calls back to me, as he picks up a whip and starts shouting demands at the reindeer in front of him. ‘On Sleepy, on Grumpy and Dopey and Doc. On Bashful and Happy and Sneezy – tick tock.’
I sit still on my bed and watch as they charge forward and fly into the dark night sky, taking with them my one true love – knowing he’ll never return.
‘Shhhh …’ he soothes, wrapping his arm around me.
‘What?’ I mumble, feeling groggy as my head and body come back to reality and away from my dreamland.
‘You OK?’ Brett asks.
‘Yeah …’ I sniff, wiping my hand across my wet face.
‘You were crying.’
‘I was?’
‘Whimpering like you were in pain.’
‘Oh …’ I say, feeling embarrassed – that was one dream I really don’t want to have to voice out loud.
‘What was it?’ he asks, his face looking just as kind and loving as normal, making my insides soften.
‘Oh, just something silly,’ I start – stopping myself when I realise what’s he’s wearing.
‘You’re in your suit.’
‘Of course I am. I’m going to work,’ he shrugs.
‘But you didn’t wake me.’
‘I have to go in earlier today.’
‘But you always wake me.’
‘You looked so comfortable, though – well, until you started getting fretful …’
‘Yeah,’ I say, frowning at the air around me – not liking the fact that this simple little jarring detail from my dream has been echoed in real life.
Brett kisses the top of my head and brings his eyes level with mine, looking at me with concern. ‘You feeling better?’
‘It was just a dream …’ I mumble.
‘When is it ever just a dream with you?’ he asks, flashing a thoughtful smile.
Well, I hope that one was, I think to myself.
‘I
’d better go,’ he sighs, slapping his knees before getting up from the bed.
‘Are you here tonight?’ I ask, hearing how feeble I sound in my own head.
‘I can’t,’ he says, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s the work Christmas do.’
‘Of course …’ I sigh, miserably.
‘Nothing flashy like last year though – not without you in charge,’ he smirks, grabbing his bag from the corner of the room and flinging it over his shoulder.
The previous year I’d worked alongside Brett at Red Brick Productions and was stuck in a thankless job with a feckless boss. The only major upshot was that I got to organise the office party – although that turned out to be a massive con to shield the fact that my boss was having it off with one of the others PAs. There was quite a scene when his wife turned up and caught the pair of them in the cloakroom getting up to no good – or as his wife phrased it ‘with his cock in her mouth’. Even though I didn’t actually see it (thankfully), the image is still ingrained in my brain somehow – my imagination haunting me with their possible lewd sexual preferences.
Yuck.
‘Can’t imagine it’ll be quite as eventful either,’ he muses, with a wink.
‘I flipping hope not!’ I say, grabbing my pillow and bashing him with it – I don’t want to hear of any scandalous behaviour within the company, and I certainly don’t want Brett getting tempted by any of my former colleagues (like Poutmouth Louisa who, quite simply, is a giant slut who hates my guts).
‘You’ve nothing to worry about. See you later,’ he says, kissing me softly on the lips before placing the pillow beside me and walking out the door.
I’m thankful to find there’s not a sleigh, reindeer, or Santa outfit in sight through the open doorway …
‘You’re up,’ says Carly, bouncing into my room and climbing into my bed as we hear the front door closing behind Brett.
‘Where’s Josh?’ I ask.
‘In the shower,’ she says, biting her top lip as though she’s trying to stop a cheeky grin from exploding across her face. She fails, and so buries her happy head under the duvet.
‘What?’ I ask, tugging at the covers, suspicious of the look she’s trying desperately to hide.
‘We’re going to look at some flats tonight,’ she mumbles, her green eyes peeping out over the fabric.
‘Woah! What’s the rush?’ I shriek.
I’m aware of the panic in my voice, but I didn’t realise their move was going to be so imminent.
Carly laughs, burrowing her way to me under the covers and giving my waist a cuddle (thankfully I actually slept in knickers and a T-shirt last night and not naked like in my dream). She cuddles into me and rests her head on my shoulder. ‘Why wait?’ she asks with a sigh.
‘I guess … You OK?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Sure?’ I ask, doing that thing that best friends do where we ask questions without actually having to speak in full sentences. Just letting the other one know that the floor is open to have a certain discussion if they so wish, but that it’s OK not to talk about it if they’d rather not.
‘I think everything has turned out as it should’ve done,’ she says thoughtfully.
I don’t respond, instead letting my silence encourage her, inviting her to share more.
‘I still think about what happened every now and then,’ she continues. ‘I mean, not as much as I used to, obviously – there was a time when I never thought I’d stop thinking about it. But now, from time to time, a thought creeps up on me. I’ll be stood watching some parents play with their kids in the park and I’ll find myself wondering whether our little creation was a boy or girl, or whether they would’ve looked like me or Josh … Or sometimes, when I’m sat with you guys in the pub, nursing a drink at the end of a hard day at work, I have a split second’s thought about how different our lives would be in that moment if things had worked out differently. I’d have a six-month-old baby by now!’
‘Not quite so many pub trips then …’
‘Exactly!’ she says, raising her arms to the room as though the thought is ludicrous.
Her dramatics make me laugh, although she quickly shifts back into her reflective mood with her body curled into mine.
‘Lexie will be a great mum,’ she exclaims. ‘Plus, she’s married. She won’t have to put up with any of the crap I would’ve done. People didn’t even know me and Josh were dating, for fuck’s sake.’
‘It would’ve been fine. We’re not living in the eighteen hundreds. There are plenty of unmarried couples raising babies.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ she tuts. ‘But there’s a reason people generally go for the more conventional route. Although I was the result of a quick bonk at sea.’
‘And you’re flipping fabulous!’ I wink.
Carly shrugs. ‘So, how do you think Dan’s going to cope?’
‘With the sleepless nights?’
‘And the poop-machine ruining all of his designer tops,’ she laughs.
‘I actually think he’ll be a natural … as much as it pains me to admit it,’ I chuckle to myself. Dan has this quality about him that puts him up there with a Disney character. He’s happy-go-lucky and has a real youth about him. Sure, the early days might be a bit hairy (my brother Max likened his first few weeks of fatherhood to relentless torture), but he’ll be hands-on and devoted – of that I’m sure.
‘My mum seems to think we’re all natural parents,’ she muses, kicking her feet out from beneath the duvet.
‘We should be – it’s in our genetics to want to nurture our offspring, I guess.’
‘Yeah, but can you imagine Alastair carrying around a changing bag and wearing a top covered in fresh baby sick?’
‘Ha! Stranger things, little one, stranger things …’ I giggle, expecting that even our trendy bestie will make a superb dad when the time comes. ‘He might just not be as well kept as he is now.’
‘True. What about you?’ she asks, moving her head from my shoulder and flipping on to her tummy so that she can see my face. ‘How are things going with Brett?’
‘Fine.’ I shrug, suddenly feeling reluctant to talk about the niggles in my brain.
‘And?’
‘And?’
‘Do you think he’ll move in here?’ she asks slowly, as though I’m dumb for not knowing what she’s referring to.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why not? It’s a great flat – affordable, great location …’
‘It’s not me you have to sell the idea to,’ I say forlornly, knowing she’s not about to stop her tirade of questions any time soon.
‘So you’d be up for it?’ she asks, looking at me hopefully.
‘If he wanted to, of course.’
‘Then what’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know if he wants to,’ I admit, unable to hide the bleakness from my voice.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she scoffs.
‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’
‘Carly!’
‘Why would he not want to live with you? The guy wants to tie you down and knock you up – I’m telling you.’
‘Said so romantically,’ I laugh, trying my best to hide the doubt stirring inside and hoping beyond hope that my brain and dreams are just conspiring against me to weird me out or confuse me – yes, it’s pretty spiteful if that’s the case, but it’s better than the alternative of them being right and having Brett slip away from me.
‘Shower’s free,’ calls Josh, grinning as he wanders past with a fluffy pink towel wrapped around his waist – a sight I’ll be rather thankful to say goodbye to.
‘Don’t overthink this,’ Carly says, giving me a kiss on the cheek, scrambling out of my bed and running towards the door to get into the bathroom before me – even though I’ve not made a single effort to move from the spot she found me in. ‘And don’t be a twat,’ she warns, stopping to wag her finger at me.
‘I’ll try my best,’ I say honestly, wondering if my be
st is going to be good enough on this occasion.
5
Miraculously, I don’t dream that night, but, actually, I think that’s more because I get hardly any sleep, knowing that Brett isn’t by my side and I’m left worrying about what exactly is going on in his head. I mean, I know he’s not off with another woman – I trust him– but I’m sure something is going on that I can’t quite pinpoint, and that scares me. He’s usually so easy to read.
Is it possible that I’ve just fabricated the whole thing? Let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time my mind has played tricks on me, especially at the helping hands of my nightly unconscious escapades. It’s entirely possible that the moment of doubt over my current life fulfilment after the pub quiz led to me feeding that crappy wobble into my dreams – which, in turn, transformed into a nightmare and totally freaked me out, making the whole thing ten times bigger than it actually is. But even if that is the case, I wouldn’t be able to blow something up that didn’t exist … right? There really is no smoke without fire – unless what I’m seeing isn’t actually smoke, of course. It could just be a load of misty air vapour that’s clouding my vision … Oh, who am I trying to kid?!
Needless to say, my frazzled mind spends the evening tying itself in knots and being completely unhelpful and not buying into any of the things I try to distract myself with: a relaxing bath with super-expensive bubbles (birthday present from Mum and Dad that I haven’t used), re-runs of One Born Every Minute (I tend to find it utterly terrifying and beautiful at the same time, although on this occasion I fail to shed a tear because I wasn’t focusing on it properly) and a giant helping of strawberry cheesecake Häagen-Dazs ice cream (my favourite flavour and I barely managed a quarter of the tub – I’m usually capable of devouring a 500ml portion in a single sitting).
The worst is that I use every ounce of self-control in my possession to stop myself from texting or calling Brett; even when I slip into bed and prepare to go to sleep – which is ridiculous because, on the occasions that we aren’t together in the evenings, it’s unheard of for us not to speak in some form before we head into the world of dreams.
All my stubbornness brings me is a night of feeling unfulfilled and agitated as I continuously check my phone (which I put on silent to stop myself from replying if he did contact me – an utterly pathetic and stupid idea which leaves me checking it more than ever).
Dream a Little Christmas Dream Page 3
