Dream a Little Dream

by Giovanna Fletcher

  I’d no idea our two mums had even kept in touch beyond a polite Christmas card exchange, so this friendly conversation is completely mind-boggling for me – so is the fact that my mum’s started going to Zumba. It’s far too young, hip and wild for her.

  ‘Oh yes. Well, Sarah’s here today actually – come to spend some time with her old mum and dad,’ she chirps with a measured chuckle, before listening to whatever Pat is saying. ‘She’s only just arrived actually – we’ve not had a chance to chat yet.’

  I look at Max and see that he’s hiding under a sofa cushion with just his eye peering over the top. Dad is obliviously watching Formula One racing on the TV in front of us – doing a great job at blocking us all out.

  ‘Oh … ?’

  The silence from her is deafening as she listens to Pat.

  ‘Well, that is lovely news. You must be so thrilled … when did this all happen?’ she asks, swallowing hard as Pat replies. ‘Please pass on our best wishes. What a happy time for you all.’

  Once goodbyes have been exchanged (fairly swiftly) and the phone replaced on to its base, Mum stays rooted to the spot, looking out the front window with her back to us.

  She stays like this for what must easily be a whole minute.

  I look at Max in confusion.

  He shrugs.

  I know my mum extremely well, but even I find it difficult to read her thoughts just by looking at her little (surprisingly pert) behind.

  Dad, without even looking up from his programme, intervenes. ‘Everything okay, love?’ He’s been married to mum for thirty-six years, and he must sense when there’s something brewing.

  ‘Yes,’ Mum coughs, clearing her throat.

  Has she been crying?

  Surely not.

  ‘Just noticed that those ivy bushes have become a little unruly out front. I’d better make a note for Simon to trim them back when he comes next week.’

  And with that she turns on to the heels of her slippers and stalks into the kitchen with a task for the gardener.

  I look at Max once more and see him mouth the word ‘Shit’.

  Quite right.

  Her reaction was worse than I’d feared.

  We always knew growing up that a silent reaction was far worse than a voiced one.

  Silence meant Mum and Dad were really angry at our behaviour.

  Silent rage meant we’d been extremely disappointing.

  What a shame that at twenty-nine years old I’m still extremely disappointing.

  How tragic.

  ‘Shall we go then?’ Mum asks without looking at me, as she comes back into the room ten minutes later wearing her coat and putting on her leather gloves.

  ‘You haven’t given her a tea yet,’ Dad says, breaking out of the hypnosis of his programme and becoming confused at what’s happening around him.

  ‘She can get one in town,’ she says flatly.

  I don’t bother looking at Max, who’s still hiding behind his pillow. Instead, I give Dad a kiss and mutter that we won’t be long, before skulking off into the hallway and grabbing my shoes and Dan-fumed coat.

  I expect an ear bashing of some sort from Mum as soon as we turn out of the black gates of our family home, but she stays silent.

  She stays tight-lipped for the whole walk down to the High Street and as we mooch around several shops. We wander into Cath Kidston (I have a vision of Max and Andrea’s baby being dressed like something from Little House on the Prairie in all these gorgeous prints), where her behaviour becomes unbearable. She doesn’t once cave in to the pointless small talk that I’m trying to lighten the mood with. It’s excruciatingly painful – to the point where I can’t take her silence any longer and have to address the elephant dancing around in front of us.

  ‘I only found out last night, Mum,’ I blurt.

  ‘What, dear?’ She says, her eyes wide and innocent as though she hasn’t the foggiest idea of what I’m talking about.

  ‘That Dan and Lexie got engaged.’

  ‘Oh that. It’s nothing to do with me … I don’t need to hear anything about it,’ she says curtly, before continuing to screen the rail of floral baby clothes in front of us with great interest. ‘I don’t think we can buy any of this stuff for the baby until we know the sex, Sarah. It’s all so gender specific.’

  A change of subject means she no longer wants to talk about the topic that we didn’t just talk about. Odd, seeing as it’s a topic I shouldn’t have to talk to her about anyway – or rather, it should be her trying to offer me some comfort over the fact that my ex is still very much in my world and rubbing his wonderful life in my face while I plod through mine with no direction or purpose. Simply going through the monotonously repetitive cycle at work with no passion or drive while having a ‘living for the weekend’ mentality, where I simply work to fund my rent and nights out with friends.

  There’s no excitement.

  Nothing new.

  Something needs to change, I realize.

  ‘I’m going to ask Jonathan for a promotion.’

  The words are out of my mouth before I’ve really given them much thought, but once they are out I wonder why I’ve never thought of them before.

  Mum’s face lights up instantly as she throws her arms around me and gives me a hug – a real one.

  I’m pretty sure I hear a sob, she’s clearly in an emotional mood today, but once she lets me go she’s back to being composed. ‘I think that’s the best thing I’ve heard you say in a while.’

  ‘Thanks Mum.’

  ‘And I always thought you were too good for Daniel anyway,’ she glowers authoritatively, before threading her arm through mine and leading us out of the shop.

  Right.

  Now I’ve just got to get myself a promotion then.

  How hard can that be?

  7

  I’m neck deep in water, in a warm indoor swimming pool, with the sound of voices, splashing and whistling bouncing and echoing around me. It’s bright with sunshine spreading its rays through the glass walls that surround us on all sides.

  Several other women are also in the pool, wearing matching red swimsuits, head caps and goggles. Only one wears something different – she’s in an all-black outfit from head to toe.

  ‘Right,’ someone barks in a broad Italian accent to get our attention.

  I look to the side of the pool to see Strictly Come Dancing’s judge Bruno Tonioli, strutting up and down with his hands on his hips, in the smallest black speedos ever created.

  ‘I want to see that again,’ he orders with a click of his fingers and a dangerous sparkle in his eye.

  The girls in the pool instantly flap to move into an arranged formation.

  I manoeuvre myself into an empty spot – guessing that it’s where I’m meant to go.

  Classical music starts blaring out across the room.

  The girls around me slowly kick out their arms and legs in unison, their bodies swirling around elegantly to the music with passion and a dramatic flare.

  I follow their lead. Trying to be as composed and graceful as I can manage – truth is, I’ve never really been the strongest swimmer, but I try my best to keep up with what is clearly a synchronized swimming team.

  A circle is formed – us girls in red surround the one person in black before she curls up into a ball. In response we all flip around and float on our backs, each holding out the red oval shapes that have appeared in our hands.

  Everyone else is still and composed, but my oval shape won’t behave. It’s causing me to wobble around uncontrollably – and my bottom to swerve from left to right, and up and down, beneath me.

  Unable to steady the oval or myself, the red material slips from my hands and flies off into the distance.

  Forgetting how to swim, I grab the girl to my left – my bingo-winged arm flying out of the water and taking hold of her strong swimmer’s shoulder.

  Catching her unawares, she goes under the water and panics, grabbing the girl to her left who doe
s the same and grabs the girl to her left, who grabs the girl to her left … and so on, until Bruno blows his whistle and screams for the music to be cut.

  ‘What was that?!’ he shrieks.

  I’m not in the pool any more. Instead, I’m stood next to him and am the target of his rage … rightly so. Looking into the pool I see the girls are formed in a misshaped flower, with a black centre and red petals – a poppy.

  ‘You were swinging your arms around like a lost primate running through the Amazon jungle looking for her mother,’ he shouts. ‘You had no clue of the moves and your placement was appalling. Where was the passion? Where was the need? Where was the want? And elegance, my dear? I’d have seen more elegance on a dinosaur wearing stilettos walking along the cobbled streets of Amsterdam.’

  ‘But …’ I try.

  ‘Yes, let’s talk about butts. Yours is too big. It stuck out like that of a mandrill monkey – big and colourful.’

  ‘Bruno,’ I try again, but he starts dancing to his rant – blocking me out further with every twirl and jump – shouting, twirling and jumping, shouting, twirling and jumping.

  Eventually he twirls so fast that his feet leave the ground and he flies above my head. His ranting becomes high-pitched singing as his spins accelerate. His body becoming a mini cyclone of colours whizzing through the air, before it explodes.

  Millions of paper poppies float from the sky – their sharp edges hitting me on the head on their way to the ground.

  I look to the pool to see the other girls in red have disappeared – yet the one all in black remains. Only the centre of our Poppy was not a girl as I thought I’d seen. It was Brett.

  He looks pleased to see me at first, then, spotting something to the right of me, he shouts out.

  ‘He’s back!’

  I turn to see Bruno has morphed into a giant speedo-wearing lizard. His tongue hissing and gobbling up all the floats as he makes his way to us.

  Suddenly a hand grabs mine and pulls me.

  ‘Quick!’

  Brett drags me through the forest that we’re now in and we run savagely – like wild urchins – trying our best to escape the demented reptile that’s coming for us.

  We hold hands, our clasp strong and unyielding as we focus on what’s ahead of us. Jumping over bushes, ducking under branches and swerving pink flamingos, we never falter – we can’t with Bruno so close behind us.

  My heart is thumping as the adrenaline pumps through my body, making me more agile, supple and fit than ever before.

  When we come to a rock formation that we need to climb, Brett wraps his strong arms around my waist and draws me up to him, our bodies grazing each other’s momentarily before we have to continue with our flight.

  Although, when we run again, my mind is clouded by the thought of having him so near. I’m not as quick as before – I’m clumsy. I trip over small stones on the ground, I misjudge distances between us and the surrounding forest, I slow us down and allow Bruno to catch up.

  Just as I’m about to dive through an abandoned aeroplane to take refuge, Bruno the lizard grabs me by the ankle and throws me in the air.

  I’m flying up, up, up, up into the sky.

  I keep my eyes closed, too scared to look down below – too scared of falling back into Bruno’s waiting mouth and not into Brett’s arms.

  I wake up to find I’m holding my breath and have my eyes scrunched up in suspense. Wandering into the bathroom, I find a frown line has become indented into my forehead from my night of active dreams – Bruno from Strictly in little pants before turning into a lizard and chasing me and my dream lover into the wilderness … I wonder over its significance as I get into the shower and start washing my hair. Today’s the day I ask Jonathan for a promotion and I’ve just been ear-bashed over my ineptness … brilliant timing.

  Absolutely perfect.

  I get into work early, ready to start the first day of the rest of my life as someone who is determined, passionate and driven (I am those things – piss off, Bruno). I’m full of gusto and it feels as though I’m on the brink of something wonderful and life-changing. If I can manage to better myself in the career department, that would be one area of my life in a decent state of affairs – and one is better than none.

  I smile to everyone as they walk into the office a little after me, asking how their weekends were and seeing what they got up to – but mostly I get my head down and get on with some work to show that I’m super dedicated to the company and take my role here seriously. I don’t even go on Twitter, Facebook or the Mail Online – except for a quick peek at that just to make sure nothing major has happened like a huge celebrity fracas or another boyband member dramatically quitting my favourite band, but I’m on there a mere thirty seconds maximum before closing the webpage, satisfied that all is well with the world (apart from the awful sight of that reality star in a teeny tiny bikini in Dubai – set-up shots if ever I saw them).

  Jonathan arrives half an hour later and in a foul mood – grunting at me for a coffee before slamming his office door shut behind him.

  This isn’t part of the great plan I’d envisaged.

  Thanks to getting mentally bashed in my dream by Bruno (I’ll never be able to watch Strictly in the same way ever again) and the fact that Jonathan is clearly in the grumpiest mood I’ve ever seen (and that’s saying something because I’ve seen him have some stonkers), my nerve wavers. In fact, I delay my vision of storming into Jonathan’s office and demanding the career advancement he’d promised in the initial advertisement I replied to for my job all those years ago and potter around, ticking off my meaningless list of tasks instead – after I’ve delivered him the best coffee he’s ever had at super speedy speed, naturally.

  A few hours later, I’m in the ladies’, sat on the loo, when I overhear Dominique and Louisa from Development talking at the basins in front of the mirrors.

  They both joined the company a few months before I did, but by the time I arrived they’d already formed a clique that I am only privy to at certain times, when they allow it. Usually when they want to do some digging around things concerning Jonathan, the business or office gossip that I might have inside knowledge on; like the time Penny from Accounts was fired for coming into work off her face on pills before going into a presentation meeting. She told Jonathan he could ‘Go fuck himself’ once he’d suggested she stick to her original brief rather than talking about a fairy in the sky called Twinkle-Minkle who wanted to come and feed them all chocolate. It was pretty exciting stuff, especially when she started screaming and the police had to be called, so it’s no wonder Louisa and Dominique wanted to dig for info in that case. Obviously, I always tell them all I know, and then they go back to being a duo once I’m no longer of use to them. Office politics and classroom behaviour seem to go hand in hand.

  Blurgh!

  ‘There’s not much he can do – his visa has run out,’ Louisa moans – I can tell she’s sticking her lips out into a pout. She loves a good pout. The number of photos she posts on Facebook with that poutmouth is ridiculous. Many different locations, thanks to her job, but one stupid poutmouth expression.

  ‘So he’s got to go home?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Pout.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next month!’ Pout.

  ‘But where does that leave your relationship?’ asks Dominique, clearly sad for her friend.

  ‘God knows, I mean we knew this would always be the case but it seems to have crept up on us so quickly.’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘I’m gutted. We know a long-distance thing isn’t going to work out – I mean, it’s fucking Australia.’

  ‘It’s not that far.’

  ‘It’s the other side of the shitting world,’ says Louisa, exasperatedly.

  ‘Oh, Lou.’

  ‘Yeah, I know! And if that wasn’t bad enough, you’re leaving.’

  ‘Shh!’ Dominique fires quickly – but my ears are already pricked and ready to hear more.

&
nbsp; ‘It’s not official yet.’

  ‘But with that offer I’d have thought it was a foregone conclusion. I’d have grabbed my coat and run out the door straight away. Fuck this place.’

  From what I can hear, Dominique has turned to sign language rather than verbalizing her response to her loose-tongued friend, as I can hear lots of fabric swishing and hands smacking in the air.

  ‘Whatever,’ Louisa replies sulkily, clearly annoyed that she’s been shushed mid-strop. ‘Life is going to suck, anyway. Maybe I should just go with him – better than being left here on my own.’

  ‘I don’t see why you don’t …’

  The conversation is dropped and the pair continue whatever they’re doing in silence.

  By this point I’ve been in the loo longer than socially appropriate. They’ll definitely think I’ve been going for a number two (which I haven’t, FYI), so I decide to wait it out a little longer to save any awkwardness. Nothing like catching those sideways glances as though pooping in a public toilet is something to be scoffed at.

  Not that I did, anyway.

  No really.

  I didn’t.

  There’s going to be a position free on the Development team, my head sings that afternoon, distracting me from the arduous task of writing out the company’s Christmas cards – a job that I seem to do earlier and earlier each year.

  Scribbling out the same thing again and again seems to numb my brain enough to knock the fear out of me. I find myself walking over to Jonathan’s office door and giving it a purposeful knock – now’s the time to strike!

  ‘Sarah?’ He booms, lifting his arm in the air and waving his hand in a regal fashion to beckon me in quickly.

  ‘Jonathan,’ I reply confidently, walking into his office.

  He seems in a jollier mood after a working lunch out at STK. Clearly a good steak and some red wine (no doubt followed by a calorific dessert) is just what he needed.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sarah?’ he asks, leaning back into his brown leather chair and swinging around to face me.

  Jonathan’s office is an eclectic mix of work and home. One wall is lined with books (mostly big, thick, luxurious, travel ones) for research and another is home to an array of shelves, showing off his various awards for past TV productions, pictures of his travels and of his wife and daughter. His office furniture isn’t the sort you’d usually see in an office (cold, tasteless and boring like the rest of us use), it’s all individual and handmade in Italy, helping to make his office comfortable, unique and oozing charm and warmth … It’s not reflective of his personality in the slightest, if anything it’s a representation of the opposite – of the anti-Jonathan.