Dream a Little Dream

by Sue Moorcroft

  Copyright © 2012 Sue Moorcroft

  First published 2012 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choclitpublishing.com

  The right of Sue Moorcroft to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN-978-1-78189-026-4

  For the two men I’ve known longer than any others – my big brothers

  Kevan Moorcroft and Trevor Moorcroft

  Thanks for being there when I need you.

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Message from Dominic

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Interview with Sue

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks, as always, to the fantastic Choc Lit team, because working with you is such a pleasure. Also to my buddies in the Romantic Novelists’ Association for the support and the parties.

  A host of people were kind enough to help me with this book and I’m deeply grateful. Joan Innes at Moulton Therapies, who armed me with a wealth of information about treatments and let me talk to her reflexology students at The Academy of Reflexology and Massage. Liz Rhodes of BBC Radio Cambridgeshire let me sit in on her show whilst she explained the clever stuff radio presenters do. Gail and Alex Willis invited me onto Half Century, Gail’s lovely river cruiser, so that Alex could teach me to drive it. Clorissa Paul gave me dog-training advice and a dog I saw skateboarding in Brighton gave me the idea for Crosswind. Kathleen Mears shared her experiences of living with a narcoleptic. Dave Lowry provided great insight into air traffic controllers and then magically arranged for us to meet Paul Templeman, General Manager, NATS, Stansted, who took us into the Stansted Tower – my thanks to those on watch that day, for not minding my questions. Also to everyone on Twitter and Facebook who advised me on what’s hot in Halloween costumes and where to secrete a phone and wallet in Lycra leggings, especially Mark West for his specific and enlightening knowledge, and Dan Moorcroft for letting me borrow his middle name.

  A special mention for my valued beta readers: Dominic White, Mark West, Joan Innes, Dave Lowry and the late and much-missed Roger Frank. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your time and expertise.

  I’m indebted to Narcolepsy UK (www.narcolepsy.org.uk) for its clear and authoritative information about the rare sleep disorder, narcolepsy, and to John Cherry and those on the message board who gave me help and advice. At Narcolepsy UK’s conference I was grateful to have the opportunity to ask questions of the clear and engaging Dr Emmanuel Mignot, Director of the Stanford Sleep Sciences, Stanford University School of Medicine, California, thus straightening out my backstory.

  There’s one person without whom this book could not have been written. When I asked for help on Narcolepsy UK’s message board I said that my hero, Dominic Christy, was in his thirties and had narcolepsy. Amongst several responses was one that began, ‘My name is Dominic, I’m in my thirties and have narcolepsy …’ Since then, he’s answered a thousand questions by e-mail and in person, supplying intelligent, articulate and good-humoured insight into the fascinating, frustrating life of the narcoleptic, read my manuscript twice, allowed me to bug him endlessly without apparently losing patience, and helped me empty a satisfactory number of wine bottles. Dominic White, you are a star. If the goblins sent you, they obviously knew that writing this book was important. Thank you.

  Narcolepsy is bittersweet. I hate the way it controls how I live, my job and what it’s done to my relationships. But I realise that it’s inescapably part of me. I have – almost – come to terms with it, and I know I have to value it however I can. The silver lining is that narcolepsy’s given me a unique perspective. Often, I have had to sit back, but I’ve seen more than most people notice: the way they behave towards each other and what they do when they think no one’s looking, the small movements and the secret brief glances filled with anger, uncertainty and, sometimes, love.

  Bitter or sweet, narcolepsy’s in every part of my life and it touches deep emotions: when I first meet someone or, later, really start to fall for her – that growing connection, being almost physically drawn her way – it affects how a woman thinks and feels, and whether she falls in love with me.

  And, of course, if I meet you, your reactions to me, knowing I’m a little different to almost everyone else, will affect me – and whether I could, possibly, fall in love with you.

  Dominic

  Prologue

  Liza wasn’t dancing-on-the-table drunk. But she’d spent the evening getting stuck into the Friexenet with Rochelle and Angie.

  And Adam’s mum, Ursula Überhostess, was semaphoring disapproval across the room with frowning eyebrows. You’re drinking too much, Liza.

  Liza sent back a cheery wave. No, I’m not. Leave me alone.

  Rochelle nudged Liza, raising her voice to be heard over the aunties and uncles singing along with Rihanna about her umberella-ella-ella. ‘Do we have to stay? If it’s supposed to be Adam’s birthday party, why are hardly any of his mates here? I’ve wasted an updo on rellies.’ She pulled at one of the blonde tendrils that had been allowed to escape artfully from the roll on the back of her head.

  ‘Because it’s a “do”,’ Angie put in, wisely. ‘Friends know there’ll be stacks of rellies, so they stay away.’ She drained her wineglass and Rochelle immediately refilled it from the satiny black bottle of Friexenet – the fifth of the six they’d brought from Liza’s fridge.

  Glumly, Liza extended her glass for refilling, too. ‘The others are already clubbing at Muggies, waiting for us. They keep texting.’ She could see Adam, over the heads of those on the dance floor, on the stage, talking to the DJ – one of his army of cousins – and laughing
. Adam wouldn’t hurt the family’s feelings by making an early escape. She sighed, tragically. ‘I’ll have to stay till Adam leaves. You two can go, though. I’ll survive wasting a new dress and pin heels on a hall full of balloons, paper tablecloths, cardboard plates and homemade buffet.’

  Rochelle and Angie rolled their eyes but remained in their seats under the bobbing You are 30! and 30 Today! balloons as red-faced, laughing relatives gyrated on the dance floor under a glitter ball. ‘Booooring,’ Rochelle muttered.

  ‘Sorry, hon.’ But at least relieving boredom was one of Liza’s talents. Her gaze fell on one of the blue-and-silver foil balloons. Reeling it in by its slinky satin ribbon, she put its seal to her mouth, and giggled.

  Rochelle brightened immediately. ‘Yeah, Liza, do duck-voice.’

  The foil made Liza’s teeth feel funny as she bit down, but soon a little puff of helium hissed out and she could put her lips over the hole and suck, until her head gave a tiny telltale spin. ‘Hello Rochelle, hello Angie!’ Her voice felt curiously smooth as it hit a note at least an octave higher than usual.

  Angie giggled. ‘Hello, Donald Duck!’

  Liza laughed – like a cartoon duck – which made Rochelle and Angie snort Friexenet bubbles of mirth. She inhaled again. ‘Maybe I should talk duck to Ursula?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ they gurgled. ‘Ursula will love you talking duck!’

  Squeezing the deflating balloon, Liza sucked her hardest, trying to see how high she could make her voice go. Then, suddenly, relatives began shouting and looking at her, beaming and applauding.

  ‘What’s up with them?’ she quacked.

  Rochelle shook her head, unable to speak for laughing, wiping at her mascara with a fingertip.

  Adam, still up on stage with Cousin DJ, boomed through the microphone. ‘Liza? Come up here, sweetheart.’

  ‘Oh. Shit.’ Suddenly duck voice didn’t seem such a good idea.

  Rochelle laid her head on Angie’s shoulder and sobbed with laughter.

  ‘LIZA!’ Adam insisted.

  ‘Oh, SHIT!’

  Clutching her stomach, Angie began to slide sideways off her chair.

  And the relatives clapped harder, shouted louder, ‘Lie-zah! Lie-zah! Up on the stage, Lie-zah!’

  ‘You … you’ve got to!’ wept Rochelle. ‘It’s a “do”. Adam’s going to make a speech.’

  And a scrum of relatives descended, arms outstretched. Liza, drink-drenched and helium-headrushed, was powerless to avoid being hoisted up the three wooden steps and left teetering at Adam’s side. He smiled, boyishly, taking her clammy hand in his warm one.

  The room fell into waiting silence.

  Adam pressed his lips gently to her palm then suddenly – hideously – dropped to one knee, dark brown eyes smouldering up at her. Enunciating every word, he said into the microphone, ‘Liza Reece, will you marry me?’

  People whooped and began to clap. Others shushed, wanting to hear Liza say, ‘Yes!’

  ‘I think it’s what we both want.’ Adam held the microphone up to her lips and winked, playfully.

  Liza recoiled from his hand and the spongy microphone that smelled like bad breath. In what universe did he think she’d want to be publicly cornered into relinquishing Singledom? Had she missed a discussion about radically changing her life? Tying herself to Adam? Her heart pounded in her ears, making it impossible to think logically about the audience, the occasion, or how to handle a delicate situation so as not to hurt Adam.

  She just opened her mouth and the truth quacked out. ‘No, I don’t want to marry you.’

  Chapter One

  PWNsleep message board:

  Tenzeds: Just found this forum. It’s not long since I was diagnosed and, coincidentally(!), not long since I came out of a relationship. How easy will it be to hook up with someone new?

  Sleepingmatt: Hmm, can be tricky. Try and find a hot woman who understands about meds, naps, sleep hygiene and that you’re not just being dull when you need rest …

  Tenzeds: Wow. That’s all, huh?

  Not exactly the reassurance he’d been looking for … Dominic Christy shut down the People With Narcolepsy Sleep message board and passed his iPad to Miranda. ‘Can you keep hold of this for me while I have my toes twiddled? Which is going to have zero effect, by the way.’ He leaned back in the seat he’d been shown to by the teen receptionist. The room was airy and warm, though October rain beat on the window. As well as two chairs and a desk, a black leather treatment couch extended diagonally into the room, its back raised. A holistic centre. So not him. ‘I don’t even like people touching my feet. Does reflexology tickle?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Miranda peered at him over the top of her glasses with her I’m-the-slightly-older-and-wiser-cousin expression, no less irritating now than it had been twenty years ago.

  Dominic grinned. ‘Nutty vegetarian idealists, like you, think anything can be cured through massage and green tea.’

  ‘And illogical people dismiss complementary medicine without trying it.’

  He narrowed his eyes. To cast a slur on his logic was to hit him where he lived. Much as he loved Miranda, he couldn’t let her get away with that. And he knew exactly how to invoke cousinly rage in return … ‘Reflexology’s only going to help me if this therapist of yours is young, gorgeous and has a chest like a shelf full of melons.’

  But Miranda actually smiled. ‘Big oops, Dominic. Big, big oops.’

  And a new voice came from behind him. ‘Tick one, tick two. Three, I’m afraid, is just your sad fantasy, unless you revise downward to grapefruits. But my appearance doesn’t affect your treatment.’

  Dominic froze as a woman stalked into his field of vision. Slight and blonde, a cross between a nurse and a nymph in dark green trousers and tunic, she seated herself in the other chair and directed a sweet smile at his cousin. ‘Hello, Miranda.’

  Despite dancing eyes, Miranda somehow managed to return a smile of studied sorrow. ‘I apologise, Liza. My cousin can’t help his shallow maleness.’ She tucked Dominic’s iPad under her arm. ‘I’ll wait in reception – unless you feel you need a chaperone?’

  Liza turned to her desk. ‘I’ll shout if I do.’

  The door closed. Dominic found himself torn between running after his cousin to demand her instant return to explain that he’d only been pretending to be a sleazebag.

  And just running.

  Liza consulted a clipboard, then glanced up between twin wings of blonde hair that curved to points exactly level with her chin. ‘Dominic Christy?’ Her voice and her smile were polite but in her eyes lurked something unspoken. Probably: I’m being professionally polite. You try to be the same. They were the bluest of eyes, lined with turquoise, lashes thick with mascara.

  He tried to regain control of the situation. ‘I can’t apologise enough. You overheard macho crap meant only to infuriate my cousin. That’s not the real me, I promise. You must think I’m a moron.’

  ‘I’m Liza Reece. Shall we talk about what’s brought you here, today? This is your first reflexology treatment, I gather? I’d like to get an idea of your history and circumstances, so that my treatment can be informed and the reflexes will make sense to me.’

  Evidently, she’d decided that the best way to deal with his motormouth moment was to ignore it, but he wanted to protest, ‘C’mon, if you can’t reassure me that I’m not a moron, at least acknowledge the possibility that I was only winding Miranda up!’ But he sighed and played it her way. ‘Miranda thinks that I ought to, um, open my mind to complementary medicine. I’ve already been here for aromatherapy and ear candling.’ Only because Miranda badgered him into it, but Liza Reece didn’t need to know that. He needed the brownie points.

  Her eyebrows rose, as silky and fine as a child’s. ‘And how did you find those therapies?’

  ‘Interesting.’ A non-reply, but better than lying. Or telling the truth, as one of the words he’d used to Miranda had been ‘nonsense’. The other had been basic, but descriptive. />
  She began to take details about his age, past or planned operations – sending dark thoughts Miranda’s way, he was tempted to say he needed a cousinectomy – was he a diabetic? Epileptic? Did he suffer from high blood pressure? She moved quickly down a questionnaire, glancing up politely for his answers, until, finally, he responded, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sleep disorder?’ She stopped, and let her gaze rest properly on his.

  ‘I was diagnosed with narcolepsy about ten months ago.’

  Instant interest blazed in her eyes. Stunning eyes, and even though he realised that her interest was engaged by his weird condition, not him, he still found himself wishing that he’d worn something newer than the comfortable shirt Natalie had bought him because she’d said its dark purple made his grey eyes look silver. When she’d been his girlfriend, not his ex.

  ‘Narcolepsy?’ Liza Reece propped her chin on her fist. ‘That’s a rare one. How’s it affecting you?’

  ‘It’s no fun. Daytime sleep attacks are the worst, they just suck me down. And I have vivid dreams, which can be disorientating.’ As if he’d taken something. A bad something.

  ‘How’s your night-time sleep?’

  ‘If I’m feeling OK and I follow my routines, it’s usually good. It’s forcing myself awake in the mornings that can be next to impossible.’

  She made notes, frowning in concentration. ‘Isn’t there some muscle weakness associated with narcolepsy?’