Dream a Little Dream

by Sue Moorcroft

  Beaming, she jingled her car keys. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was less than a ten-minute drive to the black iron gates of Port Manor Hotel. Once through, Miranda following a white signpost, swung her car left off the wide hotel driveway, taking a smaller track, curving uphill under the green light of a tunnel of trees. After half a mile, they returned to sunlight at the rear of the hotel, greensward running either side. Perched on a crest, in the days when Port Manor had been the residence of some minor aristocrat and The Stables had been the stables, they would have been sufficiently distant for the smell of horse not to sully the house.

  The buildings edged three sides of the stable yard. On the fourth, the park swooped down towards a lake that reflected a coppice and racing grey clouds. Beyond, the countryside raked uphill again until it met the sky. Dominic paused on the rim of that giant, green, grassy bowl for a big beautiful blast of fresh air. Maybe that’s why it was called ‘the great outdoors’ – because being there could make him feel great. He’d love to put a kayak on that lake and practise rolls. He could almost feel the water, cool and silky—

  ‘Eek! Wind!’ complained Miranda, clamping both her hands over her hair.

  ‘You’re such a girl.’ The imaginary kayak vanished from the ruffled lake and Dominic followed his cousin into The Stables’s reception area, with its counter and three chairs, manned, as it had been the day before, by a gangly girl who looked too young to be anybody’s front-desk presence. She regarded Dominic and Miranda with a hint of surprise. ‘Hello, again.’ Her gaze flicked to her computer monitor, as if to match them to one of that morning’s bookings.

  Dominic smiled. ‘Nicolas Notten’s expecting us.’

  ‘OK, Pippa, I’m here.’ A lank-haired man in his early forties barrelled down the corridor, oily face split by a grin of welcome, hand extended. Dominic shook it, introduced Miranda, and resisted the impulse to wipe his palm on his trousers.

  ‘Why don’t we go into my office?’ Nicolas beamed.

  Dominic followed Miranda and Nicolas, crossing the spot where, yesterday, Liza Reece had left him standing like a buffoon. The door to her treatment room was shut and he wondered whether she was behind it, bringing bliss to some other lucky bastard’s feet. In the office, he took the seat nearest the door, a blue vinyl-covered chair that wheezed when he sat on it, and waited through the ritual of Nicolas offering coffee and Miranda’s, ‘Do you have any herbal tea?’

  ‘I think the girls keep camomile in the kitchen.’ Nicolas beamed again, rubbing his hands as he bustled his bulk back out through the door.

  ‘I’ll stick with coffee,’ Dominic called after him. ‘Strong, if possible.’ Dominic grinned at Miranda, knowing Nicolas had gained no points with her for referring to adult females as ‘girls’.

  A few minutes later, Nicolas returned on a whoosh of words. ‘Here we are, here we are, here we are!’ He deposited three steaming mugs on the desk and plumped down in his seat. ‘What I’d like to tell you about The Stables is—’

  Armed with his shot of caffeine, Dominic sat back to listen as an obviously prepared pitch spooled out. And out. For a heart-sinking hour. Although he was beginning to feel guilty at how far Nicolas seemed to have got his hopes up, it would have taken a harder heart than his not to hear him out.

  Miranda, who, no matter how much of a force she was in her own home had never got over a childhood shyness with strangers, contributed nothing. The office was overheated. Dominic opened the door to let in fresh air, glad that he’d set his phone alert to go off twice in case he got sluggish. Rising on the pretext of depositing his empty mug on the desk, he remained standing, to keep his head clear. ‘So, how is your income generated?’ he put in, when Nicolas paused to sip his lukewarm coffee.

  Nicolas folded his hands. ‘Each therapist pays me rent for their treatment room and a small commission on every treatment.’ He moved smoothly into a practised speech about how an injection of working capital would revitalise the business, replenish the promotion budget and encourage the business to make a profit.

  ‘How, exactly?’ Dominic pressed.

  Nicolas’s hands tightened. ‘With the, um, greater promotional budget to, er, bring in more clients to each therapist, so building commission.’

  Dominic began to feel a bit sorry for Nicolas, so nervous, so transparently desperately searching for funds with no real idea how to plug the leaks through which money was gushing. But he felt even sorrier for everybody who worked at the treatment centre, as Nicolas’s hopelessly unrealistic outpouring made it ever clearer that his business enterprise was doomed. He was chin-deep in financial sewage. And, any moment, someone was going to come by in a speedboat.

  Still, Dominic’s agenda prompted him to say, ‘Yes, please,’ when Nicolas heaved himself from behind his desk and offered to show them around The Stables.

  First port of call was the room in which Dominic had met Liza Reece, yesterday. Without knocking, Nicolas thrust the door open. ‘This is one of our treatment rooms.’ Dominic’s skin prickled at a flash vision of white hands on his feet.

  ‘We have three treatment rooms – the other two are in use but are similar.’ Nicolas listed all the therapies the centre offered, which he’d said at least eight times already, and waffled about equipment, which, so far as Dominic could see, wasn’t much: the couch, two chairs, a desk and a trolley. As Nicolas talked, Dominic’s gaze ran along a row of framed certificates on the wall, each bearing the name of Liza Reece: maternity reflexology, baby reflexology, vertical reflexology and foot reading.

  Nicolas was already moving on, towards the other wing of the building. ‘Back through reception, we have the staff room, kitchen and cloakrooms.’

  Dominic’s interest was caught. ‘Does the kitchen need to be so large?’ The square room accommodated a washing machine, dryer, hob, microwave and fridge, with acres to spare.

  Nicolas beamed proudly. ‘It was all in place before my time here. The hotel converted the stables with the idea of creating a spa, with a pool, hot tub and everything. Then they decided the economic climate wasn’t right so looked for someone to lease the premises and run a facility that would be an added attraction for the hotel.’ He swelled a little. ‘Mine was the successful proposal.’

  Dominic processed the layout of the building through his mind. ‘Where would they have put a pool and a hot tub?’

  ‘The pool was going to be dug behind, on the other side to the stable yard. The hot tub was to go in the wing I didn’t take on. There are showers and changing cubicles,’ he took a few steps to the end of the corridor and rapped on a door, ‘just behind this.’

  Slowly, Dominic nodded. ‘So the empty part could be leased from the hotel, too?’

  ‘So far as I know, yes.’ Nicolas shuffled his feet, the beginnings of bliss dawning on his round face. ‘Were you—were you thinking of putting in enough money to expand? Gosh, that’s something to talk about.’

  The moment of truth was obviously arriving at a gallop. Dominic jammed his hands in his pockets and sighed. ‘I think that’s too much to hope for. Shall we continue this conversation in your office?’

  But the damage was done. Nicolas bounded back to his room, throwing an airy request for more coffee and camomile tea at Pippa, rattling on about always wanting to do more with the place but needing the investment.

  Finally, when Pippa had delivered a tray of gaily spotted china mugs, Dominic had to interrupt. ‘Nicolas, hang on a minute.’

  Nicolas halted, mid-sentence, glancing between Dominic and Miranda.

  Dominic hesitated. None of his courses had armed him with the kindest way to crush hopes.

  But Nicolas was nodding understandingly, a smile lifting his jowls. ‘I think I already know what’s worrying you – you can’t see a place here for your partner.’ He beamed at Miranda, who had worn a speaking expression of wistful longing during the tour.

  Taken aback, Dominic said, ‘Partner?’

  Nicolas tapped his nose. ‘The guys at Peterb
izop made me aware of the situation and I’ve already taken steps. Things are a bit rocky with one of the therapists, so I’ve given her notice that she has to relocate her practice.’ He beamed at Miranda. ‘The treatment room right across the hall, the one we looked at, would be yours. What are your therapies? Something that isn’t already offered by the others would be best, of course.’

  ‘What?’ In her shock, Miranda found her voice.

  Nicolas began to repeat himself, but Dominic cut across him. ‘Wait. I had a treatment with a therapist in that room, yesterday – Liza.’

  Nicolas, nodding, ‘That’s ri—’

  ‘And you’ve sacked her?’

  ‘Well, no.’ Nicolas laughed. ‘I can’t sack somebody that I don’t employ. I’ve just given her notice to relocate her practice.’

  ‘Why?’ Dominic and Miranda demanded, in unison.

  Nicolas’s brow creased uncertainly. ‘I don’t wish to be unsympathetic because Liza has had some difficulties in her personal life. But something happened, yesterday, that gave me the opportunity to give her notice.’ He picked up a copy of the details emblazoned with the red logo of Peterbizop Agency. ‘I have explained, and it does say in here, that all the therapists are self-employed.’ He glanced apologetically at Miranda. ‘The only person I directly employ is young Pippa. Each therapist pays a premium on her rent to cover Pippa’s wages—’

  ‘Why?’ Dominic repeated.

  Nicolas looked up questioningly.

  ‘Why did you give Liza Reece notice?’

  ‘Well.’ Nicolas folded his hands. ‘Let’s just say … it was a straw that broke the camel’s back situation.’

  ‘Did it involve a client?’

  Nicolas’s brow lifted, as if grateful for Dominic’s understanding. ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  Oh crap. Dominic rose, glad to leave the unpleasant vinyl chair. The furniture seemed to have its own sweat glands; no wonder Nicolas looked as if he’d just left a sauna. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s move on to why you think my cousin is my “partner” and that she wants to come here as a therapist? Or even that she is a therapist?’

  ‘Cousin? The guy at Peterbizop called her your partner.’ Nicolas blinked.

  Dominic turned to Miranda. Eyes wide, she shrugged. ‘When he rang when you were asleep, I did tell him what I’ve told you – that I’d love to train in a couple of years, when Ethan’s at school. I suppose he could have assumed that because we’re living in the same house, we’re in a relationship.’

  Nicolas cleared his throat. ‘Peterbizop rang to run through the possibilities. You know, they,’ he cleared his throat again, ‘help you to prepare. To explore scenarios and have answers ready to likely questions. He said it was in the notes he’d been given by his colleague that Miranda wanted into the business, as a therapist,’ he added, with an air of injury. ‘He encouraged me to have a solution ready, because that kind of thing could be a deal breaker.’

  Dominic snorted. ‘Sounds as if the staff at Peterbizop make up what they forget to put in their notes. I can’t believe you gave Liza Reece notice on such a bogus pretext.’ He jammed his hands in his pockets and, feeling less need to be careful of Nicolas’s sensitivities, continued, ‘I’m afraid we’re wasting each other’s time. I can’t see that there’s an income to be made, here. I’m sorry.’

  Bewildered, Nicolas clambered to his feet. ‘I’ve obviously been fed duff information and if I’ve done the wrong thing about Liza, we could always tell her she can stay—’

  ‘You have done the wrong thing and you should tell her that she can stay, but it doesn’t make any difference. I’m not able to invest in your business. Coming, Miranda?’

  Outside, Dominic breathed in deeply of the fresh air. He checked that Nicolas hadn’t followed them into the stable yard. ‘Oily little oik.’

  Miranda’s eyes were guilty. ‘I’m sorry if I said anything that has made things difficult for you, Dom.’

  ‘It’s not your fault! But Liza Reece must want to eviscerate me.’ He paused as a titchy black-and-purple car swept up and halted beside the building. ‘Great,’ he sighed. ‘I think we’re about to find out.’ The sound of the car door echoed around the stable yard and Liza Reece headed towards reception, pink skinny jeans and blue sequined trainers showing beneath her jacket, with no sign of the clinical dark green. She began to smile. Then she saw who it was and stopped dead.

  For several seconds, Dominic and Liza gazed at one another. Her eyes widened and he was caught, baked in her gaze. Her soft lips parted. She was hot. Hotter than hot. Hotter than he’d remembered. Imagined. Dreamed … his dream of her working her way up his body floated gently through his mind, and he smiled, forgetting for half a heartbeat that it hadn’t been real.

  Warily, she stepped closer, so obviously squaring her shoulders to attack a job that had to be done that he almost laughed as he snapped back to reality. ‘I suppose I owe you an apology for yesterday. Sorry.’

  Dominic had seldom heard anyone sound less sorry. ‘I owe you one in return. Nicolas stupid Notten’s just told me he’s asked you to relocate your practice – and I’m afraid it’s all down to me being so outrageous as to ask you out.’

  She flushed. ‘He considers the whole thing my fault, not yours.’ With an obvious effort, she added, ‘He has a point.’

  ‘But he might be prepared to reconsider, now because—’

  She made an impatient gesture. ‘It would have happened sooner or later. Things aren’t working that well for me here. Got to go. I have a client at two.’ She checked her watch and started toward the door.

  ‘Wait!’ he protested. ‘There’s more I have to tell you.’

  ‘What?’ Her baby-doll blue eyes flicked from him to Miranda and then back to her watch.

  ‘I think we could usefully exchange information. Is it too much of a cheek to ask to meet you, later?’

  ‘I’m booked through until nine.’

  ‘I could pick you up after your last client— Oh, shit. No driving licence.’ He felt his face burn, as if his licence being suspended was his fault. Losing the use of his car had been like losing a limb. He took a breath. Calm, Dominic. It’s not your fault. Work around it. ‘How about I meet you at that pub in Middledip, on Main Road?’

  A glimmer of sympathy had dawned in her eyes when he mentioned his licence, or lack of, but her shrug was still ungracious. ‘The Three Fishes? I suppose so.’

  He tried his best slow smile, right into her eyes. ‘I won’t mention the word “dinner” in case it triggers your fight-or-flight response, but I’ll be eating. I’m really not shy but I don’t like to eat alone so it would be great if you’d eat, too.’

  She didn’t smile back. ‘I noticed you’re not shy.’ A blue Golf whizzed into the stable yard. ‘Here’s my client. See you just after nine.’

  It was good to be busy, helping people to relax and seeing the lines and puckers fade from their faces as she set her sensitive fingers to searching out the gritty, bubbly areas of their feet.

  After her last client, Liza washed her hands, stuffed her towels into the washing machine and prepared to file the day’s notes. She’d just posted a Newton Faulkner disc into the stereo and opened her filing cabinet when Nicolas slid around the door. She sighed.

  He hunched his round shoulders. ‘I’ve been thinking, Liza. I feel bad about blowing up at you, last night. We’re all under a lot of stress.’

  Oh, really? She gave him a thoughtful stare. Sweating, fidgeting, Nicolas showed all the signs of a man in a bit of a spot.

  He shuffled further into the room. He wore a smile, but his eyes were unhappy. ‘You know I wouldn’t really chuck you out, don’t you?’

  The beginnings of relief washed through her. If she wasn’t being ousted, then some of the pressure was off her whilst she decided what to do next. She cocked her head. ‘But aren’t I too unpleasant for everyone to work with?’

  His laugh was forced. ‘I didn’t say that! Or, if I did, I was angry and I probably sa
id too much.’

  ‘No luck with the investors?’

  His smile stayed pinned in place. ‘Early days, early days.’

  Slowly, she closed the filing cabinet drawer. Such a feeble justification for this about-face brought with it a whiff of rodent. ‘Have Imogen and Fenella finished with their clients?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Dodging past him, she whisked down to reception. ‘Pippa! Have Fenella and Imogen finished their evening sessions?’

  Pippa was already zipping herself into her coat, hooking her ponytail out of the collar. ‘Yup, all the clients have gone.’

  ‘Good. Can you just hang on a sec? And you, Nicolas.’

  ‘But—!’

  ‘Won’t take a moment.’ With a brilliant smile at Nicolas, Liza shot off in search of Fen and Immi and vitally illuminating feedback.

  Once everyone was assembled, still in the despised forest green tunics and white shoes, Liza turned to face them, clasping her hands and assuming what she hoped was a desolate expression. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she began. ‘I had no idea I was being so horrible to you all and now it’s been pointed out to me, I feel awful. Nicolas has given me the chance to stay at the centre, but I don’t feel I can unless you guys are all OK with it. It wouldn’t be fair. I apologise for my behaviour, of course.’

  Silence.

  Nicolas shone with sweat. ‘Well—’

  Imogen’s dark hair was threaded artfully into a beaded circlet at the back of her head. She tucked away an escaping tendril, frowning. ‘When were you horrible?’

  Fenella gave a bemused shake of her head. ‘What do you mean, “a chance to stay”?’

  Pippa just looked confused.

  Liza gazed around, as if in surprise. ‘Nicolas explained that I’ve been upsetting everyone; that I go too far with my friendly insults. He didn’t seem to think he had much choice but to ask me to go.’ Then watched, with satisfaction, three pairs of astonished eyes swivel towards Nicolas.