Dream a Little Dream
Read Dream a Little Dream Online
Authors: Giovanna Fletcher
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM
PENGUIN BOOKS
Actress and freelance journalist Giovanna is mum to Buzz and married to Tom Fletcher from McBusted. She grew up in Essex with her Italian dad Mario, mum Kim, big sister Giorgina and little brother Mario, and spent most of her childhood talking to herself or reading books.
To see what makes Giovanna smile, view her blog at
www.giovannasworld.com
or her Twitter page
@mrsgifletcher
.
Billy and Me
You’re the One that I Want
To my very own Scabby McNabby …
I love you nobkey. ;-) xxx
I’m by the canal. I should head straight to work, I’m already late – I promised I’d be in early today to help my boss Jonathan dye his hair blue – but I decide to sneak in a trip to The Barge Café first. Docked on Hertford Union Canal alongside Victoria Park (I assume it’s a permanent location as I haven’t seen it move in the eight years I’ve lived here), its pop-up white picket fence sits on the canal bed, with red and green bunting draped between its peaks, enclosing several picnic benches for customers to perch on.
On the off chance that passers-by haven’t been seduced by the quaint vibe the floating café offers, a little black chalkboard listing all the day’s specials sits on the pathway – meaning you have to look at it to sidestep around it. And once you’ve looked, you’re sucked into its charms. You have to go in.
The barge itself is a good size. By that I mean it’s not small, but it’s not huge. It’s big enough to contain a counter of cakes and treats which sits snugly across its width, and eight little wooden tables, each accompanied by a pair of cream chairs with red gingham seatpads to match the tablecloths. I could try spinning off some barge facts and figures here, but I don’t know anything about them … nor do I find them interesting. This barge gives me coffee. I like coffee. I like this barge.
‘Caffeine. Give me caffeine,’ the voice in my head always begs at the mere sight of the bunting flapping in the wind as I hastily make my way along the canal. Who am I to deny such a simple request?
I spend far too long at the counter wondering if I can handle the guilt that comes along with a slice of Bakewell tart, or whether it’s
best just to leave it be. I decide against it and order a skinny latte from Dermot O’Leary, who’s sweating in his trademark suit behind the counter. Once he’s finished and handed me my order, I turn to disembark.
I catch sight of something in my peripheral vision, yet I’m already out of the door and on solid ground by the time the image is processed.
Brett Last.
No one special, just a friend of a friend who I hung out with occasionally in my first year of university when we had house parties or whatever. I can’t really remember more than his face and name, everything else about him is a blur – facts that have escaped my memory over the last decade spent living as a grown-up.
How funny seeing him there, though – sipping on an espresso with his little finger sticking out as he brings the tiny cup to his pouting lips.
I could turn back.
Go say hi.
I don’t.
He wouldn’t remember me.
That would be odd.
Awkward.
Time to sort out Jonathan’s blue hair I decide, walking with purpose towards the Underground.
My phone blasts out The Killer’s ‘Mr Brightside’, telling me it’s time to get up and get ready for work. I could’ve gone for something jollier, or just one of the standard ringtones on my phone, but being woken by a passive-aggressive tune seems to work wonders for me. It sets me up for the day as it sends fire through my bones and wakens my sleepy head.
I don’t jump out of bed in a mad dash to get ready for work. Instead I lie there and take in the morning. My room is awash with sunlight bursting through the curtains – clearly failing in their task of being any sort of light barrier. Not that it matters – I’ve always had the ability to sleep anywhere. I don’t need it to be pitch black or even quiet – I once fell asleep in a busy pub and I wasn’t even drunk. Besides, I actually quite like being greeted by the sun when it’s time to get out of bed and start another day. I really struggle when it’s grey and miserable outside; I’d rather roll back over and write the day off, giving in to the gloom. Yes, the weather plays a big part in my mood – I need a little sunshine in my mornings to get me started on the right foot.
I kick my legs free from under my duvet and have a little stretch – my body debating whether it’s ready to leave the warm bed I’ve been cocooned in for the past nine hours. While it mulls over the notion of a Wednesday morning, I pull my fingers through my dark brown hair, untangling the knots as I go – my wavy barnet was glossy and smooth when I went to bed last night, so God knows what I did in my sleep for it to get into such a frizzy, dishevelled and alarming state. Birds could nest in there and I wouldn’t have a clue … well, until they started tweeting. Obviously. Then I’d probably have a mad panic and vow to stay on top of having my hair relaxed every few months whilst smacking my head to get them out.
I take my hands to my pale sleepy face to catch a mammoth yawn and leave them there – my fingers pulling at my puffy cheeks and skin – taking note of the spot that seems to have invaded my chin in my sleep. I decided
against freeing my face of make-up residue last night and slept in it instead (pure laziness – it was easier to just dive under my warm duvet than spend two minutes wiping it all off with a cold wipe), so no doubt my mascara (I use a crap one that seems incapable of staying on my lashes) is smeared all around my dark brown eyes in a rather unattractive manner. Thank goodness I’m waking up alone and not having to greet some hunk in this state. Every cloud and all that.
Brett Last, I think to myself as my body reaches out for another stretch – my long limbs sweeping across the double bed, leaving me in a star shape. How odd that he should make a fleeting cameo appearance in my dream. I haven’t seen him for what … nine or ten years? And even then, I spent the majority of my first year at university roaring drunk (didn’t we all?!) – I’m surprised I didn’t kill off all the brain cells holding the details of Brett’s scrummy face. Although even in my conscious state I still can’t quite place him. Weird.
Dermot’s appearance is fairly self-explanatory as I’m an
X-Factor
junky and was up late last night catching up on the previous weekend’s show – I’d been staying at my mum and dad’s when it was actually on, and they abhor ‘reality shows that pull on the heart strings of the public like they’re fools’. I’m quite happy to be part of that foolish public – long may Simon Cowell reign over us with his genius television shows.
And then there’s Jonathan’s blue hair – the thought of my straight-laced and miserable-faced boss doing anything of the sort is enough to make me chuckle as I drag my sorry arse from the warmth of my bed and into my bathroom –
finally committing to getting the day underway, ridding my face of the smudged dark make-up and investigating that pesky spot.
There are two ways I can get to Bethnal Green tube station from my flat – I can walk along the canal or I can go via the park. Both offer pretty epic scenery, which I do try to absorb when my mind isn’t preoccupied with work or some life-drama, although if I venture through the park I’m more likely to have to pass all the secondary school children hanging around outside the gates once you come out the other side. I’m great with kids – love them in fact, but I was a total moron at school as I longed for guys to find me attractive and girls to like me. I definitely hung out with the less cool kids in my class. This is something I’m fine with now that I’m older, wiser and have realized there’s more to life than Richard Tayler’s butterfly-inducing smile and Michelle Lewin’s approval of my hairstyle. However, there’s something about boys and girls of that age that freaks me out and makes me feel vulnerable – it’s as though I’m back in school and fourteen years old again, nervous of their attention. I want to turn around and scream at them, ‘I went to uni and became popular! I have friends! Plus, loads of guys fancy me!’ Slight exaggeration on that front, and not something any of these kids are remotely interested in hearing from a complete stranger, but nonetheless, my unresolved teenage angst makes me walk the ever-so-slightly longer route to the tube. And having dreamt of The Barge Café on the canal last night there was no way I could traipse by without going in and getting myself a
little treat. Even if it does mean I’ll be a couple of minutes late. Okay, fine – by the time I make it to the tube, stand for seven stops on the Central Line and get to the office in Soho, I’m ten minutes late. But as I wander to my desk with my lukewarm skinny latte in hand (and my Bakewell tart – clearly I have more willpower in my dreams) no one seems to mind.
Even my boss Jonathan seems unbothered.
I spy him in his glass cubicle scoffing down an apricot Danish pastry, something I know his wife Dianne would tell him off for. He’s meant to be watching his sugar levels now that he’s been diagnosed with diabetes, but the amount of food I know he has stuffed away in his drawers, along with the sight of his burgeoning tummy, suggests he’s doing anything but.
He clearly doesn’t need my help straight away (unless it’s to pick up more sugary treats), so I remove my black coat, unwrap my multi-coloured scarf and peel off my emerald wool jumper. It’s freezing outside, meaning I had no alternative this morning but to layer up – however, as soon as I enter work I turn into a furnace and hastily yank at my clothes as though I’m playing a quick game of strip poker for one. Minus the cards or a single ounce of fun.
When I’m finally sat at my desk and painstakingly slow computer, I immediately sign into Facebook whilst simultaneously trying to load Twitter and Mail Online. I find that you can’t really kickstart your day without knowing what you’ve missed in the hours you’ve been away from your desk. And yes, I could’ve caught up at home rather than when I got to work – but then I’d have been even later. At least this way my body’s in the building, even if
my mind is off wondering why my old classmate Claire Snow feels the need to post pictures of her newborn’s poop running down her husband’s leg, why some pop star’s having a public rant about his record label or hearing that heart-throb actor Billy Buskin has been spotted back in LA after taking some time away from the limelight to bake cakes in some quaint little village in Kent. My brain NEEDS to know all this stuff before I can start looking at the mundane diary that belongs to my boss Jonathan – one of the masterminds behind Red Brick Productions, a television production company that specializes in reality TV shows about people relocating abroad.
When I tell people I work here they immediately assume I’m constantly swanning off to various fun locations for work. I’m not. At all. In fact, I’ve not been on a single trip. Jonathan regularly gets to go on scouting, recce or shooting excursions to gorgeously sunny locations, as does the majority of the office (it’s not a particularly large company). But not me. My role at this desk is deemed too important for me to be let loose from the chains that bind me here. At least, I’m sure Jonathan mumbled something along those lines when I dared to mention that I’d love the opportunity to travel to Greece with the team a few months ago. He was munching on an egg mayo sandwich at the time so it was difficult to make out his exact wording while little bits of food were spraying from his mouth, but he definitely said the words ‘hold the fort’ and ‘not a bloody holiday’ before shunning me away to make him a cup of coffee.
Perhaps one day I’ll find myself on the Research team – they always seem to have fun faffing around in various
locations. Or maybe I could work in Development, brainstorming new ideas each day around the boardroom table. I often spy them in there talking away and wonder how much work actually gets done when I can hear them talking about the Kardashians, Miley Cyrus or their weekend plans. Not that I spend the majority of my day earwigging, of course.
While avoiding starting work and having a little stalk on Facebook to see if I can find Brett Last (rarely do I just stick to my newsfeed – it’s much more fun rooting through people’s profile pages), an event pops up in my notifications.
It’s from Dan Tipper.
My ex.
It’s an invite to a housewarming party he and his girlfriend are having at the weekend.
I outwardly groan with my head in my hands.
‘You all right, Sarah?’ asks Julie, PA to Jonathan’s business partner Derek – her desk is positioned parallel to mine outside our bosses’ office doors.
She’s in her late forties, very mumsy and ready to look after anyone in the office if there’s the slightest thing wrong with them. I love that about her. Her caring brown eyes look at me with concern as her hands rest upon her heart – making her Mother Teresa tendencies even more sincere. In fact, she’s small like her too. Pint sized! Although, she’s certainly no saint. You should see Julie at a works do when she’s had one Bacardi and coke too many … Jeeeeez! She goes from timid nurturer to wild maniac – trying to round everyone up to do shots of tequila.
But here she is in her default mother hen mode – her
dark brown hair cut short below her ears and her outfit an array of pastel shades.
‘I’m fine,’ I answer, trying to rearrange my face into something that looks like a smile.
‘You sure?’ she pouts, her chin down and head slightly tilted to the side in the way that mums talk to young children – sympathetic and imploring all at once – the look that makes you want to spill the beans on everything you’ve ever experienced in your life.