Dream a Little Dream (2 page)

‘Yeah,’ I mumble, trying not to cave at THAT look.

‘Okay, you let me know if you’re not feeling great though. Promise?’

‘Promise,’ I reply, pursing my lips as I turn back to my computer screen, aware that her eyes are still on me – waiting for me to crack.

Luckily, we’re interrupted by the arrival of Derek, who nods a quick hello in my direction before turning to Julie.

‘Sorry, but could you move next week’s flight by twenty-four hours?’ he asks with an apologetic smile.

Tall, sporty and in his late fifties, Derek has always seemed much more approachable than Jonathan – his brown eyes are caring and his voice is a tad more inviting than the barking nature of my boss’s. He’s not a pushover, though. He’s still a leader – he’s strong and everything you’d expect in a businessman in the city, but there’s just a realness to him. I never feel like he thinks his staff are beneath him, unlike Jonathan, who seems to think he’s the king and we’ve all been put on earth to serve him. I’m gutted it wasn’t Derek looking for a PA when I applied.

‘Of course,’ Julie replies, sitting up straight and grabbing her notepad.

‘I’ve got a family meal on and I don’t fancy being the brunt of my wife’s anger if I miss it.’

‘Wouldn’t want that,’ she giggles, watching him walk away before picking up the phone and calling the company travel agent.

With Julie’s mind now occupied elsewhere, I’m free to mull over the sight before me.

For most people an invite to such a cosy little gathering from their ex would be unexpected, uninvited and downright rude – especially when said ex dumped you for said new girlfriend – but for us it’s fairly standard behaviour. Sadly, and rather disturbingly.

For me.

Not him.

Dan and I met at university in Leicester. We lived in the same halls, studied the same degree (Media and Communications) and secured the same bunch of friends (enter Natalia, Carly, Alastair and Josh). It wasn’t love at first sight, but we haphazardly stumbled into each other’s beds one too many times during our first two years and unsurprisingly feelings started to grow. When uni ended, we moved to London with our pretty pointless degrees thinking we’d take over the world of television, but instead I ended up with porky Jonathan (it might be a television production company, but I’m basically just his skivvy) while Dan tried freelancing and temping where he could. Luckily for him, the freelancing eventually led to Dan becoming the Digital Media Executive at a fancy PR company – I’ve no idea what the role entailed, but it sounded good. It was there, on the first day of his new job, that he met Perfect Lexie (that’s the full name I’ve given her since – others know her simply as
Lexie) and decided that what he felt for her in that single day he’d never felt for me. It was that quick. That cutthroat. That cold.

The worst of it was that we talked about it.

In great depth.

That night.

‘So, it was a good first day?’ I’d innocently asked while we were sat at the dinner table tucking into the turkey and sweet leek pie I’d spent hours making. It was his favourite – I thought his new job called for a celebration of some sort so had taken the afternoon off to spoil him.

‘Yeah …’ he shrugged, nonchalantly.

‘You sure?’ I encouraged, finding it strange that he wasn’t forthcoming with every detail of his first day in his important-sounding position. I was worried he hated it. ‘Is it not what you thought it was going to be? Because everyone feels weird when they start somewhere new – you’ve just got to get used to it.’

‘No, the job’s fine …’

‘Oh. Is it the people? Are they cliquey? You’ll charm your way around them in no time. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?’ I babbled with a smile – stuffing a whole floret of broccoli in my mouth and gaily munching away.

Watching me, Dan took a deep breath and delicately lowered his knife and fork on to his plate.

Pensively, he lent across the table and grabbed my hand affectionately – his thumb rubbing the back of my hand.

For a moment I thought he was going to propose – and the first thoughts that crossed my mind were that my knife was still lingering awkwardly in my left hand (mid-pie-slicing), and that I possibly had bits of broccoli stuck
in my teeth. I quickly manoeuvred the knife with my right hand and swept my tongue along the front of my teeth, before looking up at Dan with a sheepish grin on my face.

Funny that I felt shy in that moment, and acted coy and demure.

Rather shamefully, Dan wasn’t smiling back in quite the same way though.

He was smiling, but the smile wasn’t one of unconditional love. Instead, it said ‘sorry’. It’s a look that has haunted me ever since and physically makes me shudder with embarrassment – especially as I’m still able to recall the slowness with which my own loving smile slid from my face as it tried to maintain an element of hope for our situation.

But the fleeting thought of a declaration of never-ending commitment puffed out its last breath as it withered away and died quietly. Instead, Dan enlightened me in unknown matters of the heart. His heart.

‘The thing is, Sarah …’ he began, before proceeding to tell me everything that had been on his mind for the previous few months. He’d started to see me more as a friend, not someone he was hoping to grow old with. He’d apparently felt that way for quite some time, but meeting Perfect Lexie (and fancying the pants off her) had only helped to confirm those thoughts. There’s not much you can say when someone is as brutally honest as that. Besides, rather annoyingly, what choice did I have? Screaming at him wasn’t going to change his mind. Instead, I chose to nod along to his heart-breaking monologue and flick burnt bits of flaky puff pastry around my plate, all the while biting into my bottom lip to stop myself from crying.

I didn’t want to cry and I didn’t.

Not in front of him anyway.

I cried bucketloads over the subsequent days and weeks (then months and now nearly two years) – but in that moment, in our little kitchen-diner, I managed to hold them back.

Dan witnessed me being composed and mature in my response.

So at least I managed to keep some dignity.

And that’s where our story should’ve ended. He should’ve moved out and disappeared into the sunset with Perfect Lexie, leaving me to eat my chicken pie in peace. But that never happened. It was never an option. Even if I’d wanted to (and I did want to), I couldn’t just cut him out of my life because of our best mates, who we’d jointly acquired at uni during the best days of our lives.

My rocks were his rocks.

My happy memories with them were his happy memories with them.

Now, that sucked.

My friends – our friends – gathered around me in support, of course they did. They were there to throw away my snotty tissues, to ply me with endless shots to drown my sorrows and then carry me home when the Sambuca had woken the emotional wreck inside me – but I knew they could only be there for me in that capacity for so long before they felt awkward about the situation. I didn’t want them looking at me, with my mascara running down my face and my lips puffed out in ugly-girl-crying-horror, and wonder when they’d be able to go hang out with fun-time Dan again. Because you can bet that he wasn’t in the same
state that I was. Not when, within a week of splitting up with me, he was already out on dates with Perfect Lexie. He’d moved out of our flat pretty sharpish, but that didn’t mean I was unaware of his whereabouts … thanks to me having access to his email and all of his social media accounts. Yeah, yeah – I’m awful, but he really should’ve been on top of changing his passwords, seeing as he specialized in all things digital.

With Dan lost – absconded into the arms of Perfect Lexie, I didn’t want to lose my friends as well when they got bored of my moping ways. If pushed, they would choose fun-time Dan, of course they would. I would too if the choice was between a sullenly desperate me and a happy him!

Plus, their pity irritated the crap out of me fairly quickly anyway – as did their tiptoeing around me whenever Dan came up in conversation, which invariably he did. Our worlds were so ridiculously entwined it was impossible to know where to start the unravelling and separation of our lives. A task that was made more complicated thanks to our friendship group.

And so, I fought back in the only way I could, making the decision to hide my true feelings and act like I was fine with everything.
Absolutely fine, fine, fine. Breezy, breezy, breezy. My boyfriend might’ve dumped me after seven years together and jumped all over my heart using a pogo-stick, but hey, we’re all alive and life is so hunky-fucking-dory – let’s all hold hands and sing
Kumbaya My Lord
around a campfire as we marvel over the wonder that is life.

I was even the first to suggest Perfect Lexie came along to our weekly Wednesday quiz night at our local pub once they were officially a couple (two weeks post split). God
knows why I put myself through the torture, but it felt like the only way to gain a little control of the situation I’d become helpless in, even if it did mean that I stayed up in bed wailing the whole night afterwards.

Seriously, she was so annoyingly perfect with her pretty little face decorated with luscious lips and huge green eyes, silky smooth dark blonde hair and killer boobs. She had the sort of humour that all of our friends appreciated, causing them to wet themselves laughing at various times during the night. I’ll admit, it was nervous laughter at first – giving me sideways glances to check I was okay with their treachery, but my goofy smile seemed to put them at ease. In fact, I found the goofier the smile I mustered the more successful I was at keeping up the pretence.

God, it was a tough night.

The only thing that appeased my hurting heart was the fact that Perfect Lexie had the most irritating laugh I’d ever heard. It was nice to find a fault – even if that fault made me want to rip my ears off every time the donkey-on-helium sound ricocheted out of her mouth.

Shaking my head to clear those memories, I scroll over the little Facebook invite in front of me. I’m sure it doesn’t mean that Dan has no consideration for my feelings, even though we dated for seven years, planned to buy a little pug puppy together (a girl – we were going to call her Monroe – Monnie for short) and had talked extensively about our future. Surely not. It’s just that sometimes I’m sure he’s forgotten we even have any sort of extra history outside of our friendship group. Especially when he’s there rubbing his hand up and down Perfect Lexie’s back and giving her bottom a quick grab when he thinks no one
is watching. But I’m watching, of course. And the sight always makes me want to vomit – even though it’s been nearly two years (actually, twenty-one months and twenty-five days, but who’s counting?) since he dumped me to be with her and her perfect butt.

My phone vibrating along my desk thankfully cuts into my thoughts. I sigh and let the anxiety drain away from me as I look down at my phone and see it’s my (our) friend Natalia calling.

Everything’s absolutely fine, fine, fine. Breezy, breezy, breezy.

‘Hey lover,’ she shouts as soon as I pick up – she’s clearly power walking somewhere as I can hear wind swooshing past and a babble of people around her.

‘All right?’ I croon back. ‘Where are you?’

‘On my way to Harrods to pick up some pieces I’ve ordered for a client. It’s chaos out here – I think everyone’s already out doing their Christmas shopping!’

‘It’s only November,’ I moan.

‘Not everyone waits until the weekend before and panic buys online.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ I laugh – although there’s no way I’d rather be out in the crowds elbowing people over festive treats when I can do the whole thing from the comfort of my bed in my pyjamas.

‘Anyway, you on the book of face?’ she asks.

‘Where else?’

‘Seen the invite?’

‘What invite?’

‘From Dan? It says you’ve already accepted. Very prompt of you.’

Bugger – I must’ve pressed ‘Going’ by accident. Although, clearly, this ‘event’ wasn’t something I’d be able to dodge too easily.

‘Oh that!’ I tut as though it’s already escaped my mind and isn’t burning a weeping hole into my achy breaky heart (thanks Billy Ray Cyrus). ‘I didn’t realize they’d moved already.’

Another lie. Of course I knew that they’d bought – yes bought, not rented (that showed proper commitment – bet they even have a joint bank account to match), a house together just off Columbia Road – my dream location and, rather annoyingly, within walking distance (it’s the other side of the park) from the little rented flat I share with Carly, the third girl from our original university friendship group. The flat is the same one Dan and I shared together. The one he deserted me in. I should’ve moved, I know that – but it’s so close to the park and affordable. Plus, Carly was looking for somewhere to live after coming back from yet another travelling gap year (this time in Thailand, Cambodia and Laos), so it seemed a shame to have all the upheaval of finding somewhere new and then moving when the flat I was already in was actually all right and probably better than anything else we’d be able to find in the area. Sod all the ghostly memories surrounding the place and my weeping whenever I looked at Dan’s empty wardrobe space. Well, that void has been filled and it’s a girlie pad now. There’s even a Ryan Gosling poster hanging in the living room to prove it.

‘I think their parents went round to help shift boxes over the weekend,’ informs Natalia.

‘That’s nice.’

‘I’m surprised they’re doing a party so soon, though – I’d have thought they’d want to settle in first.’

‘Any excuse for a drink,’ I say dryly.

‘Apparently it’s a gorgeous place,’ Natalia continues to natter on. ‘I’m going to get home envy. I know it. Every time I go somewhere new I can’t help but plan through everything I’d do with that blank canvas,’ she chuckles down the phone, disappearing into a land of interior design and all things decorative. It’s no wonder Natalia was snapped up by a huge design house and is given hundreds of thousands of pounds to spend on each new build acquired by the company. So many of their clients have more money than sense, but that’s something Natalia doesn’t mind. She lives, breathes and dreams soft furnishings and can sniff out a Farrow & Ball wall a mile off – giving you not only the name of a particular paint or wallpaper, but the actual catalogue number too. She’s a rare breed. ‘Dan will be absolutely tasteless and shoving any old crap from Ikea in there if given half a chance, but I’m sure Lexie is going to do an amazing job on it – she’s got a whole scrapbook of plans. She showed it to me the other day.’