Dream a Little Dream (25 page)

‘Only Jonathan,’ I say, shaking my head and rolling my eyes.

‘Just a thought – might be worth checking with Julian if he has any mates in his new home that are in the same position as him.’

‘God, I’m sure all of them would flock to travel halfway around the world to spend time with him.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ he asks seriously. ‘It would be good to see an already existing friendship pairing in there.’

‘I’ll phone Fiona and talk to her about it.’

‘Great,’ Real Brett smiles, nudging my elbow repeatedly in excitement before wandering off to his desk. ‘See you in the boardroom later.’

‘Yep,’ I nod, pulling out the chair at my desk and plonking myself on it.

As I grab my notebook I see my phone screen flash, telling me that Mum’s calling. She rarely calls me during work hours – probably because she hates the thought of me nattering nonsense when I could be working hard and bettering myself – so I resist the temptation of letting her ring through to voicemail, too intrigued as to why she’s calling.

‘Mum?’ I say, picking up.

‘Ooh, darling, you’re there,’ she says, sounding happy to have a call answered on her first attempt for once.

I instantly feel guilty.

‘Have you got your save the date?’

‘From Dan and Lexie?’ I ask, immediately dreading where this conversation is heading and feeling less guilty for not picking up all those other times.

‘Yes.’

‘The post hadn’t arrived before I left for work, Mum.’

‘Of course. Well, they’re very nice,’ she says smugly, confirming what I’d just feared.

‘You’ve been invited,’ I say, managing to hide my shock, annoyed that Dan didn’t think to tell me that my hellish mother had been invited.

‘Well, Pat did mention it the other day.’

‘Ah,’ I say, envisaging the scene when Pat and Terry (Dan’s parents) would’ve sent Lexie a huge guest list of their own friends. I can imagine Dan throwing a strop about Mum’s inclusion (if he bothered looking at the guest list) and Pat putting her foot down, seeing as they’ve offered to pay for the majority of the wedding (such a double-edged sword but one they had to deal with seeing as they’d just moved into their dream home).

I’ve no idea what Pat’s playing at by inviting my parents, or why the two women still speak.

‘All happening very quickly, isn’t it,’ Mum digs. ‘Not another one of your friends unexpectedly expecting?’

She might’ve been friendly over Carly and Josh’s situation, but if Dan and Lexie were to be in the same boat she’d clearly have a field day over the matter – Golden Boy Dan who was too good for her daughter is forced to run Lexie up the aisle in a bid to make an honest woman of her.

I’m almost sorry to burst her gloating bubble.

‘Mum, they just don’t want a big lead-up and for the whole thing to be drawn out.’

‘Hmm …’ she replies despondently, clearly preferring her own scenario.

Great, that’s all I need to add to what’s no doubt going to be a spiffingly lah-de-dah day – my mother there casting her judgement over everything. I’ve no doubt she’ll struggle to keep those thoughts to herself, too. She’s bound to
offend someone. There go my chances of getting ridiculously drunk and zoning out, now I’m going to be on edge the whole day.

‘Have you heard from Max, Mum?’ I ask, attempting to change the subject.

‘Max? Oh, I’d be the last to hear if the baby was on its way. They wouldn’t want me there fussing,’ she replies accurately. ‘You know, I can’t help thinking that this wedding is going to be a shambles – three months to plan? I took longer to plan your dad’s sixtieth.’

With the conversation swivelled back round to the impending doom of next Valentine’s Day, I listen quietly for a further five minutes as she rabbits on with her speculations and expectations.

As soon as I manage to hang up (not an easy task when she’s fired up on a topic – even if she knows I am at work), I call Carly.

‘My mum’s been invited to the flipping wedding!’ I spit as soon as she cheerily picks up.

‘Ah. I did wonder about that. I think all of our parents might be actually – if that makes you feel any better.’

‘Not really.’

‘Sorry,’ she groans. ‘It could be worse.’

‘How?’

‘Fair point. I don’t even have the energy to come up with a funny scenario. You win, this is going to be awful … but at least your dream lover will be there.’

‘Oh fuck.’

My tired friend then cackles down the line with such force that I put the phone down on her and head to the loo for a breather.

Coming out of the cubicle (from a one, not two), I spot Poutmouth Louisa reapplying her lips in the mirror.

‘Hey,’ she smarms, flashing a suspiciously kind smile in my direction.

‘Morning,’ I reply, washing my hands in the sink next to her.

‘I heard Jonathan called you into his office earlier,’ she says, looking at my reflection in front of her before turning her attention to hers and pouting out her perfectly glossed lips.

‘Yeah, to talk about
Grannies Go Gap
,’ I say, not at all surprised at how quickly the news has spread around the office – it’s taken less than twenty minutes for Louisa to hear.

‘Amazing feeling to see your idea take off, isn’t it?’ she asks in a benevolent tone that I’m not used to hearing from her – not lately, anyway.

‘It’s not sunk in yet,’ I admit. ‘Feels quite surreal.’

‘Oh, I totally get that,’ she says, pursing her lips and frowning at me. ‘If there’s anything I can do – just let me know. I’m on your team, after all.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, unable to stop a laugh coming out. It’s absurd that I’ve been put in this position of power.

Louisa smiles at me and squints her eyes in the way I’ve seen her do in her millions of selfies – almost like she’s smouldering at me.

She wants something from me, I realize.

‘Siobhan said Australia might be on the cards.’

I nod in reply.

‘You know my ex lives over there?’

‘Ah,’ I say, as the reason for this calculated collision in the toilets falls into place in my mind.

‘He moved back a couple of weeks ago. I was devastated,’ she declares with a sigh. ‘Cried. Like, loads.’

‘Sorry to hear that …’

‘Well, he’s only my ex because of the distance, you know. We knew it just wouldn’t work, so we thought finishing things would be the kindest thing on us both. I still love him so much,’ she says, her puppy dog eyes glazing over with a teary shine. ‘It would be awesome to see him again.’

‘I bet,’ I say, realizing this is why she’s talking to me.

‘I’d love to be part of the recce team – or over there helping with the show in any way I can. I’m really good with old people, you know.’

‘Thanks,’ I manage to say without laughing. Given the fact that she was appalled at my idea initially when she found out it was centred around the elderly, I can’t imagine she actually is. It’s blatantly transparent that she’s just looking for a free flight to Oz so she can have a good pashing session with her ex. ‘I think Brett and me will be okay though. For now,’ I add, not wanting to be unkind – and covering my back in case she does end up coming. No good making enemies. Damn my sensible side – the feisty part just wants to call her out for being a dick. Oh the internal struggle.

Her face falls instantly over my reluctance to roll out a red carpet and welcome her on the team.

‘Really? You’re happy with Brett? He seems a bit of a drip – are you sure he’s going to be up to getting things done.’

‘I think so,’ I smile. ‘But you never know – we might all have to go out for filming. Take on an old person each.’

‘Fun,’ she says, her cheeks barely able to lift at the thought.

She turns on her heels and storms out of the loo.

Despite the disruption of Dan and Lexie’s wedding invites arriving and having emotional blackmail fired at me in the bogs, I end up having a productive day. Age Wise manage to put us in touch with five further possible travellers and a collection of tweets have sent out a flurry of excitement and intrigue, meaning we now have a further ten old people as potentials. On top of that the last half of the afternoon is spent in the boardroom with Real Brett looking through
Lonely Planet
s and
Rough Guide
s – dreaming up the perfect excursion that will make great TV, both visually and emotionally.

Before we know it, it’s half six and most of the office have left for the evening.

‘Wow, is it that late already?’ I ask, looking at my phone.

‘Time flies when you’re living in travel books,’ he grins.

‘Nice to be thinking about somewhere hot and sunny,’ I agree. ‘We should probably stop for tonight, though. Before we end up staying here all night.’

‘Good plan,’ he nods, closing the books and placing them in a neat pile on the shelf behind us.

‘Come on, then,’ he says, opening the door for me. We both walk back into the main area of the office and over to our desks.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ I ask Real Brett as I grab
my colourful scarf and loop it around my neck, throw on my coat and do up the buttons.

‘Nothing much. You?’ he asks as he shuts down his computer.

‘Nothing either,’ I shrug, popping my moleskin notebook into my bag, happy with the progress we’ve made. I thought it was a great idea to start with – but now it’s fucking epic.

‘Oh. No plans,’ he answers, pursing his lips, before looking at me expectantly.

‘What?’ I laugh.

‘Well, just to give me a heads up here and to save me looking like an absolute twat, again – if I were to hypothetically ask you to maybe accompany me to the pub or to provide me with some company at dinner tonight – just so I’m not eating on my own like a loser, would I be shot down again? Or would I have better odds of a successful and less awkward response this time?’

‘Just hypothetically?’ I ask.

‘For now,’ he nods, raising his left eyebrow a fraction as he pulls on his dark grey coat and buries his hands in its pockets.

I can’t help but smile at him for being cute and for not being put off after my appalling response the first time, and the second – heaven loves a trier, as my nan would say.

‘I guess it depends what sort of food you were after,’ I shrug. ‘I’m not into anything poncy or formal.’

‘Oh, definitely not. I wouldn’t want anything like that,’ he says, scrunching up his face and shaking his head as if the idea of us going somewhere lavish were absurd. ‘I was only thinking Wagamamas …’

I can’t help but laugh. ‘In that case I would hypothetically be tempted if you were to ask me to join you,’ I smirk. I can never resist a Wagas – even walking past and not going in seems like a trial some days – that chicken katsu curry just calls out to me, demanding I go inside and stuff it into my face as quickly as possible.

‘Great,’ he says, nodding thoughtfully, looking around at the rest of the empty room.

‘Shall we, then?’ I ask with a grin as I motion towards the door, not bothering to wait for him to offer for the third time.

‘Let’s,’ he says with a decisive nod.

We giggle our way out of the office and along the streets of Soho until we get to Wagamama on Lexington Street.

‘Ladies first,’ he says, opening the door when we get to the restaurant.

‘Thank you,’ I mutter, walking through and heading down the stairs into the seating area.

If we were anywhere but the casual setting of Wagamama I’d start having regrets about agreeing to go to dinner as soon as we arrived in any sort of date-like-setting, but thanks to its dining style of long banquet tables (you’re basically sat side-by-side with strangers) it feels less intimidating than it could. Especially when we’re wedged in between a chaotic family of six and two girls in their early twenties who’ve obviously not seen each other in a while and have a lot to catch up on (‘Did you know Shelley’s been having it off with Johnny’s dad for the last six months?’ ‘What, no way …’). Non-stop noise comes from either side, leaving any quiet moment between the two of us almost unnoticeable.

Neither of us bothers to turn over our menus, something I can’t help smirking over.

‘Not looking?’ I ask.

‘Already know what I’m having.’

‘Me too.’

‘Katsu?’ he says with an eyebrow raised.

‘Standard go-to dish,’ I nod.

‘Me too – it feels wrong coming here and having anything else.’

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ I laugh – thrilled that he’s not about to go for some healthy option and make me feel uncomfortable about going for a dirty curry. I’ve started to refuse coming here with Natalia for that very reason – she usually opts for a chicken salad and I can’t deal with eating my katsu while feeling guilty. Takes all the fun out of it and makes me feel like a fat beast.

‘Oh. My. God – don’t look now but Bryan Cranston is sat to your right,’ he mutters under his breath, while playing with the chopsticks that have been placed on the table.

‘Who?’ I ask, recognizing the name but not able to pinpoint where from.

‘
Breaking Bad
’s Walter White …’ he whispers, trying to be inconspicuous while talking out of the side of his mouth. ‘Heisenberg.’

‘No way! Seriously?’ I gasp, tensing up and trying to resist whipping my head around to have a good old gawp.

Carly and I were obsessed with
Breaking Bad
. The boys banged on about its brilliance for ages and we thought it was going to be laddy and crap so didn’t listen to them or bother watching it – even though they brought round the first series on boxset to tempt us. It sat on the side in
our living room, unwatched, for a couple of years. Then one Sunday the only thing worth watching on TV was reruns of MTV’s
Catfish
or some crappy black and white films, so we decided to give in to the boy’s recommendations and see what all the fuss was about … we watched six episodes that day and whizzed through the rest of the series so that we were finally up-to-date before the finale aired.

Mind.

Blown.

Best ending ever.

‘I’m so fucking excited right now,’ he grins, drumming his legs with his hands.

‘Me too.’

‘I am not in danger, I am the danger,’ he says – giving his best Walter White impression.

It’s pretty good.

‘I am the one who knocks,’ I mimic back, trying to sound low and gravelly.

I’m awful but Real Brett is polite enough to laugh.

‘I’m going to look,’ I say quietly.

‘Aaah …’ Real Brett silently screams – his mouth opening as wide as Wallace’s from
Wallace and Grommit.

I try my best to look casual as I turn my head to the right – sweeping my eyes across the décor of the room as though I’m taking in the finer details of the usually simplistic Wagamama white walls and observing what the owners have done with the underground space – looking up to the street level with enthusiastic interest. I do so until I can’t take it any more – I look down and there he is. Bryan Cranston sat talking to a female companion while
tucking into some sort of noodle soup and a bowl of chilli edamame.

Fuck!

‘Get your phone out – you could totally get a cheeky selfie with him in the background from where you’re sat,’ Brett says, his face animatedly excited.

‘I hate selfies,’ I state, my mind flicking to the amount of time I’ve spent ranting and cringing at Poutmouth Louisa for being a walking advocate for the current craze … photos used to be about capturing the image in front of you and recording the memory of a beautiful moment in time forever – now it’s used to take a picture of yourself (taken from a stupid angle to get those cheek bones to appear and your double chins to disappear), and gloat on Facebook about how hot you look. It’s a throwaway image that says nothing special …

‘It’s Heisenberg,’ he says, rolling his eyes at my stubbornness. ‘Pass it here and I’ll take it then.’

‘Fair enough,’ I giggle, not really having to be talked into it too much. After all, this
is
an important, noteworthy moment that should be documented and posted on both Twitter and Facebook via Instagram (it’s worth using the filters on this occasion – especially as I’ve been at work all day and look like crap personified). I reach down to my bag and pull out my phone. I click the main button to open the camera app, but before I do that, the screen lights up to let me know I’ve missed five calls from Carly, and have a voicemail.

‘Sorry – I’ll be right back,’ I say, stepping away from Walter White and Real Brett. Pressing play, I lift the phone to my ear and take a deep breath, trying to ignore
the feeling brewing in my gut, screaming at me that something’s wrong. Why else would she have called so many times? She always mocks people who repeatedly call – not trusting that the person they’re wanting to speak to would see that they’ve tried to call and phone back when they’re able to talk. Let’s face it, we all have our mobiles on us ninety-nine per cent of the time (we’re in the shower for the other one per cent, or, if we’re lucky, having sex) so although we can’t necessarily tend to it every second of the day, we’re still aware of activity flashing away on the crafty device.

‘Sarah,’ Carly sobs – ugly, needy and panicked.

I’m whacked by a block of ice.

Every part of my being goes cold.

‘I don’t know what to do … There’s blood. Lots of it. Josh isn’t here. I can’t get hold of him. I don’t know what to do. I think … I think … oh God … Fuck.’

Sobbing is all I hear until the message ends ten seconds later.

‘Shit,’ I mutter, trying not to panic, and drastically failing as I look at the phone in my hands.

‘I need to go,’ I blurt at Real Brett once I’m back at the table. I reach for my bag and put on my coat, all the while battling over what I should do – calling Carly back being the most obvious starting point, but I know I have to leave before I can do that. I need to go home.

‘What? But we’ve not even ordered,’ he says, standing up and putting his hands in his pockets as though it’s his fault that I’m running out on him and our night of katsu delight.

‘My friend … Carly,’ I start, but can’t finish. I wave my phone at him instead.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, his green eyes searching mine, a frown of concern knitting above his brows before his face opens up with understanding – clearly jumping to the right conclusion. ‘Oh fuck. Is she okay? Can I help at all?’

I shake my head as my bottom lip starts to tremble.

This is ridiculous. I really should just call Carly back before I get so upset.

‘I’ve got to go. Sorry Real Brett,’ I mumble, kicking myself for my slip up as I scurry away from the table, up the wooden stairs and out into the cold dark night.

‘Sarah?’ Carly says quietly, as soon as my hands have stopped shaking enough for me to regain the ability to press the dial button on my phone.

I’m surprised by her tone – so different to the panic in her voicemail that was left twenty minutes earlier.

‘Everything’s okay!’ I state relieved, allowing myself to feel hopeful.

‘No. No it’s not,’ she whispers.

‘Oh Carly …’

‘Mmm …’

Silence.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Just come home? Can you? I don’t want to be on my own.’

‘Already on my way.’ I say, sprinting to the tube.

‘Have you spoken to Carly?’ Josh asks when I’m out of the Underground and have signal on my phone once more.

‘Yes, nearly home now,’ I say as I lightly jog (it’s all I can manage thanks to my appalling fitness level) towards the flat. ‘Where are you?’

‘I drove back up home to see Mum and Dad. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I was there with her,’ he sighs. ‘I should be back in a few hours.’

‘Are you okay to drive?’ I ask. He sounds distraught at being anywhere other than by Carly’s side.

‘I have to be. I have to be there.’

‘Just take your time and don’t worry … We’ll see you when we see you,’ I say, trying to muster up some encouragement, calmness or hope, but failing dramatically – I just sound like a total twat instead.

I’m not looking forward to walking into our flat and into the devastation that could be waiting for me. Obviously I want to be there for Carly and help her through whatever is happening, but I’d do anything not to be doing so alone. I think about calling Natalia, or Alastair, as back-up or extra support, but realize it’s not my place to do so. Carly called me to be there for her. Perhaps she, rather understandably, doesn’t want to see our other mates right now. She must be shit scared.

‘Sarah?’ Josh asks softly from the other end of the line.

‘Yes?’

‘Tell her I love her,’ he implores. ‘I really do. I mean it.’

‘I will do,’ I say before hanging up, trying to swallow the lump that gathered in my throat from hearing the desperation in his voice.

When I get home I find Carly sat in our tiny hallway staring into space. She barely turns to acknowledge me when I walk through the door, but seconds later her head bows into her knees as she lets out a meek sigh.