Dream a Little Dream (5 page)

The loud silence is interrupted by the deafening sound of clomping echoing around the empty room, caused by two giant figures walking in through a door to my right.

They stop in front of me, bending over as though inspecting the sight before them.

‘I’m not sure …’ says a male voice – low, grunt-like and displeased. ‘She’s a bit stale.’

‘She’s not a loaf of gone-off bread,’ chimes a woman’s voice, who sounds remarkably like my mother. ‘She’s a pretty little thing.’

‘Would’ve been thirty years ago,’ says the man, although his face is a blur – all I can spot are the frames of his prescription glasses.

‘Very capable,’ encourages the lady.

‘Doesn’t look it.’

‘She’s highly intelligent.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ says the bemused male.

‘Does she talk?’

‘Used to.’

This causes the male to exhale gruffly.

‘It looks like I don’t have much choice, doesn’t it. She’s the only one left.’

‘Exactly.’

As the faceless man leans further forward I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of his glasses.

I’m old.

My frizzy hair is grey and manic.

My face is covered in deep wrinkles to match those found in an elephant’s leg fold – hard, leathery and crinkled.

My eyes are dark, deep-set and the saddest things I’ve ever seen as they imploringly gaze at the figures in front of me, begging not to be left behind.

‘You know, I think I’d rather just leave it,’ he sighs regrettably.

‘What?’ she shrieks.

‘This isn’t going to work,’ he says with disdain.

‘But …’

‘Being on my own doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, considering the alternative,’ he interrupts, flicking his head in my direction.

‘You can’t just leave her here.’

‘She’s not my responsibility,’ he replies flatly.

‘But, if you don’t take her, who will?’ cries the woman in desperation – confirming that she is indeed my mum.

‘Not my problem,’ he scoffs, walking out of the room – my mum sobbing as she follows, leaving me sat up high on my wooden plank.

Alone.

I wake with a start, realizing that Carly and I are still in my bed – we each must’ve dozed off. Although the dream has already started fading around the edges and becoming muddied, an empty and unnerving feeling is left behind. ‘Being left on the shelf’ has always had a metaphorical significance until now, so it’s flipping great to have a visualization to go with that horrendous spinster of an outcome. With dreams like that, who needs nightmares? And where the heck was Brett to add a little bit of sweetness? Surely my dream could’ve engineered a bit of that to give me a little emotional boost before heading over to my mum’s.

Shit!

‘What’s the time?’ I ask my sleepy-eyed friend, already reaching over to grab my phone to check.

‘Huh?’ she murmurs, nuzzling into her own arm.

‘Fuck,’ I groan, sitting up and looking around the room.

‘What?’

‘We went back to sleep.’

‘And … ?’

‘I’m meant to be at my mum’s in half an hour! What’s worse than an unmarried daughter? One that’s tardy.’

‘Oh the shame,’ Carly says laughing, pushing me out of the bed. ‘To the shower with you.’

‘I don’t have time.’

‘You stink. Make time. What’s worse than an unmarried tardy daughter?’

‘What?’ I ask, dashing around the room and grabbing clothes that my mum might deem suitable for a single lady hoping to procure a husband – finally fishing out my cleanest pair of black jeans and the maroon blouse with cream hearts all over it she bought me last Christmas.

‘One that smells like she’s been rolling in dog crap,’ Carly says flatly.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she replies, rolling over and going back to sleep.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, I’m in my reliable red Mini Cooper (a present from Mum and Dad for my twenty-first birthday), and pulling onto my parents’ driveway. They live in Tunbridge Wells in Kent, a short walk from The Pantiles – in the same house that my brother and I grew up in.

It has gates.

Big, black iron ones.

And everyone knows that a house with its own set of gates (complete with a buzzer system for security) is above the norm and a bit posh. Yes, my parents are well off. Not rich, just better than comfortable. Not that they’ve helped me and my brother out that much (other than to surprise us with our first cars, both Mini Coopers, which we were obviously both sincerely thankful for) – but beyond those, Mum and Dad took on the tough love approach and sent us out into the world with next to nothing in the hope that it would make us strive for more, seeing as we grew up with a taste for ‘the good life’. My brother did more than okay with this method of parenting – he’s a marketing manager for TechWays Corporation in Covent Garden. Not bad for someone who spent a whole year smoking spliffs in the Australian sun when he was twenty-five.

However, I work for Jonathan as his slave. Therefore,
my parents – my mum in particular – feel that the only chance I have of sampling ‘the good life’ once more is to marry up. But seeing as I’m single and living in a rented flat with my best mate, I think I’m failing in that department, too. Still, at least they have had a fifty per cent success rate with their parenting techniques so far.

Jumping out of the car I grab my bag and coat and am greeted by a waft of self-pity as the smell of Dan’s lingering aftershave drifts up my nostrils and makes me feel nauseous. I forgot to Febreze my coat last night and mentally bash myself over the head as I make my way to the front door. We’re meant to be going out later for a family walk. So unless I want the embarrassment of asking to borrow something from Mum’s wardrobe I’ll have to make do and take Dan along with me. How irritating.

‘All right,’ Max smiles as he opens the door. He has the same small mouth and cushiony lips as me, but he clearly takes more after Mum and her French roots – my granddad was born in France but moved here during the Second World War. He fell in love with my gorgeous Nana and never moved back, although we still head over there every other Christmas. We both have the dark hair and dark eyes, but he has the olive skin colouring to accompany it – I still burn like crazy if I’m in the sun for too long, no matter what factor protection I use, whereas he goes a gorgeous golden brown colour. It’s highly frustrating. ‘Thank God you’re here – she’s going off on one already,’ he says with an eye-roll before his bulky frame leans in for a hug, no doubt relieved that his older, less-achieving sister is here to take the brunt of Mum’s insults while he sits back and watches.

‘Better not let her hear you saying things like that, Max,’ Dad whispers with his eyebrows raised before sweeping past him and giving me a hug – reminding me that their views on my failures in life don’t necessarily overshadow their love for me.

Not all the time anyway.

‘Hello, Dad.’

‘Lots of traffic?’ he asks with a wink, his blue eyes lighting up mischievously as he places his hands on his hips and sticks out his little pot belly (something Mum is continuously moaning at him for).

‘Hmmm …’ I murmur noncommittally.

‘That’s what I thought,’ he nods. ‘Told your mother how bad traffic can be in London of the weekend – especially so close to Christmas.’

It’s only early November, but I decide to go along with his lie.

‘Sarah. Finally,’ my Mum smiles, when I’m in the hallway – looking my outfit choice up and down approvingly, before placing her hand on the sides of my head. ‘Did you leave the house with wet hair?’

Well, I can’t give her the satisfaction of me getting
everything
right, can I? I came clean and in an outfit I knew she’d like – I did try. Worryingly I notice we’re actually matching in our outfit choices – trousers and blouses – although my take is, thankfully, a little younger and current than hers with her crease-free white blouse, mustard-coloured chinos and a pearl necklace to accompany the look … now, that is posh! Plus, whereas my hair is wet and pulled up into a messy top bun, her short dark mane is set to perfection in very precise waves.

She draws me in for a brief hug, the smell of her heavy perfume riling and calming me all at once.

‘Where’s Andrea?’ I ask Max, longing to rub that deliciously shaped bump of hers which has no doubt grown a crazy amount since I saw it a month ago.

‘Asleep upstairs – she didn’t get much sleep last night so she’s having a rest,’ my brother says.

With her hands still on my shoulders and her face out of Max’s view, I spot Mum rolling her eyes before releasing me and returning to the kitchen. Whoever heard of a heavily pregnant lady needing a lie down …

Just as we start to follow Dad into the lounge, Max puts his arm across my shoulder and leans in with a whisper.

‘I heard about Dan and Lexie.’

‘Yeeeeah …’ I say slowly; there’s nothing I really want to say on the matter.

As soon as we all left their house last night, Dan and Perfect Lexie went on to Facebook and shared their joyous news with their friends online by changing their relationship status’ to ‘engaged’ and their profile pictures to one of them both looking offensively happy with Perfect Lexie’s mighty diamond on show.

My mum has Facebook.

Of course she does.

I had to get my nosy stalking tendencies from somewhere. Actually, seeing drunken photos of me emerge most Sunday mornings during my early twenties is probably what’s led her to be so despairing of me.

‘You okay?’

‘Of course,’ I shrug, nodding towards the kitchen. ‘Does she know yet?’

‘I don’t think so. You going to tell her?’

‘And see the look of disappointment on her face? I mean, I know it’s been a while, but I think she’s still holding on to some miracle of a reunion. God knows why. He was a cock to me.’

‘We’ll just keep her away from her computer all day – let her find out when you’re not here,’ he says, squeezing my shoulder.

‘She’s bound to flipping ask after him today, anyway. She always does.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get Andrea to fake some contractions to take the focus off you.’

‘If she could do that all day, that would be fab,’ I smile, rubbing his back as he pulls me in tighter then lets me go.

I fling myself onto the sofa next to Dad before leaning over and placing my head on his shoulder.

In response, Dad kisses the top of my head.

I’m such a daddy’s girl.

‘Do you want a tea, Sarah?’ Mum asks, wandering in.

‘Any peppermint?’

‘Yes,’ she says, smiling as she turns to leave the room, clearly happy that I’ve gone for the healthier option. ‘Warm you up before we go out.’

‘I’m wondering if we should just stay in today actually, Mum,’ Max suggests – instantly looking sheepish when Mum turns back to look at him with a face of stone.

‘Why’s that?’ Mum asks, frowning. She likes our family walks, and she also loves sticking to whatever’s been planned. She’s never been one for spontaneity.

‘Well, Andrea could probably do with a rest. It’s not easy
for her travelling around all week for work. She just needs to chill out,’ squirms Max.

‘Today? But she starts her maternity leave in a week’s time. She can rest then.’

‘Maybe a day on the sofa would do her good,’ nods Dad.

Mum huffs at him. ‘But what about our walk?’

‘My knee’s still playing up a little anyway,’ Dad shrugs.

‘What’s wrong with your knee?’ I ask.

‘Nothing much. Just twinging every now and then. Nothing to worry about,’ he says to me before turning back to Mum. ‘Why don’t you and Sarah go into town and have a walk around instead?’

‘Oh …’ I start, but before I can come up with a reasonable excuse as to why I couldn’t possibly go out for a walk on my own with Mum, the phone rings – the shrill tone breaking into our plans.

‘Hellooo,’ Mum answers with her posh telephone voice, causing me and Max to stifle giggles. I don’t know what it is about being with Max, but as soon as he’s around I feel like a child again with my maturity level crashing to the ground and shattering into a multi-coloured mess all over Mum and Dad’s nice cream carpets. It’s a wonderful feeling.

‘Oh, Pat – how are you?’

My stomach hits the floor with a wallop as my head whips back around to Mum, who’s evidently on the phone to DAN’S MUM.

I think about diving across the room and grabbing the phone from her, or faking a clumsy trip and whipping the telephone cable out of the wall, but instead I sit there and
watch the one-sided conversation happening before me. I’m helpless.

‘Did you look into those Zumba classes I told you about? Find any local ones for you..? Oh that’s good – honestly, it’s so much fun.’

I’d no idea our two mums had even kept in touch beyond a polite Christmas card exchange, so this friendly conversation is completely mind-boggling for me – so is the fact that my mum’s started going to Zumba. It’s far too young, hip and wild for her.

‘Oh yes. Well, Sarah’s here today actually – come to spend some time with her old mum and dad,’ she chirps with a measured chuckle, before listening to whatever Pat is saying. ‘She’s only just arrived actually – we’ve not had a chance to chat yet.’

I look at Max and see that he’s hiding under a sofa cushion with just his eye peering over the top. Dad is obliviously watching Formula One racing on the TV in front of us – doing a great job at blocking us all out.

‘Oh … ?’

The silence from her is deafening as she listens to Pat.

‘Well, that is lovely news. You must be so thrilled … when did this all happen?’ she asks, swallowing hard as Pat replies. ‘Please pass on our best wishes. What a happy time for you all.’

Once goodbyes have been exchanged (fairly swiftly) and the phone replaced on to its base, Mum stays rooted to the spot, looking out the front window with her back to us.

She stays like this for what must easily be a whole minute.

I look at Max in confusion.

He shrugs.

I know my mum extremely well, but even I find it difficult to read her thoughts just by looking at her little (surprisingly pert) behind.

Dad, without even looking up from his programme, intervenes. ‘Everything okay, love?’ He’s been married to mum for thirty-six years, and he must sense when there’s something brewing.

‘Yes,’ Mum coughs, clearing her throat.

Has she been crying?

Surely not.

‘Just noticed that those ivy bushes have become a little unruly out front. I’d better make a note for Simon to trim them back when he comes next week.’

And with that she turns on to the heels of her slippers and stalks into the kitchen with a task for the gardener.

I look at Max once more and see him mouth the word ‘Shit’.

Quite right.

Her reaction was worse than I’d feared.

We always knew growing up that a silent reaction was far worse than a voiced one.

Silence meant Mum and Dad were really angry at our behaviour.

Silent rage meant we’d been extremely disappointing.

What a shame that at twenty-nine years old I’m still extremely disappointing.

How tragic.

‘Shall we go then?’ Mum asks without looking at me, as she comes back into the room ten minutes later wearing
her coat and putting on her leather gloves.

‘You haven’t given her a tea yet,’ Dad says, breaking out of the hypnosis of his programme and becoming confused at what’s happening around him.

‘She can get one in town,’ she says flatly.

I don’t bother looking at Max, who’s still hiding behind his pillow. Instead, I give Dad a kiss and mutter that we won’t be long, before skulking off into the hallway and grabbing my shoes and Dan-fumed coat.

I expect an ear bashing of some sort from Mum as soon as we turn out of the black gates of our family home, but she stays silent.

She stays tight-lipped for the whole walk down to the High Street and as we mooch around several shops. We wander into Cath Kidston (I have a vision of Max and Andrea’s baby being dressed like something from
Little House on the Prairie
in all these gorgeous prints), where her behaviour becomes unbearable. She doesn’t once cave in to the pointless small talk that I’m trying to lighten the mood with. It’s excruciatingly painful – to the point where I can’t take her silence any longer and have to address the elephant dancing around in front of us.

‘I only found out last night, Mum,’ I blurt.

‘What, dear?’ She says, her eyes wide and innocent as though she hasn’t the foggiest idea of what I’m talking about.

‘That Dan and Lexie got engaged.’

‘Oh that. It’s nothing to do with me … I don’t need to hear anything about it,’ she says curtly, before continuing to screen the rail of floral baby clothes in front of us with
great interest. ‘I don’t think we can buy any of this stuff for the baby until we know the sex, Sarah. It’s all so gender specific.’

A change of subject means she no longer wants to talk about the topic that we didn’t just talk about. Odd, seeing as it’s a topic I shouldn’t have to talk to her about anyway – or rather, it should be her trying to offer me some comfort over the fact that my ex is still very much in my world and rubbing his wonderful life in my face while I plod through mine with no direction or purpose. Simply going through the monotonously repetitive cycle at work with no passion or drive while having a ‘living for the weekend’ mentality, where I simply work to fund my rent and nights out with friends.