Dream a Little Dream (7 page)

‘That’s good,’ he interrupts while nodding.

‘And that I’ve been here for –’

‘Years.’

‘Yes …’ I frown, his cutting in annoying me. ‘Well, as much as I love working as your PA – ’

‘You’re an integral part of our well-run machine.’

Seriously, how much did the man drink at lunch?

‘Thank you,’ I smile, because even if it is drunken waffle, it’s still lovely to hear I’m valued. ‘It’s just, when I first started here I hoped being your PA would be, like a sort of, er, stepping stone to other positions within the company.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s not that surprising really, Jonathan. I did a degree in Media – ’

‘You did?’

‘Yes. I got a 2:1 …’

It feels weird being proud of that pointless set of numbers so long after having gained them when they’ve been of little use to me so far in life. In fact, do they even count any more? Or do they expire after a certain amount of time – expecting its owner to have dulled the need for them thanks to the endless jobs and experience they’ve
surely gained thanks to its existence? I hope not, otherwise I really am stuffed.

‘Well done …’ Jonathan booms, pursing his lips.

‘And I remember there being something said about learning the ropes within other departments when I applied.’

‘There was?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting. Must’ve been Julie’s input,’ he reflects with a pause, looking past me towards my colleague’s desk. ‘Well, carry on,’ he mumbles, turning his hand in a circling motion as if it might help me get to the point quicker – which I would have done if he hadn’t kept interrupting me in the first place.

‘I know there probably aren’t any positions available right this second –’

‘No, not right this second,’ he says, scratching his forehead whilst frowning.

‘But I was hoping that in the future, if a space did become available – either on the Development or Research teams, maybe, well, whether I might be considered … ?’

Jonathan looks at me with surprise – his eyebrows raised.

A squeak-like sound escapes his mouth.

I’ve no idea how to interpret his reaction, so plough on hopefully.

‘It’ll be a change, but I know how the company works and how you like things done. I’m hard working and dedicated … plus, I speak French and Spanish,’ I add, in mild panic that I’m not selling myself enough.

‘You do? How well?’

‘Yep. Good, basic level,’ I nod.

Slight exaggeration there – I was pretty good at it back in the days of the classroom (I got a B in both for my GCSEs), but haven’t spoken a word of them since. I bet if you asked anyone who took a language at school if they remembered any of it, the answer would be ‘no’ beyond ‘My name is …’ and ‘Where is the swimming pool?’ However, it’s still proudly sat on my CV – which hasn’t been updated since I started working here at Red Brick after I left uni. There’s been no need.

‘And I would happily train someone up to become your new PA,’ I add generously – knowing that it wasn’t a term put into my original contract. Yes, surprisingly, I did read it … my dad made sure I did.

‘Hmm?’

‘That way I can show them exactly how you like things done. You probably won’t even notice the difference within a day or two.’

‘Yeeeees …’ he says slowly, thinking over my words. I won’t lie, even though I do want him to agree with me that it could be a smooth transition, it does sting slightly that he isn’t protesting over me being so easily replaceable. Even just to be polite. ‘Well, I’ll bear this in mind, Sarah.’

‘Really?’ I ask, confused that this whole conversation has been relatively easy.

‘Yes. Something to think about if someone deserts us – although hopefully that won’t happen any time soon,’ he scoffs.

I smile back in reply, hoping that Dominique takes up whatever amazing offer she’s been tempted with elsewhere.

‘But it’s good to hear you’re dedicated to us, Sarah.’

‘I am,’ I confirm with a punch of my fist as though I’m in some black and white musical about to burst into song. My boss thinks I’m dedicated, an integral cog in the running of the company and now my life is set to flourish. I’m practically beaming at him.

‘Although, I hope you’re not planning on leaving us if this doesn’t materialize soon?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows at me as though he’s concerned I might.

It’s a question but not a question … in fact, it’s most definitely a leading question and I fall right into his trap.

‘Definitely not,’ I answer boldly without blinking. Or thinking.

‘Great,’ he winks. ‘Is that all?’

I nod.

‘Lovely,’ he claps. ‘Cup of coffee when you’re ready please, Sarah.’

Never have I been so happy to scurry out of Jonathan’s office and make him a brew. I’ve planted the seed – now I just need those blooming stars to align when Dominique buggers off.

I’m walking through the cobbled streets of Covent Garden on a warm, sunny day with Brett by my side – we’re holding hands and swinging our arms in unison as we go, looking like your typical smug London couple whose lives have been made all the better from finding someone to share their days with.

‘Coffee?’ I ask, nodding towards a nearby shop.

He nods.

We go in.

I order two espressos.

Brett casually rests his hand on my hip while we wait. As he watches the female barista bashing around on the machine, my eye wanders around the shop, falling on the dozen pictures of us hanging from the wall behind the counter – all taken of us in the last few minutes as we walked down Monmouth Street.

I smile at the sight of how great we look together and find myself nuzzling into Brett’s shoulder happily.

His hand moves from my hip to my head, as he starts to run his fingers through my hair.

God, this feels good, I think to myself – not just the comfort of his touch, but all of it. This.

‘Two espressos,’ says the barista, sliding two miniature takeaway cups in our direction.

‘Thank you,’ I say, gliding out of the warmth of Brett’s arms and taking them from her – putting a spoonful of sugar in mine before turning to Brett. ‘Sugar?’

‘One, too,’ Brett smiles, making my insides melt.

‘You got the time?’ asks a squeaking voice behind us.

I turn to see a little boy gazing up at Brett while tapping on his wrist. He’s cute. He has short dark hair, bright green eyes and a face full of freckles.

‘Er …’ Brett mumbles as he shakes his wrist, twisting his watch so that the clock face is in view.

Even though the boy looks cute and must be only six years old, I’m cautious and wary – just as I am every time someone approaches me in London, even if they’re just asking for directions. You never know who’s going to try and mug you in broad daylight – it doesn’t help that this little scamp reminds me of the Artful Dodger in
Oliver
.

But it’s not the boy I should be cautious of.

Beyond him I see Brett’s and my bags by the front door of the shop (why we left them there in such an exposed place in the middle of London, I don’t know), and notice the figure of a burly man in a red suit rifling through them whilst tugging on his white beard.

I panic.

My laptop is in there – and my purse and phone.

No sound comes out of my mouth to warn Brett that the little shit in front of him has obviously been sent to distract us, so instead I leap around them both and dive towards the robber.

I manage to grab hold of a piece of fabric on his red jacket, but it tears as he darts away from me, hobbles out of the shop and on to the back of a lone reindeer which darts up the road.

It’s then that I see it.

He’s left my laptop, purse and phone behind.

But he’s taken my chocolate bar.

A very expensive and delicious-looking chocolate bar.

I cry out in despair as the gold of its wrapper glimmers out of sight in the old man’s hands.

I weep into the tiny square of material from the robber’s clothes.

I wake up with a frown on my face, clutching hold of my duvet cover.

Did Santa actually just rob me in the middle of Covent Garden? And did he really steal just a bar of chocolate? There’s clearly a simple moral to this dream and that is not to take chocolate for granted.

Or to ever trust Santa.

Oh, but Brett, I sigh with a smile. There he was again – literally the man of my dreams. He’s becoming quite the recurring character now, always slotting into my dreams somewhere, bringing with him the feeling of togetherness and warmth.

That feeling sticks in my mind and lingers in my heart. A gorgeous sensation that I’m glad to hold on to throughout the working day. In fact, it’s still with me when I walk into the pub, ready for another Wednesday night group quiz night.

This time, the whole team are planning on being in attendance, something I’m grateful for. Even though I know it means I’m going to have to hear wedding chat from Dan and Perfect Lexie all night, I’m glad no one’s going to be missing. Because we have to win. Last week we lost out once again to the performing arts group. It’s a loss that hit us badly, so we’re planning on coming back fighting with all guns blazing … or multiple packets of crisps and assorted nuts at the ready.

It’s funny, I don’t usually care too much whether we win
or lose, but sometimes I think it’s nice to have a distraction in life to keep you moving forward and help block out things that might irk you. Like wedding chat. The pub quiz is my very welcome distraction from something I shouldn’t have to hear anything about. Ever.

‘All right, Josh?’ I ask, spotting him looking into the distance, lost in a trance, daydreaming. So far only me, Josh and Alastair are here – the boys having come straight from the gym again. Dan was with them but opted to go home to pick up Perfect Lexie on the way, Carly had a last-minute fashion disaster (she managed to split the side seam of her skirt as she was bending over in the street to do up her shoelaces) so has quickly gone home to change, and Natalia is on her way after getting stuck in Harrods with an indecisive client – it’s the story of her life.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Josh nods, his usually cheerful face seeming pensive as his lips purse together.

‘Worried?’

For a second he looks perplexed, as though he hasn’t the foggiest idea what I’m on about, but then he twigs and laughs, before looking stern and serious – a look I’m not used to seeing on his lovely, bearded, cherub-like face.

‘Well, I’m certainly not up for letting those high-kicking theatre lovies get a hat-trick,’ he says, bashing his fist down on the table in defiance and showing me his warrior face.

‘Grr …’ I reply, baring my teeth and letting him know I mean business too.

‘How’s work?’ Alastair asks, his shoulder nudging mine. It’s not usually a question that’s asked, seeing as I’ve been
doing the same job and same routine for donkey’s years, but my guess is that Carly has mentioned my new promotion-grabbing mission to the others.

‘Good, I think.’

‘Sounds promising,’ he smiles.

‘We’ll see,’ I wink, not mentioning that I’m waiting for Dominique to quit before I can move up the office ranks (I mean, seriously, what is she waiting for?). ‘What about you guys? What’s new? Wait – Alastair, did you have a date last week?’

‘Guilty as charged!’ he grins cheekily, as he rubs his hands on his chest.

‘And … ?’

He screws up his face.

‘What a shame.’

‘Yeah – I thought she looked nice,’ sighs Josh.

‘When’d you meet her?’ I ask Josh – sure that Alastair met his date through someone at work.

‘He bumped into her the next morning,’ Alastair laughs.

‘In our kitchen,’ adds Josh, raising his eyebrows.

‘Oh …’ I chuckle. ‘So it did go well.’

‘In some ways,’ smirks Alastair. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again.’

‘What? Why?’ I ask, floored by his conclusion.

‘Just because,’ he shrugs.

‘You guys are so weird.’

‘We are,’ nods Josh, smirking.

‘Did you realize she had better hair than you? Is that what scared you off?’ I joke.

‘Hey lovers!’ Natalia interrupts, walking up to the table
before sitting next to me with a sigh. ‘Wine … I need wine!’

‘I’ll go!’ offers Alastair. ‘Same again?’ he asks me and Josh.

We both nod.

‘But hold on – you haven’t finished your story …’ I moan, trying to grab his elbow to sit him back down, but failing – he’s up and on his way to the bar quicker than I can react.

‘That was the end,’ Alastair shrugs cheekily before turning to the bar, pulling his brown leather wallet out of his back pocket and fiddling with his wondrous man bun.

‘What’s that about?’ asks Natalia, shrugging out of her coat.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I sigh. ‘Lads.’

She rolls her eyes and smiles. ‘I bet I can guess,’ she exhales. ‘Well, we’ve all been there.’

‘Nat!’ I exclaim. Natalia is probably the quietest of our bunch, meaning that when she comes out with little lines like this they always take me by surprise.

She giggles at my reaction.

‘See,’ says Alastair from the bar. ‘And don’t even act like you’ve not done it, Ms Thompson …’

My face reddens at his remark, causing him to howl with laughter.

‘Oi!’ I call.

‘Oh, here they are – the future Mr and Mrs Tipper,’ coos Natalia at the sight of Dan and Perfect Lexie walking through the door hand in hand, closely followed by a very red-looking Carly.

I manage not to scowl and concentrate instead on my
beautiful friend behind them, pushing her blonde hair off her face, looking flustered.

‘Drink?’ asks Alastair, managing to stifle his laughter.

‘Beer for me,’ winks Dan.

‘Lemonade, please,’ smiles Perfect Lexie.

‘Yeah, I’ll have the same,’ adds Carly before the three of them wander over to our table.

‘You all right?’ I ask her, once hellos are dished out (yes, hugs were given) and everyone’s sat down with their chosen beverages.

‘Yeah – Dad called and held me up so had to run here. Knackered,’ she puffs, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

‘They’re heeeeere …’ whispers Natalia eerily as she slowly turns back to the performing arts group who are walking (just walking this week) through the doors, all wearing their signature lycra – even the guys in the group.

‘Eck,’ grunts Alastair.

‘They’re going down!’ sings Perfect Lexie, waving a rude girl finger in the air with attitude.

Dan frowns at her in disgust before breaking into a laugh, causing her to let rip with her own donkey laugh. Somehow her laugh seems to have stopped grating on me quite so much – either she’s calmed down
or
I’m finally getting used to it after almost two years.

‘Come on then,’ chirps Natalia, beaming at the pair of them. ‘Plans?’

A smile pings on to Perfect Lexie’s face.

‘I’m so glad we can talk about this now – that’s why we couldn’t come last week. I’d have burst trying to keep it all in.’

‘Not surprised,’ Natalia says, ‘I’d have been the same.’

‘We’re thinking February with a nice Valentine’s Day themed wedding,’ she tells us, nibbling on her bottom lip.

‘Ooh, you can have lots of fun creating the biggest love-in of a celebration,’ nods Natalia approvingly, the cogs of her brain visibly spinning, deciding what she’d do if it were her. ‘February – that gives you a nice leisurely amount of time to plan too.’

‘And save,’ adds Alastair, nudging Dan’s elbow.

‘Not really,’ smiles Perfect Lexie. ‘I mean February next year. As in three months away.’

‘Whoa …’ exhales Alastair.

‘Why the rush?’ I ask, stuffing a salt and vinegar crisp into my mouth to stop myself from saying any more – I hate Valentine’s Day anyway, but it’s great to know that the commercially special day is going to be properly crapped on, and stripped of any sort of beauty it might’ve possessed for me now and for the rest of my life.

‘You’re not … are you?’ asks Natalia, her eyes wide.

‘What? Pregnant?’ laughs Dan with a squeak in his voice.

‘Do I look it?’ asks Perfect Lexie, looking more amused than offended.

‘Well, you are drinking lemonade,’ notes Alastair.

‘So is Carly,’ she giggles, raising her hands to cover her eyes before continuing. ‘No, I’m not up the duff – but it’s good to hear that thought is going to be the first thing people wonder when they receive our lovingly thought through wedding invites and spot the date.’

‘So romantic,’ nods Dan with a smile, nudging her shoulder with his.

‘My parents would kill me,’ Perfect Lexie states, her eyebrows raised to prove that she really means it. ‘They’re quite traditional.’

Nice to know Dan’s gone from one set of crazy in-laws to another, then.

‘Ladies and gents, if you’d like to get seated, we’ll be kicking off in about five minutes,’ says Ian the pub landlord into a microphone that’s set up, alongside a giant speaker and stand, right between the gents’ and ladies’ toilets. Such a beautiful backdrop.

‘Just gonna go for a pee,’ whispers Carly before tiptoeing off.

‘Be quick!’ Alastair calls after her.

She waves her hands in the air in reply.

‘Time to get serious,’ mutters Josh, almost to himself.

And so, for the next hour, a sombre atmosphere takes over our usual jolly mood as we work together to complete what has to be the toughest quiz we’ve done in a while.

‘Okay teams,’ Ian says into the microphone an hour and a half later. ‘Bex has gone through your entries and, not for the first time ever, we have a tie situation.’

‘Ooooh …’ says everyone in the pub. Everyone, that is, except the hardcore locals who couldn’t care less about the stupid quiz – they’d rather just sit at the bar in their usual spots, slurping down their pints without all our commotion going on around them.