Finding Dreams, page 13
I return to my room and climb back into bed. The duvet is soft and warm, the pillow indented from my head. I lie on my back with my eyes open, staring at the dark fabric that lines the canopy above me. In my mind, I rewind the dream. Back to the heart-palpitating part where I was lying in bed – this bed – with an unknown man. I feel a sharp stab of pleasure radiate down my body. Whoever he was, he had definitely started to awaken me from a deep hibernation – one that began somewhere around the time I became pregnant with Katie, and lasted until my husband’s untimely demise.
I close my eyes and will the dream man to return – or at least to be able to conjure up his face in my mind’s eye. But of course, I can’t do it – he’s not real, and in truth, maybe it’s better that way…
Minutes later, or maybe it’s hours, I wake up to the beeping of the alarm. My stomach dives at the thought of another day commuting into London, missing whatever excitement – or chaos – might be happening here. As I shower and dress, I think of Theo and him inviting me to the pub. As I kiss my still-sleeping children goodbye and go downstairs, I give in to the familiar gnaw of guilt and despair. Because, in the light of day, reading anything into Theo’s invitation seems absurd.
I put on the coffee machine, eat a piece of toast, and go through the litany of doubts. It’s now almost a year since Dave’s death, and though I’ve realised that my marriage was over long before that, the idea of opening myself up – trusting someone again – is an alien concept. Dreams are one thing. But in reality, Theo and I would never work.
On the other hand, there is no ‘Theo and I’ that needs to work. It’s a night down the pub for Christ’s sake, not a one-knee two-carat diamond proposal. A few drinks, a nice chat, no strings attached. I’ve been out with the other mums, welcomed Connie and Simon into my drive, and let a whole crew of strangers into my house. This seems a logical next step. I might (God forbid!) even enjoy it like I have those other things. Besides which, it’s research. I need to find out more about Phillipa King. My trip to the museum has confirmed that she has a connection to the house, but I don’t know much more than that. I find the idea that she once came to this house, and possibly used it as a setting for her book, a bit unnerving. At the very least, I’d like to know when she’s due to come on set.
I down a cup of coffee and chuck my dishes in the dishwasher. On my way out of the house, I stop by the caravan and knock on the door.
‘I’m coming,’ Connie groans from inside, sounding sleepy. ‘Go on – don’t miss your train.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. I continue walking up the lane to the station, determined to get my mind on work and the day ahead. Meetings, calls, billable hours, stress. But the thoughts fly out of my head as I near the top of the road and a car turns in suddenly so that I have to jump out of the way. ‘Hey!’ I yell as the car slows down just past me. The window rolls down, and a head sticks out.
‘Sorry – I didn’t see you,’ the driver says. And I don’t want to feel those green eyes on me, or look at that face. I don’t want to acknowledge him at all.
‘You should drive slower,’ I say to Luke Thornton. I turn and walk as quickly as I can the rest of the way to the station.
*
Maybe it’s my restless night, or maybe the fact that it’s all happening at my house, while I’m stuck in an airless conference room, but whatever it is, I have trouble focusing on the final negotiations on the deal I’m working on. My thoughts keep wandering – wondering – as to what the crew will be getting on with at Tanglewild.
Around midday, Theo texts me and clears up that particular mystery. Apparently, the risk managers and insurance people had a meeting there this morning, and this afternoon, two electricians and a few of the cast members are visiting. While the producer is responsible for getting the show on the road, so to speak, it’s Luke Thornton who will ultimately oversee the creative aspects. I guess that’s why – unfortunately – he’s the one who seems to be there at all hours.
It’s almost 4 p.m. by the time the parties are ready to sign the documents on my deal. I wait in the conference room for the signatories to arrive, drinking a glass of sparkling water and eating a pack of posh oaty biscuits. It’s the first break I’ve had all day. I walk over to the huge window and stare out at the vertiginous panorama of East London. A skyline of cranes, punctuated at ground level by shops, housing terraces, rail lines, and in the hazy distance, the towers of Canary Wharf. A world-class view, but it strikes me how much I’d rather be home – working in the garden, watching the children playing, having a chat with Hannah or Connie—
‘Oh!’ I cry out, as I feel a hand on the small of my back. I whirl around, my glass of sparkling water raised like a weapon. Then quickly lower it again. It’s Harry Reynolds, my boss. ‘Sorry,’ I say, flustered. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘No worries, Lizzie.’ He smiles at me, the tips of his teeth pointy and vulpine beneath his fleshy lips. ‘I just came in to see how you’re doing.’
I pace a few steps away and update him on the deal – all there’s left to do is wait for the other side to arrive.
‘I’m glad it’s going well,’ he says, moving towards me again. ‘But I wasn’t concerned about that – I knew you’d have everything in hand.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ I feel a strong urge to step back. I read somewhere that on average, people keep their faces a minimum distance of twenty-four centimetres from a business colleague. Apparently, it’s an article Harry hasn’t read, because he’s leaning in so close that I can smell mint on his breath, masking an undernote of stale cigarette.
‘You’ve settled in here so well, Lizzie,’ he says in a voice almost like a purr. ‘But it’s more than that. You’re looking so well too. Much more like your old self.’
My skin crawls as his eyes wander over me. I feel that same dirty, violated feeling as I did the moment I learned the truth about Dave. He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. It’s all I can do not to flinch. I take a step back. A big one. But I need this job, so I do it with an embarrassed laugh. I go back over to the table with the food and drink. ‘Thanks Harry.’ I force myself to smile. ‘Cuppa tea?’
His fleshy face morphs for a nanosecond into cuckolded boss, but he recovers quickly. ‘No thanks. But maybe after the signing we could go out for a drink. Maybe dinner. You deserve that for all your hard work.’
The invitation is unmistakable. My boss is asking me for a date after work, followed by a shag. I bite my lip to keep from laughing at the irony of it. It’s been barely twenty-four hours since Theo asked me out (admittedly with much less of a display of romantic intent). And now Harry has thrown his hat into the ring. He helped me out in my darkest hour – but not, it seems, out of the goodness of his heart. I suppose there’s a part of me that should be flattered. Harry usually goes for the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, twenty-something ingénue type. I found such things repulsive then, and I’m even more disgusted now.
‘I’m afraid I can’t.’ Abandoning all pretence of making tea, I move swiftly over to the other side of the room and begin repositioning ‘sign here’ Post-it notes on signature pages. The huge conference table acts as my shield. ‘It’s so difficult making last-minute childcare arrangements, you know.’
‘Of course.’ He frowns. Outside the glass wall of the conference room, a receptionist is leading a quintet of men in suits in our direction. Thank God!
‘Another time then,’ he grumbles.
I let out a relieved breath as the men enter the room and the receptionist offers teas and coffees all round. Harry does the obligatory greetings of the clients and the lawyers from the other side, and then, thankfully, leaves the room.
My voice sounds unnaturally high-pitched as I address the newcomers. ‘I’m Elizabeth Greene,’ I say, offering my card to the three men I haven’t met. ‘Now, let’s get these documents signed, and I’ll have you out of here and down the pub in no time.’
Chapter 16
‘It’s a ‘thing’ you know – for some men.’
‘What is?’ I pour Connie a slug from the bottle of Scotch I bought at the station. As I didn’t manage to get home from the signing until half nine, I figured I owed her a stiff one.
‘Fresh widow,’ Connie says. ‘They can sniff it out.’
‘You’re joking.’ I pour myself a glass of Zinfandel and plop down in a chair to drink it. I hadn’t planned on telling Connie what happened with Harry, or with Theo. Even though she’s here all the time and knows the details of my life, she’s also Dave’s mother, and it seemed a bit gauche. And, quite frankly, in replaying what happened with Harry in my head, I feel disgusted with myself for the way I behaved. Instead of simpering and acting embarrassed – like Victoria Easterbrook would have done, no doubt – I should have been a strong, modern woman, and told him where to go.
But actually it was Connie who ‘sniffed it out’ herself, saying that I had an unusual amount of colour in my cheeks.
‘No, I’m not joking.’ Connie shakes her head. ‘I think you’ll find, Lizzie, that once you’re “back out there”, so to speak, you won’t lack for attention.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m well the wrong side of thirty-five and I’ve got two kids. As someone pointed out recently, I’m much too old for any shenanigans.’ I bristle at the memory of being ‘ill met by moonlight’ by Luke Thornton and Dominic Kennedy.
Connie laughs. ‘Do you really need me to reassure you? What do I need to say – that you’re beautiful? OK – you tick that box. That you’re clever and dedicated. Tick. Do you want me to identify areas of improvement – because there’s one big one. I think you need to lighten up. Enjoy life a little bit.’
‘Christ, Connie. So you’re saying I should have stuck around and shagged my cheating boss?’
‘Hell no, you should have kicked him where it counts. But there will be other… opportunities. Don’t be a martyr just because your marriage wasn’t everything you thought.’
‘Not everything I thought?’ I say sarcastically. ‘Whatever can you mean? Oh – maybe the shag pad? The other women?’
‘Precisely,’ Connie says sagely. ‘You were duped before – or maybe you chose not to know. But all that’s water under the bridge. This time, hold out for something better. You’ll find it.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Take it from me. The second time around is twice as nice.’
I think of Simon – the image of Jack Sprat pops into my head as it always does when I think of them as a married couple. I didn’t know Dave’s dad, but Connie makes him sound like a prototype for Dave. There are no perfect marriages, of course. But Simon and Connie seem to have that odd thing going where they actually like each other, and have a lasting – if incomprehensible – physical spark.
‘I will have to take you word on it,’ I say. ‘And in fact, I am considering other options. Like I said, Theo’s invited me to dinner.’
‘The scout.’ Connie considers this as she pours herself another glass. ‘He seems… young,’ she says at last.
‘Maybe. But you’ve got a few years on Simon.’
‘Sure.’ Her face lights up at the mention of her husband. ‘But it’s not so much years that matter, as experience. Simon has lived a lot. He’s had a hard life – but he’s better for it. That’s important, I think.’
‘Well, personally, if I could erase the last year of my life, I would, but that’s neither here nor there.’ I shrug. ‘Theo’s nice. I don’t know if he’s had a hard life or not, but I like him, and I want to get to know him better.’
‘Nice. Yes.’ Her tone is dismissive.
‘Simon’s nice too,’ I assert.
‘Oh, yes, he’s nice. Among other things.’ She actually winks.
I finish my wine and put my glass in the dishwasher before I’m tempted to have another. While I’m glad they’re a happy couple, I don’t really want any more detail than that.
‘Speaking of Simon, how’s the dreamcatcher?’ Connie says out of the blue. ‘It was his idea, you know. When he saw it, he thought of you. He’s not religious, but he’s very spiritual.’
‘It was nice of him,’ I say. ‘And yeah, it’s fine.’ Like an idiot, I blush. Maybe it’s The Lady’s Secret or maybe it is the dreamcatcher – the power of suggestion. But either way, the masculine presence (and there’s nothing spiritual about it) in my dreams can’t be denied.
‘Ah,’ Connie annoys me further by not letting it pass. ‘You see, maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something. That you’re too young to throw in the towel completely.’
‘Maybe my subconscious is making a play for Dominic Kennedy,’ I say with a laugh. I hope she knows I’m joking.
Her smile is enigmatic. ‘Perhaps. Or the other one.’
‘The other one.’
‘Luke Thornton, of course.’ She makes it sounds like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
‘Luke?’ I laugh out loud.
‘He’s something, isn’t he? Brooding, untameable…’
‘Come on, Connie, you’ve been reading too much romantic drivel.’
I make an instant decision to get another glass from the cupboard and pour myself a second drink that I don’t need or want. ‘Luke Thornton rejected my house,’ I say. ‘“Moody” and “unpleasant” are the words I would use – if we’re going literary. “Irritating bastard” if we’re not.’
‘I didn’t know you had such strong feelings for him.’ Connie chuckles.
I’ve had enough. At the end of the day, my love life – or lack thereof – is none of Connie’s business. I shove aside the new glass of wine.
‘Whatever,’ I say, using Katie’s classic put-down line. ‘I’m going to bed. Thanks for staying tonight.’
‘We had a nice chat earlier on,’ Connie says, giving me an infuriatingly smug look. ‘I was interested to hear all about what’s going to be happening and when. We talked about the cast, and about his film The Lost People that won the Golden Globe. Did you see it?’
‘No.’ I start walking out.
‘You should. It was very dark and, actually, quite philosophical.’
‘I’m sure.’ I roll my eyes.
‘I gather he’ll be here almost every day from now on. Just so you know.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate having you as a member of his fan club. As for me, I’m afraid I’ll be at work.’
Connie downs the last of her drink and screws the top onto the bottle. ‘And miss the excitement here?’
‘I’ll leave that for you and the tabloids.’
- VII -
The Lady’s Secret by Phillipa King
When Victoria opened her eyes, she thought she’d been damned to eternal hellfire. Her body was covered in sweat, but still, she was shivering. The room was bathed in an unfamiliar orange glow – a fire in the grate. The housekeeper came in the room and placed a tray of tea on the table, frowned in disapproval and left quickly. She grabbed the mug of tea and drank greedily, the hot liquid burning her throat. It was only then that the room came fully into focus. That he came into focus.
He was a solid man, tall and broad-shouldered. He still wore his breeches and boots, his shirt open at the neck. His hair was dark and unruly, tied back at his nape. All this she took in in an instant. What drew her gaze and held it fast was his eyes. A deep, crystalline blue, the colour of a cloudless summer sky. But these eyes were not cloudless. Something dark and dangerous flickered underneath. Something that made her want to run – but towards him or away, she wasn’t quite sure. She was suddenly aware that her clothing had been changed – she was no longer wearing the soaked nightgown. Instead, she was wearing a billowing man’s shirt, and she could feel her nakedness underneath. Victoria put her hands to her face to hide her shame, but his eyes burned through her body like dark stars.
She was aware of him moving in his chair, reaching to the side to pour two glasses of amber liquid. He held one out to her. Refusing to look at him, she removed her hands from her face, took the glass, and gulped it down.
‘So you wanted to die – is that right?’ His voice shot straight to the centre of her abdomen.
Victoria nodded slowly.
‘Why? The servants tell me you work here now. That your name is Tilly. Is your life such a misery?’
‘I…’ The last few months of her life came back to her in a rush of images, colours, and pain. Tom carving their initials in the tree; discovering him with the servant; the foul herbs she’d swallowed that made her insides explode with blood and agony; her father at his desk, asleep as she jimmied the lock with the lizard paperknife and took the money; the endless coach journey into the unknown – nearly all of it forgotten and eclipsed by the weeks of drudgery and deprivation.
She looked up suddenly, allowing herself to yield to the gravitational pull of those sapphire eyes. And it was then that she knew with all her heart, body, and soul – that she wanted, more than anything, to live.
Chapter 17
I put down the e-reader and roll my eyes, feeling like I might drown in a sea of bad prose. It’s been such an awful day, though, that reading a few pages of The Lady’s Secret at home in bed feels like a guilty escape from reality (and I wouldn’t be caught dead reading it on the train). The kids are asleep, and the dreamcatcher sparkles above my head. I’m exhausted, but at least I don’t have to go into London tomorrow. I decide to read on, turning back to the illuminated page.
William Clarke, having caught on to the fact that Victoria was a bit higher class than your garden variety kitchen maid (not to mention, more beautiful) reassigns her to work as a companion to his elderly mother. In some ways, the days are even more tedious – dealing with a spiteful old lady who loves gossip and playing patience, and takes an instant dislike to Tilly/Victoria. The only visitor is a woman called Belle, the master’s sister-in-law, whose presence brings to the surface one of the dark secrets of Idyllwild Hall – the fact that the master’s wife, Charity, disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Some rumours say that she ran away with a lover; others, that the master did away with her.
