Finding Dreams by Lauren Westwood (10)

February

I feel like someone’s died. It’s ridiculous, I know. But just when the mists had finally parted and I’d had a glimpse of a magical world, the doorway closed again. Now, the real world seems drained of energy and colour.

I try to hide my disappointment, but Connie sees through it immediately.

‘Come on, Lizzie,’ she says, ‘don’t look so down in the mouth. It was always going to be a long shot.’ It’s Sunday night and she’s agreed to make the kids their tea so I can finish the laundry and ironing for tomorrow – the first day of the rest of my life. Getting up at 5:45 to catch the 6:39 into London Bridge, then the Tube to Bank, then walking fifteen minutes to Broadgate Circus where the office is located. According to Google Maps, it’s 1 hour, 43 minutes door-to-door – on a good day. Working a nine-hour day, before doing it all again in reverse. Hoping that I’ll get home in time to catch Katie before she drifts off to sleep. Jack will be long off in dreamland. I’ll stroke the hair back from his soft, sleeping face, listen to the whu wha of his breathing, and cry silent tears. Tears that I’ve missed this day of his precious little life, and tears that I’m glad he’s asleep because I’m way too exhausted to deal with reading him a book, or finding his toothbrush, or filling his sippy cup.

Even though I haven’t done it yet, I know exactly how it’s going to be.

‘You’re right.’ I wrench a smile onto my face for Katie’s benefit. She’s sitting at the table staring at her maths homework, her face a frown of concentration. I press the button and the iron bellows out steam. But the creases in the linen skirt I’m hoping to wear tomorrow just won’t come out. ‘I did everything I could, but it didn’t work out,’ I say. ‘But I’ll get over it. I mean, it would have been exciting, but a disruption too.’ I glance at Connie. ‘I’m sure we’re better off.’

‘Hmm, I’m not so sure,’ Connie chuckles. ‘Did you know Dominic Kennedy is the star. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for leaving crumbs.’

‘Connie!’ I say, rolling my eyes in Katie’s direction.

My daughter sets down her pencil and looks at Connie. ‘Who’s he?’

‘A gorgeous film star,’ Connie says.

I pause in my ironing and stare out the window at the dull line of trees and grey sky on the other side of the lake. Even I’ve heard of Dominic Kennedy. An ex-Shakespearean actor turned forty-something heart-throb. Famous for playing the costume-drama rogue: Mr Wickham, Willoughby, Alec d’Urberville – and especially noted for any role that requires him to remove his shirt. His six-pack is almost as notorious as his reputation for deflowering young British starlets.

‘How do you know that?’ I say.

‘I googled it,’ Connie replies.

I shake my head – it’s just as well he’s not coming here. I’ve never aspired to be the talk of the school gates. Having Dominic Kennedy at the house would have catapulted me from recluse to minor celebrity.

‘So maybe your little project would have had its perks after all,’ Connie says with a wink.

‘Maybe.’ I look out the window towards the lake and think, not of Dominic Kennedy, but of Theo. He seemed nice; attractive too. But it’s probably for the best that I’ll never see him again. Dreamcatchers and romance novels will have to do for me. At least I’ll never have to see the blasted film that they’ll shoot somewhere other than at my house—

My thoughts are shattered by the shriek of the smoke alarm. Jack comes scooting in in his Cozy Coupe and Katie looks at me, startled.

‘Mum!’ she yells.

‘Shit!’ I shout.

‘Mum said a bad lang-wage,’ Jack chants in a sing-songy voice.

Only Connie has the presence of mind to actually do something. She gets up from her chair, lumbers over, and lifts up the iron – which has burned a neat hole right through my linen skirt.

*

Somehow, I get through my whole first week of work. Being back is stressful and difficult. Among all the young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, child-free lawyers, I feel like a fish out of water. Or maybe a fish in water – a perilous sea of sharks. It’s not that the people aren’t perfectly nice. I go out of my way to be friendly, and everyone is polite. But underneath, it’s a dog-eat-dog world of jockeying for the best transactions and keeping a constant eye on targets for billable hours. I keep my head down and get on with the work I’m assigned. Each morning, I pray that Jack’s runny nose doesn’t win him a trip to the school nurse, a 48-hour exclusion, and me a phone call to collect him.

At the end of each day, I rediscover the difference between my mental scenario and reality. By the time I’m on the train home, I’m hoping that Katie will be asleep as well as Jack, because I’m too exhausted to do anything other than give the kids a goodnight kiss, drink a big glass of red wine, take a hot bath, and tumble into bed. Although I’m only part-time – three days in the office and one day working at home – I also have work to do at the weekend, and by Sunday night, I’m dreading doing it all over again for another week.

The Monday night train journey home morphs and stretches itself out into years. Years of being alone, raising my kids as a single mum. Moving to full-time when Jack starts school, getting a before- and after-school nanny so that I can leave earlier for work and stay later. Having Katie grow up without me there, hating me, thinking that I’m ‘pathetic’ like she called me this morning because I was stressing over a ladder in my stockings. How can I do that to her? To Jack? To myself… On the other hand, at least we’ll still have our home—

My phone vibrates with a new message. I’ve only been out of the office for fifty minutes and already I’ve received twenty new emails relating to work and sundry – leaving do’s, group drinks, a firm-wide reminder that Candy Crush is an abuse of the internet policy. I’ve also got instructions on two new documents to draft tomorrow. Not a bad thing – after all, a busy lawyer is an employed lawyer. I should get a jump on things, read the message. But would it really hurt if just this once I turned off the phone?

I look around at my fellow passengers. Almost everyone else has their eyes glued to their phone or tablet. The man across the aisle is watching an episode of Game of Thrones and in front of me, a woman is on Facebook. A few others are reading rumpled copies of the Evening Standard, and there’s a group of teenagers eating smelly Burger King meals. Life on a home-bound commuter train… My life.

With I sigh, I check the new message. Suddenly, I’m sitting bolt upright. It’s from [email protected]!

My hand judders as I open the message with no idea what to expect.

If I wanted to be offended – by the tone that takes my interest as a given and the fact that another location was chosen over my house – I could find ample cause. But my heart is doing star jumps and all rational thought goes right out the window. I’ve been given a second chance. I’m not going to throw it away due to some misplaced sense of pride.

I draft a quick message back.

The train slows and the guard announces my stop. I get to my feet, collect my belongings, and jump off. I stand on the platform as the doors close.

I press send.

The train rumbles off.

For the first time all day, a smiles creeps onto my face.