Finding Dreams by Lauren Westwood (19)

I was prepared for excitement; prepared for chaos and disruption. Prepared for the huge upheaval that people like Connie said would happen but that I chose to brush off and sweep under the carpet. But none of my so-called preparation comes close to reality once the film crew moves in.

The house clearance team arrives in mid-March. Luckily, Jack and Katie are at school, because, otherwise, I’m sure there would be tears and sit-in protests. They attack all of our worldly possessions on the ground floor with bubble wrap, shove them into boxes, and cart them away. All the toys, all the photos, all the books and DVDs – even the TV has to go. And all the while, I’m standing there watching them, wondering why I didn’t anticipate this, and do more sorting and packing myself. Our things will be sent away to storage for three whole months – we might as well be moving to America or Australia rather than into the two spare bedrooms in the wing above the kitchen.

When Jack and Katie do finally arrive home, the ground floor is almost completely bare, except for in the kitchen (I had the old piano moved in there so that Katie could keep practising for her Grade II exam) and one sofa in the drawing room. Katie immediately dons her roller blades (which were squirrelled away in her room upstairs) and spends two hours careering round the slippery wooden floors. Jack has a good howl when he discovers that his Cozy Coupe is gone, but he persuades Simon to bring his tricycle in from the shed, and he and Katie chase each other on their wheels. Jammie goes berserk, nipping at their heels like a young pup. Of course, it all ends in tears when they collide like errant atoms, and Katie sprawls onto her face, bloodying her lip, on top of the yelping dog, and Jack goes down with them like a wiggly domino. He proceeds to scream for England.

I expected to feel sad, or at least nostalgic, at seeing the house so bare. In fact, the opposite is true. As I walk through the ground floor while the kids are eating, it’s like looking at an oil painting that’s been cleaned of the layers of old vanish and grime and suddenly regains its colours. I notice the grain of the wood panelling, the cracks and tool marks in the carvings, mineral veins in the stones of the hearth, the irregularities in panes of glass that have survived for hundreds of years. The old curtains are gone (and I gave a firm instruction that they were not to be brought back), and there’s dust and dog hair in all the nooks and crannies behind where the furniture was. But the rooms themselves are elegant and spacious. Instead of sadness, I feel, if anything, a little excited. Having a blank canvas in my own home seems like just the thing I’ve needed.

And true to my bargain with the divine powers that be, when Katie and Jack are finished eating, I find a pencil and call them over to the door to the hall.

‘What’s up, Mum?’ Katie looks wary.

‘Stand against the door frame,’ I say. ‘Back straight, chin up.’

She rolls her eyes as I mark her height and the date. I feel a little bit teary as I see how much she’s grown. I then measure Jack, and then (because they insist) the dog. And when I’m done, I pull them to me, and we all have a big hug. For once, even Katie doesn’t protest.

*

After supper, I begin to move our things upstairs to the spare bedrooms. Technically, we have another day, but somehow it seems best just to get it over with in one fell swoop. I lug two laundry baskets full of clothing from my bedroom to the rooms we’re moving to. I don’t have to clear my closets, but once my room is taken over – including my huge, canopy bed – for the filming, I might not have access if I need anything. Katie’s room is also going to be used for the filming, but not immediately. Still, I’ve warned her that she’ll need to pack what she needs, and for once, she actually listens. She packs laundry baskets, suitcases, and plastic bags full of nearly everything she owns – books, journals, colouring pens, clothing, toys she hasn’t played with in ages, and, of course, her precious Kindle Fire tablet. I draw the line when she tries to move the entire fifty-volume set of Encyclopaedia Britannica in with us. As it is, there’s so much stuff that there’s barely room around the bed, and that’s before I’ve even attempted to move Jack’s clothing, books and toys. His room isn’t being used for the filming, but it seemed best just to have him with us. As I drag the Pack-N-Play travel cot down from the attic for him to sleep in, I feel the familiar prickles of guilt. What kind of mum am I to uproot my son from his cosy room with the Winnie the Pooh wall stickers, superhero mobile, and everything that’s familiar to him since he was a baby? On the other hand, if we didn’t have this project, we might not be able to keep our home.

It’s late by the time everything is moved. Jack is fast asleep in his cot and Katie is in bed reading. I kiss them both goodnight, and go to my room to spend a last night in my own bed. It feels even more final, because tomorrow’s the day – the one-year anniversary of Dave’s death. I’ve arranged with Connie and Hannah that we’ll take the children and go out to the grave and put flowers there.

I lay down in bed staring up at the dark blue canopy over my head and the heavy wooden posts that support it. I’ve moved the dreamcatcher to my new room, and I miss its now-familiar presence. We moved to Tanglewild when Katie was only a year old. She wasn’t conceived in this bed, but Jack was. How long ago that seems. And now, it will be used for a simulated love scene between Victoria and William – played by Natasha Blythe and Dominic Kennedy. I feel a sudden pang of guilt, but quickly talk myself out of it. It wasn’t me who ‘violated the sanctity of the marital bed’, but rather, my husband.

In my head, I rewind the past year. So much of it was spent in darkness, anger, turmoil, fear, and now…? Now, I’m a different person – better or worse, I’m not sure. But different. And I’m not going to feel guilty for it.

I open my e-reader to the place where I’d ended the night before – where Victoria watched the smugglers unloading their cargo. In the next part, she sneaks back to the house:

The upshot is that Victoria is left panting, terrified, and wanting more.

As am I, and no doubt, millions of other readers as well. I turn out the light, feeling not very proud of what this says about me and my fellow womenkind. But then again, surely we’re as entitled to our guilty pleasures as men are. Either way, since the dawn of time, Adam and Eve have an awful lot to answer for.

*

Where guilty pleasures are concerned, it’s like speaking of the devil. The next morning, who should arrive at Tanglewild, but The Master himself – Dominic Kennedy. The house is a flurry of removals and deliveries – the movers come to cart away our things from the upstairs rooms, and several loads of tools and materials and props are delivered. Parts of the ground floor are going to be repainted and a kind of industrial plastic is to be installed over all the floors to protect the cast and crew from trip hazards and loose wires. What’s more, they start awfully early in the morning. I manage to give Katie and Jack their breakfasts just as the crew is starting to arrive, but when it’s time to do a last-minute scramble to find homework and gym kit, and finish brushing their teeth and hair, the kids are more than usually hyper and distracted. I end up yelling to try and get them out of the house, Jammie doesn’t want to be locked up in her run, and I’m stressed and I know we’re going to be late—

Which is, of course, exactly when Dominic Kennedy arrives.

He pulls up in his low black sports car, rolls down the window, and speaks to the security guard who is now posted at the entrance to the drive to monitor the comings and goings and keep out any paparazzi or onlookers. The guard waves him in and he parks next to the stone wall just as I’m trying to wrestle Jack into his car seat, out of breath for having run back to the house to retrieve a forgotten Spiderman. For a split second, I debate just getting in the car and driving off, but as soon as Dominic gets out of the car and I see him in the full light of day, I suffer a momentary paralysis. My God – he’s hot.

Like the rest of the world, I’ve seen him in a few mini-series on TV. In them, he usually plays the dashing rogue – tall, dark-haired, perfectly turned-out in period costume. In real life, he’s a little bit shorter and a little bit thinner than the screen makes him out to be. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt, just tight enough to hint at the chest that launched a thousand hot flashes, and well-fitting jeans. If anything, he’s even more handsome than his on-screen alter egos.

‘Mum, we need to go,’ Katie calls out.

‘Um… yeah.’ I find I can’t move.

‘Elizabeth.’ He walks towards me. ‘So what do you think, Miss Bennet?’ he quotes in a deep, Shakespearean voice. ‘Will you come to Pemberley?’

The cheesiness of the quote almost puts me off him. Almost. He immediately senses my reaction and drops the bad Derek Jacobi impression.

‘Sorry, Lizzie.’ He leans casually against the wooden post of the garage. ‘Couldn’t resist.’

‘I’m sure, uh… Dominic.’

His beams his smile upon me, his lips full, eyes rakish. He may be too handsome for anyone’s own good, but there’s a warmth about him too. I find myself wanting to like him.

‘Please – call me Dom,’ he says. ‘I’ve just seen the call sheet. It’s pretty full-on. I think we’re all going to be getting rather cosy around here.’ He gives a little laugh, and I join in. No matter how chaotic it might turn out to be to have the film crew around, there are worse things than having Dominic Kennedy at my house for three months.

‘Are rehearsals starting already?’ I say. ‘I didn’t expect the cast to be here until after they finished the set. But then, this whole thing is completely new to me.’

‘No, you’re spot on,’ he says. ‘The rest of the cast won’t be here yet.’ His smile fades and I detect an undernote of something unexpected. It could be – and probably is – an act. But it almost seems like vulnerability. ‘I like to get on location before anyone else, if possible.’ He casts his eyes to the ground. ‘The truth is, I get stage fright. How lame does that sound?’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I mean I can’t even imagine…’ I trail off, realising that I’m the one sounding lame. The scene I read last night pops into my head – William Clarke entering the house wild-eyed and sweaty, teeming with testosterone. Demonstrating his feelings – or, not to split hairs, forcibly accosting Victoria Easterbrook – leaving her a quivering mass of heaving bosom. This man. In my house. And eventually… though I haven’t got that far in the book yet, only a moron would doubt the final outcome… he’ll be in bed with her.

My bed.

He studies me with half-closed eyes; his eyelashes are long and black. For a moment, I’m sure that he can read my thoughts.

‘Mum!’ Katie calls out, breaking the moment.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I suppose that there are some parts of the job that are harder than others. For me, it’s that first bit – getting into character. Once I’m there though…’ And this time, there’s no mistaking the spark in those melting brown eyes.

I flush to the roots of my hair. My kids are in the car and we’re late. I don’t have time to let him practice ‘getting into character’ on me.

As delicious as that sounds.

‘Well, knock yourself out,’ I say. ‘Under the terms of the contract, the umm… house… is at your disposal.’

*

‘I think he likes you.’ The incredulity in Katie’s voice jars me from my thoughts. We’re already late, and to top it off, we get stuck at the level crossing while the 8:29 to London Victoria boards.

‘He’s an actor,’ I say. ‘He’s paid to be like that.’

It strikes me that Dominic Kennedy is kind of like a con man. Not the kind who perpetrates a scam by making his victims trust him, but who dupes his victims by pretending that it’s he who’s trusting them. If he is playing a role, pretending to suffer from stage fright, and then winning me over by confiding in me, he’s well-practised and very convincing. Or, maybe he’s just a nice guy who, thanks to an accident of birth, scored a perfect ten in the genes department and became an unwitting sex symbol. If there is such a thing.

‘Is he going to be our new dad?’ Jack says, the words muffled by the thumb in his mouth.

‘No, silly,’ Katie cuts in. ‘Not him.’

I have to slam on the brakes to avoid a shunt with a Range Rover at the chicane. Why are we even having this conversation? What the hell has Connie been saying?

‘Now just hold on,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to worry about getting a new dad. We have each other – we’re a family.’

Katie sniffs. It’s like she was anticipating my response – and is disappointed, as usual.

‘What?’ I say, glaring into the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you saying you want a new dad?’

‘Yeah!’ Jack says. ‘I wanna play football!’

‘I don’t know,’ Katie says. She chews on the end of her ponytail and stares out the window.

I repeat the lecture I’ve given them time and time again – as much for my benefit as for theirs. ‘Your Dad loved you very much,’ I say. ‘And no one will ever replace him. But you’ve both got a wonderful life ahead of you, and your dad will be with you in spirit. We’ll go to visit him later today – put flowers on his grave.’

‘Why bother?’ Katie’s reply is as sharp and hurt as ever. ‘Dad was a shit. I’ve heard you say it.’

‘Katie!’ I yell, steering the car onto the verge. ‘Don’t you ever use that word.’

‘What’s a shit?’ Jack says.

‘I’m just saying, you deserve better, Mum.’ Katie glances at me in the mirror. I can’t quite decide if she’s being sincere.

‘What’s a shit?’ Jack repeats.

‘It’s a poo poo,’ Katie says, a glimmer of a smile on her face.

‘It’s a word we don’t say,’ I growl. ‘It’s “a bad language”.’

‘I just want you to be happy, Mum,’ Katie says.

‘Do you?’

She nods, and this time I believe her, though, it’s the first I’ve heard her say anything like that. Connie again? I didn’t know that Katie wanted anything except her own pain to go away. Which is fair enough – I want that too for her. Emotion wells up in my chest. Jack is so little – he won’t end up with many memories of Dave, if any at all. He’ll look at the photos, and believe whatever he’s told about the dad that didn’t live to see his third birthday. Katie will remember him though, and I want her to remember the good things, not the bad. There were good times – family dinners, holidays, trips to the seaside, laughs. To me it all seems fuzzy and remote, but I want them to be real for her.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Jack parrots proudly.

I sigh. ‘Thanks, Katie. I want you to be happy too. For us all to be happy. And I think I’m getting there – slowly. I don’t need a new man for that. Happiness comes from within, not from another person. Remember that, OK?’

‘Yeah, Mum. Whatever.’

‘Shit, shitty shit.’ Jack grins from ear to ear. Katie starts to giggle.

‘Jack – stop that,’ I say, knowing it’s futile. In truth, I’m fighting the urge to giggle too. I pull into the school car park, anticipating a future trip to see the headmaster because my son is using ‘a bad language’. We’re so late that there are actually plenty of spaces – only a few mums are left in the queue to leave the car park. I herd Jack and Katie out of the car, carrying Katie’s heavy sports bag for her. Just outside the gate, I spot Parker, the mum from Katie’s class, talking to another mum whose name I think is Melissa. They’re both dressed in galaxy print Lycra for yoga or the gym.

‘Hi,’ I say, as I pass them.

‘Lizzie!’ Parker says. ‘How are you? We heard that the film project is all systems go!’

The kids run along inside the gate.

‘It is,’ I say. ‘They’ve cleared out the house, and the set building is starting. And guess who was there this morning?’ I lean in, lowering my voice. ‘Dominic Kennedy. That’s why we’re a little late.’

‘OH MY GOD!’ Melissa cries. ‘Did you speak to him? Is he as hot in real life as he is on screen?!’

‘Even more so!’ Since we’re having an exclamation mark kind of conversation, I almost feel like telling them everything – from the stage fright to the ‘getting into character’. It’s nice to be something other than the grieving widow, and have something worth talking about at the school yard gates. But just then, I hear Jack calling for me. I decide that it’s probably better if I keep my cards close to my chest. After all, I don’t want my hot leading man to see his words in some tabloid or other and end up giving me the cold shoulder.

‘You must have us over,’ Parker says. ‘Is that allowed?’

‘I don’t know. I can ask – maybe when the filming starts.’ I make a mental note to do just that.

‘Dominic Kennedy,’ Melissa repeats, shaking her head.

‘He also seems very nice,’ I say as I start walking. ‘Though,’ I add over my shoulder with a bemused smile, ‘I’m still getting used to the idea that he’ll be filming a love scene in my bed.’

*

On the way home, I think about Jack and Katie, and how there will always be a part of them that misses having a father. I want Katie to believe what I told her. That happiness doesn’t come from a man, or a house, or even having children. It has to come from within rather than the things around you. Before Dave died, I know I was the kind of person who was always whinging about today, and worrying about tomorrow. The kind of person who never had a clue how to enjoy the here and now. But I’m changing, I realise, as I turn into our gravel road. I’m beginning to see that it’s the little moments that matter.

I drive through the gates – or more correctly, to the gates – where I have to turn back and park along the road. The drive is completely packed with removal and delivery lorries, and people unloading a giant marquee to be constructed on the front lawn. Dominic Kennedy’s black sports car is still there, but so is another car I recognise – a silver Audi.

I dodge out of the way of three men bringing in a load of scaffolding rods and some painting supplies. The entire entryway to the house and the great hall has been taken over by men and tools. I make a beeline for the kitchen. But just outside the door, I hear raised voices.

‘But if I had my way we wouldn’t be here, would we? So don’t fucking lay that on me too, Richard.’

My hackles rise. If Luke Thornton is so keen not to be here, then why the hell is he here?

I can’t make out the reply, but then Luke continues. ‘No! That’s not right. I didn’t put it in my contract because you gave me your word.’

‘Come on, Luke,’ the other man says. ‘Don’t be this way. You’ll make it work, I know you will – and you have to.’

I steel myself to enter my kitchen. I have a right to be there. And while, technically, so do they, the kitchen stairs are the only access up to my temporary bedroom – where they don’t have a right to be.

‘She’ll be the end of this project. It won’t come to any good—’

I take a breath and start to walk, when a hand grabs my arm. I whirl around, startled. And then, my knees weaken.

‘Oh!’ I say. ‘You startled me.’

‘Sorry, Lizzie,’ Dominic says. ‘It’s just…’ he leans in, ‘you might want to give them a minute. I’m afraid Luke’s in a right old mood.’

I shake my head as anger boils up in my chest. Of all the directors that might have been hired for this project, why do I get stuck with the one who’s an unpleasant arse?

Dominic laughs, and I realise I’ve spoken aloud. He steers me through the obstacle course of the great hall to the drawing room overlooking the lake. Once we’re there, he digs in a rucksack that he’s obviously left there earlier, and tosses me a can of beer.

‘I’ve found that sometimes it’s good to bring one’s own provisions,’ he says. ‘Just in case.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. Though it’s only 9 a.m. and I hate beer, I crack it open anyway and take a swig. My stomach protests, which feels good in my present mood. I walk over to the window and stare out at the lake. The sun is just beginning to come out, and the water is a dark mirror, perfectly reflecting the trees on the other side.

Dominic comes up next to me and stares out at the view. ‘Don’t let him bother you,’ he says. ‘Luke’s a good guy. He can just be a little intense sometimes.’ He takes a long swig of his beer. ‘And just between us, something about this project has put a real bee in his bonnet. I’m not really sure what’s up with him, to be honest.’

‘Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to be here,’ I say, gesturing at the landscape with the can. ‘He’s been against using Tanglewild from the start.’

‘I don’t know. Seems like the perfect setting if you ask me.’

‘Why is he even doing it?’ I lament. ‘Surely he must have tonnes of offers for work. He can’t need the money.’

Dominic laughs; a low, deep rumbling sound that vibrates in my lower abdomen. ‘No, he doesn’t need the money, or the work. But it’s a great project – it’s got quite a bit of media hype surrounding it. Though it’s not his usual thing, I’m sure that he’s the man for the job. He has a way of drawing out the emotion in a script, and getting the cast to really feel, really become the characters. And he’s taken a risk on this one – decided to go with Natasha Blythe in the lead role even though she’s a relative unknown. He’s a champion of young talent.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you’re all “champions” of young female talent, aren’t you?’ I say sarcastically. Maybe Luke Thornton’s taken on the project because he’s hoping to replace one starlet wife with another.

Dominic laughs. ‘I suppose that’s one way to look at it.’ He does that lowered eyelid thing again that gets my pulse beating faster. ‘Though, frankly, some of us prefer a more seasoned cast.’

‘Yeah, right.’ I can’t help but laugh too.

There’s a commotion in the front hall as something heavy and loud gets dropped and someone yells ‘fuck’ at the top of their voice. I can only be thankful that Jack isn’t here – this time.

‘The problem is,’ I say, ‘I need to go through the kitchen to get up to my room. I wish they’d fight their battles somewhere else.’

He laughs. ‘It’s your house – so by all means, show him who’s boss.’

‘I will.’ As I turn to leave, I notice the pages of his script spread out on a side table. ‘By the way, how’s the rehearsing going?’

‘Oh, fine,’ he says. ‘And actually, I’ve found a lovely lady to help me run my lines.’

‘Really?’

‘You ready, Dom?’

‘Ah, in fact, here she is.’ His smile turns wicked as he indicates the person standing in the door frame – taking up the entire space. ‘Come in my lovely, Victoria.’

I’ve never imagined that my mother-in-law Connie – all six-foot two, seventeen stone of her – might actually seem to float as she enters a room. But there’s a first for everything. I roll my eyes and give her a little smirk, but she only has eyes for one person in the room. And it sure as heck isn’t me.

*

I leave them to it. Connie deserves her fun after everything she’s done to help me out. In the great hall, two men are manoeuvring a huge ladder into place next to the chandelier, and two others are picking up paint cans and tools that dropped out of the bottom of a carton – the commotion I heard. I stop and help them stack the paint cans. The argument in the kitchen seems to have quietened down, but I don’t know if anyone’s still in there. I chat for a minute with the workmen about protecting the floor when the painting starts. I linger there for longer than I need to, then decide that it’s stupid to feel unwelcome in my own house. Taking a breath, I head to the kitchen.

The back door is open on the lake side. I immediately see Luke Thornton – he’s outside pacing back and forth on the lawn near the edge of the lake. He’s wearing a green shirt, jeans, and expensive-looking leather shoes – hopefully he’ll ruin them stepping in goose poo. The light catches the top of his dark blond hair and strong profile. Though he lacks Dominic Kennedy’s devastating looks, I can’t deny that he’s objectively attractive. Too bad he’s such a total—

‘Mrs Greene? Is everything all right?’

I turn quickly, not realising that anyone else was there. It’s the man I’d dubbed Voldemort when he came round with Theo & Co to look at the house. Despite the morning chill, his bald pate is beaded with sweat – heated, no doubt, from arguing with Luke. He’s wearing a black roll-neck, black jeans, and black biker boots. The name ‘Charles’ is tattooed on his left hand with a heart around it.

‘Um, yes, fine,’ I say. ‘Hi, I’m Lizzie.’

‘Richard Silverman,’ he says. As we shake hands, I recall from Theo’s introductions that he’s the producer. I’m not sure who has more clout, he or Luke, but either way, I feel like I’m a lowly wolf cub intruding on a territorial dispute between two alpha males.

‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ I say, ‘but the only access to our rooms is through there.’ I point to the short corridor just off the kitchen that leads to the back stairs.

‘It’s OK,’ he says. When he smiles, his teeth are pointy. ‘I was just grabbing a coffee, and then I’m off. Luke has things well in hand.’ If he’s being sardonic, there’s no sign.

‘Why doesn’t he like the house?’ I say quickly, before my courage wanes. ‘I heard the two of you arguing.’

Richard stares at me for a moment before answering. ‘He’s been here before. That’s all I know.’

‘What?’ I look at him, stunned.

‘You’ll have to ask him.’ He pulls up his sleeve to check his watch – large and round on a heavy black leather strap. ‘Sorry, but I have to dash.’

He downs his coffee and takes the mug to the sink. Outside the open door, I can see Luke walking back up the lawn towards the house.

‘No worries,’ I say. ‘See you around.’ I make a beeline for the corridor and up the kitchen stairs. It’s only when the door to the guest room is closed behind me and I’ve turned the key in the lock that I realise quite how quickly my pulse is racing. I lean against the wall until I can catch my breath.