Finding Dreams by Lauren Westwood (9)

I can’t bring myself to read more of The Lady’s Secret. I don’t want to get excited about something that might well never happen. Instead, as I lie in bed that night, I plough through a hundred pages of a police novel about a kidnapping, or maybe a murder – or both – I just can’t keep my mind on it. Above me, in my peripheral vision, the leather and bead tendrils of the dreamcatcher move ever so slightly on a current of air that must be caused by my breathing.

Should I have done something differently when Theo and Michelle were here? Appear more desperate? Less? Act like I didn’t care – like their presence was an imposition? Act like the Lady of the Manor – something I’ve never been able to do with any conviction. Which isn’t surprising. I grew up living in a semi in North London. My parents were ordinary, middle-class: Dad was a postman and Mum taught at the local primary school. When I went off to uni, they moved to a little bungalow in Somerset. Dad died when I was nineteen, leaving Mum the bungalow and his pension. A few years later, she sold the bungalow and moved to Spain. I funded my university studies through loans and working weekends at the campus ice cream shop. I never had a lot of money, and didn’t miss what I didn’t have.

When I graduated and became a trainee at a City law firm, not much changed for me financially. I didn’t earn a huge amount the first two years, and what I did earn went on rent and student loans. Eventually, when I qualified as a solicitor, my salary was bumped up. It was a lifestyle of long hours in the office, drinks with colleagues down the pub, night buses and short, casual flings. I was put on a contentious acquisition of a power plant, and found myself in endless arguments and negotiations with a particularly obstinate fourth-year associate on the other side called David Greene. We finally met face-to-face at the closing, and I wouldn’t say it was love at first sight. But by then we’d spent enough hours arguing on the phone that we were like an old married couple. It seemed only natural when we started dating, fell in love, moved in together, and eventually got married in a small civil ceremony.

In the first year of our marriage there were a series of bubbles and crashes in the London property market. It somehow created a perfect storm that worked to our advantage. Dave sold his flat at a high, and we managed to cobble together enough money to buy a house in Twickenham at a low. Dave made partner, I was still working, and by the time Katie came along, we’d managed to pay off the mortgage.

When Katie arrived, we were eager to move even further out of London. It was fun looking at properties within an hour’s commute of the city, and Dave and I both wanted something old and quirky. Dave had grown up in an old farmhouse in Hertfordshire, so he appreciated things like that. On paper, Tanglewild didn’t look very promising – it was too far from London, it was oddly partitioned, and the lake was not a bonus for a family with a small child. But perhaps all those reasons worked in our favour. We viewed the house on an overcast February day. For me, it was love at first sight. The fact that it was a problem property meant that others hadn’t even bothered to view it, and ours was the only offer. It seemed like fate, kismet, a winning hand – and it was – for a time, at least.

I close my eyes, trying to clear my mind of all thoughts and feelings. Tanglewild will be chosen for the film – or not – based on what the director and the film company envision for the setting. It has little or nothing to do with me. I feel the familiar dizzying sensation of things careering out of control around me. Not for the first time, I regret having rejected the GP’s offer of sleeping tablets to ‘take the edge off’. Katie’s had a few grief counselling sessions, but when the doctor offered me a referral, I refused. I would talk to someone when I was ready, I’d reasoned at the time. Now, I’m wondering why I was so pig-headed. I have Hannah, and I phone my mum occasionally. I haven’t told my mum the whole truth – I was too proud to admit that she was right in her negative opinion of Dave. At some point in the future, when things are sorted, I’ll tell her everything. For now, though, I’d rather keep her at a distance. It has been good having Connie and Simon here, though, and I’m glad that they’re aware of how things stand.

It was the letter, however, that created a real chink of light in the darkness, and I allowed myself to get my hopes up. That was a mistake.

*

I must have fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes, the room is dark, the blackness thick and cloying. The pillow is damp and my heart is beating wildly. In the dream, I’d been leaning out the window looking for… him. Some tall, handsome figment of my imagination. But instead, I’d seen a dark figure; a pair of sharp malevolent eyes looking up at me—

‘Mummy!’ the scream cuts through the darkness. The dream flits away into the hidden crevices of memory.

Jack. I sit up, wide awake. He used to be a good sleeper, but since losing his dad, he’s been sporadic at best.

‘Mummy!’ he screams again.

I swing out of bed and go through the adjoining bathroom to his room, turning on the light.

He’s sitting up in his cot bed, rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other hand holding his plush Spiderman whose arm he’s sucking on.

‘Hey pumpkin, you OK?’ I go over and ruffle his hair.

‘I was following the ducks to Snow White’s house. Then I fell into the water.’

‘Snow White’s house?’ My heart screeches to a halt. Could he be talking about the dovecote? I used to walk him there with the dog when he was a baby, strapped into the carrier on my chest. But other than that, I’ve no idea how he even knows it’s there. ‘It was just a dream, honey,’ I say. ‘And Mummy’s here now.’

‘Can I come have a rest with Mummy?’

I hesitate. The counsellor said it’s best for the children to move forward without ‘crutches’ like bed-sharing. But heck – we’re all struggling, if for different reasons.

‘Of course, love.’ I open my arms and he climbs into them for an up-cuggle. I carry him back to my room and lay him down in the centre of the big canopy bed. Whatever terrors the night – and the future – may hold, for now, at least, they aren’t going to touch us.

*

The next few days are torture. No message from Theo – of course not – it’s too soon. They’ll have to show the photos to the director and get loads of people signing off. Theo said he’d let me know one way or the other, so maybe I should take heart – silence isn’t the same as no.

Another three late notices on bills arrive, and another two rejections from recruiters. The estate agent rings to reschedule the valuation and I know I should take his call, bite the bullet and get him out here. But instead I let it go to voicemail, and only listen to half the message before deleting it.

I decide I’m feeling low enough to google the director to see what I’m up against. As soon as the search engine results come up, it’s blindingly obvious that I haven’t been getting out much over the last few years. I haven’t seen any of the films that Luke Thornton has directed, but most of them were huge Hollywood earners with a constellation of big-name stars. He was nominated for a best director Golden Globe for a hard-hitting psychological drama, that went on to win best film. His fame bodes poorly for Tanglewild, I think.

Then there’s a series of articles on his private life. Apparently, he’s originally from Yorkshire, though for most of his career he’s lived in Hollywood. I skim tabloid articles going back several years, setting out the grim details of a seismic divorce from an up-and-coming American starlet. Once said starlet had ‘come up’, she had a well-publicised affair with an up-and-coming co-star.

Most of the articles have photos of the starlet ex-wife – a tall, lithesome blonde with crystal blue eyes – but none of him. In the last article, however, the paparazzi have caught him on camera on the steps of a sunny Los Angeles divorce court. His sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, and he’s glaring accusingly at the camera.

I close down the webpage. The world of Hollywood film types is one I don’t – and don’t want to – understand. Maybe Connie’s right after all. If Tanglewild isn’t chosen it will be a blessing in disguise.

I shut down my computer and decide to tackle the task of leaf-clearing in the garden. Ever since the location scouts came round and I’ve realised what a state the house and garden are in, I’m determined to try and do something about it. I’ve just found my mud-encrusted welly boots in the cupboard by the door when, all of a sudden, my phone beeps. My heart jumps – as it does each time a new message comes in these days – and thuds back to earth when I see that, like all the others, it’s not from Theo.

It is, however, from someone I know. A partner from my old firm where I was a trainee. I’d sent my CV to the firm’s HR department and got rejected, then, at a low moment, sent it to him personally. I’d never liked Harry Reynolds – he was one of those partners who married a junior associate, had a kid, divorced, married another junior associate, had two more kids, divorced, and so on. There were rumours of his exploits in the disabled toilet after hours with the trainees. I never worked with him directly so had never been in the line of fire, but a few times at group drinks, he’d made it known to me that he would be available for a little extra ‘mentoring’ should I happen to be interested. I wasn’t. To me, he was a smarmy scumbag who took advantage of circumstance – like the fact that his wife and family lived in Hertfordshire and he had carte blanche to ‘work late’ at the office. I’d been so high-minded and smug back then, thinking that nothing like that could ever happen to me.

When I came across Harry in my contact list, my first instinct was to hit delete. Just seeing his name brought the feelings of shame, betrayal, violation, crashing back like a rogue wave. But when the pension money ran out, I decided to send him my CV on spec – counting on the fact that I was now way too old for him to bother with, or probably even remember. I stare at the email address on the screen, steeled for the crushing sense of failure, and finally force myself to open it:

Against my better judgement, I dial the mobile number at the bottom of the message. The phone rings, is answered. Small talk is made and then the chase is cut to. I ignore the fact that even hearing Harry’s voice sets my teeth on edge. I try not to question whether I ought to be rewinding my life by ten years, returning to the same firm where once upon a time I was a different person than I am now. I don’t think about juggling the school run and the commute to London. I don’t think about the long hours, and having to prove myself all over again. I focus on the fact that this could be real – much more real than a letter in the post box and, as Connie would say, ‘Hollywood smoke and mirrors’. I’ll be able to call off the estate agents, catch up on the mortgage payments, buy a netball kit for Katie, throw Jack a proper birthday party. I’ll be back in the saddle, prospecting for my long-lost self-esteem, and who knows – maybe I’ll even strike it rich.

And fifteen minutes later, when it’s all agreed – I’ll start the following week, part-time to begin with – I can’t help but feel elated, jubilant even. I cross my fingers and pray that maybe my run of bad luck has turned around at last.

*

‘Guess what?’ I say.

Connie sticks her head out of the caravan. I can smell baking, and there’s a tray of chocolate chip biscuits set out on a wire rack next to the oven. Beside me, Jammie lets out a little whine. Connie grabs a biscuit and tosses it to the dog. She leaps up and catches it in her mouth, swallowing it down like the fox that ate the gingerbread man. Connie does not, however, offer me one. She’s been bent out of shape ever since Simon volunteered to help me spring-clean the house. Having him there, a silent, steady force, has really helped motivate me to get on with the job. Together we’ve blitzed the downstairs, sorted the toys, and carted a lot of them up to the attic. Having things out of sight is making me feel a lot better about the house. If the film team ever comes here – with each passing day, it seems increasingly unlikely – I’ll be ready.

‘What?’ Connie says, ‘You’ve sold another job lot of boys 3-6 month sleepsuits on eBay for a fiver?’

My eBay empire – so important to me over the last few months – seems to provide Connie with an endless source of amusement. Though, from my daily trips to the post office, to my up and down moods depending on whether an auction sold or not, I can’t say I blame her.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to have time for eBay now. I’ve got a job.’

‘The film thing?’ She purses her lips. ‘Or did you take my advice and decide to look into the B&B idea.’

‘Neither – for now at least.’ I tell her about the email and the call, and about when I’m starting. I keep to myself the misgivings about Harry, my boss-to-be. Then I casually let drop the reason I braved knocking on her door in the first place. ‘I was thinking… well, hoping… that maybe you or Simon could take the kids to school and help with collecting them. Just on the days I’m working in London,’ I add quickly. ‘Until I find an afterschool nanny. I’ll pay you, of course.’

She crosses her arms without speaking, forcing me to ramble on.

‘I mean – assuming you were planning on sticking around for a little while. Which, I hope you are. Not just because Simon’s helping me, but because it’s actually… um… nice to have you here.’ Now that I’m saying it, I realise that it’s true.

‘Hmmf,’ Connie says. ‘You know Simon’s applied for a part-time job at the fruit farm?’

‘No – he didn’t mention it. But that sounds really good.’

‘So you can work it out with him. I’m busy here.’

‘Oh? That’s good. What are you doing besides baking?’

For a moment, she seems to hesitate. ‘Oh, I’ve got a few things on. Tax returns and that sort.’

‘Right…’ I frown. She’s acting oddly evasive – very un-Connie-ish. My mind wanders back to my Breaking Bad hypothesis. I know Connie likes to spend a good portion of the day in her own, tiny confined space. Her frugal lifestyle means that she and Simon can live off her police pension and occasional work. So why doesn’t she just come out and say that she likes to sit around and watch TV, bake, listen to Radio 4 – whatever it is, and leave it there? Unless there really is something else?

‘But in principle,’ she says, skilfully changing the subject, ‘we can help out with the little mites until you get sorted. Though I don’t see how you’re going to manage with a London job – to me the B&B sounds like a no-brainer. But to each his own.’

‘OK, thanks for that.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ She closes the door, ending the conversation.

‘To each his own,’ I mutter under my breath. Connie’s brusqueness, while not unusual, has taken the wind out of my sails. But I force myself to focus on the positives. I’ve now got a job and temporary childcare. Today is a much better day than yesterday.

I go back to the house and upstairs to my room. For my next task, I do an inventory of my closet. In my zealous attempt to make money, I’ve flogged most of my office clothing. Nearly every suit, every pair of heels, every blouse and nice top has gone – in most cases for a fraction of what I paid. I’ve kept a few jumpers and cardigans – practical for a house with a medieval heating system – and two out-of-fashion skirts that didn’t sell.

Until I’m earning money again, I’ll have to make do. Then, once I’m back on my feet, I’ll be able objectively to consider my options. Commit long-term to a career in the City or ‘think outside the box’ about an alternative like the B&B.

I close the closet door and sit down on the edge of the bed, letting my mind wander over the possibilities. Once upon a time, I used to like meeting new people; travelling to new places; staying at little B&Bs or country inns on weekend breaks with Dave. We stayed at some lovely little places – some very twee and toile, others with the upscale ‘boutique’ look. Back then, I never thought I’d live someplace that might have that kind of potential, but now, as I look around me, I realise that Tanglewild is just the kind of place that might suit people looking for a short break from the city. It’s very near the train station, yet it feels like it’s hidden away in the countryside. I could fix up the dovecote – turn it into a gym or spa or something – and get some canoes for the lake. I could provide walking maps and cycling guides, build a tennis court in the paddock.

I stand up and walk out of the room down the upstairs hallway. In addition to Jack and Katie’s rooms, there are two decent-sized bedrooms in this part of the house, plus two more guest bedrooms in the wing above the kitchen. Four rooms would be manageable, and if I did the painting myself and bought some old furniture off eBay then I might be able to—

My phone vibrates in my pocket with a new email. As soon as the name comes up on screen, my visions of a B&B evaporate, along with all my back-to-work hopes and fears…

[email protected]

This is it – the film project – this is the one thing I really, really want. Please God, let it be good news. Just this once —

My eyes blur with tears as I delete the message and hurl the phone across the room. It lands with a thud on the carpet. The screen goes dark.