Chapter Three
I’m in the park.
The sun is shining and he’s walking towards me along the path, looking over at the row of shops opposite. A bus passes, an advert for a Reese Witherspoon romcom on the side, and he glances back over his shoulder.
He still hasn’t looked at me, but I know that he’ll be happy when he sees me. I want to run over to him, but I make myself wait.
He turns away from the shops and sits on a bench, his long legs – in black jeans – stretched out in front of him – and tips his head back, turning his face up to the sun. And I walk towards him…
And then I wake up. As I always do. As I always have. Every single time I’ve had this exact same dream for the past ten years. Occasionally one of the details changes. Once he left the park and crossed the road and went into a shop that’s not actually there. He looked at the sandwiches. I followed him. But I still didn’t approach him or speak to him.
Once a squirrel ran up to the bench and he reached down and gave it a nut. Why he’d be carrying nuts I don’t know.
Another time I got almost right up to the bench – so close I could see his face. Except I couldn’t see it, the sun was too bright and it dazzled me. I cried when I woke up from that one.
But last night’s was the basic, standard dream I’ve been having all these years. The one I think of as the main story – squirrels and sandwiches are sort of like DVD extras, nice to know but not actually essential to your enjoyment of the plot. He is the main story. The man of my dreams.
‘You know that scene in When Harry Met Sally where Sally tells Harry about her recurring sex dream?’ Freya says, as she slides a coffee across the dining table towards me.
‘Yep.’
‘And she says that a faceless man rips off her clothes? And Harry thinks it’s really dull?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your dream’s way worse than that.’
I roll my eyes as Freya grins at me. Freya thinks my dream is boring and pointless. She can’t believe I’ve been having the same, according to her, ‘dull as fuck’ dream for ten years. And I can’t make her understand that it’s not what happens in the dream that’s important – because I agree it’s not that exciting – but the way it makes me feel.
‘Wanna hear my dream?’ Freya asks. She drinks some of her own coffee and then gets up and opens the fridge. She takes a packed lunch to work every day.
‘Not really.’
She ignores me. Of course.
‘I dreamt I was on a jet-ski and Gina Rodriguez was waving to me from a yacht. I drove up to the yacht and a door opened in the side and a wave, like, swooped me into the yacht and when I got up on deck Gina was waiting for me. In a bikini.’
‘That’s the gayest dream you’ve ever had.’
She grins at me over her shoulder. ‘Not even. It was a good one though. But you know what, if I’d been having that dream for ten years I still wouldn’t be happy. Not unless it progressed. Not unless I got her out of her bikini. Or, like, Beyoncé turned up or something. The same boring ass dream over and over again?’ She flicks her hand.
‘I don’t find it boring though, that’s the point. It’s comforting.’
‘What’s comforting?’ Henry says as he walks in.
Me and Freya are still in our night clothes. I’m wearing proper button-up pyjamas with clouds on them. Freya’s in knickers and a vest. Henry always gets fully dressed before he comes out of his room. I’ve seen him in hoodies and trackies, but never in whatever he wears at night.
‘Bea’s boring dream, apparently,’ Freya tells him.
‘Put something on, will you?’ he says, as he always does. ‘Puts me off my breakfast.’
‘Stop oppressing me,’ Freya replies, bending down to get Tupperware out of the cupboard.
Henry turns away so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t hurt himself. When he looks at me, his cheeks are pink. Freya totally does it on purpose.
‘You had the dream again?’ he asks me.
I nod over the top of my mug.
‘I was telling her that her obsession would be more understandable if the dream progressed,’ Freya says, pulling a packet of Frazzles out of the cupboard. ‘If, like, she straddled him on the bench or something.’
‘And I was saying I find the repetition comforting,’ I say. ‘Like how you can watch a favourite film over and over and love it just as much.’
‘Like Inception,’ Henry says.
‘Yes. Except I haven’t seen Inception.’
Henry shakes his head. He’s appalled at my lack of interest in Christopher Nolan films.
‘But like Pretty Woman. I couldn’t even tell you how many times I’ve watched it. I know exactly what’s going to happen. But if it’s on TV, I have to watch it. No question. And I don’t have to worry it’s going to have a sad ending or a horrible ending, I know it all works out.’
‘And they all lived anti-feministly ever after,’ Freya says.
‘It’s not anti-feminist,’ I argue, pushing my chair back from the table. I need to go and have a shower. ‘They rescue each other.’
Freya blows a raspberry.
In the shower, I think about what Freya said. I know she thinks I’m ridiculous for obsessing over the dream. But I’ve been having it for ten years for a reason. I’ve never had any other recurring dreams. I dream a lot, but I’ve never had another dream that feels as real as this one. So I don’t care that Freya thinks it’s boring or that I’m ridiculous for believing it will come true, because it has to. Otherwise what’s the point?