Even reflected in my crap, slightly warped mirror, the dress from Mum’s shop looks incredible. I’ve never seen myself look like this before. I have a lot of favourite clothes and I’ve had things I’ve fallen in love with before now, but nothing like this. I watch myself turn in the mirror and the dress swings around me. I laugh out loud.

There’s a knock at the door and I call out, ‘Hang on!’

Although it’s not as if I’m going to change back into my sweats before opening the door, I had imagined presenting myself in this dress, not someone just walking in. But whoever it is obviously didn’t hear me anyway because the door opens and Henry takes a couple of steps inside, before stopping dead.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I was just trying this on. Mum bought it for me. From her shop. You know the one I was telling you about? Where she’s been working?’

I’m babbling again. Henry, however, is silent. He looks stunned. Like the salmon in the window of the fishmonger’s on the high street.

‘What’s wrong?’ I say, panic crawling up my stomach. What if something’s happened to Mum? Or Matt? Or Tom?

‘You…’ he says, but it comes out as more of a croak. He lifts his arms as if he’s going to reach out for me and then drops them at his sides again. ‘You look…’

‘Oh.’ The panic in my belly has gone, but it’s been replaced by something else. Something that feels like butterflies. I look down at myself.

‘I know. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? I can’t believe it.’

He shakes his head. ‘You look amazing. Are you, uh, going somewhere with Dan? I thought Freya said you’d seen him already.’

‘I have,’ I say. ‘We went out for dinner. And I ended it with him.’

Henry’s mouth drops open again. ‘Seriously? How come?’

I feel weird having this conversation standing in the middle of the room in my glorious dress. I perch on the edge of the bed. Henry stays standing.

‘It wasn’t right. It never was. I was totally kidding myself.’

‘Because of the dream?’

‘Pretty much, yeah. Or, no. Maybe at first. But also because I thought I wanted security. Like Mum had with Tom. But look how that turned out. And also Freya thinks I was trying to protect myself because Anthony was such a nightmare.’ What is it with the babbling? How do I stop?

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry says. ‘That sucks.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s for the best. But… yeah.’

He stares at me for a second and I can’t work out the expression on his face.

‘What are you watching?’ he asks, eventually, gesturing at my laptop.

‘Down With Love.’

He laughs. ‘Appropriate.’

‘I thought so. Hey, did you want something?’

He looks confused.

‘What did you come in here for?’

‘Oh right, yeah. Inception’s on. I was going to ask if you wanted to watch it.’

‘With you?’

‘Course. Freya and Georgie’ve gone out.’

‘Even though you’ve seen it how many times?’

He grins. ‘A few. But I haven’t seen it for a while. I don’t let myself rewatch it very often so it keeps its effect.’

‘Oh god. OK. I’ll get changed. Have we got any popcorn or anything?’

‘I’ll go and have a look.’

He’s almost out of the room when I add, ‘And beer.’

---

‘I don’t understand it,’ I say after about five minutes.

While I was getting changed, Henry went out and bought popcorn and beer, plus chocolate and biscuits and olives and cheese and ham. (‘I didn’t know what you fancied.’)

‘You have to stick with it,’ he says. ‘It’ll be explained in a bit. Sort of.’

‘Still don’t get it,’ I say after fifteen minutes, when I’m frowning so hard my forehead is sore and I’ve eaten a full bowl of popcorn. And it’s about dreams. I mean, I knew that, but I’d forgotten. Why won’t the universe let me not think about bloody dreams for five bloody minutes?

‘He explains it in a bit,’ Henry says. ‘Ish.’

I like the bit where Paris folds up and Ellen Page does the thing with the mirrors, but I still have no clue what’s going on. Not even when Leonardo explains it.

‘What do you like about this film exactly?’ I ask Henry, after about an hour. I still don’t really understand what’s going on, but I’m on my second beer and I’m letting it wash over me. And I’ve eaten all the cheese (and most of the olives).

‘I like the characters. And their dynamic. And the concept.’

I don’t particularly like the characters. And I can’t say I think much to their dynamic either. But the concept is cool, I’ll give him that. It would’ve been interesting to read, like, a paragraph about.

‘How long is it?’ I ask him.

‘Um,’ he says, shuffling on the sofa. ‘About two and a half hours, I think.’

Oh sweet Jesus. I open another beer.

---

I’m in the park. The sun is shining and I feel warm and safe and happy. I see someone in the distance, walking towards me, but the sun’s in my eyes and I can’t tell who it is. I know though. I know without even seeing him.

I keep walking and he keeps walking and then we both stop. And smile.

‘Hey,’ Henry says. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

And then I wake up.

---

I wake up on the sofa with my head on Henry’s shoulder. I don’t know that at first. Not exactly. At first I’m not quite sure where I am or who I’m with, but eventually I realise I’m on the sofa, my head’s on Henry’s shoulder, there’s a crick in my neck and I must’ve let go of a beer ’cos I’m sitting in a wet patch. I hope that’s why, anyway. My arm’s against Henry’s arm. My thigh’s pressed up against Henry’s thigh. I feel warm all down that side. (And wet down the other side, which I could live without.)

I move away slowly and realise that Henry’s asleep too. His glasses have slipped down his nose and his long eyelashes are fluttering as he dreams. I look over at the TV. Bloody Inception is still on – is it the film that never ends?

As I shift on the sofa, a beer bottle rolls away from my leg, so at least I was right about the puddle. That’s a relief. I put it on the table and grab another olive, before looking back at Henry. He looks good asleep. Some people don’t. Some people sleep with their mouths open, grunting. I’ve seen them on the train. But Henry looks peaceful. His mouth is closed, and I can see a tiny patch of stubble under his bottom lip. His haircut definitely suits him too. His fringe is sort of soft and brushing his eyebrows and—

He opens his eyes. And catches me staring at him. Shit.

‘Sorry,’ I say, flustered, shifting further back on the sofa.

He blinks at me. ‘I fell asleep?’

‘You did.’ I don’t think I need to tell him that I did too.

He pushes his glasses up his nose and peers at the TV. ‘The film’s still on.’

‘I think it’s on forever now. We just have to get used to it.’

‘What time is it?’

I pull my phone out of my pocket. ‘Eleven.’

‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Better get to bed.’

‘Yeah.’ I don’t move. I’m sitting in a wet patch.

He’s still looking at me and I guess I’m still looking back at him. And then he stands up suddenly.

‘Night,’ he says, rubbing one hand back through his hair. The new soft fringe falls back down over his forehead.

‘Sweet dreams,’ I say. Like a dickhead.