‘You’re not going to believe what happened to me today,’ I say, as I walk into Freya’s room after work.

‘Someone wanking in the pregnancy section again?’ she says from her chair in the corner.

‘Oh my god. No. Something good.’

‘Cool, just a sec,’ she says, holding up one finger. She’s got her legs curled up underneath herself and an exercise book on her knee, pen in hand. There’s a huge pile of similar books on the small round table next to her. I still can’t believe how much work she has to bring home with her, but she tries to get it done as soon as she can, so the rest of the evening’s her own.

I sit on the end of her bed and look around her room.

Freya’s room is like something from an interiors magazine and it always surprises me. My room still basically looks like a student room. Or my bedroom at home. Home home. But Freya has pictures and mirrors and a beautiful multicoloured blown-glass chandelier.

‘Is that new?’ I say without thinking, spotting a red glass vase on the window ledge. The light’s shining through it and reflecting on the black and white rug.

‘Shush,’ she says, without looking up.

I shuffle off the bed and walk over to look at her photos. One full wall is covered in them, all individually displayed in frames Freya picks up in charity shops and jumble sales and only very occasionally IKEA. I look at the photo of her mum in the seventies, wearing a pair of short shorts and perched on the back of a moped; Freya’s brother as a baby wrapped in a blanket but with a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses perched on his head; the dog she had as a kid, lying across her bare feet.

Before I reach the photos of me and Henry, Celine and Adam, Freya says, ‘Done. This one managed to confuse Elizabeth I and Elizabeth II which is quite impressive. “The Virgin Queen is mother to four children…” Work needed on history and sex ed.’

I flop back on the bed again. Her mattress is so much softer than mine.

‘I found him,’ I say.

‘Who him?’ She uncurls her legs, sticking them out straight in front and circling her ankles. ‘Not him him?’

I swing myself up to sitting and nod. ‘In the park. I went to get milk this morning and stopped for a look and he was there. He looked exactly the same.’ I hold my phone out to show her the photo, but it’s not great. My hands were shaking too much to get a clear shot.

‘Wow.’ She looks at it and then at me.

‘I asked him out. And he took my number. We’re going for coffee tomorrow.’

‘Wow,’ she says again. She doesn’t look impressed.

‘What?’

‘I just…’ She twists her mouth to one side and I’ve known her long enough to know what that means. ‘You don’t really think it’s him, right?’

‘Of course it’s him.’ It is. It must be.

She reaches for her drink on the table behind the exercise books, gulps some and puts it back. ‘I get that you think it’s him. Because you’ve wanted this for so long. But I don’t want you going out with some random bloke you picked up in a park because you think you’ve been dreaming about him, you know?’

I shake my head. ‘I know. But… it really is him. Everything was the same. Even his name. I knew his name was Dan—’

‘You didn’t know his fucking name was Dan. You’ve literally never mentioned that before.’ She’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

‘No. I didn’t know before. But as soon as he said it I knew.’

‘Can you hear yourself? You sound insane.’

‘I know that,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not stupid. And I know you don’t understand. But I know the dream and I know it was him.’

She closes her eyes and rolls her head from side to side. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, opening her eyes and staring straight at me. ‘I know it means a lot to you. And maybe it really was him, what the fuck would I know?’

‘It was him,’ I say. ‘I know it was.’

‘I just want you to be careful,’ she says.

‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘We’re only going for a coffee. I won’t go anywhere with him. And I’ll ring you after.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Freya says. ‘OK.’ She pulls her legs up under her again. ‘My first work placement, I met a woman. She was older than me, she’d been working there about three years, I think. She had a daughter. She brought her in one day, she was gorgeous. One Friday night after work a bunch of us went to the pub for a quick drink and it turned into a late one. I was sitting next to her and we were talking and she told me her marriage was over. That her husband wasn’t interested in her any more. That they were only staying together because of the baby. Her knee was pressing against mine under the table and I couldn’t think straight because I just desperately wanted to kiss her.’

She tips her head back again, staring up at the ceiling.

‘I didn’t kiss her. And she didn’t kiss me. We both went home and on Monday we went back to work and we never talked about it again. But I kind of got obsessed with her. I used to watch her all the time at work. We were on staggered lunches and I made sure I had the same break as her ’cos I thought when she and her husband did actually split, I’d be there. I’d be the one she’d come to, you know? I stalked her on Facebook. I looked up her address at work and went and sat in her local pub just in case she popped in. I thought she was The One, you know? And I don’t even believe in The One. And then one day – this had been going on for months, like… six months? – and then one day her husband came to pick her up from work. And he kissed her and I stood and watched them, like the creepy stalker I was. He had his hand on the back of her neck and it killed me, it was so casually intimate. And I went home and got absolutely hammered.’

‘God,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

She shakes her head. ‘The thing is, I realised – eventually, not immediately – that it wasn’t about her at all. I was lonely. And insecure. And I felt out of my depth at work. And I just took all these emotions and feelings and pasted them onto her. I wanted her to save me. I’m not sure she even knew my name.’

It’s only then that I realise the point of her story.

‘You think this is about Anthony?’

She nods.

‘It’s not,’ I say, standing up. ‘It’s nothing to do with him.’

‘Don’t go,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to upset you.’

‘I’m not upset,’ I lie. ‘You’ve got loads of work to do. And I’ve got some stuff to do for my stepdad.’

I’m out of her room before she can say anything else. She doesn’t come after me.

---

I lie face down on my own bed. When I got back to the shop this morning, a new delivery had come in and I volunteered to sort it, mainly so I could spend the day on my own, thinking and dreaming about Dan. It was too fresh, too perfect, I didn’t want to talk about it and have someone burst the bubble. Maybe I shouldn’t have told Freya. But I had to tell someone. I can’t believe she thinks this is about Anthony.

I met him when I first moved to London. I went into a newsagent’s on Shaftesbury Avenue and he was in there, buying a magazine. He smiled at me. His eyes were really bright blue, the type that look a bit otherworldly. I blushed. We both left the shop at the same time but in different directions. I looked back over my shoulder to take one last look at him and he was looking back at me. It was thrilling. Like something from a film. I kept walking, but he came after me. Tapped me on the shoulder, said, ‘Excuse me’ and asked for my number. By the time I got off the Tube, he’d already texted asking me out for a drink. We went out for three months and I was happy. I hadn’t had a boyfriend before. I was new in London, living in this amazing house with wonderful people and I thought I might be falling in love.

And then he suddenly stopped answering his mobile. At all – not just to me – I got other people to try. And then, after a couple of weeks, I went round to his flat and he’d moved out. I never heard anything from him again. As if he’d just disappeared. As if he was dead.

It was horrible. But it’s got nothing to do with the dream. And nothing to do with Dan.