The following morning I’m making a coffee in the kitchen when Henry comes in. He’s in his pyjama bottoms and holey T-shirt and I want to slide my hands up underneath it and touch his skin.

‘Morning,’ he says, his voice still croaky with sleep.

I smile at him. ‘Morning.’

He didn’t stay in my room. Not all night anyway. He stayed for a while. And we kissed so much that my lips felt sore and swollen, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. I didn’t sleep much, but when I did I dreamt about him. Not in the park though. Everywhere. And then I woke up stupidly early, showered and dressed and came downstairs to make breakfast.

‘Picnic today,’ he says, pressing up against me.

I tip my head back and he kisses me, his hands curving around my neck, fingers pressing into my hair. I want him to lift me up on the countertop and pull my dress up over my head.

‘Missed you,’ he says against my mouth.

I laugh. ‘Shut up.’

‘Can’t believe I get to kiss you,’ he says, dragging his lips along my jaw.

I slide my hands under his T-shirt and dig my thumbs into his waist. He wriggles under my hands. Ticklish.

‘Oh. My. God,’ I hear Freya say.

I lean back from Henry’s kiss and peep at her over his shoulder. She’s wearing a black lace bralette and red satin football shorts. I’m not even going to ask.

‘Don’t turn round,’ I tell Henry. ‘She’s barely dressed.’

He drops his forehead down on my shoulder as Freya scoffs. ‘Prude. You two deserve each other.’ She grins. ‘Actually, you really do.’ She crosses the kitchen, bumping a chair out of her way with her hip and wraps her arms around us both. ‘So happy you finally worked it out.’

‘Thanks.’ I grin at her.

She reaches up and musses Henry’s hair. ‘And so glad I don’t have to keep not telling her your guilty secret.’

‘Thanks,’ Henry tells her without turning around. ‘You were a great help.’

He turns his head so his lips brush my neck and I gasp.

‘Oh fucking hell, not in the kitchen,’ Freya says. ‘Pubes on the counter are way worse than dishes in the sink.’

‘Oh my god, Freya!’ I say.

As she leaves the room, I hear her yell, ‘Adam! Celine! Don’t go in the kitchen! Bea and Henry are getting it on.’

‘Yes!’ Adam bellows. ‘Fucking finally!’

Followed by the sound of Celine vomiting.

---

The sun is shining and Celine’s brought picnic blankets and a big plastic sheet. She’s so organised.

‘What do you think of this one?’ she asks, passing me some Rightmove details she’s printed off the internet. It’s a four bed semi with enormous rooms and original fireplaces in the living room and bedrooms, plus subway tile in the kitchen. I love subway tile.

‘It’s lovely,’ I tell her, as I flick through the photos. ‘No garden though.’ Just a big paved yard.

‘Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Adam says it’s near a park, but I think a garden would be lovely.’ She leans back on her arms and shifts her bum on the picnic blanket. She’s got piles. She’s been telling me. Even though I’ve asked her not to. I pass the printout to Freya.

The next one is an end terrace with smaller rooms, fireplaces, a beautiful kitchen and a balcony off the bedroom, plus a big garden.

‘This one’s great,’ I say, passing it to Freya. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

Celine glances at Adam, who’s fiddling with the barbecue. ‘Close to Adam’s mum.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my mum,’ Adam says without looking up. ‘She’s a wonderful woman.’

‘Oh she is,’ Celine says, shaking her head at me and Freya. ‘But I don’t want her popping in every sodding day.’

‘Yeah,’ Adam says, striking a match. ‘She would definitely do that.’

Celine rolls the printout up and passes it to Adam. ‘You can light the barbecue with this, hon.’

‘Hon?’ Freya says, reaching for the next printout.

‘It’s the hormones,’ Celine says.

The next property’s not much to look at from the outside, and the bathroom and kitchen need updating, but there’s a big garden and it’s a hundred grand less than the other two.

‘Adam likes that one,’ Celine says. ‘Reckons he’s going to do it up himself.’

‘Oh god no,’ Freya says.

‘Oi,’ Adam says, shaking the box of matches in our direction. ‘I am man. I can make fire. I can renovate kitchen.’

‘You can’t even change a lightbulb,’ Celine says. ‘He always breaks the fitting.’

‘True,’ Adam says, flopping down next to her and resting his head on her lap. ‘But I can get a man in.’ He turns his head towards her torso and says, ‘Hello, baby!’ in a ridiculous voice.

‘Stop talking to my vagina,’ Celine says, running her fingers through his hair.

I look at the two of them together and realise that if they’d come into the shop a few months ago, Henry and I would have guessed wrong. We’d have said ‘split’; that they were too different, they bicker too much, he’s too rough and it annoys her and she’s shrill and dismissive. But we’d have been wrong. Because despite their differences, they love each other. And despite the way they used to, and sometimes still do, come across in public, they’re properly there for each other when it counts. Which is much more important than how their relationship looks to a couple of bored, nosy booksellers.

‘Have you showed them my fave?’ Adam asks, still curled up with Celine.

‘No,’ Celine says. ‘Because it’s bollocks.’

‘Show them,’ he says.

‘Show us,’ I copy.

She passes me the printout. It’s a two bedroom penthouse. With a huge terrace, a bar and red leopard-patterned wallpaper in the bedroom.

‘This is bollocks,’ I say, rolling it up and smacking Adam on the head with it.

He rolls off Celine’s lap. ‘It’s my dream.’

‘And has been since this very morning,’ Celine says. ‘If I was going to live in a penthouse, it wouldn’t be in bloody Southend.’

‘This disparagement of Southend has to stop,’ Adam says. ‘It’s not good for the baby.’ He sits up. ‘Oi oiiiiii! Here comes Henry.’

He’s been for more beer.

---

The burgers smell incredible, but I can also smell the deli over the road: garlic, tomatoes, coffee. And the fumes from the traffic. My favourite smell. The smell of my life in London.

I look around. At Celine and Adam, who are nuzzling each other and giggling. It’s kind of disturbing, but also really sweet. At Freya, who is inevitably on her phone, but who glances up and grins at me, one eyebrow raised. At Henry, who is pressed right up against me, his hand resting on my thigh, his chin on my shoulder as his lips graze my jaw.

I remember when I Googled dreams coming true and read the suggestion that dreams just tell you what you really know – or feel – about something, but haven’t consciously recognised. I think that’s true. My subconscious knew Henry was the one for me before I did. I saw him in my dreams before I really saw him in real life.

And I finally realise, it was never about Dan. About the man in the dream. I was looking for the wrong thing the whole time. The dream – the feeling of love and warmth and comfort it gave me – was about this. Me. Here. With my friends. With Henry.

I tip my head back and he kisses me. And it’s slow and gentle and soft and sweet. And our teeth don’t clash and our noses don’t bump and I know that he is mine. He is meant for me.

He’s the man of my dreams.

---