Chapter 3
3
NINE MONTHS LATER
I’m lying in a tangle of covers, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the milky light of early morning.
I glance at my phone which glows the time at me treacherously: 6a.m. Ugh, far too early.
I roll over, close my eyes and will myself to get back to sleep… back to the beach where I’d just spent a blissful few hours frolicking in the surf and sunbathing under a deep blue sky with a beautiful man…
But, no.
Next door’s dog is barking at something in the garden, a tap’s dripping in the bathroom, and I know my alarm is going to go off in an hour anyway… I give up.
I throw back my duvet, push my feet into my slippers and trudge grumpily through to the bathroom. While I stand under the steaming shower I try to recreate some of the magical moments from last night’s dream, but they’re like a will-o’-the-wisp, floating through my mind, evaporating before I can clasp them firmly in my hands. It’s infuriating.
But it’s the way it’s been for the last few months.
When I had the dream in hospital immediately after my accident, I decided Kirstie was right and it was just a result of the minor head injury I’d sustained. Of course I didn’t dream I was in love with a man I’d only glanced at briefly when I nearly ran into him on my bike. That would be insane.
But a few days later I had another dream about him, and another one a few days after that, and soon I began to wonder whether it could have been Sophie who was right and there was more to it after all.
At first, I just enjoyed it – going to sleep and spending a magical night with the same man felt incredible, special. And, okay, I still couldn’t see his face clearly, but it didn’t seem to matter.
After a while, though, I began to worry I might actually be going mad, that these dreams might be a result of the head injury, so I decided to tell the girls about them.
‘I told you it meant something,’ Sophie said, delighted.
‘The only thing it means is that Miranda is horny as hell,’ Kirstie said, laughing.
‘It’s not funny,’ I said.
‘Sorry, you’re right,’ Kirstie said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but if you’re really that concerned, go and speak to the doctor.’
I couldn’t do that though. There was no way I could explain what was happening to a stranger.
Instead, Kirstie, Sophie and I talked about it – and disagreed about it – endlessly. I mean, I didn’t believe in fate, did I, so how could the dreams mean anything? And yet, they continued.
Then I met Darren. It was never a big love story, but I liked him and, more importantly, I assumed having someone in my life – and in my bed – would mean the dreams would finally stop. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, apart from the fact that having a relationship with a real-life man had to be healthier than one with a man who only existed in your mind.
But the dreams didn’t stop. In fact, they became even steamier. Some mornings I’d wake up with my heart pounding and an ache between my legs while Darren was fast asleep beside me, which was not ideal.
And I still couldn’t get away from the fact that the dreams still felt like more than just dreams. It was hard to explain, but all I knew was that every morning after ‘Jay’ and I had been ‘together’ all night, I woke up with a warm glow, a feeling that I’d met someone special, someone who really understood me, who was my – dare I say it? – soulmate.
What we had felt completely real.
Switching the shower off I grab a towel and dry quickly. Then I wrap my myself in my dressing gown and march back through to the bedroom to pick up my phone. Clicking open my notes, I read through the things I’ve written over the past few months, under the heading ‘Dream Man’.
His name begins with the letters Ja. (I’m calling him ‘Jay’.)
He’s from Newcastle (but he might not live there).
He has dark hair.
He owns a pink tie. Or at least, he did, almost a year ago.
He has a dog called Colin (he’s appeared in the dreams several times).
That’s it. After almost a year of dreams, these are the only five details I have about the man who’s been haunting my dreams night after night – and only the first four are things I’m certain of.
My thumb hovers over the keypad for a moment as I sieve through the rubbish sack of my mind, trying to salvage another tiny scrap from last night’s dream to add to this admittedly measly list. There must be something, surely? Eye colour? Job? Favourite song? Come on , brain.
But, as usual, there’s nothing.
Not that it would make any difference anyway. It’s not as though I’m ever going to see him again.
I sling my phone onto the bed and hurriedly get dressed. It’s nearly spring but the air still feels chilly in the morning, and I can’t afford to heat the whole house when there’s only me in it. I slick on some make-up, make a coffee in my takeaway cup and a bagel for breakfast, check the contents of my rucksack and then head out of the door to unlock my bike. Yep, despite what happened last year, I’m still cycling to work – although I leave earlier now because, with north London traffic the way it is, if I don’t leave the house by 7a.m. I feel like I’m taking my life into my own hands. I clip my helmet on, check behind me, and push off.
The traffic is surprisingly light this morning and I arrive at school earlier than expected. I wheel my bike across the empty playground and through the side gate to the bike rack. By the time I reach my classroom I’m ravenous, so I pull out my bagel, unscrew the lid of my coffee, and settle down to do some marking.
‘Hey-ho!’
I pause, then smile sweetly at Josh – Mr Rothschild – the head of year ten. Josh has made no secret of the fact he’s in love with me and fully expects to win me over one day. Quite apart from him being almost as round as he is tall (sort of like a British Danny DeVito) with a thatch of unusually creative hair that gives him the look of a mad professor, how could anyone fancy someone who regularly uses the greeting ‘hey-ho?’ My heart sinks as he pulls a chair up right in front of me, hitches his feet onto my desk, and grins. ‘And how are we on this fine bright morning?’
‘I’m good thanks, Josh. Just trying to get some marking done before the chaos starts all over again.’
‘Yes, yes, so I see. Very diligent.’
Bugger off then so I can get on with it , I think, but bite back. To my alarm he removes his feet from the desk and leans forward, resting his head on his hands, his elbows on the desk, and studies me intently.
‘Did you need something, only I’ve got to get this done?’ I say.
‘I guess you’ve heard?’
I sigh and shake my head. ‘Heard what?’
‘About the redundancies.’
I freeze. ‘Redundancies?’ I try to keep my voice under control, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s got me worried, or that he knew something before I did. He licks his lips and smiles a slightly creepy smile.
‘There’s talk that they’re having to make some “cut backs”’ – he actually uses his fingers to make quotation marks in the air – ‘and that it’s imminent.’
I take a moment before replying. ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine though,’ I say, swallowing. ‘I mean, they can hardly get rid of the heads of department or the year heads. Can they?’ My voice has gone a little higher-pitched than I intended.
He shrugs, then sits back and folds his arms across his barrel chest. ‘Who knows how the powers-that-be think, Miranda? I suspect they’ll be wanting to cull some of the better paid jobs such as ours, although far be it from me to try and guess.’
‘Right.’ I pick up the pile of papers in front of me and tap them on the desk. ‘Either way, I do still need to finish this, so if that’s all…’ I glance at the classroom door in the hope that he’ll get the message. Luckily he does, hauling himself to his feet and coughing like a pair of bellows.
‘Well, good luck. I think they want to talk to everyone about it today so I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.’ And then he disappears, leaving me wondering whether my job – which I’m bloody good at – is as safe as I always assumed it was.
The morning flies past and I don’t have much time to dwell as I go over the text of An Inspector Calls with my year eleven class, sort out a scuffle in the corridor at break time which involves hauling two year nine boys to see Mr McDonald, the head, then prepping some exam practice questions. It’s lunchtime by the time I have a spare second to even give redundancies another thought – and it’s while I’m peeling back the lid of my canteen-bought tomato soup, letting it cool so it isn’t hotter than the surface of the sun, that Mr McDonald enters the staffroom and raps his knuckles on the tea table. A tin of biscuits wobbles precariously, and I focus on it, my heart hammering, wondering what’s coming next.
‘As I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, unfortunately there are going to have to be a number of redundancies in the school.’ He clears his throat in an over-dramatic fashion. ‘And, well, if you hadn’t heard this already then I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’
He goes on to explain something about a reduction in the number of students joining the school over the last couple of years, and the need to be seen to be making savings where possible, and that three or possibly four senior positions are going to be cut, but I’m barely listening as I’m too busy thinking about what this might mean for me. After all, I’ve only been here for just over a year after transferring from a local state school to take up the Head of English post in what I assumed was a relatively safe role in a private school, so I’m more aware than anyone how vulnerable this makes me.
After he leaves it only takes a second for the whispers to begin – who’s for the chop? Do you think I’ll be okay? There’s no way they’ll get rid of me. I stand and move away, not wanting to join in the conjecture. I’m not in the mood for discussing it.
Sadly, everyone else is, and just as I make it to the door, I’m accosted by Jenny and Rebecca, two of the English teachers in my department.
‘What do you think of that then? Do you think we’ll be okay?’ Jenny almost whispers as she blocks my way. Her hands flutter around her mouth and I want to swipe them away. The hand holding my soup is burning and I swap it to the other side.
‘I’m sure we’ll all be fine,’ I say, blowing gently on the surface of the soup. It steams like a just-opened dishwasher, bathing my face.
‘He said he’ll be calling everyone in over the next few days,’ Rebecca says. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I guess it means he’ll be letting us know whether we still have jobs or not,’ I reply.
‘But what will I do? I can’t lose my job.’
I want to tell them both that that I’m terrified too, and that I really, really cannot afford to lose this job as it’s keeping my entire life afloat. But as their direct boss it’s my duty to comfort them, so I just smile and say ‘honestly, try not to worry. Now, sorry, but I really need the loo, can I just…’ I squeeze past and hurry along the corridor in the direction of the toilets. Once I’m out of sight I swerve past the loos and carry on towards the main doors, out into the playground, and round the back of the school to the bike racks. There’s a bench here. Exactly what view it’s meant to be taking in I have no idea as all I can see is the back of the school and the bins, but I couldn’t care less about that right now. I sit down and put my soup beside me, hoping the spring air might cool it to an edible temperature.
I can’t stop thinking about the redundancies. Three or four members of staff, mostly senior. I shuffle through my mind, trying to work out whether any other heads of department started after me, but I can’t think of anyone.
Losing my job would be a nightmare right now. I mean, there’s never an ideal time, is there? When my ex-husband Nick left twelve years ago, I bought him out of our family home using the inheritance my grandparents had left me. But I still had to take out a bigger-than-I-could-really-afford mortgage to cover the rest of it, which means I’m still paying a huge amount of money every month for the privilege of living alone. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m lucky to own a house in Crouch End where prices have more than tripled since we bought the terraced house twenty-five years ago. But it still doesn’t change the fact that I need this job.
‘Room for a little one?’
I look up at the voice and smile. ‘Sure, I’m just wallowing.’ I budge up to make room and Katy, my friend and head of music, sits down beside me. She lights a cigarette, takes a long drag and we both watch the smoke bloom out into the wind.
‘So, you worried?’ I can see her turn her head towards me and try to arrange my face into something neutral.
‘I guess.’ I try a shrug but I’m too tense to pull it off.
‘I’m fucking petrified. I mean, I’ve only been here five minutes.’
I turn to look at her. ‘Me too.’
She puffs out her cheeks and takes another drag. ‘Everyone’s saying it’s always last in, first out. Do you reckon that’s true?’
‘God knows. But if it is I’m royally screwed.’
‘Christ.’
‘I know.’
We sit in silence for a few more minutes, both of us no doubt building up to going back inside to face the music. Katy moves first, stubbing the cigarette out under her feet then bending down to pick it up and hiding it in her fist.
‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough.’ Then she surprises me by reaching in and giving me a quick hug, before disappearing through the side gate. I finish my soup alone.
* * *
The rest of the day passes in a blur. Rumours are flying round the staffroom so I steer well clear, keen to get home, open a bottle of wine and sink into a hot bubble bath. One of the joys of the kids having moved out is that I can do whatever I want whenever I want without having to explain myself so, although I miss them like a limb, and the house is, in reality, far too big and quiet for me, I try to remind myself to make the most of the freedom.
But when I pull up outside my house, Kirstie jumps out of her car a few doors away and jogs towards me.
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’ she says, as I’m locking up my bike.
I look up as I unclip my bike helmet. I can’t imagine what my hair looks like. ‘Forgotten what?’
She lets out a long sigh. ‘Our training session.’
‘Bollocks, sorry.’
She checks her watch. ‘No worries, there’s still loads of time.’
My heart sinks. I’m so tired all I really want to do tonight is relax. But now I remember I’d promised Kirstie I’d go for a training run with her, and I hate letting her down.
‘Give me five minutes,’ I say, letting us both in. She heads to the kitchen while I run around my bedroom like a lunatic throwing on my running gear and looking for a suitable hairband.
‘Ready,’ I announce, four and a half minutes later, standing in the kitchen door. Kirstie drains a glass of water and slams it on the counter. ‘Great, let’s go.’
She marches past me toward the front door and I fill a water bottle and follow her, wishing I could think of a reason not to go. But when Kirstie decides she wants to do something it’s impossible to say no. She starts jogging the moment she gets outside, and I have to hurry to catch her up. My breath feels ragged in my chest and I focus on levelling it out, taking in long lungfuls as I warm up and my legs get into their stride. We’re running towards Alexandra Park where I know Kirstie will choose the first hill she can find – not difficult round here – so I’m mentally preparing myself for it when she says, ‘I need to tell you something.’
I glance over at her, and she looks serious.
‘What?’
She’s a better runner than me and her natural pace is much faster than mine, so she’s finding this easy as we pound towards the entrance to the park. I dodge a dog shit that’s been left to fester and wait for her to answer.
‘I saw Darren with another woman.’
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. I know Kirstie would never tell me this unless she was one hundred per cent certain of what she saw.
She slows a little, and I do the same. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
I shrug – a tricky move when you’re running. ‘I’m not sure what to say.’
To my surprise she stops dead. Her breathing is already steady, but my chest is still heaving so she speaks first.
‘I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but I know how strongly you feel about people who cheat, after your parents…’ She trails off. ‘Anyway, I just had to.’ She wraps me in an unexpected hug and I feel her pulse beating against my cheek. I pull away and look at her.
‘Thank you, Kirst.’ I take a swig of water from my bottle. It dribbles down my cheek and I swipe it away, then turn to start running again. But before I can get anywhere she grabs my arm and yanks me back.
‘Ow!’
‘Sorry.’ She lets go. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything else? Don’t you want to talk about it, or ask me anything?’ Her eyes are wide with concern.
‘Honestly? Not really.’
‘You don’t mean that.’ She frowns, although her forehead doesn’t move as much as a fifty-two-year-old woman’s should.
I think about it. She’s right that I should probably have questions, or feel angry, or sad, or betrayed. After all, as she pointed out, I’ve always been so adamant that I’d never let anyone cheat on me after my dad did the dirty on my mum when I was a teenager. But the truth is I can’t bring myself to care very much. Neither am I very surprised. Darren is hot – at least, his body is, because he spends most of his time either at the gym or training for some triathlon or other. The trouble is, most of the time it’s the only topic of conversation he has, and I’ve found myself drifting off on more than one occasion when he’s bored me half to sleep with tales of PBs and split-runs and fartleks.
‘I really think I do mean it,’ I say to Kirstie. I tug on her arm. ‘Come on, let’s run.’ And before she can say anything else, I sprint off, leaving her to catch me up.
* * *
The training session is brutal, as is usual with Kirstie. And while I find Darren’s obsession with fitness an ick, with Kirstie it’s just who she is. Crazy running schedules, ultra-marathons, extreme sports, throwing herself off cliffs – ever since the kids left home she’s taken it to even more extremes. She even left her job with a PR firm four years ago to set up as a personal trainer – which of course has taken off in a huge way, with loads of very rich men and women spending several hours a week training with her for extortionate fees. I’m proud of her. Not many people could have made it work the way she has. She’s a machine.
‘I was going to go home for an ice bath, but I think you need a strong drink,’ Kirstie says, as she pushes my foot closer to my bum and I feel the roar of a sore quadricep as the stretch deepens.
‘Ow!’ I relax a little. ‘I need to eat first, I’m starving.’
Kirstie hooks her foot onto a nearby bollard, leans forward into a hamstring stretch, and nods. ‘Fine. La Cocina in half an hour?’
‘Deal.’
So much for my lazy night in, I think, as I step out of the shower and pull on my favourite skinny jeans twenty minutes later. I love Kirstie but she’s like a Duracell bunny, never running out of energy – whereas after the day I’ve had, followed by that punishing hilly run, I’m not sure I have the energy left to even walk to our favourite tapas restaurant. I consider cycling, but then remember there’s nowhere to lock my bike up, so pull on flat shoes and set off at a brisk walk.
Kirstie is already there when I arrive – of course she is – and I sink into the seat opposite her and pour a glass of water. When I put the glass down and wipe my mouth she’s staring at me. She would have a creased forehead if it wasn’t pumped full of Botox, but the expression on her face is still clear.
‘What?’ I say, picking up the wine menu.
She folds her arms across her chest. ‘You don’t seem very upset.’
I put the menu down. ‘About Darren?’
‘Of course about Darren.’
I twirl my empty wine glass and watch it spin. ‘I’m not.’ She continues to study me and I finally look up and meet her eye. ‘Honestly, Kirst. I’m not that surprised.’
‘And you’re not upset?’
I shake my head. ‘Not really. I mean, it was only ever casual. Besides, you know what I say – once a cheat, always a cheat. I’m probably better off without him.’
‘I know but it has been six months. I thought you might like him more than you were letting on.’
I shrug. ‘You know what, I really don’t think I do. He was nice to look at and have around, but I never saw us going anywhere.’
She finally smiles, her white teeth gleaming in the candlelight. ‘Well, good. I was really worried about telling you.’
I feel a smile creep across my face too. ‘I’m glad you did. But I could never take any man seriously when he spends so much time in Lycra.’
Kirstie lets out a bark of laughter. The people on the table next to us glance over and she reduces it to a low chuckle. I love her laugh. It’s loud and ridiculous but totally genuine and so infectious it always makes me laugh too.
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘Tell him it’s over, I guess.’
She grins. ‘You could always cut up all his clothes.’
‘Or slash his bike tyres.’
‘Hide his running trainers.’
‘Put itching powder inside his underpants.’
Kirstie laughs again, almost spitting water across the table. ‘Itching powder? What is this, nineteen-eighty-three?’
I grin. ‘Funny though.’
‘True.’
We spend the next few minutes deciding what to order. I choose a large glass of Pinot Grigio but Kirstie goes for her usual vodka and Diet Coke which she insists gives her less of a hangover. We order tapas to share. ‘Anyway, tell me,’ she says, leaning forwards and waggling her eyebrows once the waiter has disappeared. ‘Have you had any more of those saucy dreams about this Jay recently?’
I feel a smile creeping across my face and she claps her hands with glee. ‘God, I knew it!’ she says. ‘Is that why you’re not bothered about Darren?’
‘No!’ I say, although even as I deny it I wonder whether it’s true. To be perfectly honest I feel more strongly about the man in my dreams than I do for the man I was actually supposed to be seeing. I try not to think about how that sounds. ‘Okay, maybe a bit,’ I concede. ‘But they’re not that saucy, they’re more… romantic.’
She snorts into her drink. ‘Yeah, course they are.’
I decide not to argue because she has a point. The dreams can be romantic – but they can also be pretty raunchy. I’m just not about to admit that to her.
Once the drinks arrive and the waiter disappears, I’m keen to change the subject, so I tell her about the possible redundancies at work and how worried I am. ‘You’ll be all right, you’re an awesome teacher,’ she insists, even though I’m not so sure it matters how good or bad I am. Then she tells me all about her latest wealthy client who tried it on with her after his wife left to go and pick up the kids.
‘Honestly, nothing surprises me any more,’ she says. ‘I swear the more money they have the less happy they are.’
I shake my head. ‘I wouldn’t mind putting that theory to the test.’
She looks at me sadly. ‘You still struggling?’
I bury my face behind my huge wine glass. ‘I’m okay.’
She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. It’s warm and soft. ‘You know I’ll always help you out, don’t you?’
I smile and shake my head. ‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I say. ‘But thank you.’
‘I mean it. If people are going to keep throwing stupid amounts of money at me to keep their already lithe bodies lean, I might as well do something useful with it.’ Her face lights up then. ‘Speaking of which, we need to book a holiday!’
‘What? When?’
‘Me, you and Soph. Somewhere hot, this summer with lots of dancing and booze. And men, at least for me and you.’
I take a sip of wine. ‘It sounds great, but if you remember, about five minutes ago I told you I might be losing my job.’
She waves her hand in the air. ‘Job schmob. And if you remember, I told you I’m happy to help out. And that includes paying for a holiday.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘I can do whatever I like.’ She holds my gaze. ‘Listen, you’re my best friend. I want to go on holiday with you and I can afford to take you. I know you’d do the same if things were the other way round.’ She leans back and shrugs. ‘Besides, if you do get made redundant, what else have you got to do this summer?’
‘Look for another job?’
She waves her hand dismissively. ‘That won’t take six weeks. Anyway, you’ll be sorted well before then. So you’ll be free as a bird.’
I have to admire her optimism. But she’s right – if I am given the push from work then not only will I have the whole of the holidays to look for something new, I’ll have no boyfriend and no other commitments either. The kids are both abroad training to be doctors – one in New Zealand and the other in Australia – so I really don’t have anyone or anything to stay in London for.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.
She smiles. ‘Good.’