A Million Dreams

by Dani Atkins

  Maybe it’s not unusual for intense emotions to spill over and lose their way. I remember reading once that people are more likely to have sex after attending a funeral than they are a wedding. The dread that had been lurking at our door for the longest time had finally moved on and you could practically taste the euphoria in the air.

  My clothes hit the bedroom floor and Pete’s hands were moving over my skin as hungrily as my own were retracing their pathways over his. We fell back onto the spare room bed, our lovemaking a frenzy of celebration that took us both to a place I thought I’d never visit again.

  30

  Beth

  ‘My view today – or first thing this morning, to be precise!’

  It was easily the sixth or seventh time I’d clicked on the photo, and yet it still made me laugh. At first I’d struggled to recognise the room in the picture as being Liam’s immaculate kitchen, for the entire floor was lost beneath an explosion of something white and foamy.

  It was only when I enlarged the image that I saw it wasn’t actually a sea of bubbles covering the slate-grey tiles, but the stuffing from a two-seater settee, which looked as though someone had effectively disembowelled it. Beside the ruined couch sat the culprit, wearing an innocent expression that was largely cancelled out by the lumps of stuffing still dangling from her mouth.

  I smiled as I scrolled back over our exchanged messages.

  ‘Oh no. What did she do?’

  ‘Apparently took a dislike to the sofa in the middle of the night. We’re now off to the vets for X-rays. Again!’

  I set the phone down on the shop’s counter, a smile still playing on my lips. However much Liam might moan about his late wife’s dog, he’d be the first to admit he’d be devastated if anything ever happened to her. She was more than just a link to the past; she was a loyal and faithful keeper of his memories. And as an added bonus, she was also a source of practically guaranteed amusement.

  Perhaps I needed a Sally in my life, I mused, as I began sorting through the morning delivery from the nursery. It would be all too easy to let myself wallow in the sadness of dreams that hadn’t come true. But I wasn’t going to do that, because the decision I’d made had been the right one. I’d chosen not to destroy something Tim and I had created together, so how could that ever be wrong?

  My fingers stilled on the flowers I was absently lifting from the container. Calla lilies. Although most commonly known for their popularity with brides, I’d chosen these flowers not for their undeniable waxy beauty, but for their meaning in the language of flowers: new beginnings.

  I hummed quietly to myself as I began work on the display, not exactly happy, but more at peace with my decision than I’d thought it was possible to be. As the arrangement took shape, words circled my head, like displaced birds finally finding a place to land. New beginnings, new horizons, and new dreams.

  The buzzing of my phone broke the silence of the shop. Sally’s face filled the screen. If dogs could grin, that’s what she was doing. I read the message below the photo and sighed with relief.

  ‘No serious damage, except to the couch and my wallet!’

  I added one final item to the list I’d been mentally compiling for reasons to look forward rather than backward: New friends.

  *

  Was I guilty of being complacent? Had I taken for granted things that had never been spoken of? Was that why it all went so horribly wrong just a few short hours later?

  *

  It had all started with the customer in the flamboyant psychedelic shirt and designer suit. He’d ordered a very expensive floral display and at the last moment had added three dozen long-stemmed roses to his bill. It was an unexpected bonus at the end of a quiet day, and I was just processing the payment when he startled me with his desire to make one more purchase.

  ‘That painting you have over there, I don’t suppose it’s for sale, is it?’

  Quite a few customers had commented on the vibrant piece of artwork since Liam had given it to me, but this was the first time anyone had wanted to buy it. I think that’s why I sounded so wrong-footed and hesitant as I replied.

  ‘Er, no. I mean… no. It’s not mine… Well, it is… but it’s not for sale.’

  ‘Shame,’ said the man, laying his roses down on the counter and walking up to the painting to inspect it more closely, with what I was beginning to suspect was something more than just a passing interest.

  After several moments, he looked back at me over his shoulder. ‘And you’re sure you don’t want to part with it?’ And then he named the figure he’d be willing to pay, which was so much higher than I’d been expecting that I gave a very unprofessional gulp. Haggling was clearly not in my nature.

  ‘No. I’m sorry, but my answer’s still “no”. It was a gift,’ I added. The man nodded as though he’d fully expected to be knocked back. ‘The artist’s husband gave it to me,’ I explained.

  ‘Really?’ questioned the man, suddenly sounding much more interested than he’d been only a few seconds before. He pulled a business card holder from his pocket, like a magician performing an illusion, and extracted one for me. I took the small rectangular card from his outstretched fingers. ‘Tetra Art Gallery,’ I read out loud. I’d never heard of it, but from the quality of the card and the appearance of the man, I guessed it was quite a prestigious establishment.

  ‘Do you happen to know if his wife has any other pieces that she might be willing to sell?’ Andrew Cartwright, Gallery Owner – according to the gold lettering on his business card – wanted to know.

  That was the moment when I could have shot it all down. I could have taken his card and then simply thrown it away when he left the shop. It’s certainly what I should have done. I’ve spent quite a bit of time rewriting my actions and examining my motives since that day, and I’m still not sure why I didn’t do that.

  ‘Actually, his wife passed away – well, she was involved in a tragic car accident – about eight years ago, so it’s her husband you’d have to ask about selling pieces of her work.’

  ‘But there are more pieces?’ Andrew Cartwright probed, and the excited gleam flickering in his eyes should have warned me that this man wasn’t the kind to take no for an answer. Instead, I just carried on, blithely digging myself into a hole that very soon I’d find impossible to climb out of.

  ‘God, yes. There are loads. He has them all over his home and office. I think there are at least a couple of roomfuls of them in his house.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  And there was something about his voice that made me suddenly realise that perhaps this wasn’t something Liam would want to be involved in. Why was this only now occurring to me?

  ‘But I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t want to sell any of them, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. I totally understand. But I would be very interested in possibly putting on an exhibition of the pieces,’ Andrew Cartwright said, glancing towards the one on my shop wall, ‘especially if they’re anything like this one.’

  An exhibition, rather than an auction. Surely Liam would have no objection to that? Wouldn’t he want Anna’s amazing paintings to be seen by a wider audience; an audience who clearly appreciated and understood art?

  ‘They are all as good as this!’ I exclaimed, already getting carried away with excitement at being instrumental in the paintings being displayed on the walls of an esteemed gallery. ‘Here,’ I said, reaching for a notebook and thumbing through until I found a blank page. ‘Let me give you his telephone number and then you can contact him direct.’ Perhaps even then it might have been possible to have salvaged my interfering mistake, if I’d given him Liam’s work number, but stupidly I didn’t do that. Unthinkingly, I scribbled down his personal number on the page. And just like that, the damage was done.

  *

  Liam called me that evening, and at first I was slow to recognise the total absence of warmth in his greeting. He wasted very little time on preamble.

 
‘Why did you tell a gallery owner that I’d like to exhibit Anna’s paintings?’

  ‘I didn’t. Well, I did in a way… but not really.’

  ‘Well, which one is it?’ His question sounded as if it had come straight out of a lawyer textbook, from a chapter entitled ‘How to Interrogate a Witness’. I certainly felt as if I was giving evidence on the stand as I fumbled over my reply.

  ‘The man came into the shop and was interested in the painting. He wanted to buy it and—’

  ‘Anna’s paintings aren’t for sale.’ Liam cut through my explanation as if he was wielding a sabre.

  ‘Yes. That’s what I told him. But then he started talking about an exhibition and I…’

  There was an unnerving silence at the end of the phone as my voice trailed away. Straining my ears, I could just about make out the sound of his breathing.

  ‘Liam, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere.’

  This was the point when he was supposed to say something like: It’s okay. Don’t worry about it or I’m sure you meant well or even – although this now seemed highly unlikely – Thank you for giving the guy my number.

  He drew in a long steadying breath before speaking, and when he did his words burnt me like an icy blast from an arctic cave. ‘Did the man tell you how interest in the exhibition would be so much greater because Anna was dead?’

  I felt sick, actually physically sick, at his words. ‘No. No, he didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t know Anna, so you’ve no idea how self-effacing she was about her work. She’d have hated to have a roomful of strangers gawping and critiquing her paintings.’

  He was right. I’d stepped over the line, and trodden carelessly on something sacrosanct: Liam’s relationship with his late wife. Like an intruder caught in a flashlight beam I tried to back away, but it was too late, the damage was already done.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Liam. I should have thought it through. The guy caught me on the hop and I just got excited about the idea of an exhibition.’

  ‘Which Anna would have hated,’ he reminded me, in case I was still in any doubt about that.

  ‘Yes, well, maybe she would. Obviously you knew her better than anyone. Although I have to say, I think it’s disappointing you have so little faith in her work.’

  He gasped at my words and I think I might have done too. But I’d started now, so I might as well hammer the final nail in the coffin of our friendship.

  ‘All you talk about is how she’d have felt about the criticism. But what you don’t say – what you don’t even appear to have considered – is how she’d have felt about the admiration and the praise. Wouldn’t she have deserved to hear that too?’

  Liam said nothing, so it was hard to tell if my words had fallen on deaf or receptive ears. I made one final attempt to put things right.

  ‘Why don’t I phone Andrew Cartwright and explain that I acted impulsively and ask him not to bother you again.’

  ‘That really won’t be necessary, thank you. Mr Cartwright won’t be calling me again.’

  I shivered at his words, not realising then that the gallery owner wasn’t the only person Liam had no intention of speaking to in the near future.

  31

  Izzy

  ‘Are you sure no one is going to mind if I go with you?’ It was probably the fifth time he’d asked me that question over the past two days. I set my morning cup of coffee down on the kitchen table and smiled in Pete’s direction. It was something I’d been doing quite a lot over the last forty-eight hours, testing my facial muscles to see if they still remembered how to do it. It would appear they did.

  ‘Maggie will be absolutely fine about it. It’s going to be a very relaxed wedding, and the original save-the-date card had included you,’ I reminded him, conveniently forgetting that by the time the actual invitations had been sent out for her son’s wedding, we’d no longer been living together.

  Pete’s eyes crinkled at the edges. How could I have forgotten how much I loved the way they did that? ‘Hmm, but a lot has changed since then,’ he observed, neatly skirting a topic we still hadn’t properly addressed. It had been two days since Frankie’s phone call; two days since we’d stepped blinking and dazed out of the shadow we’d been living under; and two days since we’d made love for the first time in more than a year…

  *

  We’d never intended to fall asleep afterwards. But the bedroom, bathed in afternoon sunlight, had been warm and cosy. My head had naturally found its way to the familiar hollow of Pete’s shoulder, and his arms had locked tightly around me, holding me close as our breathing slowly synchronised and our eyelids grew heavy. It was the sound of persistent knocking that had forced me awake. The first thing I noticed was that the sun had travelled to the furthest corner of the bedroom and my naked limbs felt chilled without its warm caress. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t remember where I was or what had happened. Then the memories returned, bringing with them a hot flush of colour to my cheeks.

  ‘What the hell is that noise?’ Pete mumbled sleepily, slower than me to realise that someone appeared to be hammering extremely loudly on the front door.

  ‘Shit! It must be Belinda, bringing Noah back,’ I exclaimed, my eyes widening as I glanced at my watch. We’d slept for hours. I sat bolt upright, forcibly breaking apart Pete’s hold on me. Something soft stirred inside as I realised he’d never released me while we slept, but it was pushed aside by the need to answer the door before Belinda remembered the place I’d told her the spare key was hidden.

  I twisted off the bed, my arms instinctively covering my naked breasts as I scrabbled on the floor for my discarded clothes. I thought I saw the vaguest twitch of Pete’s lips when he noticed my sudden attack of modesty, but I was struggling into my shirt before he could comment. I thrust my legs into my jeans and was still pulling up zips and securing buttons as I ran barefoot down the stairs to answer the door.

  ‘I was just about to indulge in a spot of breaking and entering,’ said Belinda, sounding almost disappointed that I’d thwarted her plans as I flung open the door. A curious expression slid over her face as she took in my tousled hair and the revealing flush that was fast travelling south from my face to my chest. Her lips moved, as though she was savouring a delicious toffee, and then formed a small O of surprise as Pete, also barefoot and dishevelled, ran lightly down the stairs behind me.

  ‘Hi, B,’ he said easily, looking past her dancing eyes and smiling warmly at the two boys flanking her like miniature guards. ‘Hey, guys, have you had a good time?’

  ‘I bring with me two very tired young men: one yours, one mine,’ Belinda replied, as Noah broke rank to give his dad a massive hug. I smiled at both boys, but couldn’t help noticing that Noah looked appreciably more exhausted than his best friend, Archie.

  ‘We’ve been swimming, and cycling, and then we built an enormous den in the garden,’ Belinda listed breezily as the boys moved to follow Pete down the hallway. ‘We’ve had quite an afternoon.’ Her eyes danced mischievously as the trio moved out of earshot. ‘As, I suspect, have you.’ She leant a little closer and dropped her eyes briefly to my top. ‘You missed a button,’ she whispered, only just managing to suppress a Cheshire-cat grin. Like a chameleon, my cheeks morphed to the exact shade of pink as my shirt, but fortunately Archie’s return to his mother’s side ensured the subject was dropped.

  Back in the kitchen, Pete was listening to Noah’s account of his afternoon activities, while I tried my best to stop thoughts of our own from surfacing. It felt beyond inappropriate to be slicing vegetables and preparing our evening meal when my head was full of snapshot images of Pete poised above me, and the way he had trembled before joining his body with mine, as if it was our very first time.

  It was only when Noah ran off to watch his favourite TV show that we were finally alone. Almost shyly, I looked at him across the distance of the kitchen. For a moment, everything else faded away: I could no longer hear the whir of the washing machine; the
theme tune from the television; or any of the hundred and one other mundane noises that formed the soundtrack of our home. All I could hear was my heartbeat, banging like a drum in my ears. Some of the sauce I was stirring slopped over the top of the pan, and I scarcely even noticed.

  ‘We should probably talk,’ Pete said softly, stealing what I had intended to be my opening line. I nodded, the heat from the stove added to the warmth already flooding through me as his eyes held me captive in a look I knew was going to keep me awake that night.

  ‘I just want you to know,’ he said, his eyes glancing towards the doorway to make sure Noah wasn’t about to put in an appearance, ‘that it wasn’t just a heat-of-the-moment thing – at least, it wasn’t for me.’

  How was it possible to suddenly feel so shy in front of a man who’d been by your side through the very best and worst moments of your life? But that was exactly how I felt. Very gently, Pete lifted my chin with one finger, forcing my eyes to meet his. ‘I do not regret what happened today, Izzy. And I really hope you don’t either, but…’ It had all been going so well until the introduction of that worrying conjunction. ‘…but I don’t think we should rush into things or make assumptions about where this might lead.’

  I tried to hold his gaze while hiding the fact that I’d been doing nothing but making assumptions ever since Belinda’s hammering on the door had woken us.

  ‘We need to take it slow. Not just for Noah’s sake, but for ours too. I’m scared of getting it wrong again.’ It was crushing to think that even before this thing was fully formed, he was already thinking of it failing.

  ‘No. No, of course not,’ I lied, suddenly pretending that the sauce I’d been busily splattering all over the hob now deserved my full attention.

  By the time Pete had disappeared upstairs to put Noah to bed – a ritual that hadn’t grown old for either of them since his return – I’d managed to rein in the disappointment coursing through me. I listened through the ceiling to the creaking floorboards as the pair moved from bathroom to bedroom. I muted the television, preferring to hear the deep timbre of Pete’s voice as he read the next chapter of Noah’s bedtime story.