Dream a Little Dream

by Sue Moorcroft

  Nicolas backed up like a cornered fox. ‘I may have overreacted to something Liza said to a client.’

  ‘Liza’s had a hard time, she’s a bit sad sometimes, but I don’t remember her insulting me.’ Fenella folded her arms.

  ‘Me, neither,’ Imogen agreed.

  ‘I may have blown the incident up.’

  Liza gazed at him. He shuffled. Finally, he muttered, ‘Sorry.’

  And all there was left for Liza to do was heave pretend sighs and hug, kiss and thank everyone in turn as they reassured her. Except Nicolas. Nicolas just gave her a look that seemed to say he knew perfectly well he’d been punished.

  Now all she had to do was work out why she’d had to do it.

  Chapter Six

  PWNsleep message board:

  Nightjack: Yesterday evening was so crap. I was talking to a hot girl and I couldn’t clear my head. She must have thought I wasn’t into her at all.

  Inthebatcave: Would it work to take your meds a bit later, to keep you with it, if you know you’re going to be out late?

  Nightjack: Yeah, but I hadn’t known I would be. It was, like, a developing situation …

  Tenzeds: Were you really that into her, if her conversation didn’t keep you alert? Talking to a woman I like has definitely kept my eyes open, so far … But it’s scary to think it might not.

  Liza, huddling into her jacket, was grateful to step into the beery warmth of The Three Fishes after the raw autumn chill of the evening. Locals gathered near the bar and grouped around the tables under the darkened beams. A blazing log fire danced its welcome with the cosy smell of wood smoke. And it was inexplicably comforting to find Dominic Christy lounging at a brass-covered table, his jacket a similar harvest-gold to his streaky hair. His glance was a flash of silver.

  She dropped into the chair across from him. ‘Bloody Nicolas! Did you think I wasn’t coming?’

  His smile was slow and lazy, tugging suddenly at her insides. ‘The possibility occurred. If you want to eat, we need to order right away and there are only three things we can have this late: chicken korma, goat’s cheese and pear salad or tuna pasta bake.’

  ‘Is the korma with white rice or brown rice?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘You’re not going to go all Miranda on me and extol the virtues of brown rice?’

  She sighed. ‘But it is better for cholesterol, energy … Never mind. I’ll have the korma, please, I’m starving. And one of those passion-fruit-and-pomegranate drinks.’

  Whilst Dominic ordered at the bar, Liza hung her ski jacket around the back of her chair, rubbing her hands, wishing he’d chosen a table nearer the fire. She glanced around, smiling and waving at people she knew, enjoying the gentle buzz of conversation, the occasional laugh, the crackle of the fire. Three men at the next table, flushed with alcohol, halted their conversation to look her over. One sent her a wink. She acknowledged him with a tiny smile. Angie and Rochelle may have been right that she needed to put some life back in her life, but red-faced pub bugs had never been her type.

  Dominic returned and slid two glasses onto the table. His held Guinness. ‘Bloody Nicolas what?’

  ‘Bloody Nicolas came to talk just as I was leaving.’ She sipped at the drink, sweet and tart together.

  ‘Let me guess.’ He drank from his black beer, returning it to the circle of moisture it had left on the table. ‘He’s reconsidered giving you notice on your treatment room?’

  She propped her chin on her fist. ‘Good guess. Now it’s my turn – you and Miranda are the investors he’d arranged to meet today? That’s why you were leaving as I arrived?’

  He was nodding before she’d finished speaking.

  What did that mean? Where did he fit into her picture? ‘You haven’t opted in yet, and he’s realised he needs my rent a while longer?’

  ‘I’m not opting in with him at all.’ His grey gaze was steady. ‘He got some dodgy information from the business opportunity agency that made him think I’d make bringing Miranda in as a therapist a condition of my investment.’

  ‘So he put me on notice in case he had to get me out to make way for her, knowing he could pretend a change of heart if he needed to?’ A lick of anger. ‘But Miranda’s not even a therapist.’

  ‘Nope. I’ve delisted from the agency, because it’s obviously staffed by monkeys and gibbons, quite unable to understand the concept of losing a dream job and having to find a new one. I’m glad Nicolas isn’t turfing you out.’

  ‘It does make life easier.’ She blew out her cheeks. Last night she’d tossed and turned over whether to find a treatment room in Peterborough, where population would be dense and trade more plentiful but she’d have a fifteen-mile drive each way, or to try to drum up enough business around the villages. It would mean being a mobile, as Mrs. Horrible Snelling might report her or object or whatever it was you did to stop people if they tried to trade from home. And she didn’t know anyone who was making being a mobile pay as a full-time business. ‘It’s nice not to be up against a deadline, but it doesn’t solve the underlying problems.’

  His gaze was thoughtful, focused. ‘I presumed from what you said this afternoon that there are some. Am I allowed to ask what those problems are?’ His eyes smiled. ‘I do have a reason for asking.’

  She shrugged. ‘When I moved out of Peterborough I knew I’d lose existing clients, but there was supposed to be a flood of guests from the hotel to more than make up. But it’s been more of a trickle than a flood and, of course, many are only around long enough for single treatments. But the premises are fabulous and I keep on at Nicolas that we need to get creative to capitalise on them. We need new ideas and I’ve got loads. But he only has to hear the word “new” and his mind clangs shut.’

  She paused as Janice from behind the bar brought two steaming oval plates of fragrant curry on fluffy pillows of rice – white – with hot naan bread on the side. Dominic thanked her with a smile. Janice smiled back in a way that suggested that, although she had two decades on Dominic, she wasn’t impervious to his charms.

  Liza propped her head on her hand. ‘Suddenly I’m not certain whether I’m starving hungry or can’t eat for worry.’

  ‘Still trying to get out of having dinner with me?’ He assumed an expression of injury.

  She managed a sort of laugh and stripped the paper napkin from her cutlery. ‘Being credit crunched isn’t good for the appetite.’ Which she proved when she pushed away her plate with half the food still remaining. She waited until he’d cleaned his plate before picking up the conversation. ‘So. Are you going to share your reason for asking about my problems?’

  Leaning back, he stretched his legs out beside the table. ‘I need to find a new career. Narcolepsy has made certain options no longer viable, including shift work, which would turn me into a zombie. Becoming self-employed seems a good way to go. It makes it easier to schedule my sleeping pattern and I’ve always enjoyed leading projects.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘Miranda wanted me to give The Stables a look.’

  ‘So you did and you hated it,’ she supplemented, drily. ‘I think I got that.’

  ‘I’m certainly not tempted to train as a therapist.’ He stared pensively at his drink, making patterns in the condensation with the pad of his thumb.

  She waited, thinking, absently, how unlike Adam he was. No endless patience or gentle light of adoration in this man’s face. Dominic’s habitual expressions were determination, laughter or thoughtfulness. But at least what showed on his face seemed real.

  Whereas, Adam’s adoration had disguised the mechanisms he employed to make things what he’d like them to be …

  Resolutely, she dragged her attention back to the moment. ‘So why the need for information about The Stables, if you hate the idea of being involved?’

  He fixed her with his grey gaze. ‘It’s only reasonable to research an idea before accepting, rejecting or modifying it. There are some things I don’t understand. Like, how does Nicolas make any money out of the place?’<
br />
  Janice returned to clear the plates. Dominic asked for water. Liza ordered coffee. ‘I think your question ought to be, “Does Nicolas make any money out of the place?”’

  He sat up, planting his elbows on the table. His phone sounded an alert and he fished it from his jacket pocket and silenced it impatiently. ‘Does he?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not enough, I don’t think.’ It probably wasn’t ethical for her to publicly paw through Nicolas’s business, but neither had been giving her notice in case he could move a new therapist in. ‘I’d been living and working in Peterborough, but my sister lives in Middledip and I wanted to move to the village. The hotel wanted a treatment centre, Nicolas took up the lease and advertised the rooms. The premises were great, and I fell for Nicolas’s rosy view of the future. I suppose it didn’t occur to me that he could get it quite so wrong. I should have been like you – all researchy and logical. I’m learning the hard way.’

  Her coffee arrived. ‘I suppose,’ she continued, slowly, scooping up the spinning-froth island on her teaspoon before licking it off, ‘that Nicolas is basically lazy. He wants the traditional model of obliging clients who make appointments, turn up for treatments, pay and book again. But there just aren’t enough.

  ‘I – and Fenella and Imogen – suggested bridal pampers, hen parties, new treatments and stuff, but he says they’re not true to the ethos of alternative medicine. They’re crossing over into beauty treatments and gimmicks.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Frankly, we’re prepared to sacrifice his principles to make a living but it’s in our agreements that he makes the decisions about the centre as a whole. Which is why we’re all wearing those gross green NHS reject tunics.’

  She sipped at the hot, sweet coffee and noticed his gaze fall to her lips as she licked away the froth. Maybe he was regretting ordering water but, too bad, she didn’t allow herself much skin-dulling caffeine and she wasn’t sharing. ‘Also,’ she continued, ‘Nicolas doesn’t bring any money to the party; he just wants to take it out.’

  His gaze shifted to her eyes. ‘Clarify?’

  Rather than being irritated by the way he rapped the word out, she found herself admiring his focus on the conversation. It felt good, to be listened to as if every word was of vital importance, and a stark contrast to the way Nicolas dismissed everything she said. She liked intensity, she decided. She liked this man, brushed by gold under the lights from the bar, his intellect almost a palpable thing, his attention all on her. ‘He’s not a therapist. He doesn’t have clients. What we pay him buys us the use of the general facilities – the building, the electricity, water and the receptionist, Pippa, though I’ve never known another centre with a receptionist to make appointments and show clients into the treatment rooms. It’s a luxury. Most therapists use voicemail and return calls to manage appointments. And Nicolas draws a salary, too. He sits in his office and does the admin but that doesn’t bring in fees. To run Nicolas’s kind of operation would need the clients and prices you see at a top-end spa. I wish the hotel had made the stables a spa, as they planned, and we’d rented the rooms from them. They could have sold spa breaks and attracted the upscale clientele that would expect those kinds of fees. Right now, things are not working out for Nicolas and not working out for us.’ Dominic was so still as he listened that she flushed, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Sorry, I must be boring you to death.’

  ‘No.’ He stirred only to down the last of his water, not removing his gaze from her. ‘It’s not boring. What you’re saying fits in with what I observed. Nicolas seems to have a novel view of business. He’s got nothing to offer and apparently thinks an investor is an angel who’ll swoop by with a briefcase full of money, mysteriously providing the therapists with so many clients that he’ll be raking in the dosh.’

  Liza let out an inelegant snort.

  ‘What do you think will happen to the centre? And to you and the other therapists?’

  For a moment, she let her eyes shut against the spectres of a dwindling client list, dwindling income, her car and house gurgling away down a great economic plughole. ‘I don’t know about Immi and Fenella but I intend to start looking for better premises after Christmas and hope to limp along until they’re found. Unless Nicolas gets to the stage where he can’t make his rent. In which case we all shut down.’

  He nodded. ‘So you’ve got to relocate, whatever? There’s no chance of you making things work with Nicolas?’

  ‘I don’t see one. But at least I can do it at my own pace now Nicolas isn’t giving me notice.’ Liza finished her coffee and smothered a yawn. Many of the locals had drifted off and Janice was washing glasses. Tubb, the landlord, came through from the mysterious area only ever referred to as ‘the back’, assessed the scene through narrowed eyes, checked his watch and said something to Janice. Probably that he was going to watch Sky Sports and she could ring last orders and cash up. ‘Being self-employed has its drawbacks,’ she mused. ‘I sympathise with your medical needs but running your own business seems a long way from the career you’ve been used to, with paid holidays and sick days and never having to go out and find business.

  ‘There will be no guaranteed pay cheque at the end of the month. Nobody to do your work when you’re away. Bank holidays might be a thing of the past. Whatever your business is, you have to make that product or service sell, collect the money and do all the paperwork.’

  He grinned. ‘But I like a challenge. I’m sure I can make a business work – it’s just a case of finding the right business.’

  Chapter Seven

  Liza had agreed to meet Rochelle and Angie in Peterborough at a wine bar on Friday evening.

  ‘I know that pubs are in your comfort zone, but they’re too weekday,’ Rochelle had pre-empted her protests. ‘Friday counts as the weekend. It’s only Ruby’s on Thorpe Road. That’s not even properly in the city, Liza, and it does food so it’s not binge drinky. Don’t worry – we won’t make you enjoy yourself too much.’

  At least Liza knew where there was parking on Thorpe Road. And it was good to wear something other than her uniform or jeans, even if she’d gone for a cover-up, but mildly sexy, option of musketeer boots with silky leggings and a floaty blue-checked overshirt with a waterfall hem that swished around her hips. She’d even had time to apply lilac smiley transfers to her nails.

  And when she burst in from the cold, Rochelle and Angie were waiting on chrome-back, tall stools with an air of expectation; their hems high and their necklines low.

  ‘Here’s Liza. Whoop! Squee!’ Angie sometimes talked like a Twitter update. She waved at the stubbly young barman. ‘What are you having, Liza?’ All in white, except for a green tartan bow tie, the barman hovered for Liza’s reply.

  ‘I’ll have a sparkling mineral water, please.’

  ‘No, she won’t, she’ll have a little pinot,’ Angie said to the barman.

  Rochelle snorted. ‘Don’t say things like “little pinot” to a man, Ange. You’ll give him a complex.’ She exaggerated the two syllables, pee-noh, and giggled.

  Angie began to giggle, too. ‘OK, she’d like a large pinot, then.’

  ‘Fizzy water,’ Liza repeated to the barman, who had the hunted look of a man being teased by politically incorrect women.

  By then, Rochelle had grabbed the wine list. ‘Look! A big pink pinot! We’ll have that.’

  ‘Yeah, quality and quantity!’

  The barman’s colour heightened. Liza took pity on him. ‘They mean that they’d like a bottle of pinot grigio frizzante blush, please.’

  Rochelle leaned off her stool to plant a kiss on Liza’s cheek. ‘Spoilsport,’ she said as he busied himself with selecting the bottle of pale pink wine from the chiller, polishing three flutes and standing them on the bar.

  Angie snatched one up. ‘Wow, you’re only going to be able to put a really tiny pinot in there, aren’t you?’ Without answering, the barman flourished his cloth and popped the cork, splashing a taster into her glass. Angie downed it and motioned him to sp
lash more. ‘Fantastic. It’s pretty and it matches my outfit.’ She sat up to give him a view of her pink crocheted dress and the body it took three gym sessions a week to maintain. Then, when he stood the frizzante in a wine cooler, looking more embarrassed than enticed, she sighed and turned to Liza. ‘C’mon, Lize. Just half a glass.’

  ‘Water, thanks.’ Liza smiled at the barman, who smiled back, probably in relief that she wasn’t intent on teasing him for entertainment.

  Rochelle rolled her eyes, outlined with jade green eyeliner and gold shadow, and snatched up a menu from the bar. ‘I hope you haven’t gone all boring with food, too? Because we’re doing desserts.’

  ‘Excellent! What do they have that’s chocolate?’ Liza grabbed the menu to dispel the impression that a ‘wet blanket’ sign flashed above her head. Doing desserts with Angie and Rochelle was harmless. If you considered subjecting your body to an entire meal of sugar did no harm.

  Rochelle and Angie emptied and replenished their glasses with automatic efficiency as they pored over their menus, never allowing more than an inch of frizzante in their glasses, so as to retain the chill. Rochelle was the first to announce her decision. ‘I’ll do tiramisu for my starter, something more substantial – yes, a crumble – for main course, and a nice chocolate mousse for dessert.’

  ‘I’ll start light, with champagne sorbet, then New Yorker cheesecake, finishing with …’ Angie’s eyes ran up and down the list, ‘… chocolate indulgence.’

  ‘Pig,’ said Rochelle, admiringly. ‘C’mon, Lize. I’m hungry; choose, so we can order.’

  ‘I’ll give the starter a miss—’ the others groaned at her lack of commitment

  – ‘and go straight for chocolate melt-in-the-middle pud with chocolate ice cream, then pot au chocolat.’