Dream a Little Dream

by Sue Moorcroft

‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Dominic. I did notice that you blanked out of our conversation once Liza walked back into the room. I just said it to give Liza something to think about.’

  Cautiously, sheepishly, he admitted, ‘It might have helped.’

  ‘I don’t mind if it did,’ she said, generously. And, honestly, ‘But I wouldn’t have minded if it hadn’t, either.’ Then, more seriously, ‘Give Liza a bit of slack, though, won’t you? She was never that great at relationships, even before Adam.’

  He laughed, shortly. ‘She’s made it pretty clear that we’re not in a relationship, so slack is kind of a given.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Despite the bench in Peterborough’s Cathedral Square feeling as if it wouldn’t be out of place in an igloo, as the departing sun drained the colour from the day, Liza had had to sit down and gather her thoughts.

  She’d heard on the news that banks were being stingy with their lending, but she hadn’t anticipated quite what it meant until Emily, a suited young banker, had taken Liza, burdened with the two awkward drawstring bags that held the hornet costume she must return this afternoon, into a claustrophobic little office behind a wall of ATMs. She examined Liza’s proposal at the speed of light, enquired about things Liza didn’t have, then broke the bad news with a regretful smile. ‘I’m afraid that without adequate security, this proposition isn’t going to fall within our parameters.’

  Liza had made the appointment more in optimism than expectation, but the words still burst open a crevasse of disappointment at her feet. ‘I suppose that if I’d made a couple of decades’ worth of mortgage payments rather than a couple of years, there would have been enough money in my house to make it worth the bank’s while to repossess it if I failed on the loan payments?’

  Emily smiled sympathetically. ‘We usually speak in terms of whether there’s sufficient equity, but that’s more or less it, yes. You’ve demonstrated that you can meet the rent; it’s the loan for the premium that’s the problem – putting it simply, you’re asking for too much money. There’s no way for me to know whether you’ll make enough profit to service such large repayments. Another option would be that someone in your family give us a guarantee for the loan, with enough equity for a second mortgage to support it.’

  Liza thought about her parents’ reaction if she suggested they put their home at risk for her, and snorted. ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Then, I’m sorry but …’ Emily refreshed her sympathetic expression. She probably got a lot of practice. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, today?’

  Liza bit back the impulse to say, ‘No, just give me the bloody loan!’ And, gathering her bags of slutty hornet, left.

  It was Dominic’s interest in The Stables that had caused the lease premium to become stupidly inflated. And her conscience, which had been jabbing her about spending last night naked and sweaty with him but not mentioning her appointment at the bank, could be quiet. The field was now clear for him to take her Stables and make a huge success of his business – while she slaved through the process of locating new premises, keeping client numbers up and relocation costs down.

  If he hadn’t arrived on the scene—

  He wouldn’t have melted her bones. She shivered at the memory of last night. The ways he had touched her. The velvet of his tongue. Temptation had been fierce, but giving in to it had tangled together business and pleasure.

  She sighed. She almost felt down enough to excuse a chocolate Brazil nut flapjack. But loss of the slutty hornet hire deposit loomed large in her mind and, a sigh hanging white in the crisp air in front of her, she persuaded frozen legs to propel her stiffly in the direction of the hire shop.

  The shop windows were full of pink fairy and yellow chicken costumes, punctuated by an exceptionally sincere Barack Obama mask. Pushing open the glass door, she nearly collided with Kenny King coming the other way. ‘Hey, Liza!’ He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and then a hug. ‘Bringing your hot costume back?’

  Liza stepped aside to let him out. ‘I guess you’re doing the same?’

  He stayed exactly where he was. ‘Yeah, Doc was bleating about getting it back so we didn’t lose our deposit.’

  ‘I don’t want to lose mine, either.’ But Liza didn’t intend to shimmy between him and the wall to reach the counter and the lady hovering behind it. ‘Excuse me.’

  He gave way, but only to move back into the shop along with her. ‘So, we still on for dinner?’

  ‘Um …’ Liza hoisted her bags up onto the wooden counter, where the silver-haired lady assistant wore a waiting smile, opening the drawstrings so that the costume could be inspected: the hated wings of wire in one and the dress-of-uncomfortability in the other. ‘I need to return this, please, and get my friend’s deposit back for her.’

  ‘Receipt, dear?’

  ‘She still has it.’

  ‘Oh.’ The silver-haired lady’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I can’t really go giving you someone else’s deposit, dear.’

  Liza could see perfectly well that it was dodgy to give her Rochelle’s money, but elected to embroil herself in a long discussion about it in the hopes that Kenny would become bored or remember that his parking ticket was about to expire or something. But, no. All through a phone call to Rochelle, who was perfectly willing to call in with the receipt and collect the deposit herself, Kenny waited, hands tucked comfortably into the front pockets of a navy hoodie with Wilderness trail tramp stitched up one sleeve.

  The receipt/deposit crisis over, Liza punched more buttons on her phone, paused as if reading a message and went, ‘Oops!’ Then she swung on Kenny and brushed a kiss vaguely in the vicinity of his cheek, an unmistakeable dismissal. ‘Got to run.’ And ran, the dinner question successfully avoided.

  The meeting with Isabel Jones went well.

  Until it didn’t.

  Isabel was exactly the type Dominic liked to deal with – cool, calm, controlled, commonsensical and with the power to make her own decisions, getting the conversation on-topic even as she showed him to a tubular metal-and-cream leather chair. ‘Prior to this meeting, I spoke to Nicolas Notten to check he’s willing to sell the lease, and shared views with relevant others in our organisation.’ She seated herself in the power chair behind the desk, big, black, padded and swivelling. ‘So there’s nothing to stop me listening to your plans.’ She smiled. Her royal blue suit would have looked over bright and unbiz on anyone with less confidence. But confidence didn’t seem to be an Isabel Jones issue. Thirty-something, her glossy dark hair swept down to her shoulders and her spike heels made her almost as tall as Dominic. He might have thought her hot if he wasn’t currently into quirky, snippy little blondes.

  Following her lead, he moved straight into his pitch. ‘I want to open an adventure and challenge centre. The lake’s ideal for paddle sports, the slope for mountain biking, all-terrain skateboarding and an assault course. And there’s enough flat ground by the lake for archery, if I put up screens.’ His iPad, containing his notes, lay on the desk, but his plan was as clear in his mind as the holding points on Stansted’s taxiways.

  Isabel made rapid notes in black pen on ruled white paper. ‘So, who do you see as your customers? Corporate teambuilders?’

  He nodded. ‘They’ve got to be core because it’s such big business. But also school groups, youth organisations and weekend Rambos.’

  She nodded. ‘The corporate groups and weekenders would certainly benefit us in terms of reciprocality.’

  ‘How do you see that working?’ A useful phrase taught on one of his courses for when he wanted the other party to fill in blanks in his knowledge.

  ‘In the most fundamental terms – your customers becoming our guests. Weekend Rambos might book rooms or dine with us, possibly bringing partners along. Corporate customers might also do those things, plus hire conferencing facilities.’

  ‘Plus, you’ll get the rental income.’

  ‘Which has to be con
sidered,’ she agreed. ‘So tell me how you see your project.’

  The floor was his. He talked about finance, insurance, advertising, Kenny managing the instructor side, mentally ticking boxes as every point was covered. He felt clear-headed and focused, relishing the sensation of doing something instead of hanging around Miranda’s place, making plans.

  Isabel nodded and noted and he was just congratulating himself on getting her on board, when she said, ‘So how do you envisage tying the adventure centre in to The Stables?’

  He paused, wondering how that could not be obvious. ‘The building will house the team room, changing rooms, equipment storage, and, of course, the kitchens and toilets.’

  But Isabel was frowning. ‘How are you going to shoehorn that lot in with the treatment centre?’

  A snake of doubt wriggled in the pit of his stomach and coiled itself up like a threat. He wasn’t sure why it was there but it seemed that the obvious must, indeed, be stated. ‘The adventure centre will replace the treatment centre. I’ve no intention of running the two together.’

  Slowly, Isabel Jones capped her pen, laid it down on her high-gloss desk and leaned back. ‘Then we can’t do business.’

  They stared at each other. Dominic tried to read what was going on behind her dramatically made-up eyes whilst his mind cast around for where the meeting had derailed. ‘Shall we back up a step?’ he began.

  Smoothly, she overrode him. ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t negotiable. The treatment centre must be part of The Stables. It’s in our brochures.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As he digested her words, Isabel expanded. ‘Port Manor Hotel has its brochure content decided one to two seasons in advance. The same content goes on our website, and on the websites and apps of tourism organisations and strategic partners. If the treatment centre were to cease to be, it would be a planned change, the result of conclusions drawn from analysis and assessment. Forward preparation would be lengthy. A major redesign of all promotional and publicity material would be incurred, at significant expense.

  ‘Going forward, we’re not undertaking that analysis, we’re not planning that move, because we view The Stables as a benefit to our guests with few, if any, direct costs to us.’ She smiled, faintly. ‘The treatment centre stays.’

  Mentally, Dominic cursed himself with foul obscenities. How had he overlooked something so obvious as the hotel wanting to keep the fucking treatment centre? He’d been told that they’d invited tenders for it – hadn’t that been a big enough clue?

  He drew a deep breath, fighting to keep shock from registering on his face. Bad. This was bad, but he had been trained to think fast and react decisively in a developing situation. ‘OK,’ he said, as if Isabel Jones didn’t hold all the power and that the world of free enterprise wasn’t new to him. ‘Convince me that the treatment centre is profitable.’

  Isabel looked amused. ‘I don’t need to.’

  ‘You’ll need to convince someone that it’s profitable, if you want them to buy the lease and trade from the premises. It’s not just a case of Nicolas Notten not wanting to run the treatment centre any more, and you saying, “OK, Nicolas, just find someone else who will.” Nicolas Notten can’t run the treatment centre any more, because he’s losing money. Any interested party will see, as I have done, that the treatment centre isn’t making a profit. And they’ll pootle off and find something better to sink their money into.’

  Just for an instant, Isabel’s gaze wavered. But she said, ‘There’s another interested party already, I believe.’

  Rolling his inner dice, Dominic closed the case of his iPad. ‘Liza Reece? Yes, she’s got great ideas for the centre.’ He shifted forward on his chair, as if preparing to rise. His heart was thumping and he felt awake and alert and alive, as he had in his previous life in Stansted Air Traffic Control Tower. Ms Jones was underestimating him. Always a mistake. He smiled. ‘All she needs, I suppose, is the appropriate finance.’ He shrugged. ‘But now it’s apparent that the only business acceptable to the landlord is exactly the business that’s failing … Finance is going to be a challenge, isn’t it?’

  Isabel Jones sat very still.

  Dominic rose, reached out as if to shake her hand. And then hesitated. Frowned. ‘Of course, we might be able to come up with something that works for all of us.’ And, coincidentally, provide him with a beautifully neat way through the Liza Reece minefield. His heart congratulated him with a happy little skip.

  Her brows quirked. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘OK.’ He resumed his seat. ‘But if the treatment centre aspect is non-negotiable then I’m going to need a concession on the rent.’

  She laughed, incredulously. ‘OK, let’s not hear it. If the beautiful vista of the big slope is to be besmirched by ugly equipment, there needs to be something in it for us.’

  Dominic recognised a blag when he heard one. ‘There’s loads in it for you – a new stream of income from the big slope, potentially bringing in guests, someone who could yet keep the treatment centre viable and in your brochures, with the necessary finance already in place. The adventure and challenge centre will be an attraction, not an ugly wart. We can go reciprocal on promo so far as websites are concerned and by the time you’re planning your next brochure, I’ll be up and running and we can talk about including it there, too.

  ‘It all looks better, to me, than a tenant who’s going to go belly up at any moment, leaving empty the treatment centre you’re so keen on keeping open. Or did I miss something?’

  When Liza drove into The Cross she saw two things. Or, rather two people: Dominic lounging on her garden wall under the street light, his feet propped on his skateboard, and Mrs Snelling talking at him, arms like mug handles as she planted her hands on her hips.

  Slowly, Liza pulled her car up at the kerb. Driving home, numb with misery, she’d faced what the bank’s response to her precious plan meant. She was going to have to leave The Stables.

  And there was Dominic giving her his killer smile over Mrs Snelling’s shoulder as if all was well with his world. It would have been pretty bad mannered of him not to smile, after last night, but it was as welcome as a wasp in her bra, as he personified what had gone wrong with her delicious plan.

  Mrs Snelling swung on her as Liza pushed open the car door. ‘I was just telling this man not to sit on the wall.’

  ‘It’s my wall,’ Liza pointed out.

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Dominic smiled again. Right into her eyes, as if Mrs Snelling wasn’t there.

  Mrs Snelling’s mouth flattened into a disagreeable line. ‘But I can see him from my sitting room.’

  ‘Shut your curtains! It’s dark, anyway.’ Brushing Mrs Snelling’s pudgy shoulder aside, Liza grabbed Dominic’s jacket. ‘Come inside. You’re obviously making the place look untidy and I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Dominic scooped up his board as he let himself be pulled to his feet. ‘Funny. I’ve got something to tell you, too.’

  Realising that she’d towed him right up to her front door, Liza hastily released his sleeve. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I don’t mind hot women being unable to keep their hands off me.’

  Behind them, Mrs Snelling gave an audible snort as Liza turned the key and pushed open the door. ‘You’ve just given my infuriatingly nosy and judgemental neighbour a new bad thing to think of me.’ On her way to the kitchen she dumped her coat over the back of the sitting-room sofa, as if to disguise what had happened there. Now wasn’t the time to face it. There were issues in more urgent need of resolution. Like how she was going to earn her living. ‘Sit down. I’m making coffee.’ She took the block of freeze-dried coffee out of her bag and clunked it onto the worktop, dragging out a chrome cafetière from the back of a cupboard.

  He stowed his skateboard in a corner of the kitchen floor, folded himself into a chair and leaned back, legs crossed comfortably at the ankle, showing no sign of feeling awkward. ‘Caffeine, eh?’

  She filled the
kettle with a rush of water. ‘I’ve had a bad day.’

  His thoughtful gaze followed her as she filled the cafetière with scoops of coffee and steaming water and set it on the table with mugs and milk, then delved into her bag again for a bar of Bourneville chocolate.

  ‘Wow. Sugar, too. That bad a day?’

  ‘Worse.’ She took a seat at the other side of the table, so that he’d get the message that this was a business meeting. Not that he’d tried to kiss her hello or anything, so maybe he was perfectly happy that last night remain a when-it’s-over-it’s-over hook up.

  Such a lack of expectation would uncomplicate things beautifully.

  And now definitely wasn’t the moment to examine how she’d feel if delicious sweaty sex and passing out in a heap of entwined limbs turned out not to mean a damned thing. And it was stupid to be aggravated by his not showing any reaction to her obvious grumpiness.

  Ripping the chocolate wrapper, she broke off four squares for herself, then spun the pack across the table in his direction. ‘The bank says I haven’t a hope of getting the finance for the lease at the stupid numbers that Nicolas is talking. So, lucky you.’

  His dark eyebrows lifted fractionally. ‘Oh. Crap for you, though.’

  ‘Crap with disaster icing on.’ She slid two squares of chocolate into her mouth, adding, thickly, ‘I hope you have better luck,’ in the tone that meant she didn’t.

  ‘I think I already have.’ He did, at least, sound apologetic. ‘I met Ms Jones, the finance bod from Port Manor Hotel, today, and, after a bit of a scare when I thought I’d screwed up, it went well.’

  She took a long pull from her coffee, letting it melt the chocolate in her mouth. No way should she feel aggrieved that he’d had his business meeting, just like she’d had hers. Just because they’d made love. Just because she’d opened up to him in the most intimate way. Just because they’d talked and laughed and he hadn’t sulked when she’d turfed him out without morning sex. She dragged her mind away from the sex. His nakedness against hers. Hard. Hot. And it wasn’t his fault that his meeting had gone well and hers had gone badly. ‘Congratulations.’