Dream a Little Dream (2 page)

‘OK.’ He digested that idea. ‘Is that how you diagnose—’

‘Assess.’

‘—assess, what the issues might be?’

‘Mainly, I pick up reflexes. These could feel like grittiness or bubbles, hardness or hollowness.’

Silence grew for long minutes, except for peaceful music rippling around the room. The base of his toes. The ball of his foot. As she worked along the side of his foot she paused to pay attention to one area, provoking a strange sensation. ‘That prickles.’

‘I’m picking up a reflex from your shoulder. Has it been injured?’ She paused, leaving one hand on his foot. He heard the scratch of a pen. Then her fingers went back to work.

‘I cracked my right shoulder in a fall. But it’s healed.’ That was weird. He considered and rejected the idea of Miranda feeding Liza information about his shoulder. Miranda might be utterly convinced of the efficacy of alternative medicine but cheating wasn’t her style.

Then his thoughts parted and floated away as Liza’s fingers sang their lullaby. Flesh heavy. Bones melting—

The headset was so familiar that he hardly felt its weight. The aerodrome spread out below the tower like a scale model, aircraft glowing spectacularly white in the sunlight, taxiing, or drawn up in orderly rows between the stands. Sebastian, in the left-hand seat, saw the aircraft safely between ground and air and Dominic, in the right-hand seat, watched his ‘strips’ progress across his screens as he delivered the aircraft between runways and stands.

But he became aware of an incident. Ryanair 9272 had a medical emergency. He strained to hear the pilot, holding all other aircraft on Delta apron as he anticipated a request to return Ryanair 9272 to its stand. Sebastian stared at Dominic. Looking, not speaking.

Relief flooded over him as he saw the problem. He should be in the deputy watch manager’s seat, further back. ‘Ryanair 9272, stand by.’ He unplugged his headset and moved to his correct station where he could see the runway over the heads of the controllers or glance left at the inbound aircraft hanging in the clear blue sky on approach.

A warm tide of satisfaction rolled over him. He was back where he belonged—

Liza rose, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She studied the tall man lying on her couch, his breathing deep and even. His streaky dark blond hair shone softly under the lights, tumbled, as if he’d combed it with his fingers. His mouth was set in a line of determination, even in repose, beneath hand-carved cheekbones. In other circumstances, she would have liked him a lot.

His chest rose. Fell. One hand twitched.

She washed her hands at the basin in the angle of the wall behind a curtain and readied a tall glass of cold water. He hadn’t moved. She watched him uncertainly. She knew you weren’t supposed to wake sleepwalkers. Was it the same for narcoleptic nappers?

At least Miranda was in the waiting room.

Then his eyes flickered open. For several moments she was stranded in his gaze, the pale eyes emphasised by eyelashes and brows darker than his hair.

‘OK?’ She smiled, not sure whether offering him the water would help him rouse, or if it would embarrass him if he had trouble gripping the glass. He seemed to be taking a little time to surface. She waited, giving him time. Letting him collect his thoughts.

Finally, he blinked, and stretched. ‘Can I take you out to dinner, some time?’

Her heart gave a tiny lurch. Obviously he was back on Planet Earth. She made her voice light. ‘Sorry – I don’t. Just stay where you are for a few minutes. Perhaps you could drink this while we talk? It’ll help with detoxification.’

He took the glass of water in both hands. ‘Hydration’s always good.’

She resumed her seat beside the little desk, picking up the blue clipboard. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Great. Very relaxed. That trick with the shoulder was impressive.’

‘It’s not a trick.’ She added a smile, with an effort. ‘I picked up a reflex, explained by the fact that the shoulder was injured in the past.’ Bloody man. ‘I also picked up quite a top-of-the-head reflex, on both feet, which might correspond with your narcolepsy. I’d be interested to know whether you notice any improvement in your night-time sleep, but feel that’s more likely to happen after several treatments. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’

His grey eyes sparkled. ‘I think I just asked you about dinner?’

Her smile fell away. ‘If you’d like to discuss your treatments, later, ring the front desk and if I’m with a client they’ll arrange for me to return your call.’ Giving him a Stables Holistic Centre card, she touched the electronic control. Gently, slowly, the couch hissed back to disembarkation height.

Dominic pulled himself upright, slipped into his socks and laced his black Timberlands. He paused on the side of the couch, then stretched, until he was on his feet, smiling down. ‘I know we got off on the wrong foot—’

‘Ho ho,’ she interpolated, obligingly, as if she hadn’t heard all the puns a thousand times.

He grinned. ‘Thank you for the feeble joke appreciation. The dinner invitation is an apology for what you overheard, which was, honestly, just the remnants of years of winding each other up—’

‘You’ve already apologised.’ She opened the door and stood aside to let him pass. ‘If you decide to have further treatments, I’ll do some reading on your condition.’ And, as he didn’t seem inclined to move ahead of her, she stepped out to the short passageway to reception.

That did draw him out, but only to position himself between her and the waiting area. ‘You’re in a relationship?’

She looked up into his eyes and wondered if he was always this focused on what he wanted. He reminded her of a lion, tawny, stalking, watchful, but with the potential to explode into action at any time. ‘No. By choice.’

‘You’re going to be single for life?’

‘Yes. I’ll probably get a cat.’ Not a lion.

He laughed. His eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to weigh her up. ‘Implying that a cat would be better company than me isn’t enough to put me off. What else can you come up with?’ His gaze became thoughtful. ‘That I’m your patient? Then I won’t have further treatments.’ His face fell easily into a smile. His teeth were white, his cheeks smooth and his jaw line firm; his feet had been long and strong in her hands. He was easily the hottest man she’d treated this week. This month. This age.

She held his gaze. ‘It’s not because you’re my client.’

Slowly, he settled a shoulder against the wall, cocking his head to study her. ‘I won’t fall asleep and drool in my gravy. Or feed the goblin at the dinner table. Probably.’

She flushed. ‘It’s not that!’

His smile gleamed. He probably thought that her refusal was a form of flirting and she had to admit that something breathless and skippy was going on. It had been ages—

But remember Adam.

Her breath took a longer pause. Adam shouldn’t matter now but … But hideous experiences had a way of piercing vital organs with a pain that was designed to educate the brain to avoid similar situations. She made her lungs work. ‘I make a bad girlfriend.’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘I only asked you out to dinner.’

‘And I don’t do one-night stands.’

‘Look, I know what you overheard didn’t present me in my best light—’

‘No. And macho bullshit is something that no amount of reflexology can help you with.’

A horrified glimpse of his face, blank with shock, then Liza was scrambling back inside her treatment room, slamming the door and leaning on it, eyes screwed shut. Why had she said that? She’d meant to defuse the situation with humour, but it had somehow got mixed up with an instinct to claw like a frightened kitten.

Fear. Rage. Perfectly reasonable reactions to what Adam had done and the knowledge that she’d made him do it. Not reasonable to project that fear and rage onto a completely different guy.

A tap fell on the other side of the door, loud beside her ear. ‘Are you OK?’ His voice was deep, hesitant, bemused. ‘Liza? I didn’t mean to— Oh, bollocks.’ Then Miranda spoke, muffled, distant. Dominic raised his voice to answer. ‘Yeah. I think it’s fairly certain that my treatment’s over.’ His voice receded down the corridor and Liza took a huge breath as her shoulders sagged, swallowing a swelling ball of tears.

Seconds later, a king-sized rat-tat-TAT-TAT-TAT sprang her away from the white-painted wood an instant before Nicolas burst into the room, dark eyes blazing. ‘What did I just hear?’ The door snapped shut behind him like an exclamation mark.

Liza dropped her gaze, guiltily.

‘Did you suggest a client was talking bullshit?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She swallowed. Then, weakly, ‘He wanted me to go out with him and I thought I was handling it, but—’

‘You decided to insult him? How likely is he to come back to the centre, now? Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said about us needing every scrap of business that we can drag through our doors? You know that this place works on a mutual business model. If you lose a client, you lose a potential client for everyone.’ His jowls trembled with every rising accusation. ‘I’m in my office tearing my hair over rent, business rates, insurance and bills, and have to listen to you driving clients away!’

Liza bit down hard on her lips before it burst out of her that Nicolas was full of bullshit, too, as all his money worries arose from not doing his sums properly before he took The Stables on. Instead, she made her voice calm and reasonable. ‘We could get more clients if we tried new ideas, Nicolas—’

He threw up his hands as if warding off the devil. ‘Don’t! Not that same old stuff, Liza! New ideas, new ideas,’ he mimicked. ‘What you mean is five-minute wonders and faddy crap.’

She clenched her fists in frustration. She knew how to put the fucking place in profit if he’d just listen. But it was useless to try and force her views into his closed little mind.

Moving her
practice
to The Stables had seemed such a great opportunity. She’d been looking for a house in Middledip village and to have a treatment room near the neighbouring village of Port-le-bain, rather than in Peterborough, a fifteen-mile, traffic-angry drive away, had made the house purchase financially viable.

But the lucrative horde of clients spilling across the lawns from the luxurious hotel rooms of Port Manor had proved to be a figment of Nicolas’s business plan; and sometimes Liza found herself shuddering at visions of bailiffs turfing her out of her house, snatching her little black-and-purple car and sending her down Port Road to beg a room in her sister Cleo’s house. A house that would have no spare rooms, soon, when baby Gus’s cot was moved from beside his parents’ bed to the last available bedroom.

So Nicolas had a point. Insulting clients was idiotic. She breathed in slowly, from her abdomen, to steady her voice. ‘I’m sorry. It sounded jokey in my head but it was inappropriate. I’ll apologise to him—’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Nicolas passed his hand over his face. His skin gleamed white and unhealthy, like overcooked pasta, and his voice came perilously close to wobbling. ‘You’re repentant now but in five minutes you’ll be making jokes about me coming the big boss. Overreacting. Having a hissy fit. Because respect and supportiveness are pretty much absent in you, aren’t they? What was yesterday’s little love bite? Oh, yes. “Nicolas practises seagull management – getting into a flap and shitting over everything”.’

Liza winced. ‘I didn’t mean it in a horrible way.’ Which sounded feeble, even to her ears. ‘We’ve always exchanged friendly insults. You call me Stroppy Knickers.’

‘Well, you are.’ Finally, Nicolas smiled. But Liza didn’t like the smile. It was as if he actually felt sorry for her. ‘And the longer I know you, the less friendly I’m finding your insults. Of course, anyone who’s drowning in financial mire is likely to have a sense of humour failure when he hears you pissing off paying clients.’

Heaving a big sigh, he steered her to her chair, before perching his beachball behind on the desk. He looked like a man determined to tick a bad job off his To Do List. ‘You’ve had your
practice
here a year, Liza, and it’s been stormy. I made allowances when you explained what had happened in your personal life. You’re a great therapist and we’ve all put up with your “friendly” insults, because the clients love you and I thought you’d mellow as you left your problems behind.

‘But the centre’s bookings are dropping.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly four. Do you have any more clients today?’

She met his eyes, stricken. ‘What do you mean, “all”? “We’ve all put up”, you said.’

Nicolas shifted, looking suddenly uncomfortable. ‘We’re only a small team here, aren’t we?’

‘Imogen and Fenella? Even Pippa?’ Young Pippa, on the reception desk, had only left school last year and still seemed to Liza like a baby animal, all big brown eyes and long legs.

Nicolas sighed, pushing back a lock of lank hair. ‘I’m afraid so. Do you have more bookings today?’

‘No,’ she admitted, voice small.

A long silence. She looked down at her white, ballet-slipper shoes. Nicolas’s brown shoes faced them, as if the footwear was having its own confrontation. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I hadn’t realised I was taking out my problems on you all.’ She and Nicolas always sparred, but Pippa? Fenella? Imogen? She’d thought they were a sisterhood.

Clumsily, Nicolas patted her hand. ‘I think you’ve had plenty of opportunity to realise before this, Liza.’ He hesitated, before adding, heavily, ‘I’m sorry if this seems unsympathetic after what happened with Adam but my back’s against the wall and I can’t afford your erratic ways. I’m fighting to build the centre and the rest of the team doesn’t need a difficult person.’ He paused again, as if bracing himself to say what had to be said. ‘The centre needs investment and more clients and I’m meeting some people tomorrow morning who might bring both. So, I’m putting you on notice to move your
practice
elsewhere by the first of December.’

Liza’s stomach flipped like an acrobat. ‘
What?’

Nicolas went on relentlessly. ‘I’m just glad that you’re working the afternoon and evening tomorrow, because at least I know you won’t come out with some outrageous crack whilst they’re here.’

She found her voice. ‘Nicolas, things aren’t working out as I hoped, either, but you can’t possibly expect me to find new premises and move in less than eight weeks!’

‘Actually, I have your signature on a piece of paper that says I need only give you four. I’m sorry it’s come to this, Liza.’ He didn’t waver, even though he must know she was staring disaster in the face.

But, belatedly, she realised that Nicolas was going to do whatever it took, because he had his own disaster to stare at. And it was every bit as big as hers.

Driving through the gates of Port Manor and along the lanes to her house in Middledip village, the late afternoon sky suited her mood. Cold and grey: darkness on the horizon.

She parked her black-and-purple Smart car outside 7 The Cross, which waited, cosy in the gloom.

The Cross, which, having only three legs, wasn’t a cross at all, marked the centre of the village. Familiar with Middledip from the years Cleo had lived there, Liza liked that, in contrast to her anonymous former life in a modern box of a flat in a suburb of Peterborough, any villager might be encountered at the nearby shop or garage, or at the pub.

Number 7 was attached to its grand neighbour, The Gatehouse, which had been empty, but was currently showing a light in every one of its windows. The new people must have moved in.

The Gatehouse dwarfed dear little number 7 and, since its render had been painted blinding white and the stone sills and lintels shiny black, outshone it, too. Liza was glad her house still wore its unpretentious red brick, shaded with age, even if its two storeys were squat beside the Gatehouse’s lofty three. It seemed bizarre that the two houses were joined – like the local squire marrying his kitchen maid. But, there they were, sharing a wall. Goodness knows what gate The Gatehouse had ever been the house to, unless it was some relic of the Carlysle estate. More likely, some earlier occupant of The Gatehouse had simply decided it was posh for a house to have a name, rather than a number. And it did have a garden gate; maybe that was it.

As Liza slid from the car, huddling into her coat for the brief journey up number 7’s six-foot front path, an iron-grey middle-aged woman appeared through The Gatehouse’s imposing black-painted front door. ‘Good evening.’

Although she didn’t really feel like going through the friendly neighbour ritual, Liza paused, key in hand, and summoned a smile. ‘Just moving in? Welcome to Middledip. I’m Liza. If you haven’t unpacked your kettle yet, I could make—’

‘I’m Mrs Snelling,’ the woman interrupted. ‘Is that your little house? It adjoining ours was nearly a deal breaker.’

Any intention of offering a cheering cuppa instantly vanished from Liza’s mind. ‘It’s been “adjoined” for about a hundred-and-fifty years. It didn’t grow overnight, like a zit.’

Mrs Snelling somehow managed to make her unsmiling face smile even less. ‘But then I realised that we could make you an offer, and break through – it’ll be useful space. My mother might like to live downstairs and we can make the upstairs a guest suite. If we paint the exterior, the two properties will blend nicely.’

Liza laid her hand protectively on her plain front door. ‘It’s my house, not useful space. And painting these lovely bricks would be vulgar.’ Stabbing the key into the lock before Mrs Snelling could reply, she almost fell into the sanctuary of her hall, trying not to wonder how much longer her house would be her house. No
practice
equalled no money; if she couldn’t manage the mortgage payment she’d have to sell. And now here was bloody Mrs Snelling waiting to annexe it. She flipped on the sitting-room light. ‘I won’t sell you to that rabid old bat,’ she reassured the room. But if she let the bank repossess it then they wouldn’t care who they sold it to, which would probably mean a delightful bargain in Snellingland. Useful space for people who already had acres of it.

Dropping her ski jacket over the back of the sofa, rubbing her chilly hands along the radiators, she made for the primrose-yellow kitchen and warming ginger tea, sitting at the small pine table to drink and think. Above her, the ceiling airer was hung with three copper saucepans, a dark blue glass ball, a drying top and leggings, and a bunch of lavender that, though it bathed her in its scent, failed to soothe her. She stared at the rain pattering at the window and wondered what the hell she was going to do. Her reflection stared back, pale hair and pale skin above dark green uniform. ‘Liza Reece,’ she asked it, ‘how has this happened? How could you upset your workmates? You need to return to the sunny, cheerful Liza that everyone knew and loved, this instant. Smile!’ She gave a great cheesy grin. ‘Wipe those frowns from your forehead.’ She smoothed with her palms, physically reminding her brow how it was meant to be. Unlined. Serene. ‘Stop worrying.’

How? The frown tried to repucker. Hastily, she plastered her forehead flat again. ‘By doing nice things.’ She summoned up a fresh smile. ‘Like ringing Angie and Rochelle.’ The smile became real and she reached for her phone.

Two hours on, curled in a corner of a leather sofa amongst the bright lights and chatter of the coffee-fragranced Starbucks in Long Causeway, she was glad she’d made the effort to jump into artfully frayed jeans and blue cowboy boots and drive to Peterborough. Angie and Rochelle were curled into the brown-leather tub armchairs opposite, hair long and highlights blonde; Angie a sort of sixties’ bouffant puff at the back of her head, Rochelle a cheerleader’s ponytail. Today’s look was ripped jeans and flat shoes—one pair grey, the other a pleasing purple.

Rochelle beamed over her latte. ‘This is mega. We were beginning to think you were avoiding us.’

‘It’s only a few weeks since you came over,’ Liza protested.

‘Yes, we go to Middledip.’ Angie cradled an Americano. ‘It’s you coming to civilisation that doesn’t happen.’ She waggled her eyebrows. ‘Give us an update.’

Liza felt her smile stiffen. ‘A bit crap – I’ve lost my treatment room. I was hardly making enough to get by, but it’ll take ages to find a new place, so I’m not sure how I’m going to pay my mortgage. Or run my car.’ She tried to think her brow flat. But it might have puckered, just a bit.

Rochelle looked aghast. ‘Are you being made redundant?’

‘The self-employed don’t get made redundant – or get redundancy payments. They just go bust.’ Liza sighed.

Angie’s eyes brimmed with sympathy. ‘Is Nicolas having to close the treatment centre? I saw on
Look East
that everyone is cutting down on non-essentials. I can see why alternative therapies might be losing money.’

‘He’s not shutting down.’ Liza had ordered a frappuccino, though the weather was miserable and the caffeine and calorie count must have been enormous. But there was something about the cream whirl and the spiral of chocolate sauce that made her feel better about finding herself in such a complete mess. She ducked her head to the straw and sucked up icy coffee spicules from beneath the flamboyant topping, then stirred slowly, watching the cream and chocolate sauce mix with the coffee slush.

When she lifted her eyes, Angie and Rochelle were waiting like parents who knew the weaknesses of their child and were creating a silence to be filled with the appropriate confession. She sighed. ‘Nicolas wants me out.’