They’re a guilty pleasure—pure, unadulterated indulgence. They feel like a sanctuary, a time and place that is just for me and Valdemar.
They feel like heaven.
What is wrong with me?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It’s Monday evening,and Una and I are sitting in Baldazzar, a Turkish bar on the outskirts of the city. The tables are full, the chatter rowdy as lavish lamps drench the room in a cosy warmth I could happily bask in all night.
Pierre sent his apologies earlier today. It’s his mother’s birthday, and the family have gone out for a celebratory meal, so Una and I have the conversation to ourselves. Taking the opportunity of our time alone, I tell her a little bit more about my dreams, leaving out the intimate details.
“I’m still having these crazy dreams about this guy. It’s literally every night. And they feel so real. When I wake up, I feel like I’ve done the things in my dreams. It’s like it’s an actual memory.”
Una toys with the paper straw protruding from her tall glass. “Are you ready to tell me who you’re dreaming about yet?”
“No.” My reaction is sharp, my cheeks heating.
Una side-eyes me, and I know she’s picked up on the guilt on my face. I focus on the long cuffs of her emerald top where they dangle onto the table, then slide back to reveal the gold bracelets adorning her wrists. Her dark hair is crimped and flowing over her shoulders as part of her medieval goth look.
“It could be several things. Stress making you overtired. Maybe you’re working too hard,” she suggests.
I heave an internal sigh that she isn’t going to push me to reveal who my mystery dream-man is. There have been whisperings in the newsroom about Valdemar’s release. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Dupin got hold of that story, but as expected, no one is talking about it around me with obvious reason. Even Una hasn’t broached the subject, which suggests they’re all handling me with kid gloves.
“I don’t think the lame stories Captain has me covering can be referred to as ‘hard work,’” I tut. “I just wish I had a bit more control in the dreams. I seem to lose myself in them.”
Chewing on the straw, Una regards me like I’m a fraction that needs converting to a decimal. “Maybe it’s more than a dream.”
I look up from my drink. “What do you mean?”
“Have you heard of astral projection?” she asks.
“Yeah, but I’ve no idea what it is.” I shrug.
“It’s an out-of-body experience where your astral self, or your soul, leaves your earthly body and goes on rampages throughout the city,” Una explains.
“That doesn’t sound possible,” I tell her as I consider the likelihood of seeing your dead relatives, foreseeing the future, or being able to track people through touch alone.
“Some cultures think so. They believe your consciousness can function separately from your physical body. It’s an ancient belief, but one I’m here for, although I’ve never been able to accomplish it.”
“I don’t think this is a case of astral projection. Surely I would remember seeing myself asleep on the bed or hovering above myself.”
Una shrugs, the straw losing its appeal. “If it isn’t astral projection, then I’m out of ideas.” She looks sad for me. This is the Una people don’t see, the one who doesn’t rear her headvery often, the one who cares, who empathises, who takes on everyone else’s problems and tries to solve them.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what?” she asks.
“Dragging down the mood of our Monday night pick-me-up drinks.”
“Hey, don’t apologise.” Una pats my hand. “I love a good mystery. Besides, it beats talking about how my cat woke me at three in the morning, coughing up a furball.”
“Just one of the reasons I don’t have pets.” I laugh.
“I wouldn’t be without him, though. Pluto is my only companion at home.”
This reminds me how lonely Una is and how much we’ve come to rely on each other over the years. In the five years I’ve known her, she’s never spoken about her family, other than telling me she was brought up by a strange aunt who passed away when Una was nineteen. She’s had a string of boyfriends, but none of them have stayed for the duration, probably because they found the sting in her tail too sharp to handle.
My thoughts stray to my dead mother, who, at one time, was my only evening companion. But now there’s Valdemar, and as much as I hate him, he doesn’t cough up furballs.
