“Actually... I’ve sort of made plans.” My stomach flexes with guilt, even as I say it.
She tilts her head. “Charming. You know, I still can’t figure out why you’re single.”
“You’re single,” I point out, like I do every time she comes over.
“Yeah. But I want to be.”
It’s one of Melissa’s theories. That I’m desperate for a relationship, dying to be someone’s boyfriend. I’d been single for five years before meeting her, a fact she delights in like a cat with a mouse. Sometimes she even tells me off for being too clingy, when I message her after a month of radio silence to see if she fancies a takeaway.
She’s wrong, though. I was straight with her from the off, asked if she was okay with keeping things casual. She laughed and said yes. Told me I was full of myself.
“You know, one day, I’m going to open that notebook while you’re asleep and see exactly what it is you write in there.”
I half laugh and look down, not quite trusting myself to reply to that one.
“Is it something I could sell to the papers?”
Maybe she could: everything’s in there. A dream every week for twenty-eight years, and I’ve been keeping notes for the past twenty-two.
I write it all down in case I need to act. But from time to time I do have to watch a bad dream play out. I let them slide if they’re less than serious, or when I can’t see a way to intervene. Neither option’s ideal, for a man with my mind-set.
Still. Like diamonds in the dirt, happier dreams glimmer between the bad. Promotions, pregnancies, little twists of good luck. And then there are the dull ones, about life’s mundanities, routines. Haircuts and food shops, housework and homework. I might see what Doug’s eating for dinner (offal, seriously?). Or I’ll find out whether Dad will top the local badminton league, or if my niece will forget her PE kit.
The relevant times and dates are bright in my mind whenever I wake. They lodge there like knowing my own birthday, or on which day in December Christmas falls.
I pay attention to everything, even the tame stuff. Keep track of it all in my notebook. In case there’s a pattern, a clue in there somewhere. Something I can’t afford to miss.
I glance now at my notebook on the worktop. Brace myself in case Melissa tries to snatch it. She clocks me straightaway and smiles creamily, tells me to relax.
“Do you want a coffee?” I say, to try to dim the glint in her eye. Still, I feel a twinge of remorse. Despite her swagger, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind coming over here just once and getting her full eight hours like a normal person.
“You know, with all your money you could afford to buy a proper coffee machine. Nobody drinks instant anymore.”
From out of nowhere, a vision of the café drifts into my mind. Of Callie setting down my drink, and the cobbled-street view from my window seat. It alarms me slightly and I push it away, spoon coffee between two mugs. “All my what money?”
“I love how you make out like you’re poor. You used to be a vet, and now you don’t work.”
That’s only partly true. Yes, I’ve got savings. But only because I realized in time that my job was hanging in the balance. And they won’t last forever.
“Sugar?” I ask, to steer her off-topic.
“I’m sweet enough.”
“That’s debatable.”
She ignores me. “So—will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Buy a proper coffee machine.”
I fold my arms, turn to face her. “For once a month when you come round?”
She winks at me. “You know, if you actually started treating me properly, you might be in with a chance of this going somewhere.”
I return the wink, clink spoon against mug. “Instant it is.”
•••
