‘Well, you can’t leave it until the last minute!’ Mum laughed. ‘If we’re going to give you a proper celebration, there’s a lot to be done.’
‘I might not want a big celebration.’ I wriggled uncomfortably on the side of the sofa that was sagging and worn, because I’d been sitting in the same spot for so many years.
‘Pshewee! I know you’re going to want this!’ Mum stood up, doing a sort of dance as she dramatically reached into her back pockets and then whipped out two tickets. ‘Much Ado About Nothingis onat the outdoor theatre at Wollaton Hall a week after your birthday!’ She beamed. I wasn’t smiling. ‘But on your actual birthday, we’ll have a party. Fancy dress, maybe a retro theme from your childhood, one of your favourite books or something, and a cocktail bar. We could even borrow one of those dance videogames, that’ll be fun.’
‘What?!’
‘I know! Don’t say your mother doesn’t know you!’
My stomach muscles hardened into a ball of anger. ‘I won’t. But I will say that my mother has been snooping through my stuff!’
This was not a coincidence. I had never once mentioned to Mum that I wanted to do any of those things. We never did things like that, because we always did what she wanted: days out by the seaside, craft fairs, toasted teacakes in cafés with net curtains.
I saw the flash of guilt in her eyes before she snapped back to overly jolly bewilderment. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
An outdoor theatre and a not-yet-updated Harry Potter-themed party, along with a cocktail bar and theJust Dancevideogame were on my Dream List, safely tucked away in my journal, hidden in my bedside drawer.
‘You’re not even going to admit it?’ The anger had dissolved into bone-weary exhaustion. My decision on Valentine’s Day had been right. I couldn’t do this any more.
‘What?’ Her eyes jerked in every direction but mine, before she accepted there was no escape. ‘Okay, okay! I was looking for my favourite bra and thought it might be in your room. The journal ended up falling out of the drawer and landed open at your list. I didn’t mean to look at it, but I couldn’t help spotting a couple of things on there while I was putting it safely back… But isn’t this perfect? Aren’t you pleased? We’ll be able to celebrate yourdream birthday!’
I could have argued, but it would have been pointless. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, and then got up and walked away.
* * *
I lay awake most of that night. By morning, I had reached a decision. I knew Steph would complain that it wasn’t drastic enough, but I had to go with what I could handle.
I was going to move out. One advantage of having next to no life was that I had some savings, but I wasn’t going to blow them on a half-hearted move that I could end up backing out of. If I was moving, it was to a house that I would buy, not rent, and it would be as close as possible to the one on the Dream List.
I wouldn’t leave Mum floundering alone, treating her as badly as my dad had done. I would find her a lodger (however long that took) and I would ensure all the practical things like bills were properly sorted.
I would also tell her none of this, until it was certain, and I had new house keys in my hand. I would move close enough to drop in from time to time, but far enough away to start a whole new life of my own. And I wouldn’t be telling her my new address until I was certain she could respect my choice.
As I got up that morning, the excitement and terror pulsed through my bloodstream. Images of my new life flashed in front of me like the trailer to the best film ever, with me in the leading role.
Every time I wavered, felt almost suffocated with guilt, I remembered the Dream List, clung to it as a promise to myself of the life I’d always wanted – the one that was out there waiting for me, if I had the guts and the gumption to get out there and find it.
And I would not be completing a single thing on that list with my mother.
3
I took a deep breath. After a long, somewhat dispiriting search, I was standing in front of what I felt sure would be the house from my Dream List. Or, to be more truthful, the closest to the Dream House that fit my budget. The end of a row of three terraced cottages, the duck-egg blue front door stood one large paving slab back from the pavement. The external walls were freshly painted in a crisp white, and the honeysuckle clambering around the old-fashioned window held the promise of a thousand tiny pink buds.
Before I had a chance to knock, the estate agent opened the door with a formal smile.
‘Ms Tennyson, please come on in.’
Heart pounding, I stepped inside onto the oak floorboards, inhaling the scent of wood varnish, musty air and a million dreams. The agent led me into a cosy living room – more floorboards, white walls and a log burner set in a stone mantlepiece flanked with built-in shelving units – before showing me the kitchen-diner, the only other downstairs room apart from a tiny cloakroom and an understairs pantry. The kitchen, like most of the house, was styled in what the estate agent called ‘rustic charm with a contemporary twist’. This included more open shelving, a Belfast sink, giant oven and navy blue cabinets to contrast more white walls. It fitted a decent-sized table, and a door opened out onto the garden beyond. I tried to look thoughtful and composed, but inside I was hugging myself with glee.
‘As you can see, the current owners have done extensive renovations before deciding to sell. As well as all new fixtures and fittings, you’ve got state-of-the-art heating and electrics.’ He flicked on the under-shelf lighting to demonstrate. ‘The house is such a bargain because they’re in a hurry to sell. You genuinely won’t find anything close to this value locally. I’m expecting it to be gone before the end of the week.’
This was not entirely true. End Cottage was priced competitively, even for such a tiny property, but the main reason for this was that it was part of a ramshackle row of cottages at the edge of a rundown village in Nottinghamshire, whose unfortunate name of Bigley Bottom meant that house-buyers with the means to be choosy tended to overlook it in favour of nicer villages with prettier names.
Bigley Bottom was a perfect location for me, because the other reason why I could afford such a lovely little house was that as of last month, I’d been promoted to area manager for the brand new, not-yet-up-and-running Central Notts branch of ReadUp. This would require recruiting and then supervising a small team of reading coaches, as well as sourcing and working with my own reading clients. Unlike many of the local villages, Bigley Bottom had managed to hang on to its tiny library, which in my experience was the best place to set up base.
This location also satisfied one other essential Dream Life criteria: at a half hour drive from Nottingham, it was close enough to pop home for a cup of tea, but deep enough into the countryside that there was no chance of Mum ever finding me.
I took one last look at the kitchen, briefly imagining my similarly imaginary friends sitting round the table sharing lovingly prepared dinners, before following the estate agent upstairs to admire the second bedroom’s buttercup-yellow walls and pale grey floorboards. This would be a perfect home office. There would also be room to squeeze a sofa bed in here, given that having my as-yet-imaginary friends to stay was another item on the Dream List.
