Page 7 of Five Things I Love About You

But a few days later I had another dream about him, and another one a few days after that, and soon I began to wonder whether it could have been Sophie who was right and there was more to it after all.

At first, I just enjoyed it – going to sleep and spending a magical night with the same man felt incredible, special. And, okay, I still couldn’t see his face clearly, but it didn’t seem to matter.

After a while, though, I began to worry I might actually be going mad, that these dreams might be a result of the head injury, so I decided to tell the girls about them.

‘Itoldyou it meant something,’ Sophie said, delighted.

‘The only thing it means is that Miranda is horny as hell,’ Kirstie said, laughing.

‘It’s not funny,’ I said.

‘Sorry, you’re right,’ Kirstie said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but if you’re really that concerned, go and speak to the doctor.’

I couldn’t do that though. There was no way I could explain what was happening to a stranger.

Instead, Kirstie, Sophie and I talked about it – and disagreed about it – endlessly. I mean, I didn’t believe in fate, did I, so how could the dreams mean anything? And yet, they continued.

Then I met Darren. It was never a big love story, but I liked him and, more importantly, I assumed having someone in my life – and in my bed – would mean the dreams would finally stop. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, apart from the fact that having a relationship with a real-life man had to be healthier than one with a man who only existed in your mind.

But the dreams didn’t stop. In fact, they became even steamier. Some mornings I’d wake up with my heart pounding and an ache between my legs while Darren was fast asleep beside me, which was not ideal.

And I still couldn’t get away from the fact that the dreams still felt like more than just dreams. It was hard to explain, but all I knew was that every morning after ‘Jay’ and I had been ‘together’ all night, I woke up with a warm glow, a feeling that I’d met someone special, someone who really understood me, who was my – dare I say it? – soulmate.

What we had felt completely real.

Switching the shower off I grab a towel and dry quickly. Then I wrap my myself in my dressing gown and march back through to the bedroom to pick up my phone. Clicking open my notes, I read through the things I’ve written over the past few months, under the heading ‘Dream Man’.

His name begins with the letters Ja. (I’m calling him ‘Jay’.)

He’s from Newcastle (but he might not live there).

He has dark hair.

He owns a pink tie. Or at least, he did, almost a year ago.

He has a dog called Colin (he’s appeared in the dreams several times).

That’s it. After almost a year of dreams, these are the only five details I have about the man who’s been haunting my dreams night after night – and only the first four are things I’m certain of.

My thumb hovers over the keypad for a moment as I sieve through the rubbish sack of my mind, trying to salvage another tiny scrap from last night’s dream to add to this admittedly measly list. There must be something, surely? Eye colour? Job? Favourite song? Comeon, brain.

But, as usual, there’s nothing.

Not that it would make any difference anyway. It’s not as though I’m ever going to see him again.

I sling my phone onto the bed and hurriedly get dressed. It’s nearly spring but the air still feels chilly in the morning, and I can’t afford to heat the whole house when there’s only me in it. I slick on some make-up, make a coffee in my takeaway cup and a bagel for breakfast, check the contents of my rucksack and then head out of the door to unlock my bike. Yep, despite what happened last year, I’m still cycling to work – although I leave earlier now because, with north London traffic the way it is, if I don’t leave the house by 7a.m. I feel like I’m taking my life into my own hands. I clip my helmet on, check behind me, and push off.

The traffic is surprisingly light this morning and I arrive at school earlier than expected. I wheel my bike across the empty playground and through the side gate to the bike rack. By the time I reach my classroom I’m ravenous, so I pull out my bagel, unscrew the lid of my coffee, and settle down to do some marking.

‘Hey-ho!’

I pause, then smile sweetly at Josh – Mr Rothschild – the head of year ten. Josh has made no secret of the fact he’s in love with me and fully expects to win me over one day. Quite apart from him being almost as round as he is tall (sort of like a British Danny DeVito) with a thatch of unusually creative hair that gives him the look of a mad professor, how could anyone fancy someone who regularly uses the greeting ‘hey-ho?’ My heart sinks as he pulls a chair up right in front of me, hitches his feet onto my desk, and grins. ‘And how are we on this fine bright morning?’

‘I’m good thanks, Josh. Just trying to get some marking done before the chaos starts all over again.’

‘Yes, yes, so I see. Very diligent.’

Bugger off then so I can get on with it, I think, but bite back. To my alarm he removes his feet from the desk and leans forward, resting his head on his hands, his elbows on the desk, and studies me intently.

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