Page 10 of The Love of Our Lives
As suspected, I’m across town, in Tollcross, it appears. I used to come to this area occasionally to get art supplies from the shop nearby, maybe have a green tea at Victor Hugo on the Meadows. I haven’t been since the transplant, come to think of it. But then I haven’t been anywhere really.
To the right of me, tall trees sway in the breeze above the green fields, and I walk towards them, drawn by a place I know at least. It’s busy out here, realistically so, and a bubble of panic starts to rise up through me. When I arrive at the Meadows, I sense people glancing across at me and realise I’m still covered in paint.
I feel groggy and strange from the Prosecco, and eventually I sit down on the grass, uncertain what else to do. I lie back flat on the feathery blades now, stare up at the wide expanse of blue above, and with the sounds of kids playing and mowers going, I let my eyes fall shut.
I wake blearily sometime later to cool air on my face and the scent of trees. I’m still in the Meadows, except now the light has changed and the blue sky has drifted into pink. Most of the kids have left.
Pulling myself off the grass, I find myself covered in tufts of green, and it strikes me harder how very lifelike it is that I would have grass stuck to me. Also, that I’ve woken up still in the dream. My heart starts to pound lightly, and all that gleeful joy I had earlier evaporates entirely.
Everything seems really strange.
Walking quickly back across the Meadows, the paint-splattered dress flutters about my legs, and I feel even more outside of myself than before. Passing a now darkened deli, I pause to stare at the reflection: same medium height I saw before, same kind of lightly curved body shape, but with dark hair flying around in the breeze, and a pretty heart-shaped face.
What’s going on?
With more urgency now, I pick up my pace. By the time I get off the Meadows, I know where I’m headed, because it’s the only place I can think to go now. I have to just get back to where this all started. I have to get back to bed, and when I wake up, all of this will be gone.
It has to be.
As I hit the street I came from, I start walking faster, back up to Tollcross where I started this morning. But what door was it? Which number?
Shit.
I left in such a spin this morning because I never thought I was coming back. Walking past the little restaurants and cafés, it all slides together loosely again – the tapas bar, the newsagent and the café with the purple front. That card shop with the jewellery display in the window. I came out of the door beside it – the dull red one with a rusted seven on the front.
But how the hell am I going to get back inside? I didn’t take any keys.
Shit, shit, shit.
I just need to get back to that flat – if I could even get into the stairwell.
Staring at the row of flat buzzers down the side, I pick one at random and press it.
Nothing.
Tentatively, I press the next one, and a voice comes out angry and sharp, ‘I’m not due a delivery, I don’t want pamphlets, I’m not going to buy anything, so just bugger off.’
I stop short.
But I have to get in.
I press the next one, then the next, my heart rate rising with each responding silence.
Finally, I press the buzzer at the top right – for what must be the flat opposite with the muddy trainers.
A crackle.
‘Hello?’ a friendly male voice says.
Relief floods through me.
‘Hello,’ I start, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten my key and—’
To my surprise, the buzzer immediately goes, and I hesitate for a moment before pushing it open. Inside, the tenement is dark and cool, a welcome relief after the huge expanse of sky out there. I can’t quite get over the sound of my voice sounding so . . . English. It’s unsettling, even in a dream. Walking up the stone steps, I have no idea how I’ll get inside the flat door, butat least I’m one step closer. Rounding the last set of stairs, I’m surprised to see a man on the top floor with messy dark hair and lightly tanned white skin. He’s in khaki shorts and a scruffy black t-shirt, but his eyes are what get me – the most incredible forest green I’ve ever seen. With his large hands on the banister, he throws a lopsided smile down at me. When I get to the top, I pause in front of him, uncertain.
‘So, locked out then,’ he says easily.
Now that I’m standing right in front of him, I see the scuff marks of dust on his top, the dimple on one cheek, his lean but strong-looking arms. An unusual-looking tattoo trails down one, and despite the weirdness of the situation, I can’t help feeling a twinge of attraction.
