Page 2 of Drink Up, Darling
With his eyes tightly closed, Dariel dreamed. He dreamed of his first life—always the place his thoughts wandered to before anything else. He dreamed of Annette, his beautiful wife, and of the cottage they owned in a quiet village up north in the early sixties. He dreamed of the birds tweeting every morning as he lifted the sash window they always had to keep propped open with a stone from the garden. He dreamed of the flowers that grew there and the evenings they sat out in odd chairs, looking up at the stars. Annette always smiled in his dreams, the biggest, brightest beam across her freckled face. She’d make jokes sometimes, and in others she’d be baking something or occasionally hanging out washing. His favourite dreams were when they were walking along the canal together, or when they’d take a picnic up to the fields where Annette’s parents lived. They married young, as you did in those days, but he knew she was everything and more to him, and he wished for an eternity with her.
Then, because no one stopped him, his dreams would wander to that day in the kitchen, the morning sun painting the walls yellow as Annette, dressed in her denim pinafore, a peach headband keeping her hair back with daisy earrings hanging from each earlobe, reached down to hold her bellythat way.
Dariel’s head flicked up and their eyes locked, her smile beaming again.
“Our baby?” He always asked in disbelief.
“Our little Sparrow.”
Then the next memoryalwayscame. Straight away, no warning, no transition.
Just flames.
“You asleep there, mate?”
Dariel startled awake with a sharp jolt, the seatbelt jamming into his throat as his eyes burst open in a panic.
He looked down to his hands before processing anything else, the shadows crawling all over his skin, enveloping his whole body like mist. His dim reflection always showed them, smothering his wide eyes, and then, as always, the fear that everyone else around him could also see them would hit.
He knew that wasn’t true, though.
No one else could ever see them.
Without further thought, Dariel reached into his coat pocket and produced a hip flask, unscrewing the cap before the driver even had time to notice. He took one quick swig of blood, shaking his head. If the driver saw, he didn’t say anything. It looked completely normal, just a guy taking a quick sip of his favourite whisky, nothing more.
He watched the road for a while; head back on the glass, eyes forced open in focus. If he looked at the trees and telephone wires and the distant, blinking city lights, making up scenarios in his head or thinking about plans, then he could keep the dreams at bay.
He didn’t want to forget them.
He’d just never been good at managing them.
Once they turned off the main roads and began to trail down more country lanes, Dariel decided to pull out his laptop. A pit had begun to form in his stomach—not from hunger, from worry. It came out of nowhere, he’d tried really hard to keep all negative thoughts at bay, but the closer and closer they got to the destination, Dariel’s nerves intensified.
He’d saved the email as a document to access any time, just in case.
He let his eyes scan over every word; second guessing the time, the plan, his decision. He wanted to make sure he’d read it all correctly—despite having gone over it a dozen times.
Dear Mr Dariel Hale,
Apologies for my lack of professionalism, I will admit I’m not well versed in hiring designers, so forgive me if this is not the way to go about contacting you, but I could not find any other means of getting in touch. I thought I would try my luck first.
My name is Godwin Peters, I’m the sole owner of Grandshaw Manor just north of Abingdon, and I have recently decided it is time to update my clothes.
I’m a man of middle age, and have spent quite a long time wearing the same dreary outfits day in, day out. I stumbled across your work years ago in a magazine inside my newspaper, and it would be a great dream of mine if you would do me the pleasure of helping me redesign my wardrobe.
Of course, I expect to pay you as I understand this will take quite some time. I’m presuming this would be something you could mostly do from the comfort of your own studio once you have all the necessary information, but we can discuss accommodation if necessary. I have £200,000to offer, though a higher price can be negotiated as I am not sure of your rates! Please do not take this offer as an insult, I am a huge admirer of your work.
If you accept this offer, I would love to invite you to my home for dinner on 5thJanuary at 7pm so we can become acquainted and discuss further.
If this is not the best way to contact you but you are still interested, would you be able to let me know the contact details of perhaps your agent or assistant who handles your business enquiries?
Kind regards,
Mr Godwin Peters
His address was listed at the bottom, but Dariel had already made up his mind before he’d even seen the payment offer. He enjoyed the manner in which this gentleman wrote, causing a grin to form on Dariel’s face. Reading it again in the taxi only reminded him of why he was so quick to accept in the first place.
He was doing the right thing.
