Finding Dreams Read online

  FINDING DREAMS

  Lauren Westwood

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Finding Dreams

  Lizzie Greene is about to lose everything when her husband suddenly dies and his debts come to light. To make ends meet she opens up her quirky old house to be used as a set for a film based on a bestselling romance novel.

  Her life and household are turned upside down when a whole cast of colourful characters enters her family’s lives: from an enigmatic author, a handsome location scout, a brooding director, to a heart-throb leading man, never mind her now ex-mother-in-law camped out in her drive.

  As Lizzie delves deeper into the film’s book, all is not as it seems.

  Will her desire to save her house and unravel the secrets of the past lead to new love, or to mortal danger?

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Finding Dreams

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I

  I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  II

  Chapter 4

  III

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part II

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  IV

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  V

  Chapter 14

  VI

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  VII

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part III

  VIII

  Chapter 21

  IX

  Chapter 22

  X

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part IV

  XI

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  XII

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  XIII

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  XIV

  Chapter 34

  Part V

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part VI

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  XV

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Part VII

  XVI

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  About Lauren Westwood

  Also by Lauren Westwood

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  For Eve, Rose & Grace, with love

  I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind.

  Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

  Prologue

  March

  When Death came to Tanglewild, I was at the supermarket. I’d just dropped Katie off at ballet, and had fifteen minutes before I was due to pick up Jack from Little Kickers. Just enough time to nip into one of the parent and child spaces in front of Tesco and grab some loo roll, a pack of night pull-ups for Jack, a bunch of bananas, a tin of dog food, and a bottle of Rioja, stand in the baskets only line, and dig through my handbag for my Clubcard while the checkout assistant scanned my items.

  My mobile rang – ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’ – meaning it was Dave, my husband. Katie tricked me into giving her my phone for a school project and when I got it back, she’d made specialised ringtones for everyone in the family. Gran Connie is ‘Twist and Shout’, the house phone is ‘Shake It Off’, my friend Hannah is ‘The Sugar Plum Fairy’ and I haven’t a clue how to change it back. Fortunately, Katie and Jack are much too young to have their own phones.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, answering breathlessly, slinging up my bag-for-life to start packing.

  ‘Mrs Greene?’ A female voice.

  Instantly, my stomach clenched. It was Allison, Dave’s new PA. Blonde, young, a body untrammelled by pregnancies, a gym membership that actually gets used, high heels from Karen Millen (and not even any trainers kept under the desk for walking to the Tube), time on her hands to meet friends down the pub after work without having to help with homework or drive Mum’s Taxi. In other words, I hate her.

  ‘Yes?’

  I picked up the bananas and slung them into the bottom of the bag, not caring if they got squished.

  ‘It’s Allison here.’

  ‘Hi there. Why are you calling from Dave’s phone?’

  ‘Oh Lizzie… I don’t know how to say this…’

  I picked up the bottle of Rioja, checking the label quickly to make sure it was at least thirteen per cent. An awful little fantasy popped into my head. Allison – at the airport with my husband; him not having the balls to call me himself to tell me that he was running off to Majorca with her, leaving me with two young kids, a fat old dog, and a big mortgage. But no… I laughed at my own groundless worries. Dave would never do that. He’s a good husband and a good father. But even more than that, Dave lacks… imagination.

  So why is she calling from his phone?

  ‘What is it, Allison?’

  ‘It’s Dave.’

  The assistant finished scanning and looked at me like I was holding her up. I ignored her, my grip tightening on the neck of the wine bottle as Allison kept talking.

  ‘I’m afraid, he’s… um… God, I’m so sorry.’

  My life flashed before my eyes. Working day and night in my twenties to build a career as a lawyer. Meeting a man – Dave – getting married, buying a house together. Giving up said career to become a mum; moving out of London to the countryside. We’ve had some great times together as a family – holidays abroad, kids’ birthday parties, cycling to the pub, winter evenings by the fire. Dave and I have things in common. We both love our quirky old house, Tanglewild; we’re both focused on the children and the family. We’re living the dream…

  OK – I had to admit that lately, we’ve been going through a rough patch. Me always complaining about the kids and dithering about whether I should go back to work. Him either working all hours at the law firm, or else sitting idle worrying about his billables target for the year. My halcyon twenties slipped away long ago, and now, at thirty-seven, I’m on a collision course with my forties like a hurtling fast train. The house is a mess, our sex life non-existent, our days chaotic. Sometimes I’m not sure I like the person I’ve become. But still – we’re happy.

  ‘We’re happy,’ I heard myself saying, sharp and loud to the checkout woman. I brandished the bottle for emphasis. Her bored look morphed into one of ‘possible looney in the shop’ and I saw her glance sideways at the security guard next to the self-checkout.

  ‘Look,’ I said to Allison, my voice unnaturally high-pitched, ‘put Dave on the phone. Whatever he has to say, he can say it to my face. I’m not letting him off that easily.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t put him on the phone,’ Allison said.

  ‘Why the hell not!’ From the corner of my eye, I spotted a manager on his way towards me.

  ‘I… I found him slumped over in his chair – at his desk. I checked his pulse and then I called the paramedic. But it was too late. He was already…’

  It was like I’d sla
mmed into a wall – an unstoppable force hitting an immovable object. ‘What?’ The word gurgled out of my throat. ‘You mean— he’s—?’

  But I didn’t hear her reply. I held the phone away from my ear. My hand opened and the wine bottle crashed to the floor, shattering into a million pieces.

  And as the manager came over, and the assistant called over the loudspeaker for the in-store cleaner, I collapsed against my bag-for-life, the bananas, the pull-ups and the loo roll, and my whole body began to shake. With the shock of life as I knew it coming to an end, and the sheering of my heart as it cracked in two.

  Part I

  Et in arcadia ego

  - I -

  Prologue, The Lady’s Secret, by Phillipa King

  West Sussex 1790

  The river shimmered green in the sunlight, the remains of the picnic cast aside. She leaned back on her elbows and looked up at the spreading branches of the willow tree above and the place on the trunk where Tom had carved their initials with the apple knife. Her eyelids grew heavy from the wine and the summer heat.

  Beside her, Tom knelt down and picked a long-stemmed daisy, twining the stem into a knot. ‘Won’t be long now, my sweet. Next week I come of age and we can be married straight away. But until then, accept this as a token of my feelings.’ He reached for her hand and slipped the daisy ring onto her finger. ‘’Til death do us part.’

  Victoria laughed merrily. ‘Oh go on then – one kiss. As an early birthday present.’

  ‘One kiss?’ He leaned over her, his breath hot on her face. ‘That’s not what you promised.’

  She laughed again, then kissed her finger and planted it on his cheek. ‘I was joking. We can’t. And besides, it’s only a week.’

  ‘Then it won’t matter will it?’ His hand crept up under her skirt and touched the bare flesh above her stocking, as he swung on top of her.

  She gasped as a thousand emotions flooded her mind – desire… yes. But surely, it was wrong not to wait.

  ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘I think we should…’

  ‘Shh,’ he said, silencing her words with a kiss and a lopsided smile. ‘You did promise, my love.’

  Chapter 1

  January – ten months later

  On the scale of human tragedies, ‘Sussex mum loses husband’ is a drop in the ocean. It’s not like I’ve been forced to leave the country due to war or disease or famine. It’s not like I’m having to live with the guilt of suicide or the drain of terminal illness. I haven’t even suffered the shame of having my husband run off with a toned and tanned other woman many years my junior to start a new life. Dave, it turned out, had a weak heart – it gave out suddenly and unexpectedly. People live and people die; ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

  Even now, I can still hear the voice of the priest intoning these futile words, as the coffin was lowered into the earth. They screamed in my head like fingernails scratching across a blackboard, and I felt like they might pull me down with him. Why hadn’t Dave given instructions to be cremated? Why would he want to be buried in a wooden box in the ground? That little detail became the hook, the outlet for my grief. It just seemed so pointless – so bloody cold – to lie there forever in the dank darkness, all alone except for the bugs and worms. It just seemed so bloody Dave.

  A light coating of frost covers the ground as I pull into the car park of Westbury Junior School. The sky is heavy and overcast. Though it’s already the end of January, spring feels very far away. The heater in the car is going full tilt, but still, I can’t stop shivering. Not with the cold, but with the decision I made, last night, lying in bed sleepless and alone. That I can’t put off any longer this thing I’ve been dreading. I have to do it today.

  As I look round for a space, I practise deep breathing like the grief books say to do – trying to find a moment of stillness and inner peace. Life has definitely thrown me lemons, but didn’t some wise old sage say that when that happens, you should ‘make lemonade’?

  Jamming on the brakes, I narrowly miss being mown down by a Range Rover reversing into a compact car space.

  ‘Arsehole,’ I mutter, directed both at that wise old sage and the other vehicle.

  ‘Jeez, Mum,’ Katie grumbles. ‘You’re such a bad driver.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I swallow back what I really feel like saying to my nine-going-on-nineteen-year-old daughter. I know she’s having a hard time right now with having lost her dad and the pressures of Year 4, but for some reason, I’ve become the focus of her issues. Even though I’m trying my best to keep my own worries from the kids and be strong for their sake, they aren’t stupid. Once or twice, Katie’s found me crying my eyes out. On those occasions, we hugged each other, and she cried too. I’ve let her go on believing that I’m upset only because I miss her dad – her loveable, squeezable, just-a-little-dull dad, rather than the real reason. The rest of the time, she acts like I’m Colonel Mustard in the library with the lead pipe, solely responsible for how bad she’s feeling at the moment.

  I find a space in the far corner of the car park. Katie gets out and unloads her rucksack. I try to hand her her coat, but she looks at me like I’m some kind of alien life force. With a sigh, I get out of the car and go round to the side to unbuckle Jack from his car seat.

  ‘Luv you, Mummy,’ he says, smearing a sticky hand on my jumper.

  ‘Me too, pumpkin.’ I lift him out. His trousers are soaking wet. While my love for him in no way diminishes, it blurs right out of focus. ‘Jack!’ I say. ‘You went to the potty before we left!’

  His plump little face screws up and all of a sudden he starts to howl.

  Katie rolls her eyes. ‘I’m going in, Mum,’ she says. ‘This is just so embarrassing.’ She pokes Jack in the arm. ‘You’re a BIG FAT CRY BABY!’

  ‘Am not!’ he cries.

  ‘Katie!’ I yell, but she’s already run off, her rucksack thumping against her back. I suck in a breath and say a silent prayer as she runs in between two SUVs that are poised like bellowing bulls waiting for a parking space. I lay Jack down in the driver’s seat and pull off his welly boots, his wee-soaked socks, trousers and Disney Cars so-called absorbent pants, noting that somehow, he’s also managed to get wee on his T-shirt and coat. I strip him down, my jaw clenched as he kicks at me and yells, ‘Katie’s mean.’

  ‘You’re a big boy,’ I say, the lie tripping easily off my tongue. ‘Three years old! So just ignore her. Now let’s get dressed and go to nursery.’

  Eventually I manage to wriggle him into a set of spare clothing, wipe off his boots with a baby wipe, and bundle him into his coat and woolly hat.

  When I try to lead him across the car park by the hand, he starts screaming for a ‘cuggle’. I give in and pick him up. Ten months on from Dave’s death, and I’ve been surviving by taking the path of least resistance. Besides, as long as I’m carrying him, he’ll serve as a kind of human shield from some rogue mum who might try and ask me how I’m doing. Not today of all days…

  For the first few weeks after Dave died, everyone was so sympathetic and helpful. I’d pull into the cark park in my dirty blue Passat Estate, with my rumpled, tear-streaked children, and be bombarded with kindness as I walked them to the gate. The hands on the arm, the ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’s, the smothering hugs from people whose names I didn’t even know. The worried looks from the teachers, the offers of lifts for the kids and extra after-school playdates. While all of it was thoughtful and well meant, if anything, it made the grief even more overwhelming.

  I couldn’t sleep or eat. All the things that were familiar became like wicked little pins scratching and pricking at my heart. Telling the kids had been the hardest. Jack’s understanding was limited, of course. He wanted to know why Daddy wasn’t around to do froggy jumps with him, kick a ball round the garden, and put on the DVD. Katie just shut herself away in her own airless, impenetrable shell, and even if I’d had the strength, I couldn’t begin to reach her.

  In those early days, I tried to go on as normal –
shopping online, cooking the kids’ favourite meals, tidying up the mess, throwing the ball for Jammie (short for Jammie Dodger), our aged Siberian Husky. But nothing cut through the smothering, stifling sense of loss. I felt like I was living one of those nightmares where you’re running for your life but every step is like wading through quicksand, and try as you might, you can’t escape.

  Dave was buried, there was a memorial service and a wake that his older brother organised. I was present and accounted for. My mum came for the service and to help with the kids. Unfortunately, having her there didn’t make things better either. She never liked Dave, and it almost seemed like she was blaming him for departing. She left after a week to fly back to Spain where she lives in a retirement community. In truth, it was a relief when all the would-be mourners were gone. By then the quicksand was over my head and I’d stopped struggling, letting it seep into my lungs and suffocate me.

  Then, something happened that yanked me out of that quicksand for good. Just after the funeral, I got a call from Dave’s solicitor inviting me in for a meeting. I was mildly surprised that Dave even had a solicitor – we’d had someone do the conveyancing on the house and made a will when the children were born but that was about it.

  It felt very Dickensian to enter the lawyer’s office in the nearby town, housed in a three-story Georgian townhouse. I was ushered into a traditional sitting room turned small conference room and offered tea and biscuits. I made it through one cup of coffee and two biscuits before Mr Keswick, a balding man in his early sixties, eventually came in. He was wearing a smart pinstriped suit, and carrying a leather folio of papers. His well-groomed appearance made me hyperconscious of the dog hair on my jumper and the mud on the cuffs of my jeans.

  He sat down on the opposite side of the conference table from me, his head slightly bowed. He was joined a minute later by his PA, a hawk-nosed woman in her fifties wearing a neat cashmere twinset and carrying a spiral notepad. She sat down in a chair at the end of the table, making it impossible for me to look at both of them at once.