Dream a Little Dream Read Online Free PDF Page A

since its render had been painted blinding white and the stone sills and lintels shiny black, outshone it, too. Liza was glad her house still wore its unpretentious red brick, shaded with age, even if its two storeys were squat beside the Gatehouse’s lofty three. It seemed bizarre that the two houses were joined – like the local squire marrying his kitchen maid. But, there they were, sharing a wall. Goodness knows what gate The Gatehouse had ever been the house to, unless it was some relic of the Carlysle estate. More likely, some earlier occupant of The Gatehouse had simply decided it was posh for a house to have a name, rather than a number. And it did have a garden gate; maybe that was it.
    As Liza slid from the car, huddling into her coat for the brief journey up number 7’s six-foot front path, an iron-grey middle-aged woman appeared through The Gatehouse’s imposing black-painted front door. ‘Good evening.’
    Although she didn’t really feel like going through the friendly neighbour ritual, Liza paused, key in hand, and summoned a smile. ‘Just moving in? Welcome to Middledip. I’m Liza. If you haven’t unpacked your kettle yet, I could make—’
    ‘I’m Mrs Snelling,’ the woman interrupted. ‘Is that your little house? It adjoining ours was nearly a deal breaker.’
    Any intention of offering a cheering cuppa instantly vanished from Liza’s mind. ‘It’s been “adjoined” for about a hundred-and-fifty years. It didn’t grow overnight, like a zit.’
    Mrs Snelling somehow managed to make her unsmiling face smile even less. ‘But then I realised that we could make you an offer, and break through – it’ll be useful space. My mother might like to live downstairs and we can make the upstairs a guest suite. If we paint the exterior, the two properties will blend nicely.’
    Liza laid her hand protectively on her plain front door. ‘It’s my house, not useful space. And painting these lovely bricks would be vulgar.’ Stabbing the key into the lock before Mrs Snelling could reply, she almost fell into the sanctuary of her hall, trying not to wonder how much longer her house would be her house. No practice equalled no money; if she couldn’t manage the mortgage payment she’d have to sell. And now here was bloody Mrs Snelling waiting to annexe it. She flipped on the sitting-room light. ‘I won’t sell you to that rabid old bat,’ she reassured the room. But if she let the bank repossess it then they wouldn’t care who they sold it to, which would probably mean a delightful bargain in Snellingland. Useful space for people who already had acres of it.
    Dropping her ski jacket over the back of the sofa, rubbing her chilly hands along the radiators, she made for the primrose-yellow kitchen and warming ginger tea, sitting at the small pine table to drink and think. Above her, the ceiling airer was hung with three copper saucepans, a dark blue glass ball, a drying top and leggings, and a bunch of lavender that, though it bathed her in its scent, failed to soothe her. She stared at the rain pattering at the window and wondered what the hell she was going to do. Her reflection stared back, pale hair and pale skin above dark green uniform. ‘Liza Reece,’ she asked it, ‘how has this happened? How could you upset your workmates? You need to return to the sunny, cheerful Liza that everyone knew and loved, this instant. Smile!’ She gave a great cheesy grin. ‘Wipe those frowns from your forehead.’ She smoothed with her palms, physically reminding her brow how it was meant to be. Unlined. Serene. ‘Stop worrying.’
    How? The frown tried to repucker. Hastily, she plastered her forehead flat again. ‘By doing nice things.’ She summoned up a fresh smile. ‘Like ringing Angie and Rochelle.’ The smile became real and she reached for her phone.
    Two hours on, curled in a corner of a leather sofa amongst the bright lights and chatter of the coffee-fragranced Starbucks in Long Causeway, she was