Page 28 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museum

I wake up in the most uncomfortable position known to mankind.

My head is pillowed on a pile of dustsheets and I’m still covered by Warren’s sleeping bag, and there’s an ache in my hip that suggests I’m too old to be spending nights on the floor.

And yet, as I turn onto my back and stretch luxuriously in the daylight streaming in from the windows above, it doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

I don’t know how long I stayed awake last night, but it wasn’t long enough to see the end of Beauty and the Beast, but talking to Warren, getting to know a real part of him was worth any stiffness and aches this morning.

I might have failed on the stakeout part, but it feels like a win on some level.

The smell of coffee is wafting down from the kitchen upstairs, and I haul myself to my feet and run to the bathroom to clean my teeth and try to make my hair stop resembling the nest of a not-very-houseproud bird, and I groan as I drag myself up every step towards the kitchen on the third floor.

‘You sound like you slept on the floor last night.’ Warren’s sitting at the kitchen table with his water bottle, a mug, and the Tablet of Gloom in front of him, and he looks up when I arrive in the doorway, sounding like I’ve just run a marathon, not climbed a couple of flights of stairs.

‘I think I did, for a bit. You didn’t really stay awake all night, did you?’

‘Sleepless nights are a regular thing in my job. It makes no difference whether I’m having them here or at home.

’ He lifts the mug like he’s making a toast and takes a sip of his coffee.

‘And no, I gave up too. Put my head down for a few minutes at 5 a.m., woke up two hours later. I’m clearly too old for stakeouts. ’

‘Aren’t we all?’ I go over to the kitchen unit to re-boil the kettle and try not to be touched that he’s put a mug and the jar of instant coffee ready for me.

‘It was nice to talk to you last night,’ he says as I busy myself with making the much-needed coffee. ‘Something I don’t do very often.’

‘Lie on a hard, cold landing and eat dreadful crisp-type things?’ I turn around to look at him while stirring my drink, even though I don’t like instant coffee, there is nowhere near enough caffeine in tea for mornings like this.

‘Talk.’

I’m surprised by his openness again and I meet his tired eyes across the kitchen. ‘You should do it more often. We should do it more often.’

‘I can’t disagree with that.’

I splosh milk into my mug, give it a final stir, and take the seat opposite him at the kitchen table.

‘At least you didn’t see me cry at the end of Beauty and the Beast.’

I don’t mean to snort, but I can’t help it. ‘You did not. If you did, you wouldn’t openly admit it.’

‘I’ve never been so captivated in my life.

How had I not seen that before? When I next see my mother, I’m going to have a go at her for withholding Disney movies from my childhood.

’ He leans forward in his seat and whispers the next bit like he’s worried someone might overhear.

‘And when I’d recovered my manly dignity after that, I watched Pocahontas because I wanted to understand the connection to the museum.

And now I want a racoon and a hummingbird as friends. ’

It’s a good job I hadn’t just taken a sip of coffee because I would’ve spat it halfway across the kitchen with the unexpected laugh.

‘You are normal after all then, because trust me, no one has ever watched Pocahontas and not wanted a greedy racoon friend and to go paddling in some nearby river and talk to a few trees afterwards.’

He laughs. ‘I know there are cultural appropriation issues and historical inaccuracies with it, but I liked the message. Two people who are very different can learn to live alongside each other, learn something from aspects of each other’s lives, and truly come to respect each other.’

It’s a metaphor that I’m too tired to fully untangle, but I like what he’s hinting at, and we sit opposite each other, smiling, until his phone buzzes and he gives it a cursory glance, and then looks between me and the Tablet of Gloom on the table in front of him.

‘Okay, riddle me this.’ He sits forward again, turns the tablet screen on, and spins it around to face me. ‘How?’

On the screen is a post from Ever After Street’s social media, showing a photo of the Magic Carpet dangling from a tree, and the caption reads, ‘Crash landing!’

I laugh out loud. The girls are brilliant to think of that. I couldn’t imagine what they were going to do with that rug when I posted it through the bathroom window last night, but this is hilariously ingenious.

‘Oh, that is amaz—’ I quickly swallow back my gleefulness when I glance up at his definitely-not-laughing face and force a frown to appear. ‘Well, if it broke out by itself, it didn’t get very far, that tree is only on the edge of woods, just beyond the carousel.’

He reaches over to tap the screen. ‘That carpet was there last night, I remember seeing it when I checked. And I didn’t spot anything. Not a movement. No one – and nothing – came or went last night, I’m sure of that. So… how?’

He sounds completely and utterly defeated, but rather than annoyed or curious, he sounds like he’s just fed up now, and it makes that guilt race through my veins again.

He must know, and he’s waiting for me to be honest, and I want to, but the others are right.

Without him and his company, there would be no need for moving exhibits and sneaky Magic Carpet jiggery-pokery in the first place, and I can’t let him in on the one thing that’s making a difference to my chances.

Mickey and Cleo went hugely out of their way for me last night.

I can’t return the favour by betraying what they’ve asked me to do – not tell him.

‘We were distracted for a while,’ I stutter, trying to find the right words. ‘Maybe it waited until we were both asleep and then snuck out.’

‘Yeah, I think it’s really likely that a Magic Carpet was waiting in the wings all night, floating around, watching us, eager for a chance to make its escape.’

‘Thank you for making the Magic Carpet sound like something from a horror movie. That’s a really disturbing thought.’ I force out a laugh, going for redirection instead of anything close to the truth.

His eyes bore into me from across the table, and I know he knows, but I can’t bring myself to spit it out.

I might have enjoyed getting to know him better, but my museum is never going to bring in more revenue than a cinema complex, and I can’t shake the feeling that, sooner or later, someone’s going to pull the rug right out from under me and, somehow, he’s going to be responsible.

To even stand a chance, I have to come up with the rent that he’s increased, and I can’t let him in on something that might help me to raise it.

I keep my lips sealed and force a nonchalant sip of coffee down under the scrutiny of those intense blue eyes.

‘You know what, I give up.’ Eventually he sits back and shoves a hand through his hair with a sigh.

‘Whoever is doing whatever they’re doing, they’re actually helping us.

The comments on this are hysterical. People are really responding to the “escaped exhibits” angle, there are independent social media posts asking for theories about what’s going on, and we’ve seen an increase in visitors.

This is exactly what we need, and we can tap into this ourselves with that promo video I mentioned last night.

So that’s it. No more stakeouts, no more trying to catch someone out.

No more questioning. Let them get on with it.

’ He meets my eyes again. ‘If you could pass that message on to the “sentient exhibits” that would be great.’

He does the air quotes, leaving me in no doubt that he knows full well the Magic Carpet didn’t escape by itself, and I must admit to feeling a sting of disappointment at the thought of no more stakeouts.

I could do without the whole balancing one leg on the toilet cistern and poking valuable items through a very small window aspect, but everything else about last night was pretty good.

I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to doing it again, even with the offensive crisps, the bad night’s sleep, and the aches this morning.

He sits back in the chair, rubbing his fingers over his dark, unkempt stubble thoughtfully, but whatever he’s thinking about, he doesn’t share it with me.

Eventually he downs the last of his coffee, shudders because it was almost definitely cold by now, and stands up.

‘I’m going back to the car to change so I look vaguely presentable for work today. ’

‘If you were up most of the night, don’t you need to sleep?’

‘Nah, I’ll catch up tonight. However, coffee.’

I laugh at how he uses the word like it’s the all-encompassing answer to every problem.

‘I need something stronger than this instant stuff. I’ll bring you one back too.’

‘Thanks. Although after those crisps, I’m not sure I trust you to be sent out for supplies ever again.’

It looks like the laugh takes him by surprise and he hesitates for a moment, leaning one hand on the table, looking like he wants to say something, but again, he doesn’t, and I can see him chewing the inside of his cheek as he looks at me.

The moment passes and he shakes his head and pushes himself off the table and picks up the Tablet of Gloom and his water bottle as he walks out. ‘Luckily I’m much better at coffee than I am at snack choices.’

I get my phone out and open the Ever After Street social media account and scroll to the comments.

Don’t drink and fly!

One-too-many Arabian Nights!

A whole new world… of pain!

Without even realising it, I’ve been chuckling at my phone for ten minutes, and new comments are being posted every few seconds.

I see what Warren meant about the people responding to this idea, and I get the sense that our daily update was being waited for today.

And visitor numbers are up, and so are mentions on social media and website hits.

Could we really be onto something here? Something that could truly make a difference to not only my chances of keeping the museum, but to what I can do here?

Even with the higher rent, with more visitors, I’d have more money to invest in the exhibits and we’d be able to grant more wishes…

Especially if I stop resisting Warren’s suggestions for small changes here and streamlining tweaks there.

It was unfair of me to say that not all of his ideas are bad ones last night because, to be fair, apart from the whole mermaid tank debacle, most of them have been very, very good.

I refresh the page again and one of the girls has posted another update.

Pascal’s gone missing! If you can find Rapunzel’s camouflaged chameleon friend in his hiding place on Ever After Street, take a photo and tag us, and you’ll be entered into a prize draw to win an ‘Unbirthday party’ at The Wonderland Teapot!

I’m so touched that I have to bite my lip to stop myself tearing up. I had no idea they were going to do something like that, or that Cleo was going to offer a prize at her Alice-themed tearoom, and I send a text to the shopkeepers’ group saying that they didn’t have to do that.

Just seen HIM leave.

Mickey texts back immediately.

He must be so annoyed that we outfoxed him on his stakeout idea. The tweets are getting so much attention on social media. This is brilliant!

I type an agreement, but it niggles at me and I don’t end up pressing send.

I sit back and look at my phone again instead.

While the social media engagement is truly fantastic, and I’m having a ‘pinch me’ moment on that front, it’s everything else that doesn’t feel brilliant.

It feels like Warren knows exactly what’s going on.

He knows I’m lying to him, and he’s given up on caring.

I can’t help feeling that I’ve approached this all wrong.

Fooling the public for a bit of social media fun is one thing, but trying to fool someone who knows I’m trying to fool him is quite another.