Page 6 of The Love of Our Lives

When I was a child, I found a small window in the attic.

I used to pretend my reflection was another child sitting on the other side of the glass, playing in a mirror house, in a mirror attic.

That girl was called Tina, and after I got sick, I would go up there again sometimes, alone.

I’d wish so hard that I could become that girl for a day, living in her healthy body and having exciting adventures, so I never had to worry about hospital appointments and surgeries and making everyone sad all the time.

Now, as I stare into this other mirror, I wonder if by some wild imaginings of my brain, I’ve finally taken myself to the other side of the glass.

Because standing in front of me is someone I don’t know – someone with long dark hair and golden tanned skin.

She has bow-shaped lips, a small freckle above one arched eyebrow and ridiculously long lashes.

The only thing that’s the same is the eye colour: a warm hazel.

And that’s how I know I’m in the hospital.

It’s the only rational explanation for what’s going on: I collapsed in the Botanics, someone called an ambulance and now I’m in an induced coma.

There’s nothing I can do but sit it out.

Wait to wake.

Feeling numbly calmer now, I take a better look around the flat in my dreams. It’s incredible how real it all feels, with the clear light shining in past the dreamcatcher and this citrus-sweet perfume permeating the air, like lemons and roses.

Curious, I look inside the old wooden dresser.

There’s lots of colourful clothing in the drawers – pink vests and yellow t-shirts, chemical-blue leggings and ripped denim shorts.

Crossing to the wardrobe now, I find an equal number of loud, fitted dresses, the type I would never have the confidence to wear; a range of trainers and boots and bags beneath them.

I feel a pretty realistic kick of hunger now, so I wander hazily back to the kitchen.

Opening up a cupboard, I spy a packet of tortilla crisps.

It’s funny how, even in a dream, I can feel myself hesitating over them, wondering what I should do.

I never eat crisps, obviously, but given this is a dream, it seems vaguely ridiculous to quibble over it, so I pull them down, start eating them hungrily and without restraint.

God, they’re good. All salty and cheesy and crunchy in one.

With the packet still in my hand, I check in the fridge next and find it’s bizarrely cool on my skin when I open it, like it would be normally.

I’m delighted to find a large bottle of Coke, half a bottle of Prosecco and what appears to be a half-eaten bowl of ramen inside.

With a slightly heady feeling now, I pull them all out too, already hoping I don’t wake up before I can get through it all.

Taking a glug of the Coke, I grab a fork from a nearby drawer and unclip the top of the plastic container.

The scent released is incredible – garlic and chilli and pork rolled into one; the literal stuff of dreams. I eat standing up, wolfing it down so fast that a little broth ends up on the firefly pyjamas.

Should I change?

The clothes.

With a buzz of excitement, I head back to the bedroom. A moment later, I track back and pick up the Prosecco.

Standing in front of the wardrobe a minute later, I take a little drink of the bubbly liquid straight from the bottle, feel it slip into my system in the most realistic way.

Then I gently run a hand through the clothes, across a pink sweater and a turquoise skirt, a yellow summer dress fluttering in the breeze from the window.

One dress in particular catches my eye, a floaty one in splashes of red and blue and green, like a butterfly’s wings.

It has a low V at the front and the skirt flares out at the sides.

Placing the Prosecco down with a clunk, I strip off the pyjamas, slip the dress over my bare shoulders.

Turning to the long mirror in the corner, I can’t help thinking how pretty I look, or rather my dream body looks, standing here in what appears to be a flat of my own.

It’s not exactly how I’d imagined my dream home, this small flat in Edinburgh.

It’s no penthouse in the city or cabin on a lake, it’s more like a blank canvas to play with.

But perhaps that’s what I’m meant to be doing in this dream?

‘The paint pots,’ I whisper, and with another fizz of excitement, I head back along to the living room.

It’s flooded with a hazy morning light, and, for a moment, I imagine what it might be like to wake up here every day, and drink a cup of coffee, or five, all by myself, before doing whatever I like with the day.

Walking back over to where the pots are, I kneel down to check the colours.

I’m delighted to see they’re all bright and vibrant, sunshine yellow and ocean teal, fuchsia pinks and clementine orange.

It’s not that Mum ever stopped me making the dining room my own, of course, but it’s hard to get overly excited about decorating one small corner of your parents’ home.

Opening the teal pot first, I dip one of the brushes into the vivid paint, before applying it straight to the wall in one luxurious stroke.

The colour immediately pops against the white and I marvel yet again at the realness of it all.

I do the same with the next colour, then the next, dunking the brush in each time and dragging it across the clinical white expanse.

Before I know it, the whole wall is covered in stripes and swirls, circles, and dots and rainbows of technicolour madness.

I’m splattered in paint, but there’s something about it all that fills me with joy.

And I’m not done yet.

Because I’m not in my limited body, and the sun is shining, and right now I think I need to run free in it.

Taking a final drink of the Prosecco, giddiness entering my mind, my body, I head across to the front door and look down at the array of shoes there – flip-flops, rainbow wellies and hiking boots.

I opt for some neon-yellow trainers, and a second later, I’m out the door.

It looks like an old tenement building out here, which makes sense since that’s the sort of building I’ve always imagined myself in.

I appear to be on the top level, opposite another flat with a freshly painted white door and large, muddy trainers outside.

It’s cool and dimly lit, the only light coming from a murky glass skylight above, and looking down through the dark centre, I calculate that there’s maybe three floors below.

I bound down the circular stairwell now, two at a time, so fast I’m almost gliding down it, and as I reach the bottom, I have the most incredible fluttering in my heart.

Opening up the flat door, sunlight floods down on a busy Edinburgh street – tenements, shops, cars – and I pause, as I try to process what’s happening.

Because the problem is, it feels pretty bloody real.

And my dreams never make sense like this. I don’t know what exactly I was expecting when I walked out that door, but it wasn’t anything quite so . . . true to life.

Unnerved now, I head down the road, as the door swings firmly shut behind me.

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.