Page 7 of The Love of Our Lives

But how the hell am I going to get back inside? I didn’t take any keys.

Shit, shit, shit.

I just need to get back to that flat – if I could even get into the stairwell.

Staring at the row of flat buzzers down the side, I pick one at random and press it.

Nothing.

Tentatively, I press the next one, and a voice comes out angry and sharp, ‘I’m not due a delivery, I don’t want pamphlets, I’m not going to buy anything, so just bugger off.’

I stop short.

But I have to get in.

I press the next one, then the next, my heart rate rising with each responding silence.

Finally, I press the buzzer at the top right – for what must be the flat opposite with the muddy trainers.

A crackle.

‘Hello?’ a friendly male voice says.

Relief floods through me.

‘Hello,’ I start, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten my key and—’

To my surprise, the buzzer immediately goes, and I hesitate for a moment before pushing it open.

Inside, the tenement is dark and cool, a welcome relief after the huge expanse of sky out there.

I can’t quite get over the sound of my voice sounding so .

. . English. It’s unsettling, even in a dream.

Walking up the stone steps, I have no idea how I’ll get inside the flat door, but at least I’m one step closer.

Rounding the last set of stairs, I’m surprised to see a man on the top floor with messy dark hair and lightly tanned white skin.

He’s in khaki shorts and a scruffy black t-shirt, but his eyes are what get me – the most incredible forest green I’ve ever seen.

With his large hands on the banister, he throws a lopsided smile down at me.

When I get to the top, I pause in front of him, uncertain.

‘So, locked out then,’ he says easily.

Now that I’m standing right in front of him, I see the scuff marks of dust on his top, the dimple on one cheek, his lean but strong-looking arms. An unusual-looking tattoo trails down one, and despite the weirdness of the situation, I can’t help feeling a twinge of attraction.

And something like recognition.

‘Forgot my keys,’ I say finally.

He thumbs back at the open flat across the hallway. ‘Good thing I came back from the workshop early, or you might have had to do some late evening sunbathing.’

He grins, but I’m still too dazed to respond. I did catch the faint trace of an accent though – American? Canadian?

‘You all right?’ he says after a moment, his grin fading to something more like concern.

I start to nod. ‘Yeah, I’m OK,’ I say, like this is all totally fine, like I haven’t been supplanted into another life somehow. ‘Too much sun today, maybe.’

‘One sec,’ he says, and bounces back into the other flat.

Confused, I just stand there. I hear a tap running, footsteps, and a minute later he reappears with a big glass of water. He holds it out to me, our fingers brushing lightly as I take it from him. Glugging it down, I realise how thirsty I was.

When I look down again, I realise he’s still watching me, with those incredible green eyes.

‘You really were parched, weren’t you?’ he says. ‘I can get you something to eat if you like? I make an excellent pastrami sandwich.’

My mouth opens in confusion.

Pastrami sandwiches. An insanely attractive guy I’ve never met before.

I need this to end now.

‘That’s OK,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘I just really need to lie down.’

He smiles, but I’m sure a vague look of disappointment crosses his face. ‘No problem at all, Emily.’

That name again.

I turn back to the white door I came out of this morning.

Shit, the key .

There are pot plants all around the door, just like in my room at home, actually: pothos, peacock and fiddle leaf – I didn’t notice them this morning, but then, I’m not sure I noticed anything this morning.

I bend down to lift the biggest one in case there’s a spare underneath.

Nothing.

‘Geranium,’ a voice says, and I turn back. The guy is standing just inside his doorway now, pointing to the right of me. ‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t know that,’ he says, ‘but I noticed you putting it under that one a couple of weeks ago.’

Looking over to where he’s pointing, I lift the geranium up, and sure enough, there is a silver key, speckled in soil. I pick it up and brush it off before standing up to face him again.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘No problem.’ He claps the side of the door with one solid hand, his eyes resting on mine, and I get another undeniable twinge of attraction.

It’s odd, because if this really is all a big dream, I usually know the people I conjure up – from school, or work; people I lost touch with when I kept saying no to everything.

But this guy is entirely new.

Almost.

‘I’ll see you later,’ he says.

‘Sure,’ I reply, and before I can say anything else, he’s closed his door with a soft click.

Turning back to the flat, I push the key into the lock, and feel it open.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I head inside, take in that alien scent of someone else’s place; that lemon-rose perfume again.

Then I head straight to the bedroom. Everything is exactly as I left it – bed covers tangled in the middle of it, the little clock face down on the floor.

Going across to the window, I tug the window blinds down so it’s as dark as I can get it, then collapse down on the bed.

I pull the unfamiliar covers up again and press my face into the pillow.

Hope to wake.