A Million Dreams Read online

  A Million

  Dreams

  ALSO BY DANI ATKINS

  Fractured

  The Story of Us

  Our Song

  Perfect Strangers

  This Love

  While I Was Sleeping

  A Million

  Dreams

  DANI ATKINS

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Dani Atkins, 2019

  The moral right of Dani Atkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781789546163

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781789546170

  ISBN (E): 9781789546156

  Design: Leah Jacobs-Gordon

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  A Million

  Dreams

  To my mum

  I wish you could have read this one

  Contents

  Also by Dani Atkins

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  About the author

  Acknowledgements

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  10 Years Ago

  Beth

  ‘The sooner we begin your treatment, the better the chances for a successful outcome.’

  The words that reshaped our future – reshaped everything – were softly spoken. I looked across the desk, beyond the files and X-ray envelopes, at the doctor who was patiently waiting for our world to stop spinning as we absorbed the news.

  I was gripping Tim’s hand so tightly I was probably crushing bone against cartilage, but my gaze was fixed on the oncologist, whose eyes revealed far more than I think he knew. Behind the rimless glasses, I saw the glimmer of a truth he was not prepared to share with us on that first black day. The chances of success were small. My ability to read faces, to pick up on tiny nuances others failed to see, had always been an asset in my work. On that day, it felt more like a curse.

  ‘I see from your file that you and your wife don’t have children, Mr Brandon.’

  Tim shook his head, and I felt the tremors racking his body begin to spread to mine. I was shaking in both body and voice as I answered for him.

  ‘We’ve only been married for two years. We were planning on waiting a little longer before starting a family.’ I looked at the doctor, whose face was beginning to swim behind my tears.

  ‘I know this is a lot for you to take in, but without wishing to add to the decisions you are now facing, I have to urge you to think about safeguarding and preserving your fertility.’ Perhaps Tim understood instantly what the oncologist was talking about, but I was several pages behind him. ‘There is a strong possibility that your treatment will affect your ability to father a child in the future, so at this point we would recommend you to consider freezing your sperm.’

  For one crazy moment I imagined he was talking about doing so at home, where it would sit on the shelf beside the packets of pork chops and Birds Eye peas. It took a few moments for the image to disappear.

  ‘There are several fertility clinics that we can refer you to. They will be able to explain the various options open to you. These can range from freezing sperm to even freezing embryos, if you should choose.’

  ‘Embryos?’ Tim asked, his voice ringing with confusion.

  ‘It’s one option to consider. There are excellent statistics for successful pregnancies resulting from cryogenically stored embryos. For couples your age and in your situation, it is definitely something worth thinking about.’

  *

  We had visited a clinic just two days later. Scarcely enough time to consider what we were doing, or why. The possibility of Tim facing a life-threatening disease was still so overwhelming to us that everything else seemed like white noise. We’d left the fertility clinic with armloads of pamphlets and advice ringing in our ears. In the end, we had made the decision not because of the success rates, graphs, or testimonials we’d read until late into the night, as though cramming for an exam. We’d made the decision with our hearts.

  ‘We’ll be making a baby,’ I said, snuggling up against the man I loved and trying not to notice how much thinner he seemed than only a month or so earlier.

  ‘And then freezing it. We’d quite literally be putting our child – or children – on ice.’

  ‘Actually, I think they store them in liquid nitrogen,’ I corrected, a new expert in a field I’d known next to nothing about only a few days earlier.

  ‘We’d also be putting you through all kinds of invasive procedures unnecessarily. Because there’s nothing wrong with you,’ Tim had said, and it was impossible not to hear the pain and regret in his voice. He was angry. No, more than that, he was furious with his body for failing him so cataclysmically for the first time in all of its thirty years.

  ‘We don’t know how long it’s going to take you to beat this thing,’ I reasoned, hoping the positivity in my voice was powerful enough to fool him. ‘And it could be years before we’re ready for children. This way we won’t have to worry about whether my fertility has dropped off by the time we’re ready. We’d already have a freeze-dried baby all ready to go.’

  ‘Just add water,’ he had joked, pulling me even closer against his bony ribcage.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, my mouth against his skin, where hopefully he couldn’t feel the trembling of my lips or the dampness on my cheeks from the tears that were falling silently in the darkness of our bedroom.

  ‘Let’s go for it then,’ he whispered into my hair. ‘Let’s make some babies.’

  1

  Beth

  I have a good nose. I don’t mean its shape, which is fairly ordinary and fits in perfectly well with my other features. (My husband, Tim, once claimed that I’m beautiful, which was charmingly biased and also inaccurate.) Wh
at I mean about my nose is that my sense of smell is uncommonly acute. Admittedly, I didn’t fare quite so well with some of the other senses; for a start I’m completely tone deaf, which is kind of funny as I ended up falling in love with a musician. But a good sense of smell is a definite advantage if all you’ve ever wanted to do is work with flowers, or better still own your own florist shop. Happily, I did both.

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like me to do before I leave for the day, Mrs Brandon – er, I mean Beth?’

  I looked up from the bouquet of peonies I was tying and smiled at Natalie, my assistant, who even after six months of working for me occasionally forgot to call me by my first name. My fingers were working at speed, securing and knotting the rustic string around the stems with the dexterity of a practised fisherman.

  ‘Have you any plans for this afternoon?’ Natalie asked as I followed her to the door and flipped the swinging sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’.

  ‘Nothing particular,’ I replied with a smile as I ushered her onto the pavement and slid the bolt in place. She didn’t know me well enough to spot the lie. It was a smooth eviction, and hopefully she hadn’t noticed my haste.

  Standing in the empty shop, I let the familiar odours and sounds settle around me, like a security blanket. The buzz of the overhead lights and the hum of the large refrigerators where the most delicate blooms were stored combined to drown out the sound of traffic from the high street. The shop was in a great position, and its reputation had grown steadily in the six years since we’d opened it. I ran my hand over the polished wooden counter, waiting for the usual grounding sensation to calm me. But today the shop failed to work its magic.

  Early closing day was typically when I met with clients or caught up on paperwork, but there was something else on my agenda for this afternoon. I only managed to eat half of the meal-deal sandwich I’d bought that morning before throwing the rest into the bin beneath my desk. Perhaps I should have done the same with the strong Americano coffee, because the last thing I needed was an extra injection of caffeine, not when I was already so wired.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I muttered to myself as I went through the familiar ritual of locking up the shop and setting the alarm. ‘I’m only speaking to my husband. Why am I so uptight?’

  Because you know he won’t be happy about this, an annoyingly accurate inner voice replied. I drowned it out by turning up the car radio to a volume usually favoured by teenage boys, and wove through the early afternoon traffic.

  The car park was gratifyingly empty and I didn’t pass a soul as my feet travelled on cruise control down the familiar twisting pathways. Even the scurrying squirrels who called this place home remained in their trees, as though respecting our need for privacy. My stomach was churning and gurgling with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation, forcing occasional splashes of acid to burn their way up my throat.

  The thick cardigan I’d pulled on before leaving the shop was redundant, and I shrugged it off in the sunshine as I walked. Even so, beneath the weight of my shoulder-length hair, tiny pinpricks of perspiration erupted like measles spots on the back of my neck.

  As I walked to meet him, it occurred to me that almost every important moment Tim and I had shared had taken place outdoors. We’d never engineered it, but looking back over the history of us, from our very first kiss (on a rain-drenched street corner) to the day two years later when we’d stood by the edge of a lake in front of our family and friends and promised to love each other for ever, we’d been outside. All our significant moments had been beneath a ceiling of clouds or stars. Even Tim’s proposal had been al fresco, stunning me halfway through a countryside picnic. I could still remember how his dark brown eyes had softened as he reached across the plaid blanket for my hand, carelessly knocking aside the remains of our lunch. ‘Marry me, Beth,’ he’d whispered, looking almost as surprised as I’d been by his words. Then his mouth had covered mine, almost smothering the excited ‘yes’ I’d given in reply.

  It was only right, therefore, that this next life-changing conversation – the one I’d been rehearsing all morning – should be held beneath a blue, cloud-wisped sky, with only the chirruping birds as witnesses.

  He was waiting for me beneath the shade of a tall oak tree, and I hurried to him as my stomach tied itself into an unimaginable tangle of knots. I felt like an actor who’d suddenly forgotten their lines moments before their cue. My carefully constructed argument covering the points I wanted to make – and the objections I knew he’d scatter like landmines in my path – had suddenly deserted me.

  It was still a struggle not speaking to him every day. Perhaps that’s why my voice shook in a way it hadn’t done when I’d run this conversation past the buckets of gerberas and carnations in the sanctuary of the shop we’d set up together. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Timothy,’ I began, which must surely have put him on high alert, as I hardly ever used his full name. I swallowed down a lump of anxiety that was lodged in my throat like a boiled sweet and tried again.

  ‘Tim, I’ve got something I want to say, and I don’t want you to interrupt or chip in until I’ve finished, okay?’ I gave him no chance to interject and dived right in. ‘I’ve given this a lot of thought over the last few weeks – well, months actually – and I think we should try again. I think we owe it to ourselves to give it one last go.’

  I hadn’t realised I was pacing as I spoke, until I saw I was no longer beside him. I retraced my steps. ‘I know what you’re going to say: that we tried before, twice before,’ I added ruefully, as if he might somehow have forgotten our previous failures. ‘But this time, I’ve got a feeling…’ My voice drifted away, and I instantly corrected myself. ‘No, it’s more than that. I’m certain. This time everything is going to work out just the way we wanted.’

  I lifted my head and pushed back a thick lock of copper-shot hair that had fallen across my face. ‘Okay,’ I corrected, sounding suddenly sad, ‘maybe not exactly the way we wanted. But something good can still come out of all of this. Something wonderful.’

  I dropped my gaze to my feet, but I could still imagine his eyes lasering through me. ‘The shop’s doing really well now; financially, we’re in a good place. And Natalie is ready to take on more responsibility.’ I could feel the acid prick of tears, but I didn’t want to stop, not now I’d finally found my stride. ‘I don’t want to wait any longer. I’ll be thirty-six next year,’ I reminded him, because he’d always been shockingly forgetful about birthdays and anniversaries. ‘I’m already what they’d call elderly – geriatric, probably.’

  I looked around, making sure we were quite alone and not overheard before continuing. ‘I’ve contacted the clinic.’ I imagined, rather than heard, his gasp of disapproval. ‘They said it could be different this time. I could try it without the drugs, so there’d be less chance of me feeling so sick.’ I gave a small laugh, which almost – but not quite – managed to hide the fledgling sob beneath it. ‘Unless of course I get morning sick,’ I joked. No one laughed. But then I hadn’t really expected that either of us would.

  I looked back towards him, feeling the first escapee tears beginning to course down my cheeks. I grappled in my pockets for a tissue packet, furious with myself for not having had the foresight to bring one. There’d always been zero possibility of me getting through this without crying.

  ‘We’ve got one last chance, my love. There’s just one embryo left, and I want to try for it.’ My words rode the sob like a surfer on a wave. ‘I want to have your baby.’

  My words hung on the air, like the strains of an instrument long after the song has ended. I scrabbled in my handbag on another fruitless tissue hunt. Who comes to a place like this without one? I sniffed inelegantly as I crossed the space between us. ‘Aren’t you ready after all this time to be a daddy?’ My fingertips reached out to him. The stone felt cold as I traced the outline of his name in the white-flecked marble. Timothy Brandon. And beneath his name was the date, which was etched in my h
eart even more deeply than it was into the stone marker. September 10th 2014. The day I lost my husband.

  Mascara was probably running down my cheeks, and I was sniffing like a runny-nosed toddler in the absence of a handkerchief. ‘For Christ’s sake, where’s a bloody tissue when you need one?’

  ‘Here,’ said a voice from somewhere behind me.

  I don’t think either me or the stranger who was holding out the unopened packet of tissues expected me to shriek quite as loudly as I did.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the man, taking a quick step backwards, his much-needed packet of Kleenex going with him. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘Well, you did,’ I retorted, embarrassment making me sound angrier than I should have been. ‘I thought I was alone here.’

  I looked around at the rows of orderly headstones. It was my preferred time of day to visit Tim’s grave. Midweek, mid-afternoon; you were practically guaranteed to have the place to yourself.

  ‘Me too,’ said the man smoothly. His eyes held a challenge and I quickly reached out and took the packet from his still-outstretched hand before he changed his mind. He politely pretended not to hear while I made good and noisy use of the tissues. It was a sound I’m sure Tim’s immediate neighbours were all too familiar with. I plucked a second square from the packet – just in case – and passed them back to him.

  ‘Please, keep them,’ he said, his eyes kind and knowing. ‘It sounds like your need for them might be greater than mine.’

  His words made me uncomfortable, but that didn’t excuse my knee-jerk reaction: ‘Were you eavesdropping on my private conversation?’

  The man’s eyes, which were an unusual shade of grey, like slate after the rain, widened a little at my confrontational tone. ‘Quite unintentionally, I assure you.’ His voice was measured, but I caught the smallest flare of his nostrils, like a dragon waiting to exhale flames. ‘Although I’m not sure it can legitimately be called “private” when you’re broadcasting it loudly to anyone in the vicinity.’