While You Were Dreaming. Lola Jaye

one foot on the first step in front of me.

      I needed to think.

      Second step.

      I needed to be alone.

      Third step.

      I needed space.

      I suppose, in normal circumstances, I’d have noticed the sparkling sandal that clearly wasn’t mine, jutting out from the fourth step and glistening in the sunlight that was pouring in from the window. I’d have kicked it out of the way in rage, or at the very least avoided it. But in my current state I wouldn’t have noticed an elephant dressed in a tutu; all I could focus on was the rapid beating of my heart, very runny nose, and the tears that were now coursing down my cheeks. So I’d no chance against that sandal as it attacked my left foot and sent me flying down those stairs. My stomach juices swished about like the inside of a washing machine: porridge, plantain chips, lychees, the giant slab of chocolate cake–all conspiring together to form one big indigestible mass.

      My body finally landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs in a position that would rival any advanced yoga devotee. And then I waited. My mind entering a place where nothing could get to me any more.

      I waited for the onset of pain that was sure to come.

      I was ready.

      Go on, hit me with it. It’s not as if the day could get any worse.

      My eyes slowly flickered shut like a malfunctioning antique television. I knew it was coming. It was definitely coming…Yes…it was almost here, now…

      The pain.

      So much pain.

      And then. The darkness.

       ONE

      Cara would always remember where she was and what she was doing the day she found out about Lena.

      She was where she’d always been on a Tuesday evening–serving some pig of a customer who this time was insisting she’d incorrectly handed over change for a ten-pound note when he’d actually given her a twenty.

      ‘It was a tenner, I can assure you,’ she said plainly, at the same time indulging in a fantasy that involved ramming said ten-pound note down his throat.

      ‘I suggest you check at the till and see the last note you placed inside, Miss,’ he said pompously.

      Cara rolled her eyes, unable to care if he noticed. Ade was always going on about the customer always being right and, in all honesty, she’d always taken great offence to that line. This was her bar (well, hers and Ade’s) and the only person who was right (in this instance especially) was her, and she was about to prove it.

      She pressed the button and the till drawer opened.

      ‘Unless it’s one of those rare magical and invisible ones, it isn’t here and you gave me a tenner. Would you like anything else, sir?’ she said sharply, hoping this particular customer wouldn’t be back. Ever. It wasn’t as if the bar needed him. After three long years of hard slog, sleepless nights, and some tense meetings with their teenage bank manager, A&R was finally turning over a profit. Everyone, especially her sister Lena, had warned her that such a move was going to be tough and a high risk. But Cara and Ade had poured their heart and soul as well as blood, sweat, tears, and everything else they had into making it work. Even as the world seemed to be sinking into a global recession, Cara and Ade were still holding their own as East Dulwich fast became a more convenient and cheaper option to the West End. And A&R could compete with the best of the West End bars, with its relaxing and cool décor–low lighting provided by mini-chandeliers, miniature booths with cosy leather sofas, separated by diamante-encrusted muslin curtains. Away, but not too far away in Overhill Road, Cara and Ade lived in her dream flat, which had a beautiful view of what seemed like the whole of London. She was ‘sorted’, basically. Everything was the way it should be in her life: great boyfriend, beautiful flat, and a thriving business.

      Cara ran her fingers through her short crop. She was tired and her feet were starting to ache, which was probably due to a combination of being on them all day without a break and the fact that she was wearing a new pair of satin purple high heels that she’d yet to break in. That was another thing her thriving business afforded her: a pick of shoes. She was on first-name terms with the girls in Kurt Geiger and Bertie, owned a pair of Christian Louboutin’s, a pair of Sergio Rossi’s and would soon be holding a beautiful pair of five-inch orange and black Gina’s. The higher the shoe, the more confident she felt–especially as she was only five foot.

      ‘Cara! Cara!’ Ade was calling out to her from across the bar. His voice was urgent, impatient. This wasn’t like Ade. He was always the calm to her chaos. The sweetness to her (and she could admit this) abrasiveness. What was going on with him?

      ‘Ade?’ They both started heading towards each other, almost as if they were in slow motion. Ade was clutching the cordless phone, his hand placed over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s for you,’ he whispered with a sombre expression.

      Her heart began to race. Something was up. All sorts of horrid thoughts ran through her mind. Maybe they weren’t as flush as she’d thought. Maybe her business was about to fall victim to the recession after all. She could cope with anything except that. Please, no. ‘Who is it?’ she whispered, unable to take the phone from him.

      ‘It’s Fen Lane Hospital. They…they need to…to speak to you urgently!’ He seemed to be talking in tiny bursts, breathing in short breaths, as if he’d just swum twenty lengths. His eyes were wide and alert.

      Cara felt her heart leap into her stomach as she stood rooted to the spot. The Stylistics belted out ‘Betcha By Golly Wow’ through the state-of-the-art sound system.

      ‘The hospital?’ she repeated in a whisper that was drowned out by the music.

      ‘It’s…its Lena…’ Ade said.

       TWO

      Millie was in the middle of what could only be described as a monumental state of bliss as one set of larger-than-average toes jutted out from the end of a very messy bed.

      ‘Wake up sleepy!’ she said, the rest of her body emerging from under the duvet. The foot stirred a bit in response and she leaned over to the side table, switching on the tiny pink digital radio. The beginning of a muffled yawn escaped from the snugness of the duvet as the silky voice of the DJ kicked in. ‘We’re nearing the end of drive time–here’s something from back in the day!’

      ‘Millie,’ moaned the drowsy voice from inside the duvet, as ‘Firestarter’ blasted over the airwaves.

      ‘Morning, handsome,’ she beamed. She rarely felt this happy and complete: it made a nice change.

      ‘What the…?’ Rik was still half asleep; he rubbed his eyes frantically.

      ‘It’s almost evening, time to get up!’ She said brightly, prising the covers away from his head and flashing him a beaming smile. Her untamed shoulder length curls bounced around her oval-shaped face.

      ‘Mmmmm, I’m hungry,’ Rik sighed. She’d been seeing him for the past month and she really, really liked him…In fact…‘Any chance of some food, Mille?’ he went on, twirling his hand in the air.

      And then there was the way he said her name, the way he scrunched his nose just before he laughed; even his massive feet were cute. She’d fallen for him hard and, looking at Rik now, she knew exactly what she needed to say.

      ‘I…’ she began warily.

      Rik leaned over to switch off her tiny pink radio–a twenty-fourth birthday present from Lena only a few months ago that matched Millie’s CD player, along