In Your Dreams (5 page)

There are some books you just can't manage to read, no matter how hard you try. Your eye skids off the page like a file off hardened steel, and twenty minutes later you find you've read the same paragraph half a dozen times and still can't make head nor tail of it. Paul sighed, dumped the manual on the table, which shook like a jelly under its bulk, and fished Mr Shumway's paperback out of his side pocket.

Beowulf
was slightly easier going, though there wasn't a great deal in it. Still, the pages were smaller, and there were fewer words on each one, and at least there wasn't a love interest. Paul couldn't help feeling a little concerned at the fact that he'd been given it to read as coursework; the actual monster-fighting stuff was a bit vague and seemed to assume previous knowledge of swordsmanship and the like; also, the hero who fought the dragon ended up dead, which didn't inspire confidence. Maybe that was the point, and he'd been given it to read so that he'd know how
not
to set about fighting dragons. No point trying to second-guess the syllabus. He ploughed on until he reached the end, by which time it was five to one: lunch. For some reason, it seemed extremely important that he should leave the building for a while. He put the book back in his pocket, left the manual where it was, and headed for the front office.

The receptionist smiled at Paul again as he walked past; odd, he reflected as he walked out onto the street, because he was fairly sure that she wasn't Mr Tanner's mum (who leered rather than smiled; he could recognise her through any of her disguises at twenty-five yards). Another odd thing was that she hadn't been all that pretty. Invariably, the girls behind the reception desk (a different one each day) were always stunningly gorgeous, for the simple reason that they were either Mr Tanner's mum or one of his aunts, both of whom wore human shape the way film stars wear clothes – nothing but the best, and never the same outfit twice. The girl who'd smiled at him, however, had been pleasant-looking but nothing more, and there hadn't been that all-the-better-to-eat-you-with shine on her teeth that Paul had come to recognise as the hallmark of goblinesses in mufti. A genuine human being on reception? What was the old firm coming to?

As to where he was going to spend his precious fifty-five minutes of liberty, he had no idea. The Italian sandwich bar was out, obviously; also the pub on the corner, which would be crammed to the doors with gaps where Sophie wasn't. That just left the Starbucks at the end of the road; a grim, joyless place that reminded him of an airport late at night, but it was better than walking the streets. He bought a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry, and sat down at the only empty table.

‘Mind if I join you?'

He looked up, and for the third time that day found himself looking down the barrel of the same unprovoked smile. ‘Please,' he muttered, ‘help yourself.'

She sat down next to him, carefully settling her own cup of coffee and Danish pastry on the wobbly table top. ‘You don't remember me, do you?' she said.

Well yes
, Paul thought,
of course I do; you're the new receptionist, I saw you about three minutes ago.
‘Um,' he said.

‘I'm Melze,' she said. ‘Demelza Horrocks. Laburnum Grove Primary School.' Her grin was entirely human; not a pointed tooth in sight. ‘You promised to marry me when we were both grown up, but I guess it must've slipped your mind.'

‘Oh.' Paul must've looked as startled as he felt, because she laughed. He couldn't understand; why would anybody lie about a thing like that? Clearly she wasn't Melze, because she'd had freckles and four missing front teeth and a nose like a small doorknob, and she'd only been about four feet tall— But, Paul suddenly realised, she wasn't lying after all. She was still there, in the triangle between eyebrows and chin; like the listed building surrounded by modern developments. In this case, gentrification. ‘You've changed,' he heard himself say.

‘Thank you,' she replied. ‘So've you. What're you doing in a dump like that?'

‘It was the only job I could get,' he replied sheepishly.

‘Same here.'

Bloody hell
, he was thinking. Demelza
Horrocks
. ‘That can't be right,' he said. ‘At school you were the clever one, you got into Wiffins and everything. I thought everybody who went there ended up as doctors or accountants.'

She smiled. ‘Not quite,' she said. ‘I was headed in that direction, sure, but I never actually arrived. Dropped out of Uni in my second year – boy trouble – did bar work for a couple of years until I suddenly realised you can't be nineteen for ever and ever, and by then, apparently, I was too incredibly ancient to be any use to anybody. So I learned typing and stuff, and here I am.' She shrugged. ‘Wasted opportunities, all that. I could've been a chimney sweep if only I'd got the right A levels.'

Paul didn't understand that, so he assumed it must be a quotation or something. ‘That's a pity,' he said. ‘I guess,' he added, ‘unless you're amazingly happy and well adjusted and so on.'

She grinned. ‘No,' she said.

‘Oh.' Something occurred to him. ‘Um, Melze,' he said awkwardly, ‘you do
know
about JWW, don't you? Only—'

She laughed. ‘About what they do? Yes, of course I know. First thing they told me at the interview. Pretty weird, but like they said, that aspect of things won't affect me, really. All I'll be doing is answering the phone and normal, boring stuff like that.'

Paul frowned. They hadn't told him anything of the sort at
his
interview; it had taken him several weeks and an armed confrontation with a dozen red-eyed goblins before he found out. ‘It's not so bad,' he said, on the principle that she probably wanted to hear something upbeat. ‘So long as you're out of the door by half-five, that is. That's when—'

‘I know,' she said. ‘They told me. Also, don't leave personal property in the desk drawers unless you want it shredded by four-inch claws. You should see the second-floor ladies' loo, by the way. I guess the partners never think to go in there when they're making good the damage on a Monday morning.'

That reminded Paul of something else. ‘Did they happen to mention,' he said as casually as he could manage (about as casual as the Buckingham Palace sentry, unfortunately), ‘why they needed a receptionist? Only, up till now a couple of the goblins—'

‘Mr Tanner's mother, yes. Haven't you heard? She's pregnant, apparently, and goblins are rather old-fashioned about maternity leave and stuff.'

‘Bloody hell.' One good thing – no, two, or make that three. First, the joyful thought of how Mr Tanner was going to react when presented with a baby brother or sister. Second, if Mr Tanner's mum was going to be out of circulation for a while, he'd be able to get out of the habit of scanning every attractive female he passed in the street for signs of twinkling eyes and feral grins. Third; third, fourth and fifth, Melze was going to be there, every day from now on, and he'd always liked Melze. A lot—

Oh shit
, he thought.
Not again
.

She was eating her Danish pastry. She'd been a messy eater when she was nine, and she hadn't changed; bits of pastry shrapnel were spattered around her nose, chin and mouth. He caught himself noticing her mouth, and quickly looked away. That was
very
bad; because (up till now) Melze was the only female of approximately his own age with whom he'd ever felt comfortable. When they'd been kids together, they'd got into trouble splashing about in her dad's stagnant, leaf-clogged goldfish pond, hunting mosquito larvae with a butterfly net; they'd mangled balsa-wood aircraft and tangled kite strings in shrubs together, fought over alleged rule infringements in marathon Monopoly tournaments, broken each other's toys. They'd been
friends
, even though she was technically a girl. It'd been like
E.T.
and all those other movies where a human and an alien forge bonds of friendship across the species divide. And now – now she'd betrayed all that, he couldn't help feeling, because she'd metamorphosed into a beautiful, or at least pleasant-looking, or at least not hideously deformed, young woman, one of those dangerous creature who break your heart and leave you notes and go away, filling the world with black holes ...

‘Quite.' Melze was still chattering happily away, apparently oblivious of her own foul treachery. ‘You must know, is it true that goblins can make themselves look just like people? That could be – well, awkward, I suppose.'

‘Very,' Paul heard himself say. ‘Especially since you can't trust them any further than you could sneeze them out of a blocked nostril. Have you come across them yet?'

‘Hardly.' She smiled again, but this time he was ready for her, and looked away. ‘It's only my first day, remember? I've met all the partners, though. That Ricky Wurmtoter – he's a specimen, isn't he?'

Paul wasn't quite sure what she meant by that, but caught himself feeling suddenly and furiously jealous, just in case it signified lust. ‘He's gone off on some job,' he said quickly. ‘Won't be back for ages. In fact, I'm, um, filling in for him till he gets back.'

‘Really?' Melze was looking at him with her oncoming-lorry-headlight eyes. ‘But he does all the dragon slaying and vampire hunting and stuff, doesn't he?'

‘That's right.'

‘Cool.' He was still looking away, but he could feel the smile. He could probably have toasted muffins over it. ‘And that's what you do, is it?'

‘Yes,' Paul squeaked. ‘Well, some of the time. I help out with a lot of different stuff, actually. While I'm making up my mind which field I want to specialise in, you know.'

‘Amazing.'

(But this is
wrong
, yelled a little voice inside his head. This time yesterday, you were in love with Sophie for ever and ever. In fact – how do the time zones work, is California eight hours behind or eight hours in front? – quite possibly, where Sophie was right now it was probably still yesterday; and already, here he was: Paul Carpenter, love's lemming, adding to his already impressive collection of Frequent Faller points. The rebound is one thing, but the human heart shouldn't be a pinball machine.
Wrong
—)

‘Well,' his voice said, ignoring all that, ‘it's just a job, really, better than digging peat or stacking shelves. I'd have jacked it in long ago, only—' Yet another nasty thought struck him. ‘Melze,' he said, ‘have they made you sign a contract or anything? Only, there's this clause—'

She shook her head. ‘They told me about that,' she said. ‘That's just for the professional staff. General help like me, we can come and go as we please. I suppose they reckon we can't give away trade secrets to rival firms because we don't know any, and if we tried to blow the whistle on them, for being wizards and all, or sell the story to the tabloids, nobody'd believe us because we're just silly girls.' She shrugged. ‘Which is fine,' she said. ‘Actually, I think I'll stick around for a while. I mean, it's weird, yes, but it's a bloody sight better than the dump I was at before. One ten-minute coffee-break, and the staff room had cockroaches.'

‘That's—' Paul bit off the rest of the sentence. He'd been about to say,
That's wonderful, I'm so glad you're going to be working here.
But why not? After all, she was his oldest friend. ‘That's disgusting,' he said. ‘What's the coffee room like, by the way? I've never dared go in there.'

‘Haven't you? Why not? Is there a manticore in the cupboard under the sink or something?'

Worse than that, it's always full of girls. All a manticore can do is eat you.
‘I don't think so,' he said. ‘But you never know around here. I mean, one of the staplers in the front office turned out to be the senior partner.'

Melze giggled. ‘I heard about that,' she said; and then (slight change of tone of voice): ‘Wasn't it you who rescued him?'

‘Yes, me and—' Pause. ‘Me and one of the other clerks. She's not here any more, though. Got posted to the Hollywood office.'

Paul had done his best to gloss over the obtrusive pronoun, but Melze was on to it like a ferret on a lame rat. She didn't say anything, but the focus of her eyes changed a little. ‘And how about you, then?' she said. ‘Anyone special?'

And that, Paul couldn't help thinking, was a bloody good question. ‘No,' he said. ‘Not right now.' He hoped she'd grown out of the knack of knowing when he was lying. ‘You?'

She shook her head; and he made a point of not noticing the way her hair floated round her shoulders. ‘Not since the creep at Uni, really. Before him, lots. All messy and horrid. Truth is,' she went on, ‘I'm not particularly good at—' He could hear her open the inverted commas – ‘relationships. Someone once said I fall in love like a young subaltern going over the top in 1914. A bit harsh, but basically true. I'm surprised you're still on the loose, though.'

Eek
, Paul thought. That was a topic that ought to be sealed off by angels with flaming swords and Rottweilers. Time for a change of subject. ‘So, how's your family?' he asked.

‘Fine,' Melze replied, with a trace of a sigh, ‘just as normal and boring as ever. Dad's been made sales manager for the whole of the South-East, which is nice. Mum's still making soft toys for the Red Cross. What about your lot?'

Paul grinned feebly. ‘My parents emigrated to Florida last year,' he said. ‘Sold the house, all the furniture and stuff. I get a phone call once or twice a month – three in the morning usually, because of the time difference – and Mum tells me all about how she doesn't like the people next door, because their dog digs up the flower beds. Haven't told them about JWW. No point, they'd just think I was trying to be funny.'