chapter forty‑three

"Come on, honey, it's time to go to work," whispered a voice in his ear.

"Oh sorry, I must have dozed off again," mumbled Andrew sleepily.

He opened his bleary eyes; he was lying in bed. Crouching beside the bed was a very fat woman; she wore a huge baggy night‑dress printed with scenes from the Bambie cartoon. Somehow he knew that this was not Janet, nor Olive, nor even Ms Quin. This was Zelda, his real wife.

"God," he said, "I had the most incredible dream."

"Tell me about it, quickly, before you forget it again," said Zelda as she drew the curtains.

Andrew winced at the blinding morning sunlight which shone through the window. He shook his head, "I can't, it was too complicated."

"Was I in it?"

"Yeah, you were in it a lot. Oh," sighed Andrew wistfully, "it was a wonderful dream."

"Any sex in it?" asked Zelda as she swept the covers off the bed, leaving Andrew exposed in the sunlight.

"A bit," said Andrew cautiously.

Zelda's mood changed dramatically, as if Andrew's words had poured acid on an open wound.

"Well perhaps," she said caustically, "if you spent less time dreaming about it and more time actually doing it, then maybe, just maybe, we might be able to save our marriage."

"Yeah, sorry," said Andrew dolefully, "I told you, I'm having a rough time at work. I'll be okay again when it's all over."

"Well, if you don't do something about it soon this marriage will be all over!" she left the room, slamming the door violently behind her.

Andrew curled up on the bed, hugging his knees and gazing vacantly out of the window. He wished the marriage could be all over, that he could start again, and try to salvage something from his miserable life. But he knew she would never leave him.

There was a time, two years ago, when he had worked up the courage to break away, to leave her to her suffering and end the marriage. But of course she was too strong for him; she always had been. She had threatened suicide and, when he called her bluff, she swallowed two‑dozen sleeping‑pills. There were many days when he bitterly regretted calling the ambulance, but he had, and he was sickened by the knowledge that he would do it again the next time it happened. He was trapped; she would never let him go.

As he showered and dressed he thought about the dream. He was afraid that if he stopped, just for a second, the dream would steal away, and be lost forever. He wanted to keep it, so that when he went to bed that night he could re‑enter it and join Alice and Alex in their extraordinary adventures. At least that way he could escape the wretched gloom of reality, if only for a few hours.

He sat down at the kitchen table. Zelda dropped a bowl of cereal in front of him. There wasn't enough milk on it; he didn't ask for more. It was just part of the daily battle; these deliberate and petty acts of attrition had been going on for years.

He heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs; an overweight boy burst noisily into the room.

What a heavenly dream, he thought; it had even managed to banish all thoughts of his ugly, fat, spoilt, son.

"I need a new bike," said the boy has he shovelled food into his face.

"We can't afford it," said Andrew automatically.

"Oh, but Dad," whined the boy, "everyone else has got one."

"Of course you can have one," said Zelda staring defiantly at Andrew. "Your father will just have to work a bit harder, won't he? If he wasn't so weak, he would have been promoted by now."

Andrew didn't reply, he was still clinging to the threads of his dream.

As he drove through the heavy traffic, on his way to work, another problem in his life resurfaced. It was as if the dream had swept away all of his cares. Now, they were reappearing one by one, like nails being hammered into a coffin.

Andrew worked for a soft‑drink manufacturer as an area sales‑manager. Four months ago, some bright young executive, who had leap‑frogged over Andrew's position from the sales force, had come up with a brilliant new marketing technique. Despite Andrew's wishes, his area had been chosen for the test. Needless to say the idea had flopped - badly. The directors were looking for a head to roll; Andrew knew damn well whose head it would be.

Andrew walked into his office; he shared the room with another area sales‑manager, Henry. Henry was okay; he was the only one in the whole company that Andrew felt he could trust. When Andrew had first started with the company, Henry told him which back‑sides needed to be kissed and how often.

"Morning, Andrew."

"Hi, Henry."

Suddenly Andrew had a wild idea, his heart fluttered with hope and excitement, what if ...

"Henry?"

"Yes?"

"Do the words Soul Trader mean anything to you?"

"Uh, pop group?" guessed Henry.

"No, no, it doesn't matter," said Andrew dejectedly.

"I'm afraid," said Henry sadly, "the big boss wants to see you."

"So that's it then."

"Yeah, looks like it," said Henry, his eyes never left the pen which lay on his desk, as if he didn't want to be touched by the despair which burned in Andrew's eyes.

"Well I'd better go then; mustn't keep the chief asshole waiting."

"Give 'em hell," said Henry without much enthusiasm.

The secretary told him he would have to wait, so he sat down in a chair outside the managing director's office. He folded his arms, hung his head down and tried desperately to recapture his dream.

Somehow he fell asleep.

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