CHAPTER ONE
Alex awoke slowly from his dream and rolled towards his nightstand. He already knew what time it would say. 12.01am. The dream always woke him at this time and then seemed to disappear, leaving him with only the vaguest recollection of its presence. Impressions mainly. A hint of emotion. An elusive caress. He never saw any physical images in this dream, but the feelings it gave brought about a growing awareness in him; an awareness of himself and his life. He was learning very fast that neither looked as good as he was always led - or allowed himself - to believe. But the dream was different this time. When Alex woke, it was to the scent of freesias. The dream left him this before scuttling back into his subconscious or where ever else it dwelled during his waking hours.
The dream had been his bedtime companion for almost a year now. Since the night Chloe walked out on him, with a flick of her gorgeous blonde hair and a continuous stream of tears that served to reverse the look of control she tried to maintain. He remembered looking at her with a mixture of remorse and pity. Remorse because it wasn't in him to be the man she needed him to be and pity because she learned only that night what he had known for a year: she was in this relationship alone.
Alex had had no interest in maintaining a connection with Chloe but lacked the courage to tell her. When a relationship ends it is too easy to make excuses for oneself. But Alex wasn't interested in this kind of ducking and diving. The blame was his and his alone. And although he did not have the balls to be honest with Chloe, he did have the balls to be honest with himself. He had no interest whatsoever in staying in a relationship with her.
Alex didn't make the time to explore the 'whys' and 'what fors'. Instead, he chose, as he always did, to throw himself into his work. "Software engineer" was not just his job title, it was also his home. It kept him warm. It challenged him. It praised him. It inspired him. Alex realised this was a rather creative way to call oneself a workaholic but until the night Chloe left him he didn't see anything wrong with being a workaholic. His work, up until now, always fulfilled his needs; but, with the ensuing loneliness that followed Chloe's exit from his life, the doubts came. For months Alex was convinced he made a mistake in letting her go. He lost count of how many times he rung her direct dial at the office and heard "Chloe Andersen" professionally answer, before sending the dial tone as his reply. The e-mails he wrote but never sent must have numbered in the thousands. He remembered that first month without her as being especially dark. His work didn't hold his interest as much as it once did. He wasn't as inspired as he used to be. Pretty soon his self-analysis took him to the view that he might have made a huge mistake in letting Chloe go. That led him to become a silent phone stalker and a keen visitor to his e-mail trash compactor. If his self-analysis had stopped there, Alex might well have called Chloe again and asked for another chance.
Luckily for both of them Alex's self-analysis was not done with him yet. One night, three months after his break up, on a boys night out with Simon and Daniel, two work colleagues, it tweaked his brain right between the merlot and the first course. It whispered, "Wasn't the first night you had your dream the night Chloe left?" Simon and Daniel looked at him with concern when he sprayed his merlot into his napkin. His growing realisation dawned on him. But their concern, both from Alex's merlot-filled gasp and having watched him struggle through his break up, was erased when Alex raised his glass suddenly in a toast and said with a grin, "To moving on!" They clinked their glasses with his and smiled. Neither of them realised that their relief paled in comparison to Alex's as it occurred to him he had not made a mistake when he let Chloe go. The fact that he still didn't know where his sense of dissatisfaction was coming from was not strong enough to stop him from enjoying the rest of the night. And so the merlot flowed.
When he got home a few hours later it was well after 3.00am. He fell asleep knowing it was too late for the dream to catch him that night. He was too drunk to analyse how he could possibly have known that. A dreamless sleep claimed him soon after and he was glad of it. He didn't need a dream to tell him his life wasn't where he needed it to be. His hangover the next morning would no doubt take care of that.
CHAPTER TWO
Victoria liked to sit on her balcony as the sun went down. She always felt hopeful at sunset. Her melancholy of late was not strong enough to stop her from thinking that although the sun was going to leave her for a while, it would come back again soon and with it would come a new day. "Another chance to make things better for myself." Sometimes this thought was the only thing that got her out of bed.
Looking out over the seaside suburb of Uxbridge as the sun fell lower in the sky, Victoria sipped her merlot and breathed in the scent of her freesias. Well, technically not her freesias. Technically, freesias belonging to somebody else who, for reasons known only to them, kept leaving a fresh bouquet on her doorstep every morning. Her first bouquet arrived three days ago. How she loved these flowers! Their subtle scent. The delicate shade of cream and lemon on their soft petals. Springtime always brought the freesias. But this spring was like no other. Her Mum wasn't here this time.
Perhaps, if she wasn't in the grip of her own melancholy and grief at the death of her Mum, might have been curious to find out who was leaving their freesias on her doorstep. She hoped one day she would know who was doing this for her but for now she was just content to breathe in their fragrance and sip her merlot.
At that exact same moment, in somebody's house, in somebody's lounge, overlooking some beach and in the hand of some man, there was a card that should have accompanied that last delivery of freesias. It simply read "Because I know these used to bring you smiles..."
Between the freesias and Victoria's wineglass sat a picture of Victoria and her Mum. As she gazed at the smiles pasted on the faces of these two very similar looking women she felt a brief wave of self-pity and knew this evening was probably going to take the same course of every evening she'd faced since her Mum died. It was not for her, the route of the alcoholic who can't stop at just one glass of merlot. Try the wannabe writer who sits in front of her computer and makes engineering inept paper planes to throw around her study while her dreams of literary recognition go up in smoke.
One of the fortifying thoughts Victoria had in the brief moments she managed to overcome her melancholy is that she was not a wannabe writer. She already had one successful novel under her belt. But the short-lived victory she gained from dwelling on this point was very quickly – and as always - completely undone by the thought, "If not a wannabe writer, then perhaps we should try one-hit-wonder!" Her melancholy pretty much hit a home run at that point. It was time to get out of the apartment and go for a walk.
Victoria left the balcony and went into her lounge, locking the ranch slider behind her. The beach at the end of her street was a 5-minute walk away. She decided she needed to feel the gentle ebb and flow of the tide that always relaxed her as it caressed her bare feet. She headed out of her driveway and walked briskly down the softly sloping footpath towards Uxbridge Beach. She arrived just as the sun met the horizon. The beach was hers.
Victoria removed her sandals so she could feel the warm sand between her toes. Uxbridge Beach wasn't very big but for Victoria this was always part of its charm. She had lived in Uxbridge for three years and loved its small village atmosphere and cobblestone walkways. The beach, with its ever-changing horizons and softly lapping shoreline always calmed Victoria. There was peace for her here. She removed her barrette and allowed her long brown hair to fall down her back.
She walked towards the water as it stroked the still warm sand with it's soft, sensual caress. The tide was coming in as the sun cast its last golden rays on it. She walked into the water until it was licking at her calve. She lifted the hem of her dress to her thighs and allowed the water to move higher up her body. It was still warm and when she looked around the beach and saw nobody else she submerged herself up to her shoulders, her long hair fanned out in the water behind her. Despite the warmth of the water, when it licked at her nipples they hardened as if it were ice cold. The sensuality was not lost on Victoria as she widened her legs and let the salt water lick softly at her aching clit. She felt the sudden sexual tension building in her. The wet caress of the sea felt good to Victoria but it was not enough. She needed warmth, and call her unadventurous, but she also needed the comfort of her bed as well, before she could ease the tension building deep inside her. She knew she wouldn't find a full release at home in her lonely apartment but at least it would be safer there than on some quickly darkening beach by herself.
