Dream Girl

Listen. Ecoutez moi. I tell you of my dreams.

I’m at this party, somewhere in the Luberon. It’s a house party, thrown by one of Etienne’s neighbours, up the road in Menerbes. I’m feeling kind of dizzy, the effect of the noise of the music, the conversation, the wine. One of the guests, this English lady, good friend of Etienne’s, takes my arm. She looks out of it, red faced, voice slurring.
Do me a favour, cherie, she says, trying to keep her voice down. Take Garland home. I’m too pissed myself.
I stare at her for a moment, not comprehending her babbling. Then is notice the girl traipsing in her wake.
Ive had too many myself to drive, I say.
You’re fine, she says. Its not far, handing me a bunch of keys. It’s on your way.
Who says I’m leaving anyway?
I stare at the girl, who looks bored and nonchalant. Maybe id be doing her a favour, rather than her mother.
Garland’ll show you the way. Wont you darling.
She pushes the girl forward. She has bright red hair, pink lipstick. She’s wearing a too-short white dress. Pretty in an understated kind of way.
I take the keys and sling my bag over my shoulder.
You win, I say, lead the way.
I follow the girl across the gravel drive in the moonlight, until we come to a yellow convertible. Wow I say you never said mummy had one of these. Nice toy.
The girl, Garland, just smiles, doesn’t speak, gets in beside me. Her legs stretched out next to mine, pale and skinny. As we pull out of the drive, the wind brushes her hair across her face. I put my foot down and squeal across the tarmac.
So, I say, where’s home.
She doesn’t speak.
Garland, where d’you live.
I don’t want to go home, she says, folding her arms across her boobs. She has a slim figure, with small bust and a tiny waist. A red-haired waif. Can’t we just drive for a bit first.
Fine by me, I say, beginning to enjoy the power beneath the bonnet.
I shift up the gears, the engine snarling as we climb the hill towards Roussillon, then race across the plain towards the main road. At the crossroads I take a left and veer in the direction of Cavaillon, feeling the wind rush through my hair. Garland is silent beside me, but I can tell she’s enjoying it. When we reach ? I head towards the Sorgue and the little town where I met Tamara, what seems like many moons ago.
I turn the car round and head back towards Menerbes, along the back roads.
You’re a crazy driver she says, as we hurtle towards the oncoming traffic.
Like you care, I say.
She shrugs. I ain’t complaining, its fun.
Finally she points out the way to her parents house, on the back road between Menerbes and Etienne's place. Only a few minutes away, quite literally.
The house is big and deserted, dark and eerie. The girl makes no attempt to leave the car.
Would you mind coming in with me, she says, it feels kinda spooky.
Of course, I say.
We both get out the car and enter the house, flicking the lights on in the main lounge.
Garland slumps into one of the big sofas. She looks at me with large dark eyes, heavily made up.
Thanks for the drive, she says. You’re quite cool.
Really, that’s nice to know.
Could you stay with me, until mummy gets home. It gets a bit lonely round here at night.
I guess so. Maybe ill sober up enough to drive home.
Where d’you live.
My cousin’s place, it’s a bit isolated, on the road to Bonnieux.
She nods.
I know where you mean. Lots of vines.
She flicks on the TV.
You wanna watch some TV with me?
That would be cool, I say.
She kicks off her shoes.
Make y’self at home, she says.
I think about myself at this age. The girl must be sixteen, roughly. Probably still a virgin. Living abroad among strangers. It can’t be easy.
You’ve got really nice hair, I say.
Thanks, she says, twirling it round her fingers. Mummy wants me to cut it, but I refused.
I had long hair once, I say, when I was a teenager. Then I cut it off. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
You have nice hair, she says. It’s cool. Kind of suits you.
She stretches out a hand and strokes my head.
Sandrine, how old are you.
Oh I’m quite old. Nearly thirty.
Garland laughs. Her teeth are white and straight, her lips pouty. She has nice dimples on her cheeks. Her eyes are like saucers, dark and hollow.
That’s not old. Mummy is forty, like your friend Etienne.
I smile at this.
I have the strangest feeling were going to become friends, I say.
Now that would be really cool, she says. She leans her head on my shoulder and her arm round my waist. The odd thing is , I don’t feel uncomfortable with this.
I stroke her mane of red hair and kiss her on the top of her head.
She makes a sighing noise.

I know what you're going to say.
It's wrong.
She's just a girl.
You should be ashamed.
That kind of thing.
You're right, of course you are.
I shouldn't' have.
But she kissed me. Out of the blue, she kissed me.

Garland. It's such an unusual, and beautiful name.
An unusual, beautiful girl.
And it was only a dream, wasn't it?
At least, I thought so.
Now I'm not so sure.