Love Is a Thief (33 page)

‘So what I want to do is make a list of the physical aspirations that you have identified in your daydream. You might have been riding through your dream on a Vespa; you might have been sprinting at high speed, physically really strong and fit; perhaps you were receiving an Oscar! After that we are going to make a list of the emotional aspirations, all the feelings you had in your perfect day. Then we can sit back and take a look at your picture. What your dream life looks and feels like. Then we start putting together small steps to work towards realising your dream life. And it’s the smallest steps in life that can bring about the biggest and most powerful changes. Once we have fully identified who you were in your dream life, I want you to spend five minutes every day closing your eyes and being that person, and feeling what it feels like to be that version of yourself. You could do it while sat on the train, while in the shower, just as you wake up. The key here is to feel how you would
feel
if you were that person. If you find it tough the first few times try this. When you are in the shower each morning close your eyes and imagine how you would feel if you had 50 million pounds in the bank. When you close your eyes imagine you can see your bank statement and see your name at the top, your address, and the balance at the bottom says 50 million pounds. Know that it’s yours. What would that feel like?’

I started beaming. I felt elated, excited, naughty even, as if for the first time in my whole life I knew I would be OK. 50 million quid!

‘I think you get the idea, Kate. It’s that emotion, that wonderful feeling that I want you to home in on. I want your body to get used to feeling like you have 50 million
pounds in the bank. I want your body to get used to feeling like you did in your perfect day. I want the universe to feel you feeling like that. And the universe will respond to you. Remember, as clichéd as it sounds, you get back what you put in. It’s not rocket science. Let these positive feelings of your perfect life out into the world every single day.’

‘If it’s that easy, Bob, then why aren’t we all doing it? Why don’t we all have everything we want?’

‘That’s a great question, Kate. There are two main stumbling blocks. One is that people focus on the things they don’t want, the other is that they go to all the bother of thinking positively, then let the negative voice of doubt creep in, and most of the time it’s noisier than the positive voice. I have a great example of both.’ He was off again. I decided to rename him ChatterBob. ‘I have a wonderful Italian friend from Rome. For as long as I have known her she has always said to me, “I will never date an Italian man, especially a man from Naples. Men from Naples are horrible. They are uncouth, they are philistines.” And what happened? She met and fell in love with a man from Naples. Why? Because she focused all her energy on what she didn’t want. So the universe kept hearing over and over again, “date an Italian man” or “boyfriend from Naples”. And that is eventually what she got. The other people get the first bit right, they focus on what they want, imagine it for a moment, and then they dismiss it. They think to themselves, “Well, that would be lovely but that’s not really going to happen,” or, “What are the chances? I’m not that lucky,” and that is what the universe hears. It hears you saying, “I will always be poor. I will always rent horrible flats; my job will always be rubbish.
I won’t be able to make that change.” And they immediately undo all of their hard work.’

‘ChatterBob,’ I said to ChatterBob, forgetting he wasn’t aware of his new nickname, ‘I have done
both
of those things.’

‘If you are ever in doubt,’ said ChatterBob, ‘take a moment and think about the following. If you decide to drive from New York to San Francisco you can’t see the whole road ahead of you. It’s over 2,900 miles. In fact you can’t see more than about 200 metres ahead of you. But I bet you never doubt that you’ll get there. You never think, “I can’t see the whole entire road ahead of me. How do I know I will make it? I can’t imagine a road 2,900 miles long. If I can’t see it I can’t travel on it.” No, you decide you’ll drive from New York to San Fran and you just
know
you will get there. You focus on the destination, not the road ahead. That is what I need you to do with your dreams. Forget the road, just focus on the destination. The universe will do the rest.’

I didn’t fully understand the physics of ChatterBob’s idea, and I didn’t fully understand ChatterBob, but I was happy to give it a go. He got out a pen and paper and we started to make a list; of the things that had happened in my perfect day and a list of the feelings I’d felt. When we were finished I had a much clearer idea of what I needed to do for my very own Love-Stolen Dream.

I admit I could see a few immediate problems emerging, and they all fell under the heading of
money
. Because most of the things I wanted to do were far too expensive. The main one, the one that really would make me happy for years to come, would be qualifying as a ski and snowboarding instructor. After Gabriel and Julien, this was something I
was certain of. To spend five months of every year teaching people on the mountain; being outside doing physical activity all day, going back to my chalet at the end of the day, eating cheese and speaking French—just the thought of it makes me feel lighter than air. But the training courses for qualification are expensive, tens of thousands of pounds, in fact, and tens of thousands of pounds isn’t hiding behind the excuse of money, it’s trembling in the shadow of the mountain of money I didn’t have. And that was before the intensive French immersion language course I wanted to do, and the chalet I’d need to buy to live in and, if we are making a list, and apparently we are, a round-the-world ticket, and a car. I could also do with some new ski equipment, and no girl says no to a makeover, and a wardrobe-replacing shopping spree. Bob was chipper, but he wasn’t bloody Jack in the Beanstalk. So what I needed was another way. And I didn’t have a clue what that other way would be. So with not a bean in my pocket or a Jack to my name I did what ChatterBob told me and set my positive intention to the universe; feeling how I would feel on the ski instructor training courses; feeling how I would feel when I passed the courses; feeling how I would feel when teaching people to ski, and speaking fluent French, and wandering around my chalet, and wearing wonderful clothes and driving a big black Range Rover with a pet dog called Spot who was ironically named because he’s totally black. At least that’s my sense of irony.

Bob’s version of the universe felt very much like QVC but I liked it, and I was more than happy to give it a try.

my apartment | east london

I
found a dog walker. I booked industrial cleaners. I found a puppy day school, dog kennels, a vet, a behavioural specialist for the boy puppy (who I think likes to defecate on expensive pieces of furniture) and I bulk ordered dog food and biscuits. For once I was a chip off the old block that is Grandma. I even spent as long as was physically possible in the local park in the hope I could tire out the relentless puppies. When I finally got back to my apartment I found Peter exactly where I’d left him, completely fast asleep on my bed. The puppies immediately jumped on him and started licking his face.

‘I’d prefer it if a beautiful woman woke me up like this, not an unruly pair of dogs,’ he said as one of the puppies started chasing his hand before getting distracted by its own tail, chasing that, then falling off the bed. ‘I can’t normally sleep at other people’s houses,’ he said drowsily, propping himself up with some pillows. He patted the bed for me to lie next to him. ‘Kate, do you remember when we were little and we used to have sleepovers at your house?’

‘Are we talking pre-teen sleepovers,’ I said, lying down, ‘or adolescent ones when I was lucky to get through the night without you pouncing on me?’

‘Pre-teen Kitkat. Your grandma would always tell us off for talking too much. What on earth did we have to say to each other until four o’clock in the morning?’

‘You were probably giving me a lecture on the pros and cons of animated facial expressions with a focus on smiling and its wrinkle-producing effects. Or the Industrial Revolution.’

‘But we did used to be such an industrious country, Kitkat,’ he said, turning on his side to face me. ‘So, tell me what you plan to do if you quit your job,’ he said sleepily, his eyes once again fighting sleep.

‘Well, I think I have some ideas, or the beginnings of ideas. I have idea embryos.’

‘Do you want me to fertilize them for you, Kate? Honestly, you are always asking me to contribute my bodily fluids to make things for you. It’s disconcerting.’

‘Seriously, Peter, I’ve been so focused on fixing everyone else I didn’t formulate a proper plan for myself. But now I think I know—as I said, I have idea embryos. I am on the road, even though I can’t see the road, there are no street lamps, but apparently that’s OK.’

‘Very cryptic, Kitkat.’ One of the puppies climbed onto my stomach and fell asleep. ‘Ah, look at that,’ Peter said, having noticed the puppy. ‘Well, I’m afraid now you can’t move,’ he said, gently stroking the dog’s head. ‘They rarely if ever sleep so if it’s sleeping on you then you are staying exactly where you are. I’m afraid you’re going to have to
sleep next to me.’ He stopped stroking the dog and laid his arm across me, pulling me close against him. ‘Talk to me while I fall asleep, Kitkat. Your voice always had a sedating effect on me.’ He chuckled to himself before kissing my hand and squeezing it tightly. ‘Stay here with me,’ he said quietly.

I watched his face for a few minutes, the perfect complexion, lack of frown lines, even skin tone. The genetic lottery wasn’t the least bit fair.

‘Kate, I know you are watching me,’ he said, his lips twitching. ‘And it’s really,
really
disconcerting. And something I thought you’d grown out of. You used to do the same thing when we were kids.’

‘It’s not the same at all. Your mum had just died and you used to cry in your sleep. It was legitimate staring.’

‘So what kind of staring is this?’ He had his eyes closed but I could tell he was waiting for my response.

‘I don’t know what kind this is.’

We both fell silent.

‘It’s disconcerting, Kate,’ he said, stifling laughter. ‘That’s what kind of staring it is. Dis-con-certing. I think we should nickname you Stare Bear.’

‘Peter, I think that almost counts as smiling. I think I just saw you smile.’

‘Never. No smiles. It’s not my thing.’ He kissed my hand and pulled me even closer to him. We both went very quiet. I thought he’d fallen asleep but he reached up and gently stroked the side of my face, his finger tracing lines along my cheek, my nose, my lips. My face moving mere millimetres, responding to his touch like a petal starved of sunlight.
He ran his finger gently along my lips. I found myself holding my breath, watching his beautiful face. I was waiting, wanting …

‘I don’t know how to do this,’ he whispered.

‘What did you say?’

‘I don’t know how to have you in my life in the way that I want.’ He still had his eyes closed, but he was frowning.

‘What do you mean? I’m here. Peter. I’m here.’

I waited for him to utter another sentence but a few seconds later he fell fast asleep.

family times are happy times

A
s my parents don’t celebrate Christmas, or any kind of religious festival, and I don’t like to celebrate my birthday, Grandma Josephine’s birthday is one of the few occasions when we attempt to be in the same country as each other and sit down for a delightful family meal. My parents had flown in 10 days earlier, a brief visit before an 18-month stay in Kazakhstan, and I’d managed to avoid seeing them until this evening. I was hoping Peter’s attendance would provide a buffer between me and their intrusive questioning and undisguised disappointment.

the floating restaurant | pepperpots

I arrived in the floating restaurant to find Peter sitting in silence at the table. He scowled at me as I walked in, pulling me into a whisper as soon as my bum touched my seat.

‘You didn’t tell me your parents were going to be here!’ he shout-whispered.

‘I didn’t?’ I said innocently, knowing full well that
no one
agrees to come to dinner if they think my mum’s in town. ‘Sorry, I must have forgot …’ I said, trailing off because Peter looked explosively angry yet at the same time slightly tearful. For a split second he resembled his 9-years-old self.

My dad noisily cleared his throat.

‘Sorry,’ I said, turning to them. ‘Hi, Dad. Hi, Mum,’ I said in a teenage mid-tone. My mother glared at me. ‘Sorry. Hi, Richard. Hi, Regina.’

‘You’re not allowed to call your parents Mum and Dad?’ Peter whispered.

‘I’m an individual, Peter, not a vessel for the creation of future generations,’ shrieked my octave-crushing mother, elbow-deep in a bowl of peanuts. ‘I am a person with a name, not a job description. You wouldn’t call Kate “Writer”, would you?’

‘It’s not everyone calling you “Mum”, Mum,’ I whinnied. ‘It’s just me, your actual daughter, who wants to call you Mum, and they’d call me Feature Writer actually.’ I couldn’t help myself. My mum rolled her eyes and clicked her fingers for the waiter to come over. Grandma kissed me on the forehead before taking her seat at the head of the table. The Vietnamese pool boy snuck in and pulled up a chair next to Grandma, gently placing a hand on her knee. It was a classic Winters family dinner, with my parents who didn’t raise me, Peter who raised himself, Grandma my primary care giver, and the pool boy whose role was somewhat undefined.

‘Darling, tell your mother what you have been doing at work,’ Grandma said, serving the pool boy with some wine. ‘Kate has been brilliant at
True Love
. She’s doing some ground-breaking work.’

‘I’ve been following her writing,’ my mum snapped, peanut crumbs on her face.

‘Have you, Mum, I mean, Regina?’

‘Yes. I was surprised you hadn’t called me to ask what I gave up for love.’