The Moonlight Dreamers Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the Author

  For Sara Starbuck, with infinite love and gratitude

  “Yes: I am a dreamer: For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” – Oscar Wilde

  Chapter One

  On the night it all began, a full moon hung over Brick Lane, casting everything in a pearly glow. The official reason Amber had come up to the roof garden was to sulk, but as soon as she caught sight of the moon her frown softened. It was so huge and appeared to be so close that she couldn’t help reaching out, as if hoping to touch it. As she looked at her hand silhouetted against the pale light, a question popped into her head. How many words has my hand written during the sixteen years I’ve been alive? Amber was always being struck by random questions like this. She considered it a curse because they popped up at the most inappropriate moments – like that time during a history exam when there’d been a question about the last time Henry VIII visited the Tower of London. What places have I already visited for the last time? Amber immediately found herself asking, followed swiftly by: What will be the last place I ever visit? She’d then wasted about ten minutes of precious exam time mentally compiling lists of all the places she wished she’d visited for the last time – school, crowded supermarkets on a Saturday, the dentist – and some of the places she’d prefer to die – on a chaise longue in Paris, smoking a long, thin cigar; riding a fairground carousel with the wind in her hair; tucked up in a four-poster bed listening to Billie Holiday.

  Amber dropped her hand into her lap and took a deep breath. The cool night air smelled of car fumes, fried onions and coriander. Way down below, the kitchens of the Indian restaurants that backed on to her house were a hive of activity. But Amber didn’t mind the clattering of pans or the chefs yelling their orders in Bengali. She was so used to the nightly commotion that it felt soothing.

  Then she heard her dad’s voice cutting through the noise and instantly tensed. She could only catch odd words but she knew he was talking about her.

  “Doesn’t understand … responsibility … my career…”

  Amber sighed. All Gerald ever thought about was his stupid career. Then came the gentle lilt of her other dad, Daniel. She couldn’t make out a single word he was saying but she could guess. He would be smoothing things over, trying to make Gerald see that sometimes their daughter needed their time and attention – like when she was taking part in a national debate for school! But yes, of course, Gerald’s career was of vital importance. And yes, of course, no one else could really understand the pressures facing an internationally renowned artist. Daniel was like the relaxation music played in health spas, but in human form. Amber loved him more than anything or anyone else in the entire world, and she was infinitely grateful that at least one of her dads cared, but sometimes she wished he wasn’t quite so soothing. Sometimes – lots of times – she wished he would stand up to Gerald.

  She heard a door closing downstairs. Gerald was probably retreating to his studio to lick his wounds. When he’d told her at dinner that he wouldn’t be able to go to her debate because he’d been invited to a gallery opening in Prague, she’d accused him of being a self-centred despot. Despot had been her word of the day from Dictionary.com. It was like some spooky kind of word karma – as if Dictionary.com had known that Gerald was going to be particularly obnoxious that day. He’d actually choked on his salmon when she said it, his face flushing crimson. Then he’d flung down his knife and fork and started yelling. Gerald always yelled when he knew he was in the wrong – it was one of his worst traits. Usually Amber would yell right back but tonight she’d felt too close to tears, so she’d chosen to sulk on the roof garden instead.

  It had been a totally rubbish day. That morning, for some bizarre reason (like she’d been up too late blogging the night before to remember to set it), her alarm hadn’t gone off, so she hadn’t had time to sculpt her hair into its trademark quiff. This meant she’d gone to school feeling as awkward and exposed as if she’d been wearing just her underwear – her most faded and frayed underwear. And school had been worse than ever – and not just because of her hair. In maths, Mr Frasier (a definite despot if ever Amber saw one) had set a “surprise algebra test”. Amber’s first instinct had been to question his use of the word surprise. Surely surprises were meant to be good things – fun things – like “surprise parties” or “surprise winners”. Shouldn’t he have called it a “shock-horror algebra test” instead? But Amber had learned from past experience that Mr Frasier didn’t take too kindly to having his teaching methods questioned, so she silently turned over her paper and was immediately plunged into alphabetic hell. This was what she hated most about algebra – the way it stole her beloved letters and twisted them into things that made her head ache. Maths was supposed to be about numbers – it should leave letters to writers who created beautiful things with them, not ruin them in nonsensical equations. At lunchtime, her head still aching from the test, she’d taken refuge in the library. But to her horror, almost as soon as she’d sat down, the library was invaded by the OMGs. The OMGs was Amber’s name for the so-called cool girls in her year, the ones who starved themselves until their heads looked too big for their bodies and wore so much make-up their skin looked as if it had been painted on from a tin. The ones who said “OMG” practically every other word. They never normally set foot in the library at break. In their world, the library was a total no-go area because you couldn’t smoke there, or talk loudly about boys. But today for some bizarre reason – maybe because they knew Amber was having such a crappy day and they wanted to make it even worse – they descended in a haze of celebrity-brand perfume and fake laughter.

  “Is it true that you, like, dress in men’s clothes when you’re not in school?” an OMG called Chloe asked, coming to perch on the edge of Amber’s desk.

  Amber ignored her and carried on reading. This didn’t deter Chloe, who draped herself across the desk as if she were modelling for a lingerie shoot. “Is it because your dads are, like…”

  All of the OMGs fell silent at this point. Amber wanted to wail. They’d known for years now that her dads were gay. Why was it still an issue?

  “My dads are like what?” she asked, still not looking up, even though the words in her book had all blurred into one.

  “Gay,” Chloe said, defiantly, as if she was te
lling Amber something she didn’t already know.

  “Why would my dads being gay make me want to wear suits?” Amber asked, immediately kicking herself for getting sucked into The Most Pointless Conversation in History.

  “Well, has it, like, made you gay too?”

  At this, Amber leaned forward in her seat and stared Chloe straight in the eyes. “I’m guessing by that logic that your mum and dad must be completely imbecilic then.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Chloe asked, her glossy mouth gaping open.

  Amber hadn’t hung around long enough to see her work it out.

  Now she felt hot tears welling in her eyes. She blinked them away and looked down at the book in her lap. She was not going to cry. No way. Today had been bad enough already. She opened her book. The only thing that could lift her from a gloom like this was a game of What Would Oscar Say? This was a game Amber had invented a couple of years ago, when she first discovered her writing hero, Oscar Wilde. Any time she was feeling down or angry or confused she would leaf through a book of his quotes and randomly pick one. His dry wit and sarcasm never let her down. Amber began flicking through the pages. She was sick of being on her own all the time. She was sick of feeling like the odd one out. She craved excitement and adventure. She needed to change her life. But how? She stopped flicking and looked down at the page. Her eyes were drawn to a quote:

  “Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

  Amber let the words wash over her. This was how letters should be arranged, in a way that actually made people stop and think, that made them feel better about themselves. She shouldn’t feel bad about being different. She should feel proud. She shouldn’t feel bad about dreaming of something better. Amber looked up at the moon. It seemed to be glowing brighter than ever, as if it was shining just on her.

  Amber felt a strange sensation, as if the moon was waiting for her to realize something. She leaned back and gazed into the darkness. So what if she wasn’t like any of the other girls at school? So what if her dad was a self-centred despot? She was a dreamer – a moonlight dreamer. Just like Oscar Wilde. Amber put down her book and went over to the edge of the roof garden. Below, a stream of people was winding its way towards the food trucks in the courtyard of the Old Truman Brewery. To her right, the lights of Brick Lane stretched out like a jewelled scarf. For the first time all day, Amber felt a prickle of hope. She was in the heart of London, surrounded by millions of people. Surely there must be other people like her out there somewhere. Other people who didn’t fit in, or want to fit in. Other people who craved excitement and adventure. Other moonlight dreamers.

  Chapter Two

  Maali hurried along Brick Lane towards TAJ’s Store, mentally reciting the list of groceries her mum had asked her to get. Gram flour, paprika, two bunches of coriander and … what was the other thing? Her mind went blank for a second. Ah yes, coconuts. Maali grinned as she thought of what it was for. Her mum’s coconut burfi was the finest in all of London – probably the UK. People came from all over to buy sweets from their Indian confectionery store, and the melt-in-the-mouth burfi was the best seller by far.

  Maali checked for traffic, then crossed the narrow road. The cobbled pavement on the other side was glimmering from the earlier rain. Although it was almost eight o’clock at night, everything seemed unusually bright. Maali glanced up and saw a huge full moon overhead. She reached into her coat pocket for her phone. She’d never seen the moon so big. She stopped beside the mosque. The moonlight was causing the mirror-tiled minaret to glisten like a magician’s wand. It was breathtaking. Maali clicked on the camera and adjusted the zoom until she had the perfect shot. But just as she took the picture, a group of City businessmen barged past, jolting her arm.

  “Hey!” Maali looked at the men crossly, then quickly looked away. She could tell from their flushed faces and bloodshot eyes that they’d been drinking.

  “Whassup?” one of them asked, leering down at her.

  “I was trying to take a picture,” Maali muttered, stuffing her phone back into her pocket.

  “And?” the man challenged. His breath was hot and reeked of sour alcohol.

  “Don’t piss her off, Dave,” another man said with a snigger. “She might issue a fatwa.”

  Maali glared at him. Actually, I’m not Muslim, I’m Hindu, she wanted to yell. But what was the point? In his ignorant mind they were probably the same. She lowered her gaze and hurried off. The men’s coarse laughter echoed after her. As she approached TAJ’s she ran through her list again. Gram flour, paprika, two bunches of coriander … then stopped. Further along the Lane, stomping its feet on the pavement outside the Truman Brewery, was a unicorn! Maali blinked to check she wasn’t seeing things, but the unicorn was still there. Its coat was snowy white and a long, cone-shaped horn protruded from the centre of its forehead. She had to get a picture of it – and this time no one was going to stop her.

  As she raced towards the brewery, Maali couldn’t stop grinning. This was what she loved about living on Brick Lane – you never knew what surprise you’d come across next. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. When she was little it had been dull and dreary – endless curry houses and leather jacket shops and grotty clothes factories tucked away in the basements and backstreets. But then the artists had moved into Shoreditch, and almost overnight they’d transformed the rundown brewery and surrounding neighbourhood into a magical world where almost anything could happen: random fashion shoots, impromptu gigs, graffiti art that was so beautiful it ought to have been hanging in a gallery. And now, a unicorn.

  Of course it wasn’t really a unicorn. As Maali got closer she saw that it was a white horse with a fake horn attached to its head. But it still looked incredible. A teenage boy was holding the horse’s reins while beside him a trendy-looking woman with purple hair was talking to a trendy-looking man with blue hair. As Maali drew level with them she got her phone out. She would pretend to send a text and quickly take a picture instead. She glanced at the horse. Close up, it was huge. The horse bowed its head and looked at her for a second, then snorted. Curls of steam spiralled from its nostrils into the cold night air. Maali grinned as she thought of what her brother, Namir, would say when she told him there’d been a unicorn on their street. Namir was only seven and he was mad about fantasy stories. She had to get a picture or he’d never believe her.

  “All right?”

  Maali jumped. The boy holding the horse was speaking to her. She felt her face start to burn in that annoying way it did whenever a boy so much as looked at her.

  “Hi,” she muttered.

  “The things I have to do,” the boy said, shaking his head. Maali had just enough time to notice that he was grinning and his brown eyes were twinkling before she looked back at the ground.

  “What are you doing?” she muttered, curiosity outweighing her shyness.

  “I’m making sure Snowy doesn’t bolt while these eejits decide which is his best side.” He lowered his voice. “They’re from the Chill Bar. They’re doing a promotional video for a new cocktail, the Velvet Unicorn.” He shook his head again, but his eyes were smiling.

  “But where” – Maali stared up at the horse – “where’s he from?”

  “The City Farm, round the corner,” the boy replied. “That’s where I work, isn’t it, Snowy?” He scratched the horse under the chin. It gave him an affectionate nuzzle. Maali smiled. It still looked magical, standing there in the moonlight.

  “Would it be OK if I took a picture?” she asked shyly. “For my little brother, I mean. He loves unicorns.”

  The boy grinned. “Of course.”

  “Right, Adam, we’ve decided to take the horse into the courtyard,” the woman said, turning to face them. Her purple hair was cut into a razor-sharp bob and her eyes were heavily lined in black. She was the kind of woman who made Maali long for the power of invisibi
lity – the kind of woman who could freeze you to the spot with just one stare.

  “Ash,” the boy replied.

  The woman frowned. “What?”

  “My name’s Ash – short for Ashley.”

  “Oh.” She looked and sounded completely uninterested. “Can you just bring him through for us?”

  “Sure, but…” Ash looked at Maali. “What’s your name?” he whispered.

  “Maali,” she whispered back.

  “Maali would just like to take a quick picture first.”

  The woman raised one of her thin, pencilled-on eyebrows. “Who?”

  “Maali.” Ash nodded at Maali.

  The woman looked her up and down and then looked away, as if summing her up and discarding her all in one second. “Well, I don’t think we’ve really got time for—”

  “Go on,” Ash said, smiling at Maali, and he stepped back, out of the way.

  Maali flicked to the camera on her phone and crouched down. She knew instinctively that the “unicorn” would look even more impressive photographed from below.

  “We really do need to get a move on,” the woman said.

  Maali centred the shot.

  “Come on!” the woman said, barging past and knocking Maali’s arm.

  The picture was a blur.

  Ash shrugged helplessly and tightened his hold on the reins. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said.

  “Yes. You too,” Maali muttered. She managed to maintain eye contact for a second before looking down at Ash’s feet. He was wearing scuffed black boots, the kind that bikers and rock stars wear.

  “You should come and see us at the farm some time. Old Snowy here seems to have taken quite a shine to you!”

  Maali looked up to see the horse gazing down at her. “Yes.” She searched for something else to say but all the words in her brain had decided to hide.

  “See you around, then,” Ash said.

  “Yes. See you.”

  Ash made a clicking sound with his tongue and led the horse away.

  Maali stood watching them until the clip-clop of Snowy’s feet faded into the distance.