‘Good morning!’ Will walks towards me, grinning like a handsome salamander. ‘You look disarmingly beautiful today, Cassie.’
I bloody should: I’ve had nearly an entire weekend to prepare.
‘Thank you,’ I say as he leans in to kiss my cheek and his facial hair scores my skin. I bought yet another vintage dress – pale yellow lace – so that I’d be starting today without any old memories attached to me (apart from those I’m subliminally absorbing from its previous owners). You’d think I’d be bothered by wearing second-hand clothes, but – contrarily – I find it strangely comforting. ‘So do you.’
‘Excellent.’ Will laughs and twirls in a bizarrely hot way. ‘Disarmingly beautiful is the look I was going for this morning. I toyed with endearingly ravishing, but sadly that particular shirt was in the wash.’
I laugh, enjoying myself already. ‘Combined with your beguilingly pretty trousers, I see.’
‘Naturally.’ He flourishes. ‘What else, for our second date?’
We both beam at each other and I feel a turquoise-coloured sweetness ripple down the back of my neck.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Will stares around King’s Cross train station, then stretches with his fingers spread out wide like a cat in the sun. ‘I’m feeling full of beans today, Cassie. I’m actually glad we didn’t do brunch yesterday, because I was so tired after editing all week I stayed in bed for most of it, eating pizza out of a box balanced delicately on my chest.’
I smile and try to ignore a cold flicker of horror at all those spiky crumbs lost in the crevices of his duvet cover.
‘Actually,’ I reach into my bag, ‘the plan is right here.’
Triumphantly, I hold out an A4 piece of paper printed on both sides with bullet-pointed suggestions, all approaching ‘fun’ from a variety of angles. There’s the physical activity kind of fun, the silly kind of fun, the eating kind of fun, the alcohol kind of fun, the mentally challenging kind of fun. We may not have time for all of it, but I’ve put it all in the most convenient order, just in case.
There’s even space in the itinerary for the impromptu kind of fun – I know how much Will enjoys that – but I don’t think we’ll get round to it. Honestly, there’s just no real way of knowing how long spontaneity will take.
‘Blimey,’ Will says, taking it out of my hands. ‘Cassandra, this is really something.’
I study his face carefully. ‘Something … good?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He grins widely. ‘I’ve never been on a date before with someone who has thought it all out so carefully ahead of time. I’m really touched. No last-minute-panic cinema for us.’
I relax slightly. This bodes well for all our future dates too; next time maybe I’ll crack out the laminating machine.
‘Hang on.’ Will skims the document again. ‘I’m seeing a bit of a theme. Picnic in the Botanic Gardens. Bike riding. Punting. Treasure hunt. Pub. Look at colleges. Eat fudge. Either we’re going to Cambridge or King’s Cross has really changed over the last few months.’
Something in my stomach flaps like a pigeon.
‘We’re going to Cambridge. Is that OK?’ I clear my throat and can’t quite meet his eyes in case he spots something in them I’m not ready to share. ‘It’s really sunny today, so I thought it might be fun to do something a little less … urban.’
‘Absolutely!’ Will rubs his hands together, which is an endearing little gesture he always makes when he’s preparing for a big adventure: it looks a lot less villainous than it sounds on paper. ‘I love it! I’ve not been there for years and years.’
‘No.’ I smile faintly and study the timetable boards. ‘Me neither.’
Everything is precisely as I remember it.
Which is probably not surprising for a university founded in 1209 – they’re not big on change here either – but it’s both reassuring and discombobulating. As soon as we emerge from the train station, I start to feel … a lot. I can’t unpick it – there’s roughly six colours happening at once – but it’s painfully intense. Confusing. Everywhere I look, memories are layered on top of each other, like sheets of Sal’s lasagne: separate but also stuck together in one big lump.
We’ve spent the entire journey chatting about Will’s family dramas – they are legion – so my abrupt silence does not go unnoticed.
‘Everything OK?’ Will frowns at me. ‘Cassie?’
In the sunshine I can see my dad waiting for me in the car after I was dropped off from a school trip: squishing his face up against the window to make me laugh. I can see my mum by the turnstiles, fumbling through her velvet pockets for train tickets she always managed to lose before we got on an actual train.
Actually, that’s not accurate. I can see all the times they were here.
Hundreds and hundreds of times: each crossing over and through each other like holograms, shining in every direction I look.
‘Absolutely.’ I shake myself and smile at Will. ‘I was just trying to remember our first date activity, that’s all.’
Pulling the plan out again, I pretend to stare at it while I regroup.
Focus, Cassie. Put it all back in the right box and slot it neatly back in the brain cupboard. At least I already know what we’re doing first: punting. I’ve seen all the films; they do it in Venice. I know the cinematic value and the impact it has on couples. We will drift silently down the river, staring into each other’s eyes and holding hands, and at some point in our future we’ll go, ‘Remember when we fell in love while we were punting?’ and our eyes will get misty at how incredibly romantic it was.
Admittedly, romance is yet another arbitrary human construct I don’t entirely grasp, but I remain hopeful that if I stick to the rules I might one day understand it a bit better. It mostly seems to consist of doing nice things with people you’d like to see naked, but I’m clearly missing something.
‘Punting?’ I suggest as we stroll towards town. ‘Then bike ride and picnic?’
‘Great,’ Will says breezily, taking everything in his stride, as usual. ‘I’ve never done it before, so this is exciting. Did I see fudge on the list? Because I fancy grabbing some of that on the way too.’
I glance at him adoringly, then away again before he sees it. Never have I known a human who adapts to any environment so quickly or with so little fuss: he’s like one of those glorious trees that grows in between the cracks of a cement pavement.
‘Of course.’ I can feel his excitement in me too. ‘And then maybe—’
Will has just slipped his hand into mine. It’s large and warm and slightly grainy like wood and I suddenly realise this is the first time we’ve held hands in this version of time, and it feels like the first.
I’m so overwhelmed, I can’t speak.
After a few moments of my pointed silence, Will clears his throat and reaches for his sunglasses as an excuse to drop hands again.
Fuck.
‘Did I see fudge on the list?’ Will smiles at me. ‘Because I fancy grabbing some of that on the way too.’
‘Of course.’ I wait for his hand to slip into mine and focus on attempting to talk at the same time, like some kind of magical multitasking juggler. ‘And then maybe we can wander around a few of the colleges?’
‘Absolutely. Any in particular?’
‘Emmanuel,’ I say way too quickly. ‘Or … you know. Whichever. I’m easy.’
Hand – finally – in hand, Will and I wander through the cobbled streets of Cambridge town centre towards the old colleges, stacked like ornate cakes against the river. All the colours are starting to bubble again – now I can see my parents taking me to buy new school shoes, books, a sandwich, all happening at once – so I focus hard on the pressure of my fingers intertwined with Will’s instead.
‘What’s up, dock!’ A very young man in too tight shorts, a waistcoat and a straw boater approaches as we hit the river, far too enthusiastically. ‘Welcome to Pun-ting! An extra-oar-dinary experience, where we take the oar-deal out of punting! Canoe thing of a better way to spend your time?’
Will and I glance at each other; our nostrils flare.
‘Oar-kward!’ the poor university student chuckles with an air of financial desperation. ‘Excuse me barging in, but tell me exactly yacht you want and I can get you there schooner or later.’
OK, I may not know much about romance, but I don’t think it involves sitting on a floating bit of wood while a twenty-year-old art history undergraduate makes faintly boat-related puns at us for the next forty minutes.
Our entire relationship appears to be haunted by wordplay.
‘You know what?’ Will looks at me and lifts his eyebrows. ‘How about we hire one and punt it ourselves? I think I could do with the exercise.’
‘That is a ferry bad idea,’ the student grins. ‘Knot on my watch!’
‘What do you think?’ Will turns to me. ‘Cassie?’
I study the elements of his face, trying desperately to work out what he’s thinking. There’s something in his eyes. A small flare in his nostrils. A subtle change in the line of his mouth and eyebrows. With growing panic, I assess the clues, stick them together, compare them to similar expressions from the past and fumble for the message he’s trying to send me. I think it might be: We’re not getting on that bloody boat.
‘Sounds good to me?’ I guess tentatively.
Will grins at me, obviously delighted that we’re on the same page, and I feel a bolt of triumph: smashed it.
‘No, seriously.’ The poor boy drops his sales pitch. ‘That’s a really terrible idea, guys. Like, punting’s deceptively hard. If you’ve not done it before, you’re going to regret it. I promise you.’
I stare at him in surprise: he abruptly sounds like a lot like Tiresias, muttering his dark prophecies from the Underworld.
‘We’ll be OK,’ Will says cheerfully, squeezing my hand.
Giddy with the conspiracy of it – look at us, reading each other’s thoughts with simply the power of our facial muscles and eyebrow hairs – Will and I wander towards the self-drive punts, or whatever they’re called.
‘Boat?’ the guy barks, and this is a bit more like it.
‘Yup.’ Will pays and we clamber on. ‘Any tips?’
‘Yeah.’ The boatman laughs. ‘Don’t fall in.’
‘Right. Cheers.’ Experimentally, Will grabs his pole and staggers to the front of the boat. It suits him. He looks like he was born to be there. ‘How are you doing, Cassie? Comfortable?’
I glance stiffly over the edge. Of course I am not comfortable.
I’m sitting on what appears to be an elaborately fashioned plank, inches away from green water with duck crap floating in it. I’m wearing the worst possible outfit for this venture, and I’ve had to sit on my bag and tuck my dress around me like a lacy burrito. As I look up and down the river, I can’t help but notice that all the other couples are sitting side by side, smiling in the sunshine, and we’re the only two idiots who decided to Do It Ourselves. This is what happens when you decide to wing it without a proper conversation: you make poorly considered decisions like this one.
‘Yup,’ I lie tightly. ‘Super comfortable.’
‘Then off we go!’ Popping his sunglasses on with a disturbing wobble, Will pushes firmly away from the bank and I feel the boat tip underneath us. ‘Which way do you want to go first?’
I look desperately back at solid ground. ‘Don’t mind.’
‘Let’s try this way then.’
Looking suddenly far too sturdy – this can’t be equal weight distribution – Will begins to punt away down the river and fear rapidly mounts. It’s so dirty. Filthy. And not in the apparently sexy way. How am I supposed to feel romantic when I’m seconds away from being covered in the faeces of mallards?
‘Whoops,’ Will laughs as we smash into another boat, coming in the opposite direction. ‘It’s like bumper cars! Afternoon, guys!’
Another couple smile and wave at us, looking blissfully stable.
With a tiny squeak, I hold on to the sides.
‘Isn’t it lovely here?’ Will is very clearly in his element. ‘Look at those buildings! So beautiful. Which one did Darwin go to, do you reckon? I love Darwin. He’s my favourite old dude with a beard.’
‘Christ,’ I mutter as the boat wobbles yet again.
‘Sorry?’ Will continues shoving his long stick into the mud and propelling us pretty much nowhere. ‘Didn’t quite catch that.’
‘Christ’s College,’ I say, raising my now squeaky voice. I try not to look at a memory of my father, waving at me from the bridge. ‘Darwin went to Christ’s College, as well as John Milton the poet and Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb. Could we go a little more slowly, do you think?’
The boat has now run into the opposite bank with a loud crunch.
We pitch to the left and I squeak again, this time a lot more loudly. I have officially changed my mind about punting. This was a terrible idea, and about as romantic – and hygienic – as eating the same strand of spaghetti and then offering them the rest with the end of your nose.
‘Sure!’ Will tries to push us away, to no avail. ‘You know, that guy was right. This is a lot harder than it looks.’
‘So maybe we should get out.’ Really panicking now, I begin shuffling down the boat towards him. I’ve lost all sense of reason and rational thinking: I just want this to stop. ‘Maybe I can help you, or we can drag the boat back from the sides.’
‘Cassie, please don’t—’
I instinctively shuffle forwards a bit more; Will loses his balance and drops the pole. The boat suddenly swings out towards the centre of the river, the world rotates on its axis and I don’t need to be a seer or prophet to know what’s going to bloody happen next.
‘Bugger,’ I hear as the universe tips over.
And in we both go.
Will is laughing loudly; I am not.
‘Well,’ he chuckles, wiping his eyes, swimming to the boat and clinging on to the side. ‘I’m guessing that wasn’t part of the plan, was it?’
My throat is tightening, my eyes are filling up.
I’m wet and I’m dirty and I’m cold and there’s duck shit in my hair and my new dress is permanently ruined and I’m going to be wet and dirty and cold and faintly green for the rest of the day because I didn’t bring a change of clothes, and I’m trying really hard to be cool with this, to brush it off, laugh about it, find some kind of silver lining, but all the other punters are laughing at us and it’s not funny and my father is gone and there’s duck shit in my hair and I’m dirty, I’m dirty, I am so bloody dirty.
‘Cassie?’ Will reaches out a hand as I attempt to kick my feet and panic sends me under again. ‘God, can you swim? I should have checked.’
With my mouth open, I involuntarily take a gulp of dirty water, then start crying, which means more open mouth and more dirty water and more duck shit, and I go under the water again, choking and gulping, and I see Will’s horrified face and this isn’t romantic, this isn’t connecting, and I think I just saw a dead rat and I think I’ve just ruined everything.
Desperate, I close my eyes.
‘Everything OK?’ Will frowns at me. ‘Cassie?’
‘Absolutely.’ Amazed, I look down at myself – dry, clean, not sobbing – and honestly, time travel is the best present ever. It’s like a massive fluffy towel, handed to me by the universe. ‘I was just trying to remember our first date activity, that’s all.’
I take another look at the plan.
‘Not punting,’ I say firmly. ‘I don’t like punting. Picnic?’
‘Oh,’ Will says with a faint air of surprise. ‘Sure. Did I see fudge on the list? Because I fancy grabbing some of that on the way too.’
We get the fudge again, plus sandwiches, Pimm’s in cans, crisps.
Feeling hopeful all over again, I wander with Will to the side of the river this time and together we watch the punters, slowly gliding up and down, laughing and kissing. I feel a sharp pang of isolation: I guess I can add that specific romantic scene to the list of things I’m permanently shut out of.
‘This is so nice.’ Will returns from the ice-cream van and hands me a Mister Whippy, then lies next to me so he can lick his. ‘I travel abroad so much, sometimes I forget that this country is also full of amazing adventures.’
Licking my ice cream too, I try to lean back just like him. ‘Yes.’
Will’s brown eyes are suddenly trained on me.
Stiffening, I stay as still as I can and attempt to look like a person who cannot feel themselves being studied like a bug in a jar. I’m being a normal human, right? This is how people sit, isn’t it? Am I jittering, rocking, bouncing, clawing? Has Will noticed that I’m just copying his body language and facial expressions, or is he thinking how pretty I look in the sun? Does he like me, or is he faintly creeped out by me? Is he interested, or bored? Is he considering kissing me, or wondering why I look like I’ve only been given this body recently and still have no idea how to drive it?
(‘Cassandra seems to believe she might be an alien.’)
It’s all a complete mystery.
All I know is the longer he studies me, the more confused I become. Also, the sheer effort of not accidentally playing piano fingers on my ice cream is exhausting: it feels like I’m fighting the Colchian dragon and hoping nobody will notice.
‘You have ice cream on your chin,’ Will laughs finally, reaching towards me and wiping it with his shirt cuff. ‘Like a little goat.’
Before I can react he leans in and kisses me, softly.
With my eyes closed, I tilt into the kiss and suddenly feel a flash of his colours like a red apple: round and sweet with flashes of green. All at once, I feel my entire body relax. As if his colours are now mine too.
I also feel ice cream dripping down my hand.
Now there’s a tongue on my face.
‘Oh, hello.’ Will laughs as we break abruptly apart and a large black dog lunges for my ice cream. ‘Where did you come from?’
I reel away: my Mister Whippy has gone all down my front, and I watch in mounting horror as the dog spins in a circle, knocks the Pimm’s over my skirt, eats my cheese sandwich, steps in the grape box and sticks his nose in my bag, all in approximately three seconds flat.
‘Basil!’ A cut-glass male voice behind us. ‘Basil! Naughty boy! Come here!’
Will laughs again as the dog bounces away.
‘Little bugger,’ he says amenably, grabbing a few napkins and trying to mop up the damage, which is clearly unmoppable. ‘Cassie, do you want my sandwich instead? I can just fill up on the fudge. Let’s be honest, I was going to do that anyway.’
Starting to hyperventilate again, I stare down at myself. I’m covered in long black hairs and ice cream and orange stains and I’m sticky and dirty and I still don’t have a change of clothes and I cannot believe this has happened again and before I can stop myself I jump up, turning to face the owner of the dog as my brain starts to audibly slam the inside of my head like a woodpecker.
Don’t do it, Cassie. Don’t do it. You’re not a milk monitor any more. Don’t do it, not in front of Will, not when everything is going so—
‘Can you not read the sign?’ I point at it. ‘It says Keep Your Dog on a Lead.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ the owner grimaces. ‘I took him off for just a—’
‘There are rules,’ I snap, brain slamming again. ‘There are rules for a reason. Why do you think rules apply to everyone else but not to you?’
‘Cassie …’ Will starts next to me. ‘Don’t—’
‘WHY CAN’T EVERYONE JUST FOLLOW THE BLOODY RULES,’ I bellow, starting to cry again.
The dog owner scuttles away, clearly terrified, and as the fog clears I turn back and see Will’s face. The happy apple colour is totally gone. He looks absolutely appalled – wondering what kind of maniac he just bought an ice cream – and I feel the horror in myself: now it’s mine too.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper as my rage subsides and is replaced by a wave of nausea. ‘I am so sorry, Will. I don’t know what came over me.’
I do know what came over me. It’s exactly what always comes over me when someone breaks rules, no matter how totally arbitrary they seem to be. Something in my brain snaps, and I detonate like a hand grenade. Which is incredibly hypocritical, given how happy I am to ignore rules if I don’t personally agree with them.
So I think the more appropriate question is: what the hell is wrong with me?
‘Cassandra—’ Will says slowly, and I close my eyes.
‘Everything OK?’ Will frowns at me. ‘Cassie?’
‘Absolutely.’ I swallow, now completely exhausted. ‘I was just trying to remember our first date activity, that’s all.’
I peer down at the plan.
‘Why don’t we start with a treasure hunt?’