By the time I reach home, I’m a human firework.
I’m so exhausted that every cell in me is exploding: fizzing and screaming in a painful mess of sound and colour and light. My body crackles, and every time I breathe the sound sets off a brand-new detonation. With my eyes open, the world flashes and lurches like a boat in a storm, but with my eyes shut it’s like being locked inside a black box while Guy Fawkes goes hell to leather with my very own private display. From decades of experience, there’s absolutely nothing I can do: all of this noise and light is coming from inside me.
Shaking, I close my bedroom curtains, ram earplugs into my ears, climb under my duvet and wait patiently for the storm to pass. Eventually, it starts to slow down, so I’m extremely irritated when there’s a faint beep, accompanied by another shooting pain and a new, blinding flare of electric green.
Emerging like a disgruntled tortoise, I grab my phone.
Hey! What are you wearing? ;) x
I stare at the unknown number.
I’ve briefly dated a lot of men over the last few years, so once they’ve evaporated I delete their numbers to keep my phonebook nice and tidy. Whoever it is, this feels like an inappropriate question regardless.
Frowning, I type:
Pyjamas. Why?
Beep.
LOL! You can do better than that! ;)
This is now almost definitely a sex thing and I am so not in the mood.
Scowling, I type:
Pale blue pyjamas with flying horses on them. Who is this?
Beep.
It’s Sophie! They sound amazing! But you can’t wear them to the party can you? Isn’t it black tie? <3 Xxx
I stare at my screen. Sophie from work? How did she get my number? Are we on texting terms now? We need to discuss our work privacy policy. More importantly, party? Why would I ever agree to go to a—
Shit. I hoped that was an alternative timeline.
The gala is tonight?
The three flashing dots seem to last for ever.
Yes! I forgot you’ve been on holiday! Was it fun? Where did you go? Are you tanned? Did you get the email with all the deets? If you didn’t, it’s 7 pm in Holborn! I’ve attached a link! What are you going to wear? I’m SO excited. I’ve got this floor-length coral number, it’s got kind of appliqué flowers all around the top and it’s SO fancy. Lol. Will you wear heels? Do you think there’ll be dancing? I love dancing. Do you like dancing? This is my first ever work gala! Eeeeeeeeekkkk! Are you excited?
That’s an awful lot of questions to answer in one go.
Honestly, I wish people would just keep their communication to the essentials and leave The Irrelevants until they’re at least standing in front of you, or – in an ideal world – never.
Frustrated already, I type:
Yes. Cornwall. No. Haven’t looked. Thanks. Don’t know. Don’t know. Maybe. No. Not really.
See you there.
Cassie.
Then I look at my watch and winch myself painfully out of bed.
I know I promised I wouldn’t fiddle with time any more – a promise I’ve broken once already – but for a few seconds, I genuinely consider erasing the entire last month of my life just to get out of this one social event.
Increasingly irked, I go to my open rack and stare at it.
Nobody at work knows about all my vintage clothes, or that I’m a diligent collector of colour and texture and shape and fabric. My hoard makes me so very happy. There’s a ruffled primrose dress and a pair of soft, pink balloon-silk trousers and a red corduroy jacket with a gold silk lining so gorgeous it makes my womb hurt. There’s velvet and cashmere, damask and linen and muslin; plums and indigos and creams and aquas and celadon and apricot and lavender. All things bright and beautiful. Anything that brings me happiness gets carried home, and then I wear my five allocated jumpsuits Monday to Friday so all the joy doesn’t get ruined at work.
Sighing, I run my fingertips over the rack, but I’m so tired now everything suddenly feels scratchy and unwearable. Also, I don’t want the bad memories of a work gala to seep into an outfit I otherwise love and ruin it for ever.
Frustrated, I tug on my chicken dressing gown and walk into the kitchen. Sal is perched in the breakfast nook, surrounded by what looks like seven dismantled jumpers. Something I said must have stuck: she has clearly eschewed the YouTube channel for what I assume is an attempt at either knitting or whatever it’s called when you take it all apart again.
‘Hello, Cassie!’ Sal glances up, and looks genuinely happy to see me. Something in my stomach feels warm. ‘You’re back! Did you go somewhere nice? You look well – you’re glowing. I wanted to say thank you again for the other night. I’ve been trying to listen to my gut, or my throat, or whatever it is, and I’ve decided to start my own knitwear range! I’ve got little labels made up and everything.’
She gestures at tiny black fabric tags with Salini Sews embroidered on them. Now is probably not the right time to point out that she’s not sewing anything; she seems happy and inspired, and that’s what matters.
‘Sal?’ I hover awkwardly by the table, unable to meet her eyes. ‘Do you think I could have my dress back?’
She frowns. ‘Sorry?’
‘The big blue tulle dress I gave you a couple of weeks ago. I don’t need it back back, but I’ve got this party ball gala thing tonight and I want to wear something I already hate so it doesn’t make me hate something new.’
Sal stares at me, eyes narrowed, and I think I may have broken an unspoken social rule about gifts: beware the Trojans etc, and also asking for them back so you can sweat profusely in them in public.
‘Oh,’ she says with a frown. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
I flush hot. ‘Please.’
‘No.’ Sal assesses me carefully. ‘You can’t go to a ball wearing something you already hate, Cassie. It’ll be no fun at all. Why don’t I lend you something? That way you can just give it back when you’ve turned against it and I’ll make sure you never have to see or touch it again. Something super soft, right? Wait there.’
Sal jumps up, bounces up the stairs and disappears into her bedroom.
My throat abruptly tightens.
Sal somehow understood what I needed without making me feel weird about it first, and now I think I might be about to cry. Desperate to show my gratitude, I swallow and look at the labels again. Maybe I can sew them all in for her, to say thank you. I cut out all the labels in my own clothes, obviously, but it’s a thing other people enjoy: they seem to put such great store in whatever they say.
The kitchen door opens again and I brighten. ‘Sal—’
‘Well, hello.’ Derek swaggers in and grins at me. ‘Where have you been, you dirty little stop-out?’
I freeze and look at the table. ‘On holiday.’
‘With a new guy? Must have been a good few days.’ Derek opens a cupboard, assessing me as he selects a plate. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you, Cassandra. Although it looks like you did. More than once, judging by the state of your hair.’
If Will is a man with a myriad of destinies and futures contained inside him, I think Derek might be the opposite: he has just the one, and he’s going to goddamn fulfil it in the same way if it kills him.
Dismayed, I try to inhale deeply and realise I can’t.
‘Hey.’ He opens the fridge and leans his body into it. ‘I’m just joking, Dankworth. Banter, you know? You don’t need to look quite so appalled. I’m not a predator or anything. I’m just playing around.’
Terror mounting, I pick up a label and stare at it.
‘Do I make you nervous, Cassie?’ Derek picks out a container of fried rice and struts over to the dinner table. ‘I don’t mean to, you know. I just want you to be comfortable here, Cassandra. My casa is your casa, after all. Or, I should say, your Casa-ndra. Haha.’
With a fork, he picks out a green pea and pops it in his mouth.
Rigid, I glance at the kitchen door and wait for Sal to come back. It’s about to happen. I can feel the end of the loop coming again, like the end of a roll of toilet paper, and it’s way, way sooner than it should be. Yet again, everything I’ve done to avoid my fate has only brought it to me faster. Derek keeps hitting on me, I’ll say. And Sal will say, What the fuck. Derek? And Derek will open his eyes wide and say, I cannot believe you would say that, Cassandra. I’m incredibly hurt. I was just trying to make you feel welcome in your new home and next thing I know I’m apologising profusely and they’re yelling at each other and laptops are being left with ‘Rooms to Rent’ already opened for me.
With shallow breaths, I watch the door and pray for Sal to come back or not come back: I can’t work out which.
‘So who’s the lucky guy?’ Derek grins and takes a small step towards me. ‘Because you’re quite the catch, if I do say so, Cassandra Dankworth.’
He leans over for the salt and I feel his hand rest gently, just for two seconds, on my waist.
Pain shoots through me, and that does it: every tiny bit of doubt and hesitation evaporates. I cannot believe he convinced me I was imagining this. I cannot believe I apologised. His creepiness is now as clear as those bloody teeth-whitening strips he leaves stuck to the floor of the bathroom every week.
‘Derek.’ With a flash of bright purple, I stand up. ‘Keep your fucking hands away from me, you rampaging dickface.’
He blinks. ‘Huh?’
‘You will not touch me, ever again.’ I take a step towards him, so our noses are almost in contact. My rage feels like a bolt of lightning I can throw across the room. ‘You will not enter my bedroom. You will not make inappropriate comments. You will not gaslight me, ever again. The next time you do, I am going to rip your fucking fingers off and ram them, one by one, down your throat. And then I’ll go back in time and do it again. And again. And again. Do you understand, Derek? I can literally turn back time to torture you and I will, happily, so consider this my only warning.’
He opens his mouth. ‘I was just trying to be fr—’
‘No,’ I hiss, finally certain. ‘You were not.’
‘What’s going on?’ Sal says in a carefully light voice behind me. ‘What’s with all the shouting, guys? That’s normally a job I take very seriously. You’re going to make me fully redundant.’
Cheeks flaring, I spin round to face my flatmate. Sal has an armful of beautiful evening gowns skimming the floor, and I’m so touched and simultaneously so ready for this to be over now. I’m done with the looping. I’m done with the prophecies. I’m done with inching through time as if on a Battleship board, trying to remember all the places I’ve already exploded.
‘Derek keeps hitting on me,’ I say firmly.
Sal’s eyes widen. ‘What the fuck. Derek?’
‘Oh my God, I cannot believe you would say that, Cassandra.’ Derek’s eyes grow round and honestly, it’s so convincing he nearly fools me again. ‘I’m incredibly hurt. I was just trying to make you feel welcome in your new home. You always seem to be on your own, and we felt sorry for you. Didn’t we, Sal?’
Sal turns to me and gently rests her hand on her throat.
‘Didn’t we, Sal?’ Derek says again when she doesn’t answer. ‘Come on, we’ve talked about this. There’s obviously something wrong with her. She’s pretty clearly on the spectrum or whatever, and I knew someone at school like that so I think I know what I’m talking about. It’s not her fault, she just doesn’t really understand what’s going on, that’s all. She’s, like, fundamentally incapable of it.’
I close my eyes briefly: it never gets old, being told that you’re broken.
‘Red or green?’ Sal says quietly.
I open my eyes again, unsure if she’s talking to me or Derek. ‘Huh?’
‘Red or green?’ She lifts two silk dresses: both bright and floor-length, soft and so slinky they look like fresh fruit skin. ‘Green would look stunning on your colouring, Cassie, but the red is a show-stopper. Do want to try them on so we can see?’
Disorientated, I blink at the dresses, then at Sal, then at Derek. Then at Sal. Then at Derek, just for good measure. Did I accidentally erase time again? I think I must have done because none of this dialogue seems to fit together properly.
‘I …’ I frown, looking for the segue. ‘Derek hit on me.’
Maybe it needs saying again, just in case.
‘Yes,’ Sal says in a low voice, and I suddenly realise her colours are simmering close to her skin and reflecting, like the bubbles on top of oily water. ‘And I am so incredibly sorry, Cassie. You shouldn’t have to deal with that kind of shit in your own house. I’m just about to go into the bedroom and throw Derek’s belongings out of the window, but I thought before I did that we should probably decide on your outfit. It’s about to get really loud and really messy and there might be some small fires set, so I don’t want to make you late for your gala. Red or green?’
My eyes suddenly fill. ‘You believe me?’
She smiles. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Wait.’ Derek situates himself between us and holds his hands out like a matador. ‘You believe her? The crazy girl who moved in two months ago versus the man you’ve been living with for five years?’
‘Completely,’ Sal nods, her dark eyes glittering. ‘Without a single second of hesitation. Get your shit out of my father’s flat, Derek. You now have thirty seconds to save everything you want to keep before it gets smashed, flushed down the loo or shoved up your perfect little tanned ass. Twenty-nine.’
‘But—’
‘Twenty-eight, twenty-seven …’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four …’
‘I barely touched her.’
‘Twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-one …’
‘I was just trying to stabilise myself while I reached for the salt.’
‘By the time I’ve finished with you,’ Sal says calmly, and her bubbles glow purple, green and pink, ‘the salt will be somewhere you will never be able to reach again, darling. Twenty …’
Derek yells ‘FUUUCCCKKKK’ and runs to the bedroom.
Sal turns to me and grins; I feel myself slowly grin back, our colours reaching across the kitchen and swirling into each other.
‘Hey!’ She holds a hand up, so I obediently tap it. ‘So I think I worked out why I’m stuck, huh?’
I’m still trying to work out what changed between us. What exactly shifted the narrative? Was it the dress I gave her? Was it the chilli Sal brought me? Was it a finger on her shoulder when she was crying, or the offered raw croissant I never ate? Was it sharing the truth with each other? Or did every tiny connection – every word, every gesture, every kindness – simply nudge us in a brand-new direction?
‘Green,’ I say with a sudden lump in my throat.
‘Good choice.’ Sal holds out the dress and I stare at it for a few seconds and immediately change my mind.
‘Red.’ I take it. ‘No, green. Wait. Red. Green? Do you have blue?’
‘Take them all,’ Sal laughs, shoving the slippery heap into my arms simultaneously. ‘See which one feels right when you put it on. You know, in your shoulder blades or wherever.’
We smile at each other and I suddenly realise I have a new friend.
The room turns yellow.
‘Have all the fun tonight, Cassie.’ Sal begins to limber up as if she’s about to run a marathon: stretching her neck and pulling her arms above her head. ‘Tomorrow, if you want to, we can reallocate all the kitchen cupboard space and go for a drink to celebrate our freedom?’
I nod formally. ‘I’d like that very much.’
‘Me too.’ Sal cracks her knuckles. ‘Now, please excuse me while I go “overreact” just as much as I bloody want to.’