A dozen schoolchildren race past me, screaming and squawking like tiny neon parrots, so I pull green foam earplugs out of my bag—chosen to match my outfit—and stick them firmly in my ears. I know history belongs to all of us, but I really wish there were allocated hours where some of us could enjoy it in peace, like adult lanes at a swimming pool. Little people are so loud. Carried on the newly insulated roar of my own breathing, I move up the stone stairs, into the hall with stars on the ceiling, past the Posh Gift Shop (birthday purchases only) and into the Great Court.
Just as I do every time, I stand neatly on top of the engraved Tennyson quote and tilt my head backward so I can stare upward at a gray sky, split into perfect triangles behind the huge glass dome: contained, structured, the entire universe beautifully organized, like a well-ordered fridge. Intense happiness wraps around me; familiarity pulled tight, like a much-loved blanket.
My phone pings.
To: Cassandra Dankworth
From: Barry Fawcett
You have got to be kidding me.
Where are you? I thought I made myself abundantly clear yesterday. Have you just skipped out on ANOTHER Idea Hurricane?
Happiness faltering a little, I type back:
To: Barry Fawcett
From: Cassandra Dankworth
Dear Barry,
I am in the British Museum. It’s only open between ten and five, and I find having a job gets in the way of visiting hours.
I have been to this particular brainstorm, and this is how it goes:
-Relevant ideas are put forward and immediately rejected
-Everyone discusses the upcoming Away Day
-They then reminisce about a past Away Day
-A large box of doughnuts is eaten
-Anton ignores everyone’s input and goes ahead with the precise client strategy he already had before the meeting.
It’s a waste of time, and I say this as someone who has plenty of it.
Cassandra
A few seconds, then:
To: Cassandra Dankworth
From: Barry Fawcett
Come and see me first thing on Monday morning.
And I’m fired again, obviously.
Except, it doesn’t matter, does it? When I woke up this morning, it suddenly occurred to me that I’m not using my newfound abilities to their full capacity. I can travel through time, which means I can draw the day in pencil and then simply erase it when it’s done. I can have a holiday whenever I feel like it.
Which is quite a weird sensation for someone who hasn’t taken an actual holiday or gone anywhere in eleven years. The last time I went abroad was for a week to Crete with my mum; I can still taste the black olives, smell the coconut in her sunscreen and feel the sunburn on the tips of my ears.
Pushing the memory away, I start to race through Egypt.
What else could I do with this new gift? I could steal an ancient artifact. I could knock over a priceless statue. I could strip naked in the middle of the atrium and sprint through the Anthropology Library with my socks tucked on my ears like a spaniel. I could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone, try on a million different lifetimes that don’t quite fit and discard them on the floor, as if they’re pairs of jeans.
The only problem is: I don’t really want to.
For starters, it sounds destructive, energy-consuming and exhausting. Also, I know who I am: I’ve been trying to be like everybody else for the last thirty-one years. If it was possible, I think I’d have done it already.
Much more importantly, I don’t know how time travel works. I’ve had a quick look through some books—both fictional and theoretical—but nobody can agree. Am I erasing time? Is it disappearing completely, a wet sponge across a board, or can you still see where the chalk lines were when the water fully dries? How strong is the butterfly effect? What happens to everyone else when I create a new timeline? Are they deleted too? That’s terrifying—surely no sane universe would give me that kind of power—in which case are there multiple timelines? Do I simply create alternative existences that carry on when I’m gone?
In which case, am I just leaving other Cassandras to clean up my mess?
How many versions of me are roaming around, hating me for it?
Either way, I think I’m going to play it safe. Which is probably no surprise to anyone. If the universe wanted somebody capable of fully exploring the furthest limits of time travel, it probably wouldn’t have picked me: a woman who has eaten the exact same breakfast every morning since she was six. All I can do is try not to hurt anyone, remember that my actions may have consequences even if I’m not there to experience them, and assume this gift will be taken away from me again at any given moment, like the water pistol my parents bought me when I was ten and immediately regretted.
In short, no stealing the Rosetta Stone for me.
As always, I pause at the guardian of Room 23.
Crouching Venus is much as she has been for two thousand years: naked, hunched over, surprised midbathing and desperately attempting to hide from us, the creepy voyeurs. It’s both classic—a weaving together of fiction and reality, transforming the audience into part of the art—and also weirdly modern. Like an ancient version of that dream where you suddenly realize you’re in a supermarket with absolutely no clothes on. As always, I have to fight the urge to hand her a towel.
My phone pings.
Hey! Just wanted to see if you’re free tomorrow? Brunch? :)
What you up to?
Will x
The world tips slightly, then rebalances.
This is exactly the text Will sent me on Friday the first time round, almost as if our first date last night never happened. Somehow, we’ve slipped back into the original timeline anyway. As if time, much like me, gets very upset when you try to alter its plans without plenty of warning. Which I can’t complain about, given how I react to an undelivered banana muffin.
It’s a weird sensation, though. Now I know Will, this reads like a different text message. I can see the formality, the earnest smiley face, the careful spacing. There’s even an intentional grammatical error, to impart a casual, breezy tone. He hasn’t casually slipped into a total failure to use accurate punctuation quite yet: that starts in about three weeks.
My chest suddenly feels warm, as if I’m holding a hot-water bottle.
Smiling, I type:
Yes, I’m free! I’d love brunch!
I’ve got a hangover so I’ve bunked off work and I’m at the British Museum, staring at naked people. :)
Cassie x
SEND.
Texting is so hard to get right—too long, too short, too keen, too cold, very inappropriate, Cassandra what is wrong with you I’m at a christening—and I can’t read the tone, so, for safety, I’ve learned to copy whatever I’ve just been sent as if it’s a handy template. If they use a smiley and one kiss, I use a smiley and one kiss. Do they like exclamation marks? Me too. Ten minutes between texts? Ten minutes, to the second. Do they use incorrect grammar? I don’t do that—I’m not a monster—but I might abbreviate slightly to match.
Except—much like the giant gold-and-ivory statue of Athena stolen from the Parthenon—this day is destined to be dismantled and removed from history, so I guess it doesn’t matter what I write.
It is unnervingly, giddily liberating.
My phone pings.
Last time I was there they made me put my clothes back on. No fair. :(
I laugh.
Did you know why the penises are so tiny on Greek statues? The ancient Greeks considered small dicks beautiful because they associated masculinity with intelligence and control, rather than with lust and sex. Big penises therefore symbolized a lack of masculinity, or the depravity and silliness of satyrs and fools, whereas little, flaccid penises on a rippling body meant the ideal Greek man or god. Fascinating, right?
Sadly it means a lot of them have snapped off as a result. >_<
Normally I’m careful to truncate my monologues—whittling them down until they’re no longer “speeches”—but this time I don’t bother because I don’t have to and Will’s response is immediate.
I was born in the wrong millennium. Although at least my nose would have survived, right? ;)
“Excuse me,” a voice says as I erupt into giggles like a five-year-old just handed their first Valentine’s card. “If you’re just going to stare at your phone, could you move so I can see the statue, please?”
I look up in surprise into the disintegrated crotch of Apollo.
“Sorry,” I mumble, gliding off again. I’ve been here literally hundreds of times, and never has everything felt quite so naked. Suddenly, it’s no longer a building filled with fascinating ancient history. It’s a room packed full of bums, boobs, penises, chests and vaginas covered in a whisper of scarf or a well-placed instrument, like a massive group orgy of beautiful people that accidentally invited Medusa.
Honestly, I have never been quite so turned on by metamorphic rock.
Peering closer at a bust, I smile and take a photo.
Underneath, I write:
Has anyone ever told you that you look a bit like the philosopher and teacher Epikouros?
Beep.
Every day. Epikouros this. Epikouros that. He’s hot though so I’m taking notes. I need to work on curling my beard.
Beaming, I type back:
And your wavy bowl cut.
Beep.
I just can’t get the tiny rollers to hold. :(
I giggle again: this is the most successful flirting I’ve ever done.