You’re a monster you’re a monster you’re a monster you’re a—
I’ve only managed to travel through time before—never through space—but I suddenly don’t just need to leave now: I need to leave here too. It’s a familiar, primal sensation: powerful and uncontrollable, like thirst or hunger. As if I’m struggling against a hand holding me underwater. I have a sudden flashback of sprinting across the school playground to hide in one of the bushes, every other lunchtime.
You’re a m—
With everything I have, I focus a little harder and the lights start to flicker.
“Cassandra,” she says gently. “Please. Just open your—”
“Do you want to come back to mine?” Will laughs. “That wasn’t a very subtle way of putting it. Sorry.”
I gather the pieces of myself back together and open my eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
21
So, this is new.
“Just chuck your jacket anywhere,” Will says, wedging his front door open with an alarming amount of effort. “Make yourself at home.”
Yup, that will categorically not be happening.
Half-full mugs are propped on every surface; the floor is strewn with papers and books and unopened bills; abandoned T-shirts and jumpers and boxers sit exactly where they were dropped, as if humans spontaneously evaporated while still wearing them. Plates with dried baked beans and rigid crusts of toast are piled high on the dining-room table, half-hidden under a laptop and a microphone and wires and a watch and a bottle of unopened water.
Glancing to my left, I spy a tiny, grotty kitchen with absolutely no visible surface area and quickly glance away again. I don’t need to see the future to know that I will not be making myself at home here without a mop, industrial-strength bleach and a large black bin bag.
Maybe some petrol and a lighter so I can set it all on fire afterward.
“It’s a bit of a mess,” Will understates cheerfully, picking up a sleeping bag and lobbing it into a corner with no discernible embarrassment whatsoever. “Sorry. I still haven’t unpacked from my last job and it’s kind of a tip.”
Will has clearly never been to a recycling center, because they are significantly better organized than this. The invisible scarf is wrapping itself around my throat again, and it had only just started to unravel.
So much mess. So much dirt. So much inaudible noise.
My throat makes an embarrassing little quacking noise, like a baby duck, so I quickly turn it into a cough, wrap my arms around my stomach and attempt my childhood trick of detaching myself from my own skin like a popped balloon inside papier-m?ché: shrinking so I can get away without actually going anywhere. Then I feel my brain follow suit. Quietly, it slips into the room at the back of my head, closes the door and stares through the window.
Four months.
Will and I dated for four months, and the two times I visited him here, it was spotless. Although I’m now starting to realize it had the surprised, lemony scent of a place that isn’t on close regular terms with antibacterial spray. Truthfully, I’ve also never stayed overnight here before. I made plenty of excuses—I live closer to both our offices, my flatmates need me to stay in for a package, I am making a slow-cooker casserole I need to check regularly, which defeats the entire point of a slow cooker—but the truth is that I just can’t sleep anywhere that isn’t my own bed.
Somehow, I thought coming home with him tonight would kill two birds with one sex stone: helping us to connect while also giving me an alternative sleeping arrangement, away from my own house.
I’m now seriously doubting my stupidly flawed logic.
“There you are! Were you a good girl today?” Will’s voice behind me is strangely high and musical. “Did you behave yourself?”
“Umm.” I am physically incapable of moving my eyes from a red-wine spill on the carpet. Why would you drop a glass of wine and simply leave it there to marinate? How is it not all he can see? “Yes. I guess so.”
My hand suddenly feels wet and I squeak as something large and cream and fluffy begins to scrabble at my stomach. Horrified, I push it away and begin to urgently swipe at the network of gross little hairs now coating my yellow dress. Again. Apparently they are capable of firmly attaching to me, but not to the animal they came from, which hints at poor design.
“Sorry!” Will laughs. “I should have warned you. You like dogs, right?”
Breathing quickly, I stare at whatever breed this is—miniature polar bear?—and fight an anxious roar at the base of my throat. Another dog? Is there no space on this planet free of canines? Somehow, I manage to swallow my cry of distress. I’m not sure that curling up in a ball and screaming GET IT THE HELL AWAY FROM ME is going to make my connection with Will stronger.
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile. “Everyone likes dogs, right?”
To clarify: I do like dogs. Dogs have an openhearted, affectionate and demonstrative quality I cannot relate to at all, but which I respect immensely. I just don’t want them anywhere near me, with their wet, smelly tongues and their hot, meaty breath and their filthy paws and their constant provision of bodily excretions. I like them like I like children: far away, behind a soundproof barrier.
“Her name is Lion,” Will explains as the dog scampers back and gazes up at him with an open adoration that I recognize in myself. “Short for Dandelion, because of the white fluff that blows literally everywhere.”
I clear my throat. “I didn’t know you owned a dog.”
I’m starting to spin out. How the hell has this happened? Where has Will been hiding a dog for over twenty-six dates? Is she a secret dog? Oh my God: have I screwed with the universe to such an extent now that I have somehow made an entire dog from scratch?
“Oh, I don’t!” Will scratches the dog’s head; another billow of eiderdown drifts into the corners of the living room. “Or not really, anyway. I used to share her with my ex, Rosie, but when we broke up last summer, she got full custody. Except she’s gone on holiday, so she needed me to take care of the Lion for a few days and I couldn’t say no, could I?” His voice is high and tender again; he bends down, cups Lion’s face and kisses the end of her nose like a Jane Austen hero at the end of a book. “I didn’t get to keep you because I travel too much, don’t I? Yes, I do. I do!”
I’m now extremely relieved he wasn’t using that voice to talk to me.
“Oh,” I say, a little less confused. “I see.”
Was the dog always here? She must have been. I just didn’t know about it because yesterday was our first date, so I guess he didn’t mention it. Although—looking back—it does also explain the state of his jumper.
The dog races back over to me and I can feel Will watching me more closely now. Pet owners always do this. They behave as if your reaction to an animal accurately measures your empathy and compassion levels, like the little sticks you hold in your urine to test for ketones or pregnancy. She’s an adorable dog. She is. Her little black eyes and nose are floating in her white fluffy face like three neat fingerprints. I just don’t want to touch her or vice versa.
My neck is starting to feel hot and prickly—I’m about to cry—but I didn’t come this bloody far and traverse the entire universe to fall at the pet hurdle.
“Hello,” I say, tapping the dog’s nose with one finger. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“So polite and respectful,” Will laughs, leaning forward to quickly peck my lips. “Let me quickly feed her and I’m all yours, Cassie. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a tick.”
I wait until he’s gone to scour my mouth aggressively on my jumper sleeve: the thing he kissed before me has almost definitely been up another dog’s butt.
Then I stand stiffly in the middle of the living room.
How do I make myself comfortable when I can’t touch anything? Where am I supposed to put myself—stand on one leg in the corner of the room like a flamingo? My entire body is locked and rigid, so I desperately give myself a little shake, try to limber myself up. Do a little dance. Attempt to turn my body language into that of a woman keen on imminent sexy times, when all I can think about is that blue T-shirt on the floor.
I quickly pick it up and fold it on the table: that’s better.
Will returns, beaming, and I suddenly see the tiniest flicker of a color I didn’t expect. Dark gray, almost slate. What is it? It feels a little like resentment. Who is it coming from, him or me? All I know is I am consistently being told that I am oblivious to the emotions and feelings of those around me—even though I’m trying my absolute hardest—yet nobody seems to notice them when they’re mine.
“Hi.” Will smiles, pulling me toward him for another kiss.