Yes. “No.”
“I don’t mean to, you know.” He sits down at the kitchen table with bulging golden thighs, grabs a cup of coffee and smiles. “I just want you to be comfortable here, Cassandra. My casa is your casa, after all.”
If that was true, I wouldn’t only have one shelf of the fridge and he’d be wearing clothes.
I continue to politely shuffle away. “Mmm-hmm.”
“So, who is this man you’re seeing?” Derek pulls another chair out and gestures toward it chummily. “Do I know him?”
I look desperately at the chair, then at the escape route to my room.
All I want is a coffee, a shower, a change of clothes—maybe stare at a few calming colors for ten minutes so I can decompress—but if I’m unfriendly to Derek now, I’m going to send things spinning off in the wrong direction again. And, somewhat unfairly, if I’m too friendly to Derek, it’s also going to go spinning off. So I have to find somewhere in between. A safe place of friendliness, somewhere in the middle. I don’t want to move again; I am so sick of packing boxes.
Maybe I can use this conversation to my advantage?
“No.” I perch on the chair delicately. “You don’t know him.”
“So what’s his name? Occupation? Age?” Derek sits back and I cannot help noticing that his abdomen is shiny. What has he been rubbing it with? Margarine? “And how long has this hot new romance been going on? It’s not...what’s his name, is it?”
“Ted,” I guess. “No, that was over six weeks ago.”
Over isn’t exactly the right word to use when it was never technically on, but I’m not sure what else to call two dates with an accountant who asks if you think his calves are sexy before pulling up his trousers and propping his leg up on the restaurant table.
To reassure myself, I glance up at the clock: still on time to get to work.
“So this is...?”
“Will Baker. Cameraman. Thirty-four. Two, I mean three dates.”
I can feel Derek’s eyes on me and I need to look at him before my physical inability to do that is eventually used against me. Holding my breath, I count—one, two, three, four, five—then lift my eyeballs and try to keep them up as if I’m Atlas, holding the sky above my head.
Hold it. Hold it. Hold—
“Well,” Derek says as I breathe out and drop my gaze on the floor, slightly dizzy with exertion. “Will Baker the cameraman is a very lucky guy, that’s for sure. You’re quite the catch, if I do say so, Cassandra Dankworth.”
My blood freezes.
“Nope,” I say, trying to stand up. “Thanks. Bye.”
Except now I’m frozen again.
This can’t be happening. This whole thread can’t be starting again, already. We’re way ahead of schedule. Weeks and weeks ahead. How did I get here so quickly? This must be my cosmic punishment for screwing with the timeline: You want to speed things up, Cassandra? Feeling a bit impatient? Don’t want to let things play out organically? Here you go, buddy. See how you like this.
But I’m not ready; I haven’t planned what I’m going to do about Derek and Sal, or how I’m going to respond this time. I haven’t written a script, or rehearsed it in my head, or written down possible alternative outcomes.
I am not prepared.
Unable to move, I sit and stare at the floor.
Unless...
If I don’t come home today, Derek and I won’t have this conversation, our relationship won’t start to tip dangerously in the wrong direction; I’ll be safe again.
“Hey,” Derek says, standing up as I close my eyes tightly. “Cassandra, don’t freak out. I was just being frien—”
24
“—dly with all the most influential bloggers. I’ve made a list for the short leads—we’re too late for the longs, obviously, but we can always try in a few months if we want to hit the Christmas pages. I’m thinking of tailoring each box, running a prize, and obviously I’ve set up the socials. I’ve worked out a great hashtag, and also the press release, which I just printed out—and that’s here.”
I blink at the A4 paper, abruptly plopped on my desk.
“This is just the beginning,” Sophie continues, beaming at me. “But I’ve got a uni buddy who’s really prominent online, so she’s going to help us kick things off. What do you think generally of memes?”
I didn’t time travel, by the way.
Or I did, but only just enough to skip returning home and instead simply stay on the train to work. It just seems like I time traveled because I haven’t listened to a single word Sophie has said.
It’s not her fault: public relations is just really, really boring.
“I have no thoughts at all about memes. Ever.” I frown distractedly. “When did that plant get here?”
“Over the weekend, I guess?” My colleague switches topic with the grace and elegance of a swallow. “I think someone new must be starting soon.”
I stare at the rubber plant in amazement. Ronald.
It’s so strange, watching time line everything up like dominoes and then knock them down in order, one by one. The plant is here, which means Ronald should follow it next—I scan my internal diary—Monday. Although why he decided to send it ahead with a few boxes of files and his own personal office chair is a mystery: maybe he likes to signal his arrival, like Zeus with his thunderbolts.
Speaking of thunderbolts... I grab my phone:
Sorry for running out this morning; you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you up! I’ve got a big week at work and had to get here early.
Thank you for such a lovely day yesterday, and an even better night. See you soon, I hope. ;) xx
A few seconds later, a beep:
Good morning! I can’t remember the last time I slept that well. I had a great time too. :) Shall we do something later in the week? Wx
Giddy with prophetic knowledge, I type:
Yes, please! I would love that. Cx
I already know our next date will be this Friday.
We will go for a curry and Will chooses one so spicy he starts choking and laughing and crying simultaneously and is forced to drink water out of the table vase, but I think it’s only gallant to let him find this out for himself.
“Boyfriend?” Sophie asks as I sigh happily and put my phone away.
“Not quite yet.” I feel a fierce rush of excitement. “He’s going to refer to me as his girlfriend for the first time in just over a fortnight. A waiter asks what kind of wine we’d like, and he pointedly says he’ll have whatever his girlfriend wants.”
It is, hands down, one of the most triumphant moments of my life.
Sophie blinks. “Oh.”
“I’d imagine,” I add quickly as the office door opens.
Exactly on time, Barry walks in and begins perusing the office in portly circles, like a tiny Henry VIII arriving at court. He does this every Monday. You can sense him coming from fifteen meters away, just from all the hastily closed social media pages. Sophie grimaces at me and scurries back to her desk to await whatever horrors he’s constructed to “boost morale” this time.
“Knock knock,” Barry says, pausing behind her with his mug of tea.
“Who’s there?”
“Interrupting cow.”
“Interrupting c—”
“Moo!” Barry pats her shoulder. “We have fun, don’t we?”
Sophie’s giggle sounds almost real—impressive—and I watch warily as Barry smugly parades round the desk toward me with both his hands grasped around his tea mug like a fortune teller with her crystal ball. I do not like Monday mornings. Last time my boss targeted me with a “joke,” I stared at him until he explained it three times and walked away, grumbling loudly about the importance of a sense of humor.
“Cassandra.” Barry pauses at my desk. “What on earth are you wearing?”
I look down in surprise. “Sex knickers that haven’t been changed in roughly sixty hours” seems an inappropriate answer. “A yellow lace dress. Nude bra and pants. Gold sandals. A denim jacket, but I was about to take that off.”
“I wasn’t asking for a list of everything you’re wearing, Cassie,” Barry sighs, rolling his eyes at Sophie as if I can’t see it. “What I mean is, it’s Monday. You should be wearing a green jumpsuit, no? Sort of leaf-colored. Or is it moss?”
I stare at him, amazed. “Huh?”
“Emerald.” Miyuki pauses by the desk, eating peanut butter on toast. “Monday is emerald jumpsuit day. Tuesday is black. Wednesday is navy.”
“No, Tuesday is navy,” Anya chips in from just behind her. “Wednesday is the black jumpsuit. It gets confusing.”
“And Thursday is pink and Friday is white!” Sophie bounces in excitement on her chair like a ginger puppy. “Cassandra has allocated jumpsuits like other people have Days of the Week knickers.”
“Except nobody wears them on the right day,” Grace interjects from across the room. “Ever. Right?”
“Right!” Sophie nods. “But I bet Cassie would. Wouldn’t you, Cassie?”