“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 coloring, Cassie, but the red is a showstopper. Do you want to try them on so we can see?”
Disoriented, 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 realize her colors 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...”
“I was just trying to stabilize 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-one...”
Derek yells “FUUUCCCKKKK” and runs to the bedroom.
Sal turns to me and grins; I feel myself slowly grin back, our colors 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 chili 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 realize 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.”
36
The Greek deities love a good dramatic reveal.
They’re regularly disguising themselves as peasants or old women or young boys, before abruptly discarding their human bodies as the ultimate fuck you to anyone who underestimates them. Dionysus does it (before transforming those who wronged him into dolphins); Zeus and Hermes do it together as a bro-team effort to Philemon and Baucis; Athena does it to Arachne just before her moment of cruel triumph. It’s a classic moment, and so instinctively appealing it has been wound through fairy tales and Disney films and brightly colored ’90s rom-coms ever since.
Thought you knew what I was capable of? Think again, bitches.
And I confess there’s a moment—while I’m waiting for Sophie outside Holborn station in Sal’s long, silky red dress and orange sky-high heels that I’m already regretting—where I briefly imagine striding into the gala and everyone I work with falling to their knees, cowering in awe and regret. Subdued by my lack of scheduled jumpsuit and the realization that I am not who they thought I was. I am more than they could ever have possibly imagined.
I am Cassandra Dankworth: goddess of time travel.
Okay, technically Chronos was the god of time—hence the word chronology—but they didn’t have horological travel as a concept in ancient Greece, so you could argue that there’s a neat little opening, ready to be filled.
Either way, I am so very ready for my moment.
Then Jack appears behind me and says, “Hi, Cassandra, do you need the toilet? Why are you jiggling up and down like that?” So I guess that’s my big reveal ruined already.
“A little bit,” I admit, watching the road. “There’s Sophie.”
My colleague is swishing very self-consciously down the road toward us in an elaborate peach ball gown—as pleased with herself as a cat—and I feel a sudden rush of fondness toward her. It’s not just me. We’re all just one excellent outfit from becoming Aphrodite in The Iliad, getting ready to drop the weird old-lady syntax and blast everyone away with our glory.
“Isn’t this the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to any of us?!” Sophie beams at us. “Doesn’t everyone look beautiful? I wish we all dressed like this all the time. Look at what happens to my dress when I spin!”
Sophie rotates like a kebab and Jack lifts his eyebrows at me.
“Is she with us?” he asks sharply. “Or did the poor girl get lost on her way to a local art school prom?”
“This is Sophie.” I lock eyeballs with him and try to send the pain straight back to him, telepathically. “She’s the new junior account executive on your account, a public relations genius and entirely responsible for the SharkSkin campaign, so I believe that this is the person we’re all here to celebrate.”
“I did almost nothing.” Sophie beams. “It was Cassie’s idea. Also, it is my prom dress, Mr. Burbank! How did you know that? I wore it when I graduated last year with a first-class honors degree in mathematics and physics. Although I confess my degree hasn’t been that useful yet on your account. Maybe I’ll do more adding up and subtracting when I’m the CEO of my own company, just like you?”
Jack’s face twitches in shock and I laugh loudly: looks like the Big Reveal this evening belongs to Sophie.
“Well.” He assesses her with a brand-new expression. “Glad to have you on our little team. Let’s go.”
Jack strides off toward the historic Lincoln’s Inn with irritated shoulders and Sophie links her arm through mine and beams at me.
“I love being underestimated,” she whispers. “It’s my superpower. Nobody ever sees me coming.”
“They do not,” I admit, feeling a sudden swell of pride.
Arm in arm, Sophie and I walk toward the gala with colors starting to ripple through me in waves. Even from across the road, I can hear it: music, chattering, laughter. People in black tie are gravitating toward the elegant redbrick building as if magnetized by medieval architecture. From the research I did on the way here, I am fully prepared for a Great Hall, complete with Striking Fresco and Minstrels’ Gallery and a ceiling of Beautifully Worked Oak. I am prepared for Natural Daylight (even though it’s dark) and Modern and Traditional Spaces. Most importantly, I am prepared for a capacity of up to 450 guests, with dining spaces for up to 250.