I used time travel to take me to a happier place, and I’m so incredibly grateful for it—so thankful to the universe for this extraordinary gift—but now I simply don’t need it anymore. It’s something I have but will never use, like one of those gadgets that turn zucchini into spaghetti.
“Cassandra Dankworth,” Jack says loudly as Ron gently leans to the side and nudges me with his shoulder. I turn to stare at him briefly, amazed that I haven’t instinctively lurched away. Then I look back at Jack, staring at me over his champagne. “Okay, she’s back. I would like to raise a toast to Cassandra. It’s certainly true that I may have had my misgivings about you in the beginning.”
Stifling a sigh, I wait for the onslaught of adjectives to begin.
“But—” Jack holds his glass in the air “—I’m delighted to say that you have proven me wrong. You may not work as most people do, or indeed probably should, but you are an asset to the SharkSkin team. So I’d like to say thank you, from all of us, and congratulations on a fantastic launch. To Cassandra!”
“Speech!” Sophie claps loudly next to me. “Speech!”
Everyone raises a glass in my direction, so I tentatively pick up my glass and stand. The candles are flaring and the colors are bleeding and I can feel the safe cocoon of my breath, wrapped around me like a roaring blanket. A solid sensation settles on my shoulder blades, and suddenly I feel transformed: dropping my disguise and holding up my imaginary sword like Athena.
With a smile, I lift my glass. “I quit.”
My colleagues are staring at me with slightly open mouths, but I have never felt this calm, steady or powerful. I feel solid, whole, unbroken, as if all my colors have finally settled into the right place.
“I hate this job,” I clarify helpfully. “So I quit.”
My speech is obviously over—that’s all I have to say—so I sit back down, but everyone is staring at me in silence, so I reluctantly stand up again.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I explain, staring fixedly at a napkin on the table. “I’ve been fired from this job about nineteen times over the last month, and I think I was supposed to stay fired. We are entirely incompatible. I don’t like the public, I don’t like relating, I don’t like SharkSkin moisturizer and I also don’t need time travel to undo this mistake. So I’d like to quit, please. And, Sophie—” I flash a shy smile at her “—thank you for being so kind to me. I know this version of you won’t remember a lot of it, but the impact you have had on all my timelines has been...enormous.”
Done, I sit down again and briefly study Jack’s face.
He looks...shocked. Unimpressed. Irritated?
Ah. Mad as hell.
“Can I wait to eat my dinner before I leave?” I glance around the still gobsmacked table. “No, you’re right. I think I’m probably supposed to make a big dramatic exit now, aren’t I.”
With a wave of something that feels surprisingly like sadness, I stand up, take out my earplugs and hold them out toward Ron. I really was looking forward to getting to know him properly. “It was very nice to meet you, Ron. Would you like these? You might want to clean them first, obviously.”
“Thanks.” Ron takes them and grins up at me. My stomach flips again. “Good luck, Cassie. I really hope I catch you around sometime.”
I smile at him. Some time. Who knows? There’s so much of it.
“I really hope so too.”
Feeling triumphant and glorious, I clear my throat and push my seat noisily back just as a master of ceremonies starts slapping a microphone at the front of the room. I’ve actually done it. I’ve made a change. Altered my own path. Time travel aside, I’ve been stuck in a loop of my own making for a very long time now, just going round and round.
“I haven’t even made my first joke yet,” the compere laughs loudly. “And already someone is leaving!”
Every person in the room turns to stare at me in one smooth motion.
But all I can think about now is the biggest reveal story of all: that of the poor mortal Semele. Zeus visited her in human form, and the two fell madly in love with each other. When his wife, Hera, discovered yet another flagrant infidelity, she visited Semele in the disguised form of an old lady and convinced her that she was a fool, because it couldn’t possibly be the king of the gods she loved. The only way to find out for sure was to demand that Zeus show himself to her in his real form.
Convinced, Semele begged Zeus to show himself to her as he really was.
Reluctantly, Zeus did exactly that.
Within seconds, the sheer reality of Zeus caused Semele to explode: pop like a blood blister and burst into flames. As I stand in the middle of the gala and feel 398 eyes on me, I realize that’s how it sometimes feels to be me.
As if I have to hide who I am, all of the time.
As if I have to pretend to be like everyone else, just so people will love me.
As if I’m constantly being asked to share, to reveal myself, to open up, and when I do—when I finally show people who I truly am—it’s not what anyone wanted and they explode right in front of me.
I am so fucking done with making myself smaller.
Without a word, I pick up my handbag, grin at Sophie, Ron and Gareth, and walk toward the exit with my head held high, eyes burning holes into my back. Because I am not a monster or a goddess; I am not a prophet or a princess, a gorgon or a priestess. I am not Aphrodite or Athena, Arachne or Medusa. I did not emerge from a seashell, or the inside of a head; I do not have to weave my story, over and over again, and it is not—and never should be—told by other people.
My fate is not written in time, or sand, or stars, or in a tapestry, or a spider’s web, and it never actually was.
I am Cassandra: the future was always in me.
As I walk calmly out of the building, I feel the earth settle.
A rumble, now flattening.
And when I see my sister, sitting impatiently on the steps outside the gala, I finally realize why I couldn’t time travel back to that moment, ten years ago: the moment my life exploded and took me with it.
I couldn’t travel there because I didn’t need to.
In one way or another, a part of me has been stuck there all along.
37
Ten years ago
“Thank you for another touching speech, Cassandra.”
The vicar patiently waits for me to return to my seat at the front of the congregation, hands folded neatly in my lap. My black dress is damp and tight. “All Things Bright and Beautiful” is being played loudly on the organ, which seems a bit ironic, given how clearly nothing will be bright or beautiful ever again.
“Is it my turn now?” Art staggers to her feet. “I have something to say.”
“Artemis.” The vicar smiles patiently. “Your turn is after the end of the second hymn, if you look at the schedule.”
“Bugger the schedule,” my sister slurs, adjusting her hat.
Everyone watches as my nineteen-year-old sister sways to the front of the church, red wine bottle gripped firmly in her right hand. She’s dripping in black lace with a little perched pillbox hat and veil, and everyone thinks she’s grieving in style, but I know she’s mocking it: dressing up in sadness like a kid raiding their mother’s wardrobe.
“Wow.” Art stands behind the pulpit and takes a flask out of a lacy cape sleeve. She takes a swig and pops it on top of the hymnbook, then follows it with a swig of red wine. “This is a proper party, isn’t it? So many people.” She whips round to glitter furiously at the poor little organ boy. “Could you shut the hell up, please? Who chose that song, anyway? It’s not a school assembly. What are you going to play next—‘Cauliflower’s Fluffy’? Jesus fucking Christ.”
The entire congregation inhales in one go, like synchronized swimmers.
“Oh, please,” she sighs. “It’s just words. And we’re not even religious. We’re only doing this in a church because it’s close to the house. Where was I?”
Artemis sways slightly and I abruptly realize why she turned up late.
Also why she sat at the back of the church.
“Oh, yeah.” Art hiccups and holds her hands out, and I have a sudden image of her at six years old, preparing me for a dramatic two-person performance of a play about unicorns. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Death of My Parents. It’s a show we weren’t prepared for, isn’t it, Cassie? No rehearsal for this one. One moment you’re on your gap year, lying on a beach in Costa Rica, and the next you’re being told to come home because your parents just exploded in a ball of flames at the same sodding time, very typically efficient of them.”
Art’s mouth is stained bright red all the way around and her colors are the saddest I’ve ever seen: grays, silvers, blacks, all spiky and sharpened.
I can feel my body temperature start to drop steadily.
“We’ve talked a lot so far about the loveliness of my parents.” Art hiccups and grips the pulpit with both hands. “And they were. They were lovely. Susan Dankworth, genius, oddball and world-renowned Classics professor at Cambridge University. A lot of you are here for her, which is nice. And Gordon Dankworth, the nicest man that ever walked the earth, gardener and a big fan of what are they called? Begonias. Some of you are here for him, which is nice too.”