Felix narrows his eyes at me again, and I feel compelled to leave before Maria realises I’m an imposter.
Outside, in the driveway, I look around at the quiet cul-de-sac. This doesn’t look like London, no part I’ve ever been to anyway. Where the hell am I? My phone will tell me. When I open what looks like a map app, a 3D projection rises out of my phone screen. Wow, that is incredible. It’s like I’m a giant looking down on a miniature landscape. Peering into the map, I see a tiny digital version of me, standing in a tiny version of this driveway. ‘I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more, Toto,’ I say to my little map self. Zooming out, I establish I’m in Farnham, a town in Surrey, forty-five miles from London, which might as well be Kansas.
Clicking the key in my hand, the sleek silver estate car on the drive beeps. This car is a different beast from the rusty old Nissan Micra I drove at university. It’s about eight times the size and . . . oh, doesn’t appear to have a steering wheel. As I sit down in the driver’s seat it moves and shifts, adjusting to my frame. Wow, comfy. There’s no gear stick, no vis-ible hand brake, not even a hole I can find to put the key in.
‘Drive,’ I try telling it, but nothing happens. ‘Please drive?’
Nothing. With no buttons to press, I put a hand on the smooth dashboard, and with a low beep, something starts to happen. A control panel lights up, then the dashboard opens, and a steering wheel slowly folds out towards me. Woah, that is so cool. Putting my hands on the wheel, I feel the low hum of an electric engine. It’s palm activated.
Then the car starts talking to me.
‘Good morning, Lucy,’ it says in a sexy male American voice that sounds just like Stanley Tucci.
‘Hi?’ I reply.
‘Lucy, your alcohol reading is too high to drive safely. Please seek another form of transportation.’ I think that is Stanley Tucci. The car powers down and the steering wheel retracts. It’s not going to let me drive. The way my head is feeling, I probably am still over the limit from last night.
Cab it is then.
Fortunately there’s a taxi app on my phone.
Minutes later, a sleek, black, electric car arrives. As I climb into the back seat, a voice says, ‘Lucy, you have not eaten breakfast. Your energy levels will dip mid-morning if you don’t start your days with a nutritious meal.’ Wow. How does the cab know I haven’t had breakfast? But when the voice starts again, I realise it’s coming from my phone. ‘You have only done TWO UNITS of exercise this week. Consider fitting in a high-intensity workout during your lunch break to stay on track with your goals.’ The phone pauses. ‘NATALIE is attending a yoga class at SOHO GYMNASIUM at ONE FIFTEEN. Would you like to join her?’
‘Oh, that is, wow . . .’ I don’t even know a Natalie. ‘Did my phone just tell me I’m fat?’ I ask the cab driver.
‘Welcome to the future, love,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Thanks,’ I say, before realising he was probably being sardonic. ‘Do you know how I turn this voice off?’ I pause. ‘It’s a new phone.’
‘You’ll lose all your points if you turn it off. My wife’s well into it, she hit Gold Level Fitbulous last month.’ The driver glances at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘You can switch it to text updates if you like, I can show you how, but then you won’t get any Listen and Learn bonus points.’
‘I will happily forego the bonus points,’ I tell him.
When the car pulls into a station car park, the driver waves his hand for me to pass him my phone, then changes the settings for me.
‘If it helps, I don’t think you need the bonus points,’ he says kindly.
In the station, there’s a coffee bar. Looking up at the price list, I see a latte is twelve pounds forty. Twelve pounds forty? What fresh hell is this? That’s four times what I would expect to pay. Maybe I’m in a coma, or dead. Maybe my ceiling fell in on me and this is purgatory – suburban living with extortionate coffee. At the ticket barrier, some people are swiping cards, while others are simply scanning their palms on the machine. There’s a wallet in my bag full of bank cards, but I try my palm first and the barrier pings me through.
Four minutes later, I’m sitting in a window seat on my way to London. Safe, familiar, glorious London. The train carriage feels reassuring – same ugly seat covers, same faint smell of bleach and overflowing bins. I imagined trains in the future would look like those slick bullet trains they have in Japan. So either the rail network is still chronically underfunded, or I’m not in the future after all. Then I remember the events of this morning and my body gives an involuntary shiver.
Pulling out my phone, I try Zoya’s number again. It still won’t connect. As I’m contemplating who else to try, ‘Office’ flashes on my screen. Then an alert from Fit Fun Fabulous informs me my heart rate and stress levels are higher than normal. Would I like to engage in a guided deep breathing exercise? No, I would not. I push the phone to the bottom of my bag and turn to look out of the window, focusing on the trees and houses zipping by. I just need to get home, back to my bed, go to sleep and wake up from whatever this is. Train, home, sanity. Train, home, sanity. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra. If I start to think about anything else, like how I got here, or where and when here is, my brain is liable to implode.
Chapter 7
London doesn’t look like I remember it. There are no ticket barriers at Waterloo, just gateways that let out a low ping when you walk through. There is a new brightness to the concourse, and when I look up, I see the vaulted ceiling has gone and there is only blue sky above us. This feels architecturally impossible, and then I notice advertising banners flying across the sky, which makes me think it must be a giant screen or projection. At my feet, there’s a purring noise, and I look down to find a sleek Roomba-style machine polishing the concourse floor. This all feels too detailed to be a dream. I can’t stop to think about what it all means, I just need to get home.