But home doesn’t look like I remember it either. When I emerge into daylight at Vauxhall station and walk beneath the bridge onto Kennington Lane, everything feels subtly different. The yellow and white road markings are gone, replaced by shimmering electronic markers that change with the traffic lights. Our beloved Vauxhall Tavern has been torn down, and there is a column of shiny glass-fronted flats where the pub should stand. How can they have torn down the Vauxhall Tavern? It’s an institution, a London landmark. If I didn’t have more pressing priorities, I would write a sternly worded email to my MP. I start to run, desperate to see if my flat is still there, to find out if my former life has been completely erased. All I want to do is crawl back into my damp, uncomfortable bed and for this whole hallucination to be over.
Thankfully, number eighty-three is still standing. The building looks unchanged, if a little worse for wear. A small sign on the placard next to the third-floor buzzer reads ‘Graham’, rather than ‘ZoLu JuEm’, but I buzz anyway. There’s no reply and I clench my hands around the door frame. It’s as though everything I have seen so far, I can rationalise as a delusion, but my flat, my home, the place I went to sleep – if that’s not there, then . . . then what? I should call Emily. Emily is always home. On my phone, there are now three missed calls from ‘Office’. Emily picks up after two rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Emily, oh Emily, thank God. Something completely insane has happened, I really need your help. Are you at home?’
‘At home?’ she repeats. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Lucy. Lucy Young.’
‘Oh, Lucy. Hi.’ Why doesn’t she have my number in her phone?
‘Look, Em, this is going to sound insane, but I think I’ve travelled through time. Either that or I’m having a full-on psychotic delusion. I need to get into the flat.’
‘Right,’ she says slowly, in that way people talk to children or men wielding knives.
‘Yesterday we were flatmates in Vauxhall, berating old Stinkley upstairs. You’d just slept with someone called Ezekiel or Zebadiah, something like that. Do you remember?’
Emily makes a strained ‘hmmm’ sound.
‘Then today, I woke up in some random house in Surrey with a husband and two children.’ I say it with a little laugh, to illustrate how crazy I know I must sound.
‘Right,’ she says again, then after another long pause. ‘Have you taken drugs, Lucy? Where are you?’
‘No, not that I know of, and I’m outside the flat, our flat. I just told you.’
There’s a beep on the screen; she’s requested to switch our call to video. I click accept and Emily’s face fills the screen, only she looks nothing like the Emily I know. Her red dreadlocks are gone, replaced by a sleek bob. Instead of her usual dungarees, she appears to be wearing a collared shirt and a grey suit jacket. She looks like Shiv from Succession.
‘Emily?’ is all I can say.
‘I needed to look you in the eye, to see if you were joking or high,’ she says, and as she holds my gaze, her face softens. ‘If it’s neither of those things, then it sounds like you need to see a doctor, Lucy. Have you had a knock to the head?’
‘I don’t think so, but maybe.’ I pause. ‘I know it sounds nuts, but it feels more like an intensely realistic hallucination . . . or . . . or time travel.’
‘Right,’ she says again, her voice loaded with scepticism.
‘You look so different from how I remember,’ I say. ‘What happened to your dreadlocks?’
The hint of a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. ‘They went a long time ago.’ She tucks a loose strand of red hair behind an ear.
‘And are you still lino printing?’
Emily closes her eyes briefly, as though indulging me. Then she says, ‘I work in executive search now. I live in Kent, I have three children.’
‘Oh, wow, that’s crazy.’
‘Listen Lucy, I’m sorry, but if you’re serious, I think you really do need to see a doctor.’ She pauses. ‘Do you have a history of mental health issues? Has this happened to you before?’
‘I don’t need a doctor, Em, I just need a friend.’
‘Lucy, we haven’t spoken in fifteen years.’
‘We haven’t?’
‘No. We didn’t stay in touch when we gave up the flat.’ She drops her gaze.
‘What about Julian? Where’s he?’
‘I think he lives in America now.’ She bites her lip. ‘Look, is there someone I can call for you? Family? Your GP? One of your old school friends? I’m about to go into a meeting, but I feel a duty of care now that you’ve called me.’
Duty of care? She sounds nothing like the Emily I know, and I don’t want her calling people, telling them I’m on drugs or that I’ve lost my mind.
‘No, no, thank you. I’m fine, look I’m probably just hungover. I was passing the flat and thought of you and . . .’ And what? I thought she might still live here? I thought she might be able to help me? ‘Just a bad case of nostalgia, I guess. I’ll be fine. Good luck with your meeting.’
Hanging up the phone I lean my shoulder against the front door. Of all the unbelievable things I’ve been faced with this morning, that hippy-dippy Emily now wears a suit and works in executive search is one of the least fathomable. A feeling of intense loneliness crawls over me. Something about Emily’s reaction – she was never going to believe me. Who would believe me? If I put myself in her shoes and someone called me with this story, wouldn’t I give them the exact advice Emily just gave me – to see a doctor? Maybe I am ill. I open my phone again, clutching it like a lifeline.
Fit Fun Fabulous Alert – Your stress levels are highly elevated. Why not engage in a leisurely walk?
‘Fuck off,’ I tell the screen, deleting the app. I think about calling my parents, but as I scroll to ‘Home’ a new queasiness sinks in. If I’m really in my forties, both my parents would be in their seventies by now. What if they don’t answer? What if . . .
As I’m holding it, my phone flashes in my hand. ‘Office’ is calling again, and I find myself answering it, if only to distract myself from the horrible thought that one or both of my parents might be dead.
‘Lucy, it’s Trey, where are you?’ says a loud male voice.
‘Vauxhall,’ I say.
‘Did you have train issues? The channel execs are here. I’ve given them coffee, but we don’t want to start the pitch without you. How soon can you get here?’ Whoever Trey is, he sounds stressed.
‘Um, yes, about that, I’m . . . sick.’
Though I am curious to see where Future Me works, clearly I can’t attend any kind of meeting right now, I wouldn’t know anything. I assume from what Trey’s said that I still work in TV, but TV production could be completely different now. It might all be made by robots with 4D cameras and Smellovision. Though given the lack of improvements on the trains, I might be giving the future too much credit.
‘You’re sick?’ echoes Trey in alarm. ‘I thought you were in Vauxhall?’
‘I’m so sick. Something I ate for breakfast. Bad kippers.’ Kippers? Why did I say kippers? Only eighty-year-old men who wear handkerchief sun hats and live in boarding houses in Margate eat kippers. ‘Can you do the meeting for me?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Me? You want me to deliver the pitch? Surely Michael should do it?’ says Trey, his voice rising an octave.
‘Yes, yes, Michael, of course. Kippers remorse is messing with my head. Um, got to go, I think I’m going to be sick again. Good luck!’ It’s not a total lie. I have been sick today.
That was stupid of me to answer the call.
So, if I can’t go home and I can’t go to work, where do I go now?