‘Quite the predicament.’ Mr Finkley sighs, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair as he waits for me to stop crying. ‘And this future life you’ve found yourself in. What does it look like? Is it any good?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to think about it. There’s a good-looking man, two children, lots of nice shoes.’ I shake my head, aware how foolish I sound.
‘Doesn’t sound too bad then – if you like that sort of thing. Wouldn’t be for me. I don’t tend to like children or shoes.’ Mr Finkley stands, picks up a small, rusty watering can and starts to water his hanging baskets. Only now do I notice he’s not wearing shoes or socks.
‘But if this is real, then I’ve missed years of my life. I don’t know my children or the man I’m married to, or even who my friends are now. Plus, not to sound vain, I’m sure ageing isn’t so bad when it creeps up on you gradually, but it’s terrifying when it happens all at once.’ I pause to wrap both my palms around the back of my neck, which is aching with tension. ‘The worst part is, no one’s going to believe me if I tell them what’s happened. Frankly, I’m amazed you believe me.’
‘Did I say I believe you?’ Mr Finkley asks, raising a grey, wispy eyebrow at me. ‘If I’ve learnt anything in life, it’s that it’s best to keep an open mind and a closed toilet seat.’
‘So, what would you do, if you were me?’ I ask, rubbing my face between my palms.
‘You didn’t like your old life.’ He shrugs. ‘I’d enjoy the upgrade. If you can’t get off the bus, you might as well enjoy the ride. I saw that on a poster in the prison library.’
‘Did you work in a prison?’ I ask nervously.
‘No, spent a few nights in the clink.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘It was mainly a misunderstanding.’ He pauses again, takes off his glasses and wipes them on the corner of his shirt. ‘I’d give anything to be forty-two again. The places I would go.’ He points to a dusty map of the world, propped up against the mantelpiece.
‘You like to travel, Mr Finkley?’
‘In my youth, I went everywhere. Not any more.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘Too many people watching. All this face recognition technology – it’s how the shape-shifting reptiles get you.’
Riiiiight. Mr Finkley’s eyes dart around the room, as though, even now, someone might be listening in on our conversation. Maybe I shouldn’t be seeking life advice from a man with a criminal record and paranoid tendencies.
‘Thank you for listening, Mr Finkley. I won’t take up any more of your time. It’s been, um, nice to see you again.’
He nods. As he moves to escort me back to the front door, he takes a piece of ham out of his pocket and rubs it between his fingers, before popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly.
‘You’re the first visitor I’ve had in six years. Come back sometime if you like. I could show you my maps.’
‘That’s kind, thank you,’ I say, while knowing it’s highly unlikely I will ever come back to see his maps.
When I’m alone in the hallway that looks like mine, I concede that however eccentric Mr Finkley might be, he could be right. I don’t know how to get back, so what else can I do but go out and explore?
Before I do anything, I need coffee. Given how expensive they are here, I should check my bank balance first. I can’t face the indignity of having my card declined on top of everything else today. Across the street, there’s an ATM. I find a debit card in my wallet and slot it into the machine. It doesn’t even ask me for a pin, but simply scans my face with a green light. ‘Face ID accepted.’ When I tap ‘See balance’ a number flashes up on the screen.
‘Holy bejeezus!’ I exclaim, blinking my eyes in disbelief.
Yesterday I had minus money, my overdraft was maxed out. Peering down to check the number again, I can’t quite believe it. Future Me is rich. And whoever said money can’t buy you happiness hadn’t been living off thirty-five pounds a week for the last six years.
Chapter 9
Where does a woman experiencing an existential life leap, with money in the bank and a wallet full of credit cards, go? To Selfridges, of course. Personal shopping, with a quick detour via the croissant department. Okay, so it might not be called the croissant department, it’s called the Food Hall, but it boasts a mouth-watering selection of the biggest, flakiest, most expensive croissants I’ve ever seen. I buy myself one, along with a double-shot latte, and eat it right there at the counter. Then I buy another and eat that one too. Then I feel a bit sick and regret eating the second one. That was completely unnecessary. Also, I just spent thirty-seven pounds on coffee and croissants, and even though I’m rich now, that still feels obscene.
On the women’s clothing floor, I promise myself I’ll show greater restraint.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a wisp of a girl wearing an Hermès scarf and a name tag that reads ‘Linda’.
‘Yes, Linda. Yes, you can,’ I say, my voice full of confidence. ‘I want you to imagine a scenario where someone who adores clothes, who daydreams about shoes and was pretty much born to shop, has never had the chance to buy anything before. Ever.’ Linda frowns. ‘She’s only ever had access to charity shops and discount rails.’ Linda looks suitably horrified. ‘Now, imagine that person has recently come into some money. She’d have some catching up to do, don’t you think?’ Linda nods, as though she knows exactly what I’m talking about. ‘Can you help me catch up, Linda?’
‘I think we’re going to need some champagne,’ Linda says with a conspiratorial grin. I’ve never felt more seen by another human being and all my vows of restraint go straight out of the window.
What follows is a shopping montage Carrie Bradshaw would be proud of. I try on everything. Everything. Linda orders more champagne. I discover, to my relief, that even in this new body, well-designed clothes look great on me. And I know, I know, I’m shallow and vain, but honestly, nothing fixes a bout of existential depression like a pair of killer heels and a fitted purple suit with epic shoulder pads.
‘It looks amazing on you,’ Linda says as we both admire my reflection in the enormous changing-room mirror. It’s a bold, statement suit, by a designer whose name I don’t recognise. With its elegant cut and soft silk lining, it feels wonderful to wear.
‘It does, doesn’t it? It’s also making me feel better about how old I look.’
‘You don’t look old,’ says Linda, her eyes sparkling with the unmistakable glow of day drinking.
‘How old do I look?’ I ask, and her eyes grow wide in fear. I know it’s a mean question. It’s like asking someone if they think your boyfriend is hot – you can’t win.
‘Mid-thirties?’ Linda is being kind, but I’ll take it.
Looking at myself in the statement suit and heels, I know I’m going to buy them. Who knows when I’ll wear them, but since this whole experience could well be a hallucination, it’s easy to rationalise anything. Dorothy got new sparkly red shoes, why shouldn’t I have a new purple suit?
‘How much is it?’ I ask Linda.