Momentarily distracted by the beautiful house, by the time I’ve got downstairs and located the front door, a car is pulling out of the driveway. Upstairs, the baby is howling again. Was it bad that I left her on the floor? What if she crawls to the stairs and falls down them? Even if this guy is insane thinking I’ll watch his children, I don’t want to be responsible for anyone getting hurt. Racing back upstairs, I find the boy sitting on the floor, trying to comfort his sister. They both look up at me with wounded eyes.
‘What’s that guy’s name, the one who just left?’ I ask the boy.
‘Daddy?’
‘Yes, but apart from Daddy, what’s his real name. Like I’m Lucy, you’re Felix and he’s . . .?’
‘Sam.’
‘And how do I know Sam?’
Felix narrows his eyes again and then glances to the left, to the wall beside me. Instinctively, my eyes follow the direction of his gaze to a large, framed photo mounted on the wall. It’s of a couple on their wedding day, standing in a field. The man in the photo is a younger version of their dad, Sam, and the bride is . . . the bride is . . . me.
Chapter 6
‘Holy fuck!’ I shout. Felix claps a hand over his mouth. ‘How is that me? How is . . . Is this Photoshopped?’ I lift the frame off the wall so I can inspect it more closely. The woman looks just like me, the real me, not this weird, haggard, great-haired, drug-mule version of me. Do I have amnesia? Did I hit my head and forget twenty years of my life?
That’s when I remember, the wishing machine. The wishing machine.
‘No way,’ I say as my mind contemplates the idea that just presented itself. ‘No, no, no. This couldn’t be that.’ What did I wish for? To be sorted. To have found my person, to skip to the good part of my life.
The nausea comes on suddenly, and I rush to the bathroom before I throw up all over this ridiculously plush carpet. When I’m done, I look up to see Felix standing in the doorway, his little face puckered into a grimace.
‘Mummy says better out than in. You wanted this,’ he says, holding out a blue leather handbag. ‘Will you put my mummy back when you’ve finished your alien experiments?’
‘Thank you,’ I say, wiping my mouth with a tissue then taking the bag from Felix. Rifling through it, I find a phone, a far larger, slimmer handset than my third-hand iPhone. The screensaver is a photo of me, Sam, Felix and Amy. The date on the lock screen says Friday, the twenty second of April, which is the day after yesterday, but there’s no year.
‘What year is it?’ I ask Felix, who is still standing in the doorway, a pensive look on his face.
Felix answers, but I must mishear, because I think he says a year that’s sixteen years later than it was yesterday. I need to be sick again. The doorbell rings; Amy is still crying. Staggering out onto the landing again, I pick her up, making ‘shhhhing’ sounds and hugging her against me. That’s how you comfort babies, right? A feeling of guilt envelops me, like a scratchy blanket against my skin. Guilt that I might have caused this, that I might be responsible for taking this child’s mother away from her. Carrying Amy down the stairs, I open the door to a platinum-blond woman in her fifties.
‘What’s wrong? You look terrible.’ She says to me, immediately reaching out to take Amy. ‘Are you sick?’ This must be Maria.
Shaking my head, I manage to say, ‘I’m fine.’ Why is that such an ingrained response? Clearly, I am a very long way from fine.
‘Who’s a stinking lady?’ Maria says, and I cover my mouth self-consciously but then realise she’s talking to the baby. She tickles Amy’s chin. Amy gurgles and finally stops crying. ‘You go, get dressed, don’t miss your train. I’ll sort the children out.’
Thank God for Maria – I want to hug her. Should I tell her what has happened? What would I say? What has happened? Something tells me I need to get it straight in my own head before trying to explain it to anyone else. Felix is sitting on the top step watching me as I head back upstairs.
‘I’m fine, I just get a little confused when I drink gin,’ I say, reluctant to traumatise this poor boy any more than is necessary. I don’t want him going to school and telling everyone that his mother has been abducted by aliens. Though now he might go to school and tell everyone his mother is an alcoholic. He widens his eyes at me but says nothing.
Back in the bedroom, I shut the door and find the phone the boy gave me. My face unlocks it. Scrolling through my contacts, I search for Zoya. I need to apologise about last night, tell her about the messed-up situation I’ve found myself in. But when I try her number, it won’t connect. I try calling Faye but that goes straight to answerphone and Roisin’s number rings and rings with an abroad tone but no one picks up. Why is Roisin abroad? Something is going on with the phones. Whatever’s happening, I just need to get home, back to the flat, back to my own bed – give myself time to come down from this hallucination. I take a long deep, calming breath, but inhale an array of uncalming odours. Maybe I should have a shower before I go.
The shower helps, mainly because it’s the best shower I’ve ever had in my life. There are three different shower heads all at varying heights and with exceptionally well-distributed water pressure. Nothing like the crappy, micro-shower in the Vauxhall flat that is so clogged with limescale it sprays in every direction except down, or my parents’ shower, which is so narrow you can’t move your elbows once you’ve closed the door. So this is what I’ve been missing all my life? The warm water starts to ease my headache, and I begin to feel more myself.
Clean and dry, I investigate the walk-in wardrobe; I’m going to need to borrow some clothes. Suit jackets and men’s shirts line the left-hand side, while a huge, perfectly ordered selection of women’s clothes lines the right. My hand skims the delicate fabric on a row of blouses. At the far end of the wardrobe a wall of shoes is illuminated like the altar in a church. So many shoes! Kurt Geiger, Russell & Bromley, Hobbs, every heel, boot, wedge or sandal a girl could ever want or need. If this really is a glimpse of my future life, then something’s gone right, for my feet at least.
After choosing some jeans, a silk blouse, and some black suede ankle boots, I open the drawers of the dressing table to find a shallow tray of perfectly organised, high-end cosmetics. My hand pauses on an eye shadow palette. Putting make-up on doesn’t feel like a priority right now, but then I’m reluctant to go out into the world looking quite this terrible. My flatmates might not recognise me, they might be scared. Are my flatmates even going to be there if I really have skipped sixteen years? I can’t think about it, I just need to get out of here. I need to get home.
Dressed and made up, I feel slightly calmer when I look in the mirror. After the initial shock of seeing this reflection, I have to concede I don’t look bad for forty-two, if that really is how old I am. My figure is still decent enough, in clothes anyway, and my face is, well it’s still my face. It was just a shock seeing the effect of sixteen years all at once, like that scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where the guy chooses the wrong cup and ages a hundred years in five seconds.