Those within earshot say goodbye to Michael, while Trey turns to me and whispers, ‘Jane,’ in a dark, conspiratorial tone.
‘Jane,’ I repeat. My French teacher at school once said, ‘If you’re ever stuck in an oral exam, mirror the examiner.’ But this still feels like trying to solve a murder without knowing who’s been murdered and not being able to ask any questions.
‘Jane,’ Trey says again, with even more venom, this time punching a fist into his other hand. Before I’m forced to embark on a long game of ‘Jane’ tennis, I’m saved by Dominique who comes over with another round of cocktails and Trey excuses himself to use the bathroom.
‘I love your outfit, Lucy. It’s so gene you come to the office dressed like that,’ Dominique says, sitting down beside me. Gene? Are there new words I don’t even know?
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the drink she offers me. ‘I’ve never owned something this nice before, so I thought I might as well wear it.’
‘What do you mean? You have an amazing wardrobe,’ Dominique says, then pauses. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way’ – her pupils roll to the ceiling, and she flings a limp arm around my shoulder – ‘but I’m usually a little intimidated by you. You’re so great at what you do, and you’re always so, I don’t know, together.’ She turns to look at me, and sees I’m surprised by what she’s saying. ‘Sorry, I’m drunk.’ She shakes her head and laughs.
Something in her mannerisms reminds me of Zoya and I instantly want to be friends with her. She’s got a glitter tattoo on her shoulder, which is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Maybe I should get a glitter tattoo?
‘We don’t usually socialise together?’ I say, half question, half statement.
‘At wrap parties, sure, but you usually leave early.’
‘Sounds like I’m super lame,’ I say, then burst into a fit of giggles. I feel really drunk, which is strange, because I’ve only had three of these martinis and I can usually have at least four before I start to get silly.
‘Let’s dance!’ I say, suddenly feeling the urge to move. I grab Dominique’s hand and pull her up to the dance floor. Callum and Ravi are standing by the bar, and as we’re dancing, I ask Dominique, ‘Is it me, or is Callum quite hot?’ I have to shout to be heard over the music.
‘Callum?’ She shakes her head. ‘What for me?’
‘No, for me,’ I shout back. ‘I’m going to ask him to dance.’
He’s completely my type, all dark hair, long limbs and puppy dog eyes. He’s looking at me like he likes me too. At least I think he is, it’s hard to be sure when everything’s starting to blur. I stride across to the bar and lunge for Callum’s hand.
‘Dance with us?’ I say, grinning, pulling him to join us. He blushes, embarrassed, but follows anyway. I feel like I’m thirteen, at a school disco, as we dance side by side. Dominique has disappeared, so it’s just the two of us now, and I turn to dance with him face to face. Our eyes meet. He looks like he wants to kiss me. Maybe this is an excellent idea. A really gene idea. Just as I’m leaning a little closer, I feel Callum’s hands on my wrists, pushing me away. Then he’s leading me back to the booth, making me sit down. He looks mortified. Did I almost kiss an employee, on the dance floor, in front of everyone?
‘Aren’t you married?’ Callum whispers, his eyes wide in surprise and embarrassment.
Oh shit. I am married, I completely forgot. Here I am acting like I’m on some great night out with fun, hot new colleagues, but I’m not – I’m not me any more.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, swallowing a wave of martini-flavoured nausea.
‘Nine o’clock,’ says Callum. ‘Shall I get you some water?’
The twenty-year-old runner is trying to sober me up. This is bad. This is so bad. Maybe I was supposed to be back to look after those children hours ago? Shit. Maybe Future Me doesn’t have the same tolerance for alcohol that old me did.
‘Do you want me to put you in a cab, babe?’ Dominique asks, patting my arm sympathetically, and I manage to nod my head up and down.
In the cab, I finally check my phone again. I have a lot of messages and missed calls, mainly from Sam. As I’m looking at my phone, he calls again.
‘Where the hell are you?’ he asks, his voice sharp.
‘Um, I had a work thing. I lost track of time.’ I wince, wondering if I’m going to throw up all over my beautiful suit.
‘You didn’t tell me you were going to be out. I got a call from Maria saying you never showed up. I’ve been working from Reading today, no one could get hold of you. She had to stay until I could get home. She missed an appointment.’
‘Zorry,’ I slur.
‘You’re drunk,’ he says, his voice stern and unimpressed.
‘A little,’ I admit. Having a husband feels a lot like having a parent. Maybe I don’t want a husband. Maybe I’d rather be rich and single, picking up men half my age like Brigitte Macron. Then I remember how hot Sam is and how valid his annoyance, given the situation. At least when you’re married your husband has to love you unconditionally.
‘Just get on the nine-forty train, and I’ll send a cab to pick you up,’ Sam says, sounding very little like someone who loves me, unconditionally or otherwise.
Chapter 11
When I wake up, I see that I’m in the grown-up bedroom with the fancy curtains and the super-soft duvet. I’m still wearing the purple suit trousers, and I have a headache almost as bad as yesterday’s. Reaching a shaking hand beyond the safety of the bed, I find a glass of water on my bedside table and gulp it down.
The fact that I’ve woken up here, rather than Kennington Lane, makes me suspect this flash forward/life leap, whatever it is, might be more permanent than I’d hoped. Not that I did a degree in time travel or wrote a thesis on the space-time continuum, but going to sleep here and waking up again makes it feel less likely to be a dream. A fussy fog of remorse tells me that I might owe Future Me an apology for acting inappropriately with her work colleagues. Did I . . . did I try to kiss Callum? Oh, I can’t think about it, it’s too awful.
There’s no sign of Sam or the children upstairs, so I have a quick shower and find a fleecy beige tracksuit to change into. At least it’s Saturday; a morning of hangover food and mindless TV will sort me out. Downstairs, I pause by the kitchen door, observing the scene. Sam is playing peek-a-boo with Amy from behind a cereal packet and she’s giggling in delight. Felix is wearing a shiny red cape over his dinosaur pyjamas and has lined up mini-Weetabix like dominoes across the kitchen table.
‘Hi,’ I say with a timid wave. Sam looks up and responds with the coldest ‘Hi’ I’ve ever heard. It’s arctic. No, colder that arctic, it’s the temperature of one of those planets at the furthest edge of the solar system where it’s minus four hundred degrees.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ I say, walking into the kitchen and taking a seat. ‘Yesterday was a bit of a strange day for me.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it in front of the children,’ Sam says. A muscle pulses in his jaw, and he turns away from me to switch on the coffee machine. Hmmm, I could murder a coffee.