The rest of the meeting goes past without a hitch. We brainstorm a few ideas for the proposal, and I start to wonder if maybe I can do this after all. We finish up and I stand to show him out of my office. But in this universe it appears my desk is less than stable and as I push against it to help myself up, the whole thing judders and the now cold cup of camomile Alesha left on there turns over in slow motion.
The cascade of not-tea immediately floods the front of my jeans.
I look like I’ve just wet myself.
Why is this always happening to me?
And why – given that I’m almost one hundred per cent sure I’ve somehow skipped into a universe that isn’t mine – do I care what Tyler Adams thinks of me?
Chapter Six
I’m almost relieved when I wake up next morning and find I’ve skipped again and so don’t have to face the shame of looking like I wet myself in front of Tyler.
The notebook is on my bedside table. It is a soft dark teal faux leather. No He-Man. No anything that says anything at all about the person who owns it. Or who might have bought it for them. I mean, it’s obviously a gift; no one actually buys themself a thirty-five-pound notebook, do they? There’s no page of scribbles detailing the theorem, so I make sure to add it, even as I feel guilty about desecrating the creamy pages with my messy scrawl.
There is no dress in my wardrobe. But there is a pair of new black trousers with a smart pleat and a tapered fit, which I imagine will be flattering if a little staid, and a new hunter green silk blouse. The tags are still attached.
I call Cesca. I need to hear the familiarity of her voice in this strange new world. I ask her how the health kick is going.
‘Um … good?’ She doesn’t sound sure. Perhaps this Cesca hasn’t quite embraced the whole deal and is doing something more believable like promising to drink less and maybe squeeze in three of her five a day. ‘Have you spoken to Rachel?’
Rachel is our stepmum. I try to call her and Dad once a week, but I’m not always clockwork in my routine. ‘Not this week. Why?’
‘Because I’m assuming she put you up to calling.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Right. Well, I’ve got to get ready for work.’
‘Yeah. Speak later, then.’ But she’s already hung up on me.
What the hell was that about?
I look at the call log. I haven’t called Cesca for over a week.
Did we have a falling-out? Has Rachel been trying to help us mend a rift? When have Cesca and I ever had a rift that wasn’t solved within an hour because we’re both so co-dependant we can’t help but live in each other’s pockets? That’s just how it’s always been; the two of us against the world.
At least I drink coffee in this world. Proper coffee with caffeine and everything. Thank heaven for small mercies. I slurp down a cup of the good stuff – and it is really good stuff, expensive but delicious – and find myself wandering around the flat. I pick up a book I’ve never read, turning it over to look at the blurb on the back. Yep, I have definitely never read this. I don’t recognize it at all, but the spine is creased and a few pages are folded over in the corner. This isn’t how I treat my books, although the folding thing in lieu of a bookmark is what Cesca always did when we were little, no matter how many times I told her not to. I tuck it onto the bookshelf. Maybe one day I’ll read it in my own world.
And then I go through the flat and make a mental note of everything that is different, thankful that my job is pretty flexible and no one will actually care if I don’t turn up to the office today.
The throw cushions on the sofa are a deep petrol blue and not the grey ones I ordered from Habitat last month when I won fifty quid on the Premium Bonds and thought I’d treat myself.
There are trainers – muddy, well-broken-in trainers – by the front door. Does this Bethany go running? Like for fun? I prod my tummy and to be honest I do feel leaner, everything a bit more taut. But running? That really doesn’t feel like a ‘me’ thing to do.
This Bethany has a gin subscription and there is a whole array of different flavours on the shelf in the kitchen. At least that is one of the changes I can get on board with.
If I’m honest, most things are the same. The really big things at least. Stuff like furniture and the dinner service my stepmum bought me when I first moved into the flat and she assumed I’d be entertaining people every week. Which was sweet of her, but the only people who have ever come for dinner are her and Dad, and of course Cesca. Although Cesca and I don’t use the posh dinner plates; we don’t normally even use plates if I’m brutally honest, we just snatch slices from a pizza box or eat greasy burgers straight from the carton they were delivered in. Neither of the Raven sisters has ever been considered a culinary protégée.
Perhaps I should ring Rachel and find out why Cesca and I aren’t talking. But you can’t, can you? I can hardly ring her and chat about the weather and Aunt Penny’s new boyfriend and the puppy the next-door neighbours aren’t training and whenStrictlystarts again and then just drop into the conversation that I have no idea why Cesca and I are fighting. What do I say when she asks me why the hell I don’t remember?Oh, don’t mind me, I’m not actually this Bethany, I’m a Bethany from another universe, but no worries, I’ll be going home soon and then everything will be back to normal.
I love my stepmum, but she isn’t exactly science-minded. She would ask me questions like ‘do you really believe in multiverse theory?’ Which is ridiculous. I mean, it’s not like ghosts or God. It is. Full stop. End of story. Fact not theory. It would be like not believing in gravity.
I march on through the day. This Bethany doesn’t have any immediate work deadlines – or at least none that I can see in her diary, but admittedly I didn’t look very hard. I burrow into the work she’s been doing, my fascination growing as I dig deeper and deeper. Over the last couple of months, she’s been taking her thoughts in a different direction to me and it’s making me wonder if I’ve been a bit limited in my own research.
Time flies by and I only take a quick break to eat lunch when my stomach rumbles so loudly I worry Jonny and Lawrence next door might hear it through the walls. As I slide some fancy sourdough into the toaster, I realize I haven’t thought about my personal predicament for hours. Keeping busy is definitely helping. It’s not letting the little voice in the back of my skull have any airtime. I dig around in the fridge for some butter and do a dance when I discover this Bethany buys the posh stuff.
The bread pops out of the toaster but it’s only halfway done. Sourdough always takes forever to brown and I can feel my brain sneaking towards the whole ‘this isn’t my real life’ problem. But I cannot entertain it, can’t allow it to say the words loudly enough. So I pull out my – her – phone and google why sourdough takes so long to toast. Apparently, it’s something to do with the reduced amount of sugar from the long proving process. Who knew?
