If you succeed, bravo! If not, pass this on to the next Tyler. Add to it. Perhaps one Tyler isn’t enough to save Bethany. Perhaps it needs all of us.
Laters, dickhead
I read it back to myself, hearing his words on the page, the timbre in his voice as he told me the exact things to say.
‘Will it work?’ I’d asked him.
‘Yes.’ He had been adamant.
I just hope he was right.
I get a reply within twenty minutes. It’s a single line and my heart skips before I can read the words.
I read them between my fingers, expecting something curt, dismissive.
Meet me at the bandstand in Battersea Park. Midday.
He’s sitting on one of the benches when I arrive, wearing a pristine white T-shirt and artfully ripped jeans. His hair is slightly ruffled, like he just got out of bed and hasn’t yet had time to fix it. His face breaks into a smile as he sees me approach and he stands to greet me.
‘Well, you look like my Bethany,’ he says, eyes crinkling even further.
‘Your Bethany?’ I ask.
He laughs. ‘You know what I mean.’ Then he cocks his head to the side and appraises me, his eyes searching my face.
‘Do you believe me?’ I ask. I don’t want all the preamble, the pleasant small talk. There isn’t enough time for us to pussy-foot around here.
He pauses and I can hear my heart beating. I resist the urge to cross my fingers behind my back. Eventually he opens his mouth to speak. ‘Yes.’
Phew. ‘Good,’ I say. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘But first, coffee.’ He points down one of the paths towards a kiosk that serves hot drinks.
He’s brought a tote bag with him and we head towards a patch of grass in the shade of a huge tree. He’s like Mary Poppins, pulling things from the bag with a flourish. A blanket. A large A4 notebook. A punnet of grapes. A packet of biscuits – custard creams, of course.
We sit down and I take a sip of coffee, feeling the creaminess of the full-fat latte on my tongue. I don’t normally allow myself this level of decadence but I’m feeling oddly at ease and comfortable and wanted to treat myself with a slightly posher coffee.
We get to work.
When we run out of steam, he goes to find us something to perk us up, returning fifteen minutes later with a bottle of prosecco and two plastic champagne flutes.
‘What are we celebrating?’ I ask as he saunters back to the blanket.
He looks sheepish. ‘That you don’t hate me any more.’ He blushes as he says it, then busies himself opening the wine.
‘I never hated you.’
‘Huh,’ he objects.
‘Okay. Okay.’ I put my hands up. ‘Perhaps a teeny bit. But not for a while.’
‘In your world at least.’
‘Actually,’ I say, thinking about the words before I say them. ‘In lots of worlds. You’ve been … kind and sweet and helpful a number of times now.’
‘How many versions of me have you met?’
‘You’re the fourth. Not including the Tyler from my own world.’
