Would he kiss me back?
I think he might.
His eyes meet mine.
But then … It’s probably a terrible idea.
‘Goodnight, Tyler,’ I say quietly as I let myself into the flat.
‘Goodnight, Bethany Raven.’
I close the door behind me.
I should have kissed him.
Chapter Seventeen
I wake up to the sound of an air-conditioning unit. My bedsheets are sweaty beneath me, crumpled up in that horrid way that leaves creases on your skin.Where am I?
I slip out of bed, tugging down the cotton shorts I was sleeping in and straightening my vest top. I run my hands through my hair, surprised to feel it is short. In the mirror I catch sight of myself. I have a bob and it looks kind of cute, in a just-got-out-of-bed kind of way. My skin has a honey glow. I pull the strap of my vest to one side and find a significant tan line from a swimsuit. The scent of coconut fills the air.
Thin muslin curtains drape the window and I slide open the door, stepping out onto a balcony, squinting as the sun hits my face and salt and sand assault my senses. In front of me is a postcard view: a glittering blue pool, still in the calm of the morning; a bar with a thatched roof and array of stools lined up waiting for patrons to sip cocktails; the sea behind, an expanse of sand dotted with sunloungers, some already draped in coloured towels.
Okay. So this is new. This is the first time I’ve skipped and ended up in a geographically different location. There are no discerning features to help me figure out exactly where I am in the world. Nothing to say if this is Spain or Greece or Portugal or Croatia or even somewhere further afield, Thailandperhaps? I mean, there probably is plenty to ascertain this, or at least narrow it down. I’m sure there are differences in flora and fauna and the limited architecture I can see from this angle. But they’re not exactly things I have any idea about.
We didn’t holiday abroad when we were tiny kids. Mum refused to fly, said it was unnatural and there was ‘noflamingway’ she would ever get into a ‘thin metal tube with no discernible way to stay in the sky’. The memory brings a momentary smile to my lips. I was five and desperately wanted to go to Disneyland like every other kid in the history of the world. And no, not the Paris one. The proper one. In Florida. I asked and begged and cajoled and every time I was refused with a simple no and zero explanation. Eventually my dad broke their silence and told me the truth. We couldn’t go to Disneyland because Mum wouldn’t get on a plane. And so – probablynotlike every other kid in the history of the world – I set out to prove just how safe flying really was. I gathered statistics and facts and figures about how many people die in commercial aircraft incidents each year. Spoiler: not many, in fact the lifetime odds of dying as an aircraft passenger are technically too small to even calculate.
But still Mum was having none of it. ‘I get what you’re saying, Bethany,’ she said, her voice almost weary. I guess my twenty-minute presentation was a little much – even if I could see the pride on my father’s face at my ability to build an argument at such a young age. ‘But however safe you say it is, I just don’t believe that a metal tube can stay in the sky.’ She’d shrugged, as if to tell me that was it and the argument was over.
She vastly underestimated me. I made it my mission to learn exactly how planes work, how they take off, how they land, how they stay up in the sky. And it was beautiful. The perfection of it all. Thephysics! I was utterly beguiled by what I learned. Then, when Mum got sick, I found myself burrowing deeper and deeper. I think I was looking for aplace where things still made sense. And that was that. I was hooked on science, obsessed with understanding how the world worked. How things were made. What was the truth of our universe. And eventually it led me to my career.
I pause for a moment. That has been another constant so far. In every life, that Bethany is a theoretical physicist, working for Imagine as a futurologist. Funny the things that are ingrained in your soul.
Ducking back into the room, I search for something that will tell me where in the world I have woken up.The Andalusia Beach: the logo is written in swirling script on a room service menu. I’m in Spain. On the Costa Del Sol to be precise. Hunting through this Bethany’s stuff I find her passport and return ticket. She has five more days here, five more days of lying by the pool and – judging by the tiny pooch of a tummy I can see reflecting back at me in the mirror – eating way too much bread and other carbs and all the delicious things.
I know I should be working, should be spending my time trying to figure this out and find a way home. But I’m exhausted. I feel like the whole weight of the world has been pressing down on my shoulders, dragging me down, down, down. The stress and strain of trying to stitch this all together is making me unravel at the seams.
It isn’t just the skipping, the mental gymnastics I’m engaging in to stop myself checking into a mental hospital and insisting they section me for my own protection. Or the desire to find a way home again, back to my world and my life and my flat and my things and my sister. But the stress of being these other Bethanys, of trying to figure out what is new, what is still the same, what the hell version of me I am in that world. It’s exhausting.
Perhaps I can just stay here for these few days? Eat and drink and swim in the sea and pretend – just untilWednesday – that none of this is happening. That I’ve merely imagined the past few weeks and all it will take is some rest and relaxation to unpick all the rogue stitching and pull the thread back and life can return to normal.
I order room service breakfast: pancakes and syrup and bacon, a glass of fizz and a full-fat latte, all delivered on a silver platter like a bacchanalian feast. Then I sit on the bed, picking at the food and swilling it down with a deliciously crisp cava – I probably should have bought a whole bottle – and I fire up the laptop. Trust me, any version of me, to have brought her laptop on holiday.
Another glass of cava is delivered to my room. I sip it as I open Google. My fingers type of their own volition and the results appear before I even realize what I’m looking for. Or not what. But whom.
Tyler Adams.
In this world Tyler has had even more success than in my own. Here he graces the covers of – admittedly rather specialist physics-based – magazines. His handsome face proffering a half smile on the most recent editions of bothScience FocusandPhysics World. But he’s also had some exposure on more mainstream channels. Even graced the sofa ofThe One Showtwice: once to talk about the book he has just published that tries to demystify theoretical physics by using examples from pop culture.
It’s the same book I’ve been discussing writing with him. Except here, it’s already written and I’ve had nothing to do with it. Or … oh no!
I didn’t?
Did I?
I can barely stand to look at the article I find. It was written by this Bethany. I won’t repeat it verbatim – that’s far too cringe-inducing to even consider – but it’s safe to say that this Bethany is a bit of a twat. The crux of the articleis that theoretical physics isn’t meant to be easily accessible, it isn’t meant to be available in bite-sized chunks to anyone who might ‘want to have a dabble’. And on it goes. There’s an apology for sounding elitist – which is just a thinly veiled way of her saying she’s better than other people. God, this Bethany is a douche.
Andthey were special-edition hardbacks with sprayed edges in a glorious rainbow of colours festooned with little Möbius strips.
