‘Nonsense. You have fabulous boobs and he should consider himself lucky to have seen them.’
‘Argh. If only I could transport myself into another universe where this hadn’t happened.’
I decide to work from home for the rest of the day. My company doesn’t really care where we work and at least this way I don’t run the risk of running into anyone who has heard about the tit I made of myself last night.
The only person who would think it almost as funny as Cesca is Alesha and so I send her a quick message on Teams.
Keeping a low profile after last night
Last night?she messages back.
The rumour mill is obviously unusually slow this morning; normally news of any kind of embarrassing incident does the rounds before everyone’s finished their first coffees of the day.
You’ll no doubt hear all the details soon enoughI reply.
I decide to work in the living room, using the calming presence of my shelves full of special-edition books in all their dazzling glory to help keep the brainworms at bay. I spend the day in deep thought, trying to make progress on the problem I’ve been puzzling over for so long it’s become like a permanent itch I can’t scratch at the back of my brain, always just a millimetre out of reach.
Just after five I get another Teams message from Alesha.
Dying to find out what you did last night …
No one’s talking about it?I reply.
Nada.
Weird. There were plenty of people who saw me, both at the time and for the next half hour as I said my goodbyes covered in wine.
As evening starts to fall and the heat of the day starts to dissipate, I take myself out onto my balcony, a huge glass of ice-cold Sauvignon Blanc in my hand. I settle down, the notebook full of scribbles about the problem I’ve been working on resting on the table in front of me, the wine glass mere centimetres from my lips, so close I can smell the kiwi hints and feel the chill tickle my nostrils.
‘Bethany! Bethany!’ The voice comes from the next balcony, my neighbour Jonny and his husband Lawrence waving frantically at me. ‘You should join us!’
‘Oh, I’m … umm … I’m okay, thanks,’ I reply, hoping I sound appropriately chilled even though I can already feel my cheeks burning.
‘But you shouldn’t be drinking alone.’ Lawrence makes it sound like the worst possible thing that could ever happen to a person. A crime against humanity.
‘Honesty, I’m fine.’ I like my own company. I can lose myself in my thoughts for hours. And be perfectly happy about it, thank you very much.
‘Bethany Raven. You really must join us. We insist.’ Jonny’s smile is broad, his face wide and open. There isn’t even a hint of anything other than an earnest desire to make me happy. I know they mean well. But they just don’t realize the thing that would actually make me happy is to be left alone with my wine and my thoughts.
‘I have work to do.’ I crumple my face into something suitably apologetic, and motion to my notebook. ‘Sorry! Another time, for sure.’
Lawrence visibly deflates in front of me. Does he buythe lie? Or does he see it as a slight against them? Trying to manage everyone else’s expectations is exhausting. I can feel the pleasure in the moment slipping from my grasp and eventually I head back inside the flat, despite the stifling heat. I should have bought a fan last week. A memo had gone round the office about an impending heatwave; some of the guys from the meteorology team had predicted it could even beat last year’s forty-degree record.
In the end I open the door to the freezer and sit in front of it, cross-legged on the floor like a child in assembly. And then – unlike a child in assembly – I drink two large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, leaning my elbows on the notebook so it imprints a strange spiral pattern onto the fleshy part of my thigh.
I wake up in the middle of the night, the ghost of a dream following me into the inky black of my bedroom. I’m falling down a spiral staircase, wine flowing down the steps like a river, carrying me towards Tyler Adams who stands with his arms crossed at the bottom. My mind must be playing tricks on me after the embarrassing incident at the awards ceremony; it definitely happened but for some reason no one else seems to be able to remember. You’d think that would be a good thing, but it leaves me with a general sense of unease, like something is out of place and I can’t understand exactly what.
Just as I start to drift off again, inspiration strikes and the pieces of the jigsaw finally come together to shape themselves into a truth that has eluded me for so long. This is it. I can feel the answer buzzing through my veins, my synapses singing to each other as the answer comes into focus. I grope my hand out from under the duvet, fingers spidering across the bedside table until they find the cool rectangle of my notebook. Thelight burns onto the back of my cornea as I switch it on and hastily jot down the thoughts still swirling through my brain. Yes. This is definitely it. Fuck. I’ve actually done it. And then I clutch the notebook to my chest as if it’s a long-lost lover. Within seconds I’m fast asleep.
I wake up as the sun hits my face through the gap between the slats of the blind and I curse myself for not closing it properly the night before. Glancing at my Fitbit, I groan loudly. It’s not even six. I’ll never get back to sleep now. I can feel the weekend stretching ahead of me, a great yawning blankness of time. ‘Come on, Bethany,’ I whisper to myself. I know most people relish the weekends, love the lack of demands on their time, the opportunity to do whatever they please. I envy them.
I pull my pillow over my face and try to snuggle down under the covers, squeezing my eyes shut against the glare of the early morning sun. No doubt it will be one of those glorious bright summer days where the whole world is out in their gardens or on their balconies, raising glasses of chilled Pimm’s to their neighbours in a smug gesture of just how wonderful a summer we’re having. Now, I like a cocktail and the sun on my face as much as the next person – honestly, I’m not a total weirdo – I just hate that it comes with an expectation for conversation. Or for criticism. I think back on the awkward conversation with Jonny and Lawrence.
I throw the pillow from my face and sit up. That was it! Sitting in front of the fridge having been chased from my balcony, the spiral pattern had embedded into the flesh of my thigh. Then it had wormed its way into my subconscious and into my dreams in the form of a staircase. I shudder at the memory of the dream, but then I remember the idea it gaveme, the idea blooming into a beautiful butterfly of a theory. I’d written it down! I grab my notebook from the bedside table and flip it open.
But the page where last night I wrote down the most important breakthrough of my career is blank. Just sitting there staring at me with its sharp lines ruled onto the page. No spider scrawl. No record of my brilliant idea. Had I dreamt it? No, of course not. I flick through the notebook; perhaps I used another page. But there is nothing, no sign of the theorem.
I shake my head, reordering my thoughts. I can’t remember it. What was it? The pieces are trailing away from me, ethereal threads floating out of reach, borne by the breeze of my own inadequacy. I can’t believe I didn’t write it down.Idiot!I berate myself, calling myself all the names under the sun until my own shame starts to drown me.
