‘Do you have someone to pick you up?’ one of the nurses asks.
‘Do I need someone?’ I reply, suddenly worried I’ll find myself stuck in a strange limbo here in St George’s Hospital because I don’t actually know who this Bethany is friends with in her world. I suppose in the worst-case scenario I could ask my assistant, Alesha. She’s sent me a few messages since I was admitted. They don’t suggest we’re friends per se, but I’m sure she would rescue me if push came to shove. But in the end the nurse tells me it’s not a pre-requisite, just preferred.
The reality of my sad existence hits me as the taxi pulls up in front of the flat. I want to tell this Bethany – well, all the Bethanys really – there must be more to life than this. That it might be okay to let someone in and have a little fun occasionally. At least in my world I have Cesca. Without her I’d be as lost as all these other Bethanys seem to be.
I know that night when I go to bed that I’ll have skipped again in the morning. I don’t know how I know. Am I starting to get a feel for this whole skipping thing? Becoming attuned to the way it all works? Or is it just that I’m skipping at least once every five days and I’ve already been here for three. So basically there’s a 50/50 chance it’ll happen tonight. Hardly great intuition, is it?
I wake up in the morning to find myself in the same flat I lived in back in my own world. How odd that the last Bethany lived somewhere different; what drove that divergence between our lives?
It feels good to be home. Or at least somewhere I know where the bathroom is. The furniture is different, there’s a feature wall in the bedroom, my clothes are more casual than I would personally choose – so not actually home.
I push open the door into the living room and my breath catches in the back of my throat. This Bethany is into manga. And when I say into it, she isreallyinto it. One entire room of the flat is covered in Billy bookcases, the shelves set at the exact right heights for each book to sit snugly with less than an inch at the top. Everything is in order, the spines creating a kaleidoscope of colour. It’s actually quite beautiful.
I pull out a volume that catches my eye –Attack on Titan– and settle on the sofa to read it.
It’s good. Really good. I can see why this Bethany has spent a small fortune building a collection.
Perhaps this is an opportunity? My chance to try on a host of different lives, different versions of myself? I could embrace it. See what fits.
It’s got to be better than moping around and just waiting to fall again.
I spend two wonderful days digging under the skin of this Bethany.
I read dozens of volumes of manga, everything fromAnimal CrossingtoBerserk.
I log into this Bethany’s Just Eat account and order all her favourites. It turns out I really like Korean BBQ – even though it’s something I’d never even considered in my world – and have a particular soft spot for fried chicken in a honey and garlic glaze.
I try on every outfit in her wardrobe, marvelling at the way the baggy-cut trousers she favours make my waist look tiny. And they are so comfortable. She also has a whole drawer full of amazingly soft socks, none of which have that annoying seam around the toe that always digs in just the wrong place and makes me irrationally angry for no reason.
In the bathroom, I try out her expensive-looking deep conditioner and fall in love with the way it makes my hair super shiny and also smells like strawberries.
I write the theorem into the teal notebook in the kitchen. And then I write this Bethany a note, telling her about our heart condition and how she needs to go to the doctor. I tell her about the things I’ve learned from living as her. And then I tell her to put things right with Cesca – her call history shows they last spoke over a month ago – and that whatever has happened between them there is always hope. They’re sisters and can forgive each other anything.
The morning sun cuts through the blinds. This time they’re white and slatted and I think the same ones I almost bought four years ago but baulked at the price tag at the last moment, convincing myself that £500 really was far too much for a set of blinds. Even if the salesman had been particularly cute.‘Hit me up on Hinge,’ he’d told me as I left the salesroom to contemplate the purchase over a cup of coffee. I never went back. And I never looked at Hinge either. Dating apps have never been my scene.
However, it would seem in this world that I have fully embraced them. It’s funny, I’ve noticed – and I’m pretty sure it’s been blindingly obvious to you too – that I’m perpetually single. In every place I skip to, I’m on my own. No boyfriend. No husband. Not even the odd date scribbled on a calendar.
But there are four dating apps on this Bethany’s phone. Four. Why would she need so many? Surely it’s just the same guys repeated over and over again. One of the apps is Hinge, the same one that hot salesman had told me to ‘hit him up’ on. But perhaps this Bethany did check him out. And then didn’t stop checking out every other app.
I click into Hinge and start to scroll through the messages. This Bethany is a flirt. But she never actually goes on any dates. She always shuts down the conversation as soon as it starts to lead in that direction.
It’s weird.
It’s pointless. I click out of the app and head to the kitchen in search of some kind of caffeine, crossing my fingers that this Bethany isn’t one of the strange camomile-loving ones.
But then I remember my vow to start to embrace each Bethany’s life, to see what I could learn about myself by trying on some other ways of living, other hobbies, other pastimes.
I make coffee and then take the steaming cup into the living room, taking in the deep chestnut leather sofa that envelopes me into a soft cocoon as I sit down. Comfortable, I unlock the phone again and click back into Hinge. But I have no idea how the search mechanism works; I’ve never actually used a dating app.
Frustrated I shut down that app and open up Tinder. At least I know how this one works: swipe left for no and rightfor yes. I take a deep breath and then a sip of coffee, my fingers hovering over the screen. The first few are immediate left swipes; too preppy, too young, too dull. Then there’s Josh who enjoys long walks in the country with his adorable spaniel and who – judging by the photos – rather likes a pub with a roaring fire. He’s a cliché. But he’s a cute one. I read through his profile, looking for the obvious red flags.
Gosh that’s sad, isn’t it? That my bar for dating is so low I start by weeding out the ones who are most likely to be serial killers. I remember Cesca talking about the dating apps and saying they should be less about what you do want and much more about what you know you definitely don’t. After all, it’s far easier to say what turns you off – bad breath, people who are dicks to the bar staff, men who describe women as ‘females’ – than what turns you on. Haven’t we all been surprised by someone we’re drawn to, even though on paper they would be the last person we’d fall for?
Like Tyler Adams, a little voice whispers in my ear. But come on, you aren’t actually meant to fall for your nemesis, are you? Life isn’t a romance novel.
I swipe left on Josh and continue my search for Mr Right. Or Mr Not Totally Wrong at the least.
Ali looks like a potential contender: handsome in a slightly bookish way but still with a bit of edge, like he’d know his way around a library but could also name more grime artists than just Stormzy. I read his profile and discover he’s extremely into camping, as in proper wilderness camping rather than a comfy tepee with a king-size bed. I swipe left.
