I feel like a newborn foal walking on stick-thin legs, all knock knees and feet that don’t quite do what my brain is telling them to. Nick takes my elbow and leads me from the room, past the nurses’ station.
‘Look after yourself, lovely,’ the nurse who was there when I first woke up stage-whispers and I give her a big smile. I’m trying to be brave, to keep the panic damped down, desperate not to trigger another heart event.
But all I can hear is the doctor telling me that hallucinations and overly vivid dreams are part and parcel of a long coma. That any ideas I had that perhaps I was somewhere else will fade in time as I reintegrate with reality.
‘Safe recovery, Mrs Ingram,’ one of the other nurses calls as we walk down the long corridor, the overhead lighting blinding me.
Mrs Ingram.
This cannot be real.
I have to assume I will skip tonight. Leave this weird twilight world behind and wake up somewhere I made better choices.
Why did I marry him here? This is the only time I’ve found myself with him.
My heart skips in my chest.
The only timeso far.And we know that each skip is into a world where the divergence is further back in time.
What if … and this almost doesn’t bear thinking about … what if the next jump and the next and the next is him? Life after life where for some reason I did accept his shitty proposal on the night that was meant to be mine.
That night I knew – deep down in my heart of hearts – this was the red flag I had to finally listen to. Maybe I had overlooked the self-righteous air, the way he clicked his fingers at waitstaff, the way he rolled his eyes if a child graced his presence. But that night was the final straw.
There had been a tweet. This account I followed – Tammys_Tales – posted stories of shitty men doing shitty things. One of them was a guy who had proposed at his girlfriend’s graduation and she had asked if she was the arsehole for turning him down. It made me realize just how awful Nick’s behaviour was. I remember Cesca sending it to me. She knew what Nick was planning. She couldn’t stop him from proposing, but she made sure I didn’t accept, made sure I kicked him to the kerb.
The car journey is excruciating. I want to ask him where we’re going but I know that would only make me look like an idiot. We cruise down the M25 and I peer at each signpost, searching for clues, for a glimpse at the life Nick and I lead together.
The car is a sleek black BMW with posh leather seats anda dashboard reminiscent of a spaceship. So I guess money isn’t a problem. Unless he’s changed his tune about buying on credit and has instead decided to rack up enormous amounts of debt. I remember the disappointment in his eyes when I told him I’d financed a new sofa on interest-free credit, like I’d stolen the money from his grandmother instead.
We turn off the M25 at a junction marked Sutton, Reigate, and Redhill. I hold my breath as I see which exit he takes at the roundabout. In our first year of sixth form, Felicity – way back before she became Flick – dated a guy from Reigate. He went to some posh boys’ school and his parents lived in a house with two swimming pools.
Nick takes the exit towards Reigate and five minutes later he pulls onto a driveway. Our house is more modest than Felicity’s posh ex-boyfriend’s, but it still looks like it cost a small fortune.
It’s a modern detached property set across three storeys. Two bay trees in matching pots sit on either side of the dark grey front door. It’s all very symmetrical and utterly devoid of character, not at all the kind of house I imagined I’d live in one day. I always dreamt of a double-fronted Victorian house with wisteria growing around the front door. There’s a house on Rachel and Dad’s street that burst into glorious shades of purple each May and my stepmum and I have beenobsessedwith the idea for years.
Nick pulls onto the drive and cuts the engine before turning to look at me. ‘You’re very quiet,’ he tells me, his voice level. It isn’t a question. Does he expect me to answer? The slight twitch to his eyebrow suggests that yes, he does actually.
I think of the blandest and most noncommittal thing I can think of. ‘Just tired.’
‘Hmm.’
What else does he expect? I’ve literally been in a comafor six weeks. Or at least my body has been. I feel weak as a kitten, my muscles like mush. One of the nurses said it was a miracle I could even support my own head, let alone walk. She told me most people need weeks – or even months – of physical therapy before they can go home and that I should count my lucky stars that I feel as good as I do. I’m trying to be grateful, but I still feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
Inside the house I pause to take stock. It’s all so … grey. If I took a photo of the hallway, you’d be hard pushed to know if it was in colour or black and white. The only splash of colour is a framed vintage-looking poster of some dude playing golf.
Continuing through to the living room is no better. I feel like I’m inside a show home, one that belongs to the least adventurous interior designer you’ve ever met. The sofa is a soft dove grey, accented with white cushions. The carpet is pale grey and looks like it was laid mere days ago. The walls are papered, in a brilliant white with a subtle pinstripe of silver at irregular intervals to break up the space. The furniture is white: TV unit, coffee table, some kind of tallboy unit. There are nothings. No photos. Nothing at all to give any indication of the people who live here. This could be an Airbnb. It could belong to anybody.
I make my excuses and head upstairs. I need to lie down before I fall over. And I need to see what else this house is hiding.
Do we even live here?
No, that’s a stupid thought. That sounds like the plot of a thriller novel: woman wakes up from coma with amnesia and her husband tries to pass off another house as their own. But this isn’t fiction. This is real life and I think this Bethany just married the most boring bastard in the world who thinks all this bland grey impersonal decor is the height of sophistication. I bet if I hunted through the kitchen I’d findsome kind of overstocked drinks cabinet so he can impress his bland grey friends.Too much money and not enough personality, Cesca would say.
I wonder if she’s been here? My sister. When did we become so distant? Although at least in this world I know why Cesca isn’t part of my life. She never liked Nick, always thought I was far too good for him. A sentiment that extended beyond her being my sister and therefore incredibly biased. In a world where I married him I can see she wouldn’t want to be part of that with me. This Bethany was a fool to choose fucking Nick Ingram over Cesca. A fool and an idiot and I’d really like to give her a piece of my mind and tell her exactly what I think of the life choices she made.
Before my brain really understands what I’m doing, my phone is in my hand and I’m trying to call Cesca. An electronic voice tells me the number is no longer in use. Did she change her number and not tell me? Just in case it’s her phone playing up, I send a WhatsApp but no ticks appear to show it’s delivered. Something cold and hard gnaws at the lining of my stomach. Has she blocked me? What did I do to Cesca in this world? It has to be worse than just marrying a man she didn’t think was right for me. What happened to make her hate me so much?
I change into some pyjamas and slip into bed. The pillow is cool against my cheek, the cotton so fine it feels like silk beneath my fingertips. Posh bedding is pretty much the only thing in this house I recognize as being me. I close my eyes. I’ve been in this world for three days now. Will I skip tonight? Go back even further and see what else another Bethany fucks up. I shiver slightly even though the evening is warm. Will I wake up in the next world and be married to him again? Or is this all—
