Hamish proceeds to run around the room, demonstratively checking for hiding burglars or any other signs of immediate danger.
‘Dude, what’s up?’ he asks, coming to a stop with his hands on his hips, penis flapping about right in front of me. I scurry backwards. Having satisfied himself that the bedroom is a peril-free zone, Hamish now sounds a little less concerned and a lot more irritated that I’ve interrupted his shower.
‘What are you doing in my bedroom?’ I yell, reaching for the nearest available clothes and pulling them on.
‘Bro, stop shouting! You’ll wake Alistair up.’
‘I’M NOT YOUR BRO and who the fuck is Alistair?’
Hamish gives me a look. ‘Nee, stop pissing around. You know very well that Alistair is my brother. We’re staying at his flat in London, remember? Because I am flying to Australia today and you’re coming to wave me off?’
I climb off the bed, taking care to edge around naked Hamish. Catching sight of myself in a mirror on the opposite wall is … a lot. In my scrabble to cover my modesty I now appear to be wearing a pair of men’s surf shorts and a brightly coloured vest top with the words ‘board meeting’ written on it.
I look around me ever so slowly.
Hamish is right. To go with my twenty-year-old body, I find myself right back in a scenario that happened a decade ago. I’d almost forgotten the night we spent sleeping at Alistair’s before Hamish left for good. We’d come up from Cornwall because it was much closer to Heathrow and Hamish had an early flight to catch.
I shiver as I take it all in, this dim and distant memory suddenly fresh and technicolour, unfolding before me. Hamish sends another cursory glance in my direction and seems to decide that the shaking, badly dressed wreck in front of him is A-okay.
‘Well, since you interrupted my shower I might as well finish my hair in here,’ he grumbles. ‘Bathroom’s free if you want.’
The tiny part of my brain that is not reeling decides that a shower might help. But first, a niggling question I need answering.
‘Hamish?’
‘Yup.’
‘Is it, by any chance, a Monday?’
‘Yes, Nina, it’s Monday.’
Knew it. Even my time loop has given up the ghost and now I will probably spend the rest of eternity freewheeling through past Mondays. My belly flips uncomfortably.
‘And Hamish? Where’s the bathroom?’
‘Jesus,’ he mutters, clearly exasperated. ‘Across the corridor on the left. You literally used it last night. Listen, dude, I know you’re sad I’m leaving but can you please not have a massive meltdown right now? I do need to focus on, you know, my journey today.’
I narrow my eyes at Hamish, by now quite frankly sick of thebro-cabulary. My rose-tinted memories had totally erased this part of Hamish from my mind, but now that I’m literally face to face with the man I’ve been mooning over for the past ten years, it is annoying as hell. And also, what a premium prick he’s being this morning!
‘I’d like to see you cope with time travel,dude,’ I mutter to myself as I step under the tepid shower in this grubby bachelor flat.
Forgive me for stating the obvious, but there is something deeply unsettling about reliving a day you thought was long gone. The fact that it has echoes of my more recent Mondays is not lost on me, either. The early alarm clock. The Tube ride to the airport. To rub salt in the wound, my hair does not look amazing today. It’s hanging limply around my ears care of the hair straightener addiction I will mercifully shake off in a few years’ time.
On the plus side, I’m not complaining about my bouncy, collagen-pumped skin.
I am radiant! I really should have made the most of this vim and vigour back in the day, rather than lamenting all the things I didn’t like about myself. I used to spend hours straightening the waves out of my hair to try and make it look ‘sleek’, because that’s what the magazines told me to do. Maybe I should introduce past me to a decent curl cream now, save myself hours of unnecessary heat treatment.
‘At some point or other you just have to embrace the curls,’ I tell Hamish as we jolt along on the Tube. He looks at me like I have sprouted a couple of extra heads.
Banging bod aside, though, today is the absolute worst. And not just because I realize I’m going to have to come up with a new name for this one. It’s not really Monday Six, is it, because it’s a whole different Monday and I’m only reliving this one for the second time. Hmm, a headscratcher. As if I needed the extraadmin! To save myself from totally losing my shit right here on the Underground, I decide to stick with Monday Six (Ten Years Ago) to keep it simple.
Wait a minute. Is there a tiny chance that I have literally rewound ten years and am being given the opportunity to live my life all over again? To make the right choices this time. Ones that don’t involve pining after Hamish, not to mention all the hair straightening, perhaps?
Am I, possibly, being sent back to the crossroads in my story so that I can choose the right path this time?
The thought puts a little pep in my step. Unless Fate really is a heinous bitch, surely I can’t find myself being tragically killed by a speeding luggage buggy at this airport too? Monday Six (Ten Years Ago) definitely did not end with me in a coffin, and I know this because I lived to tell the tale.
I cast my mind back to, erm, today, the first time around. Force myself to focus, remember all the little bits I’ve let fall by the memory wayside. Yes, I did wake up at Alistair’s flat and yes, actually, Hamish did come storming in after I shouted out that first time too. I’d spotted a mouse in the original version. And I’m pretty sure even that didn’t elicit any sympathy from Hamish, so blown up with the importance of his ‘journey’ was he.
