Cassandra in Reverse, page 25
“It’s important,” I prompt, starting to breathe loudly. “Please try.”
“Right.” Sophie nods obediently. “Yes. A phone call. It was a woman. I don’t remember her name, but she said she knew you. Something about art. From art school? Did you go to art school, Cassandra? I did not know this about you. Where?”
“Focus, Sophie.”
“Yes. Anyway. She said she was supposed to meet you, so I said you were already on the way to the exhibition.”
The karate chop turns into two full fists directly in my windpipe.
“And what did she say?”
“She said, which exhibition again? I’m such a clutter-brain, I’ve forgotten the name. So I said it was something to do with animal photography in Shoreditch, just like you told me, and I could take a message. But she said not to worry, she’d just catch up with you there.” Sophie pauses. “I guess that’s why I didn’t take a message. I thought she’d...you know. Caught up with you there.”
“FUCK!” I yell at the ceiling, grabbing my bag.
Sophie’s eyes widen. “Did I do something wrong?”
“When I get back we are going to have a little conversation about information security,” I say sharply. “Namely, not sharing my exact location with whoever casually asks for it over the phone. In the meantime, Sophie, please go into Barry’s office to be congratulated and invited to a ball.”
“Huh?” Sophie says. “Where are you going?”
My intestines are liquidizing, my cheeks are heating up; a rash is forming across my chest and so on and so forth. Dull pain begins to wrap itself around my neck, like a scarf pulled tight.
“Out,” I say in exasperation, because here we go again.
* * *
I don’t wait for the lift this time: I run down the stairs.
“Miss Dankworth? I—”
“Nope,” I say, striding past the receptionist, pulling the door open, standing in the sunshine, and it’s happening again: lights are flickering, exploding at the corners of my eyes like safety glass shattering. Reminding myself to breathe, I attempt to work out what to do next. Given that the entire universe is now falling apart around me, I’m going to need all the comfort and consistency I can get.
The blue café door tinkles and it makes me think of the bell at the end of class, which was so many years ago but also somehow still ringing now.
“Hello, Cassandra!” The old man smiles at me. “You’re a little earlier than usual. Banana muffin?”
“Yes, please. Actually, I’ll take all of them.”
With a massive box held in front of me, I recommence charging: through Soho, around Tottenham Court Road station, past the Shaftesbury Theatre, down Bloomsbury and into Holborn. Everything is getting louder and brighter, but there’s also a strange clarity I didn’t have last time: a sharpness, like the edge of a piece of paper.
I know exactly where I’m going: I’m being tugged there, as if on a string.
That wasn’t The End at all.
“Men have rights too!” I turn a corner and a leaflet gets thrust into my face by a man in a vest top; peanut breath, possibly honey-roasted. “Stop letting the feminazis control the narrative! Let men speak!”
I step around him—no, thank you—and continue to my destination.
Will’s studio is in an enormous coworking space: exposed brick walls and black leather chairs and light bulbs hanging on cords from steel ceiling beams that have no structural purpose at all. It’s nothing like my gold-leafed agency, but it’s equally horrendous. Will says that people just turn up with their laptops and sit wherever they like, a different seat every day, like some kind of lawless Lord of the Flies with Ping-Pong and free coffee.
Spiraling now, I reach the outside of the downstairs coffee shop (neon signs, steel tables) and hesitate, unsure exactly what my next move should be. Do I text Will and wait for him to come down? Go up there? Accost him over lunch? All I know is that there are going to be many questions, and comprehensive answers will be required for all of them: repeated in extensive detail and ideally written down.
Questions like: What?
And: What?
And: Will, what the actual fuck?
I’m just trying to get my breathing back under control when I feel my hairline prickle again. As if there’s a bolt of electricity from me to an unknown nearby source; a connection I can’t see; the static sensation when you touch a cheap nylon jumper and there’s an audible crackle.
And I know before I’ve even looked up: she’s here.
Holding my breath, I lift my chin.
* * *
They’re sitting in the middle of a huge steel window, as if held in a giant picture frame. Will is drinking a coffee with one hand, and she’s got her hands wrapped around a large gray mug. They’re both chatting—animated, easy—and as they both laugh at the same time, I see something I’ve never seen before: the same color pouring out of them both, at the same time.
It’s pink: simple, beautiful, smooth like a bright pebble.
And it finally hits me: I did this. I am the architect of my undoing, the weaver of my own story, and—much like Oedipus—everything I have done to avoid my doom is exactly what has brought it about. Which is funny, because—also much like Oedipus—now I’m going to have to rip my own bloody eyeballs out.
Frozen, I watch as the couple finally stop laughing.
Will drains his coffee, and I hold my breath as he stands up, leans over the table and kisses her smooth cheek. They exchange a few more lines, then he leaves through an internal door and I watch her sit for a minute or two: long neck stretched, head tilted back happily, absorbing the sun like an animal. And I knew she could be many things—impulsive, thoughtless, cruel—but I didn’t think she would break my heart twice.
With my head dipped, I wait in the shade with damp eyes.
Finally, Artemis walks into the street, ramming most of a pastry into her mouth, and I feel an additional emotion: that she looks so pretty with her cheeks puffed up like a hamster. She pauses for a moment, examines the remaining bite, then frowns and abruptly looks up, as if she can finally feel me too.
And the world should be detonating, erupting, falling apart, but this isn’t the first time I’ve seen her anymore and all I feel is...still.
“Oh.” My sister smiles. “Hello.”
31
So...I have a sister.
In my defense, I said I have no close family, which—to be fair—I’ve done my level best to ensure remains true. It’s not my fault that Art has spent the last decade tracking me down like a hunting dog. She was the part of my story I ripped out, and I tried as hard as I could to make sure she stayed missing.
It’s less of a lie, really, and more of a retelling.
* * *
“Artemis,” I say, my jaw clenched. “What the actual fuck?”
“Cassandra,” Artemis says in what seems to be genuine amazement, pastry poised. “Umm. That’s an incredibly broad question. There’s a lot of time to cover. Could you maybe ballpark it for me?”
It’s been ten years and my sister has stayed almost exactly the same, as if she is, actually, immortal. She must be twenty-nine now, her cropped brown hair suits her—I will never tell her this—and there are a few lines around her mouth, but she still has the nimble, gray-eyed prettiness that led everyone to say our parents named her perfectly. Artemis Helen Dankworth. Artemis, goddess of the hunt; Helen, so beautiful she kicked off the Trojan War. Somehow I got a murdered prophetic priestess and an abandoned wife with a passion for embroidery—cheated on, somewhat ironically—and my sister got two of the most beautiful and powerful women in Greek mythology.
Artemis is also goddess of chastity, but clearly that didn’t pan out.
“Stop being so obtuse.” I gesture in frustration at the café window. “What are you playing at this time, Artemis? Is this some kind of new strategy? Sending smelly letters and stalking me across London didn’t work out, so you’ve upgraded to casually destroying my entire life?”
“So you did get the letters!” Art beams, chocolate between her teeth. “I wasn’t sure. Pomegranates! Which, if you remember from Mum, are fruit of the—”
“—dead,” I finish for her. “Yes. I got it last time. Answer the question.”
“I would answer it.” Artemis frowns. “I’m ready and raring to answer whatever you want me to answer, Cass. But I’m not entirely sure how to, given that I haven’t seen you for a decade. You look wonderful, by the way. I know that’s not relevant, because you’re clearly still super angry with me, but I feel I should bring it up anyway. You’ve gotten so stylish. Time suits you.”
I open my mouth to yell at her, then shut it again. I’ve seen Artemis a lot over the last few weeks; I suppose it isn’t her fault that she doesn’t remember any of it.
“Tell you what.” Art plops herself down on the curb, like a dismantled frog. “We have quite a lot to talk about, don’t you think? So why don’t you sit down and we can have this all out, finally.”
I should have realized this would be her next move; it is so very Artemis. Once, when we were little, Art followed me around the house all day, begging me to play with her, and when I wouldn’t, she went into my bedroom and smashed my favorite ceramic owl as punishment. Artemis will get my attention, one way or another—even if it means making a mess—and now she’s done it again.
The story is starting to make sense, but pieces are still missing.
By my calculations, I undid seeing Artemis at the exhibition, but I didn’t undo the phone call where Sophie told her exactly where I’d be. So Artemis went anyway, hit it off with Will—who was feeling rejected by me—and I didn’t show up to prevent it. Which answers some questions, but not all of them. What happened in the original timeline? I didn’t go to the exhibition then either. Did they meet the first time too? I was in the office the whole evening that time, so why didn’t I get her phone call?
The Greek version of Artemis is famous for her aggressive nature—turning people into bears and deer, just so they get ripped apart in front of her—but stealing your estranged sister’s boyfriend seems mean, even for her.
“Sit down, stalker,” Artemis says, tugging on my trouser leg. “Come on, Cass. I think this has gone on long enough now, don’t you? Ten years is enough. I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody exhausted.”
I stare at her, then realize she’s right: I’m exhausted too.
I’m also going to need answers to all my questions, and frankly, I don’t think it’s possible for me to leave without them anymore. Finally defeated, I put the banana muffin box carefully on the pavement, then take off my jacket and place it neatly next to it so my emerald jumpsuit doesn’t get covered in floor grime.
Then I lower myself slowly onto it like an old lady at a picnic.
“How am I the stalker?”
“You tell me.” Art grins. “Only one of us followed the other one to a first date, Sandy-pants, and it wasn’t me.”
I narrow my eyes at her, ready to start snarling again—my pants haven’t been sandy in a very long time—then stop. There’s a strong color radiating out of my sister (golden, like a buttercup under the chin), but it doesn’t fit the color I was expecting. There’s guilt, definitely, but it’s the wrong shade. The wrong intensity. She’s hiding something, but it isn’t anywhere near the color it should be. With Artemis, I could normally tell what she was thinking and feeling immediately, but—after a ten-year gap—I’m extremely out of practice.
Frowning, I lean a little closer so I can double-check.
“Are you still doing that?” Artemis laughs. “Sniffing people’s colors, or whatever it is? How very unsubtle of you, Cassandra.”
But I got close enough, and—as I glance back at the café window—I realize what it is: Artemis doesn’t feel guilty about Will. She’s nervous about seeing me—faking nonchalance so I’m not frightened away—but there isn’t a trace of betrayal. My sister may be unpredictable, thoughtless, irresponsible, but she isn’t evil. I know that. Which means she has no idea about the relationship between me and Will, and—by extension—Will doesn’t know that she’s related to me.
They are both completely oblivious to my connection to them.
My rage abruptly evaporates.
Logically, there’s no point being angry when there’s nobody left to be angry with: it’s a waste of time and effort, and I’ve done plenty of that over the last few weeks.
Sighing, I open the box lid and survey my twelve beautifully organized banana muffins. I was planning to take them home and freeze them—stock up for future emergencies—but I think I might just eat them all right now. Nothing requires comfort quite like discovering you’ve traveled through time and space only to set your boyfriend up with your little sister.
I ram one in my mouth and wait for heartbreak to hit.
It could be any time: the really big and life-changing emotions tend to have extremely large delays, as if they’re being sent via traditional mail, at Christmas, without the right postage.
“What?” I suddenly realize my sister is watching me eat. “What do you want from me now, Artemis? You’re not having one.”
“You still love nuffins.” She smiles. “Such a creature of habit.”
When I was a child, I refused to speak—everyone thought I couldn’t, but I just didn’t see the point until I could do it properly—but I did regularly demand nana-nuffins. Over time, that truncated to na-nuffin and finally nuffin. Obviously, I don’t call them nuffins anymore: I call them banana muffins because I am thirty-one years old and can enunciate properly.
“People always say that as if it’s a bad thing,” I snap, taking another giant bite. “A character flaw. Nobody says, hey, look at that squirrel, climbing trees and burying nuts, what a creature of habit. They say, hey, look. There’s a squirrel. Being a squirrel. I’m Cassandra. I do Cassandra things. Stop pointing them all out.”
“It wasn’t a criticism.” Artemis shuffles toward me. “I’ve just really missed it, that’s all.”
A soft wave of warmth passes through me, pale lilac, and then I hear her again.
I hate you.
You’re a monster.
Why can’t you just be normal?
“Sure.” I jump up. “And whose fault is that?”
There’s nothing to be angry about anymore, but there’s also nothing to stay here for. The man I love has decided he’d rather be with my closest blood relation—the person who has hurt me most—and there isn’t a single thing I can do about it.
Except...where am I supposed to go now?
I could go back to work, but I don’t know how long the Emotions are going to take to rock up: it could be hours, it could be weeks. I can’t risk having them all turn up at once in the middle of a brainstorm, or the kitchen, or at the watercooler. After all that effort, I’m not losing my job because of a meltdown in the office. I could go home, but Sal and Derek will almost definitely be there, and I’m not ready to pick that thread back up just yet. I could go to the museum, but if I implode there that’ll be one more place I can’t return to.
Obviously I could time travel—hop back and undo it all, prevent Artemis and Will from meeting—but that just seems petty. Anyway, I’m not touching time inappropriately again. My horological abilities were a gift from the gods and I should have realized that they come at a price: they always have done.
Also, Will has now dumped me in three different timelines; at some point, you’ve just got to let yourself stay dumped.
“You’re not leaving?” Art jumps up after me. “We’ve barely talked at all.”
“Exactly.” I frown. “Artemis, how do you know where I work? Obviously you know where I live, hence the letters and doorstepping, but work? My name isn’t on the Fawcett PR website. I made sure of it.”
“I went to your house and your flatmate told me everything.”
“Which one?”
“The handsome one that looks a bit like Apollo except his dick is right on his forehead instead of the floor.”
I laugh loudly and immediately resent her for it. “Derek.”
“Yeah. That’s the one.” Artemis looks chuffed at my laughter, which is extremely annoying. “Honestly, he seems like an asshole, Cass. He was hitting on me pretty much continuously. Speaking as your sister, albeit one you haven’t spoken to in a decade, I hope you’re not hooking up with him, because he’s the human equivalent of the spit dregs at the bottom of a pint.”
“Oh.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry. I’m not.”
The final piece of the puzzle has now slotted into place: in the original timeline, Artemis must have waited on the doorstep for me as she did this time, but I didn’t return home and Derek simply left her sitting there on her own. Which means she never spoke to him, didn’t find out where I work, didn’t call my office, didn’t speak to Sophie, didn’t go to the exhibition and never met Will. It’s such a tiny alteration, barely perceptible, and I will probably never be certain of exactly what caused it. Why did Derek decide to behave differently? Maybe he was arguing with Sal and Artemis was his revenge. Maybe I hadn’t responded to his charm that day the way he hoped I would; maybe he just felt particularly prickish.
Honestly, I can’t believe my fate hinged on a man who regularly uses words from other languages with a full British accent.
I pick up my muffin box and make to leave.
“Wait.” Artemis jumps in front of me with her arms out, as if she’s trying to herd me like sheep. “That can’t be it. It’s been ten years, Cass. Ten years. Please. I need to apologize properly for everything I said at the funeral. I was thinking maybe we could go to the pub? There’s also some really important stuff I want to talk to you about. Stuff that wasn’t in the letters.”
