appears, then another, revealing the shortest denim miniskirt you've ever seen, followed by a low-cut vest showing off a generous amount of cleavage. God, what a tart , instantly flashes through my mind. Her hair is hanging in a dark, curly sheet over the side of her face, and as she gets out of the car, she turns away from me and walks round to the back of the Beetle.
'Fuck,' she curses loudly, as she sees her crumpled bumper. 'Fucking bastard lamp-post.'
And rough too, I decide with disdain. And to think for a moment there I thought she somehow bore some resemblance to me. I mean, as if! Feeling somewhat ridiculous, I stuff my book into my bag and stand up. I've seen enough. OK, so she's driving my old car and living in my old street, so what?
She turns.
And I freeze. It's like someone just dropped a ten-ton weight on my stomach. That can't be.
That can't possibly be —
As I see her face up close, my mind goes into freefall. I'd assumed it was a trick of the light, a combination of not enough sleep and too much stress, but now…
Steadying myself on a nearby railing, I squeeze my eyes shut. My mind feels like that symbol on my iBook that whirls round and round when I've opened too many programs and it's confused and overloaded and about to crash at any minute. Because this isn't a case of mistaken identity, a lookalike, a stranger who used to look like I did when I was twenty-one. I know her - all five foot six, miniskirted, scrunch-dried, black-eyelinered, suntanned, twenty-one-year-old bit of her. I snap my eyes wide open.
It's me.
OK, this is scaring the living daylights out of me. This cannot be real. This can't actually be happening, I know that, with every single inch of my rational, sensible, thirty-one-year-old self. I know there is only one of me. That's an absolute, a truth not even Dad could argue against. Which means I'm seeing things. I'm hallucinating. I'm losing my mind . As the door to number thirty-nine slams shut and she disappears inside, I come to and set off down the street at a canter, my heels clattering against the pavement as I hurry towards my car. OK, Charlotte, just calm down. You're going to go home, take a Valium and put yourself to bed. Sleep this thing off. Maybe tomorrow even take the morning off work, get some rest—
Shit.
I've got another parking ticket! Reaching my car, I see a familiar plastic envelope slapped on my windscreen. Bloody typical. Snatching it up from under the wiper, I glare at it in annoyance. That's just ridiculous. I've only been gone five minutes. Ripping it open, I scan the details. Car/Make Model: VW Beetle
Offence: parking in a permit-controlled area.
Time: 6.28 p.m.
Date: 21 August 1997
What? My heart pounds as I stare at it, the date swimming before my eyes - 1997, 1997, 1997…
My hands are shaking. No, that just can't be, that just can't be —
Panicked, I drop the ticket. And as it flutters to the pavement, I jump into my car, fire up the engine and screech away from the kerb. I need to get the hell out of here. And fast. Chapter Ten
Hi, Beatrice. It's me, Charlotte. I'm calling in sick.' 'Oh my gosh, you poor darling. What's wrong?'
'I think I have a brain tumour.'
'Sshhhh!' I hear a loud hiss and I glance across the waiting room to see the receptionist glaring in my direction through a potted fern. 'Can't you read the sign? No mobile phones allowed in the doctor's surgery.'
It's the next morning and I'm sitting on a hard plastic chair, surrounded by dog-eared magazines and lots of ill people, waiting to see my GP. Last night I got home, took a Valium and must have immediately crashed out, as I don't remember anything until six o'clock this morning, when I woke up fully clothed on my bed feeling slightly groggy. For like a second, until - boom - what happened yesterday came rushing back to me and suddenly I was wide awake. And worrying.
People always advise you to sleep on things, the theory being you're going to wake up miraculously
'Fuck,' she curses loudly, as she sees her crumpled bumper. 'Fucking bastard lamp-post.'
And rough too, I decide with disdain. And to think for a moment there I thought she somehow bore some resemblance to me. I mean, as if! Feeling somewhat ridiculous, I stuff my book into my bag and stand up. I've seen enough. OK, so she's driving my old car and living in my old street, so what?
She turns.
And I freeze. It's like someone just dropped a ten-ton weight on my stomach. That can't be.
That can't possibly be —
As I see her face up close, my mind goes into freefall. I'd assumed it was a trick of the light, a combination of not enough sleep and too much stress, but now…
Steadying myself on a nearby railing, I squeeze my eyes shut. My mind feels like that symbol on my iBook that whirls round and round when I've opened too many programs and it's confused and overloaded and about to crash at any minute. Because this isn't a case of mistaken identity, a lookalike, a stranger who used to look like I did when I was twenty-one. I know her - all five foot six, miniskirted, scrunch-dried, black-eyelinered, suntanned, twenty-one-year-old bit of her. I snap my eyes wide open.
It's me.
OK, this is scaring the living daylights out of me. This cannot be real. This can't actually be happening, I know that, with every single inch of my rational, sensible, thirty-one-year-old self. I know there is only one of me. That's an absolute, a truth not even Dad could argue against. Which means I'm seeing things. I'm hallucinating. I'm losing my mind . As the door to number thirty-nine slams shut and she disappears inside, I come to and set off down the street at a canter, my heels clattering against the pavement as I hurry towards my car. OK, Charlotte, just calm down. You're going to go home, take a Valium and put yourself to bed. Sleep this thing off. Maybe tomorrow even take the morning off work, get some rest—
Shit.
I've got another parking ticket! Reaching my car, I see a familiar plastic envelope slapped on my windscreen. Bloody typical. Snatching it up from under the wiper, I glare at it in annoyance. That's just ridiculous. I've only been gone five minutes. Ripping it open, I scan the details. Car/Make Model: VW Beetle
Offence: parking in a permit-controlled area.
Time: 6.28 p.m.
Date: 21 August 1997
What? My heart pounds as I stare at it, the date swimming before my eyes - 1997, 1997, 1997…
My hands are shaking. No, that just can't be, that just can't be —
Panicked, I drop the ticket. And as it flutters to the pavement, I jump into my car, fire up the engine and screech away from the kerb. I need to get the hell out of here. And fast. Chapter Ten
Hi, Beatrice. It's me, Charlotte. I'm calling in sick.' 'Oh my gosh, you poor darling. What's wrong?'
'I think I have a brain tumour.'
'Sshhhh!' I hear a loud hiss and I glance across the waiting room to see the receptionist glaring in my direction through a potted fern. 'Can't you read the sign? No mobile phones allowed in the doctor's surgery.'
It's the next morning and I'm sitting on a hard plastic chair, surrounded by dog-eared magazines and lots of ill people, waiting to see my GP. Last night I got home, took a Valium and must have immediately crashed out, as I don't remember anything until six o'clock this morning, when I woke up fully clothed on my bed feeling slightly groggy. For like a second, until - boom - what happened yesterday came rushing back to me and suddenly I was wide awake. And worrying.
People always advise you to sleep on things, the theory being you're going to wake up miraculously
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