I laugh. “So, shall we do it? You don’t think I’m being too keen?”

  “I think you’re being embarrassingly keen.” Henry holds his hand out and smiles. “And I absolutely bloody love it. Let’s go.”

  Henry and I walk all the way to Bath.

  Holding hands the whole way, we stroll along the dark railway line, chatting the entire time. I find out that he comes from a town just outside Manchester—hence the delicious accent—and that he has an English degree and worked as a teacher until his early thirties.

  “Fifteen years of medical training just seemed way too long when I was younger,” he explained. “Too much of my life to invest. Then I turned round one day and realized I was the age I would have been if I’d just done what I really loved in the first place. Time was going to happen with or without my input, so I might as well spend it wisely.”

  Just like that: as if he understands the answer to a question the rest of us don’t even know how to ask.

  “And you wouldn’t go back to teaching, just temporarily?”

  Henry shakes his head. “I can’t risk giving myself an alternative route in case I get stuck in it by accident.”

  Every layer of Henry just makes him more extraordinary. I want to know everything about him: what food he likes, what makes him laugh, what sets his world on fire, what makes him anxious, and it feels like I’ll never run out of questions to ask.

  And Henry wants to know all about me: about my unplaceable accent (a strange hybrid of Bristolian and Australian), my relationship with my grandfather and how I feel now my parents live so far away, about Eve’s baby journey and the articles Jules writes and the way my friends feel part of me in some integral way, like organs.

  By the time we arrive in Bath, Henry feels like somebody I have always known.

  Somebody I will always want to know.

  But mainly what I feel is gratitude to my visions, for forcing me to give Henry a chance. Because if that’s all they’ve done, I’ll take it. If they don’t come true? It’s still enough. I can take it from here, Universe. Signs acknowledged, I’ve got it.

  “So.” Henry stops outside a regal, decaying period property. “This is me.”

  “You’re very old,” I observe, looking up. “With extremely big windows and ornate moldings.”

  “Tricky to heat is what everyone says about me.” Henry smiles and takes a step toward me. This time, there’s no hesitation. “I like you, Margot. You’re scary but kind of impressive.”

  “Like a box jellyfish.”

  “No.” He grins and puts his hands on either side of my face. “Like a shark. Ha—I think I shall call you Meg the Megalodon.”

  My stomach glows. That’s exactly what he called me in my vision, and I can literally feel the future fitting into place like a perfect jigsaw. It’s just another piece of evidence that I can’t have imagined: it’s all coming true.

  “Aren’t they extinct?”

  “Well, I just found one. With a bite that could crush a car.”

  “Just kiss me,” I grin with an eye roll. “And stop talking about fish.”

  As Henry kisses me, the fire leaps from my stomach through my chest and into my arms until they wrap around him like two magnets. I feel fifteen again: as if this is my first kiss, my last kiss, and everything in between.

  “Should I call you a cab?” We separate reluctantly. “To get you safely back to Bristol?”

  I study Henry’s face, wondering how I ever found it anything other than beautiful. It is a perfect face: a face I want to swipe right on, as many times as I possibly can.

  “No,” I say firmly. “I’m coming in.”

  It’s amazing how quickly I’ve adjusted to the extraordinary.

  In less than two weeks, I have gone from bewildered by my visions to taking them in my stride. As Henry shows me with sweet pride around a flat I’ve already seen before, I note with bizarre complacency the dark green velvet couch covered in a thick mustard blanket: the very one I will (possibly?) be sweating and shivering under at some point in the future. I note the same ornate Victorian fireplace—candles unlit this time—the oil painting of a ship and the dark gray walls still the color of a pavement in the rain.

  With a sense of slight bemusement—something is off—I frown and study the room, suddenly realizing that the large indoor tree is in a different place. I feel a lurch of my stomach: what if the tree stays there? If that one thing changes, does the future peel away like cheap wallpaper? And if so, how do I stick it back up?

  “Oh,” Henry says, following my gaze. “Hang on.”

  Without another word, he walks over and lugs it to the exact spot in the window alcove where I saw it in my vision.

  “Henry.” I stare at him. “Why did you do that?”

  Time feels flickering and delicate, like a candle about to blow out.

  “Oh.” Henry scratches his beard. “That’s where it normally lives. I only moved it because Winnie was doing some kind of dance routine in front of the window yesterday.”

  With a bewildered nod, I gaze around the room, taking in details I was too sick to notice last time. Henry’s flat is full of character, just like him. Trinkets collected and books with broken spines; paintings, plants and lights. I nod in appreciation: this is what a home should feel like. It just begs the question of why we move into mine, not his. Surely it would make sense the other way round?

  There’s a collection of framed photos organized on the mantelpiece, and I pause to study them. One is clearly of Amy—laughing with a baby Winter in her arms—and my chest hurts: I cannot conceive of that great a loss. Poor, poor Henry. Poor, poor Winnie.

  My stomach suddenly drops. “Who is this?”

  It’s a large black-and-white photograph of a beautiful lady dressed in a flapper costume with arched eyebrows and a wry smile. More significantly, it’s the unknown portrait in the gold frame that I saw on the wall in my vision of my flat.

  “That’s my grandmother,” Henry says with warmth. “She died when I was little, but I still miss her. You’re so lucky to still have your grandfather.”

  “I am.” I smile: another piece of the puzzle slots into place.

  “So . . .” Henry puts his arms around me and I feel myself soften into the solidity of him. “What do you think? Are my crumbling original features a deal-breaker?”

  “Well,” I laugh. “Actually, I think they’re something I could—”

  A familiar chill runs down my spine: time is shivering through me like sand in an hourglass, moving me from one place to another.

  We’re on a windswept beach, and Henry’s arms are still around me. I’m swaddled in a woolly hat and scarf. I feel myself immediately relax in Henry’s arms: whenever or wherever I am now, he’s still here. It’s no longer frightening because I’m now certain that all my visions will have him in them; I will never have to be here on my own.

  “You’ve gone again,” he says in a low voice.

  “Oh.” I blink, then stare at the sea in an attempt to ground myself: choppy, gray, it looks like winter. “Yes. Sorry. Where are we?”

  Somehow, this version of me has managed to infiltrate Future Margot in order to ask a basic geographical question; I think I’m slowly gaining a tiny bit of control over her. Even if it makes us both sound stupid.

  “Weston-super-Mare.” Henry takes my question in his stride—I’m clearly forgetful in the future—and kisses the side of my suddenly cold, runny nose. “I treat you to all the most exotic locations.”

  “You certainly do.”

  Instinctively, I lift my hand to wipe the dribble from my nose and feel something sharp catch the side of my nostril. With a pulse of shock, I pull my hand away and stare at it. There’s a gold band on my ring finger: small, dainty, with the world’s tiniest diamond.

  “Holy fuck,” I say out loud.

  “Yes, it’s pretty impressive.” Henry grins and squeezes me tightly. “Thanks for the sweary validation.”

  I stare at the ring in amazement. Bloody hell.

  This relationship just went from first proper date to engaged in literally thirty seconds: it’s the fastest courtship known to man. Apparently I don’t just move in with Henry, I’m going to marry him, or at least agree to. For a second, I feel a twist of fear—not another bloody wedding—and then it abruptly disappears. Henry is not Aaron. Our wedding will not be that not-wedding. Even this ring feels exactly as it should: comfortable, small, sweet. It fits my hand in a way the other one never did. More importantly, I can feel my contentment, or—more specifically—Other Margot’s contentment: a sense that everything is right.

  She’s happy. So incredibly, unfeasibly happy, and I’m suddenly grateful to her for letting me share a few moments of it.

  “I love it,” I say quietly. “It’s perfect.”

  “I think it should have been amethyst,” a little voice behind me says breathlessly. “When I get married, it’s going to be a bright purple amethyst or I’m saying no thank you very much, I’ll marry someone with better taste.”

  Henry chuckles, and as I spin round, Winter zooms off again toward the ocean and my breath catches. She’s taller, lankier. Her hair is darker and much longer, knotted by the wind. She must be about nine years old.

  Three years. We get engaged in three years.

  “Henry,” I feel myself say quietly, “I want you to know that—”

  And I’m back.

  Except . . . what did I want him to know? It suddenly feels like it was Future Margot slipping in again and taking back the reins. Trying to tell him something important from the future; I just don’t know what it was.

  “Hey.” Henry frowns and pulls away slightly, studying my face. “You OK?”

  We’re back in the living room: my clothes are different, my nose is no longer running. I look down briefly. My ring finger is empty again. A thread of happiness tugs through me, like a bright gold string: not at the ring’s absence, but at its potential arrival.

  “I’m good.” I nod. “Sorry, I just . . . got lost for a second there.”

  Because when I’m there, in the future, I can feel exactly what Other Margot feels: her emotions momentarily become mine. Which makes logical sense to me. If it is the future, then I am all the Margots. I am the Margot to come and the Margot of now, but I’m also the Margot that remembers the vision when she gets there, so I simultaneously become the Margot of the past too.

  For those few, confusing seconds, I am all the different versions of me in one place.

  And all I feel when I’m there is . . . love.

  Not just for Henry—that’s pretty clear by now—but for Winter too. As I watched this little girl I’ve yet to meet run to the edges of the waves, squeaking at the cold and hopping up and down, I felt an almost painful kind of love: one I’ve never experienced before. It’s fierce, almost feral, as if I would fight the entire ocean if it tried to even touch her feet. It’s a lot to adjust to, in three seconds: that much brand-new love, in one go.

  “So . . .” Henry smiles. “What do you want to do now?”

  The love is still there. Not in the same intensity—I haven’t got to it yet—but I can feel the spark of the beginning, glowing in my chest.

  “I want to stay the night,” I state simply. “With you. If that’s OK.”

  Henry laughs so loudly I flinch slightly, moderately concerned he may have burst one of my eardrums.

  “So direct,” he says with a chuckle. “I think I’ll allow it.”

  16

  “Margot? Margot, wake up.”

  “Nope.”

  A short laugh. “I mean it, Margot. You have to go.”

  “Already?” With gritty eyes, I roll backward and smile at Henry over my shoulder. “For a wannabe doctor, your bedside manner is terrible.”

  Henry grins and kisses my shoulder blade, his silver fringe tufting upward at the front like a cute duck. All I’ll say is that last night was exactly the kind of sex I’d hope for with a man I’m planning on potentially spending the rest of my life with. Sex that is statistically only going to get better, which at this point seems physically impossible, but I’m very much looking forward to giving it a go anyway.

  “What time is it?” I rub my eyes. “Have we slept until evening?”

  “It’s seven a.m.,” Henry says, grabbing a sock and hopping round the room, trying to pull it on. I watch his lovely back with a slightly smug cat smile on my face, staring at the star-constellation moles on his back. I am much more familiar with them now. “My mum just texted. She’s on her way with Winter.”

  All smugness and any remaining sleepiness evaporate immediately.

  “Wait—what? Now?”

  “Now.” Henry’s clearly panicking too. “Winnie had a bad night and she insisted on coming home first thing. It’s Sod’s Law—she normally angles to stay over there as long as possible. Where’s your bloody jacket gone?”

  “Winter’s coming now?” I repeat, frozen to the spot.

  “I know,” he says desperately, spinning in a circle around the bedroom. “No offense, but it’s way too early for you to meet her.”

  Absolutely no offense taken. It’s way too early. I need to prepare properly before I meet the tiny human who’s potentially going to play such a huge part in my life. I have a rather nasty habit of trying to shake the hands of children before desperately handing them loose change from my pocket.

  Henry’s phone beeps and he glances at it with wild eyes. “Five minutes!”

  “Oh crap,” I say, snapping into action. “I need to go.”

  Panic spreading, I grab my jacket from behind a curtain and we both run like chickens around his apartment looking for my handbag. It has apparently evaporated, much like any of the residual sexiness from last night. Nothing punctures giddiness quite like two people screaming shiiiiiiittt while looking under the sofa.

  Henry looks up hopefully. “Can you go without it?”

  I stare at him for a few seconds. “Not unless I want to be homeless, penniless and uncontactable for the foreseeable future, no.”

  “Sorry.” He grimaces. “Got a bit carried away there.”

  “The fridge!” I shout, standing up and running into the kitchen. “I put it on top of the fridge! Got it!” With a cry of triumph, I grab my handbag and hold it aloft as if I’ve just won an Olympic medal. “Score!”

  “Oh, thank God.” Henry breathes out. “Right. To be clear, I had every plan of making you a coffee and then taking you out for an elaborate brunch, but we’re going to have to put a pin in that because I do not want to explain to my six-year-old why a stranger is in her house for the first time ever at seven a.m. on a Saturday.”

  “Really?” I glow at him. “The first time ever?”

  “Focus, Megalodon,” he laughs, grabbing me and giving me a very quick kiss. I feel myself instinctively lean in for another one. He goes with it for a few seconds, then sighs and breaks away. “And when I see you next, I’ll tell you what an amazing evening I had and how great I think you are. But right now you have to go.”

  “I’m gone,” I say quickly, giving him a third kiss. “I’ll look forward to a full evaluation of our time together when I see you next. With a grade, ideally.”

  “It’s a solid A-minus,” Henry grins. “This has brought us down from an A-plus.”

  He gives me another quick peck, as if we’re magnets and can’t seem to stop touching each other, and a wave of warmth pulses through my face: I’ve never been so happy to be unceremoniously booted out of someone’s home.

  “Shoes!” Henry shouts as I open the front door.

  “Got them!” I grab them from the welcome mat and take a few steps backward, barefoot. “I’ll text you when I get—”

  There’s a small noise behind me and I freeze.

  Fuckity fucking fuck—

  Slowly, I turn round. Winter is standing directly behind me, at the top of the iron staircase that leads up to Henry’s flat. Her hair is in the wonky plaits traditionally given by grandparents. This may be my first real-life sighting of her, but she looks—and by this point, there’s no surprise at all—exactly as I knew she would: just slightly smaller, and with a missing front tooth. Behind her, a lady who looks astonishingly like Henry is staring at me in bemusement: silver hair, same brown eyes, same strong albeit unbroken nose.

  One more minute: that’s all I needed to get away unseen.

  One minute, and I spent it kissing Henry four times. Can’t say I regret it, if I’m being fully honest.

  “Who are you?” Winter’s voice is high-pitched but sweet, a little bird singing. “And why aren’t you wearing your shoes?”

  Henry’s mother looks me up and down, seeing everything: just like her son.

  I turn to where the front door is opening again and Henry is now standing with a shell-shocked expression on his face.

  “Um,” Henry says, rubbing a hand on top of his head. “So, this is—”

  “I’m your new cleaner,” I improvise quickly. “I like to clean very early in the morning. You know, before everyone wakes up.” I look down with a wave of inspiration. “And I take my shoes off so I don’t muddy up the floor! Saves time.”

  Henry’s mother isn’t buying it, and neither—sadly—is Winter. The little girl glowers at me suspiciously, and I have to bite back a smile: she has the exact same expression as her dad when he’s concentrating.

  “So if you just got here, why were you leaving? And where’s all your cleaning stuff?”

  I thought children were supposed to be easy to lie to: the entire industry of Christmas is kind of based on this premise.

  That, and bribery.

  “I’m, uh, just cleaning the welcome mat first.” I quickly bend down and pick a bit of mud off it, then randomly toss it into their neighbor’s garden. “Done! And I’m going to use your cleaning equipment. So it smells the same.”

  I glance back at Henry and see he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

  Thanks for the support, buddy.

  “OK . . .” Winter’s face relaxes slightly. “But you mustn’t touch my teddies. They’re arranged in the exact right order.”

 

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