Page 21 of I Know How This Ends

Polly arrives on my doorstep the next morning with an armful of folders, twins holding anxiously on to her legs like sailors

in a storm.

“First things first,” Polly says as she gently nudges Paige and Perry toward my living room with a pair of iPads. “Behave,

you two. Margot, we’re all about Damage Limitation right now. We can think of ways to rebuild your brand afterward.”

I watch the twins settle themselves without a word.

God, she’s impressive.

“Right,” I say faintly. “I’m not sure there’s going to be much to rebuild.”

I’ve spent yet another night awake, watching my business dismantle itself with the speed of the wind that hurtled over Barrow

Island in 1996 at a rate of 253 miles per hour: the fastest ever recorded. Angry comments are growing, and followers are still

dropping by the thousands. They “always knew” there was something “dodgy” about me, apparently. I don’t touch anything—Polly

has told me not to—but instead I simply watch as what I built over nearly a year dismantles. There’s a strange sense of familiarity:

here we go again. Poof. Gone.

Believe it or not, Barrow Island actually had no casualties.

This time, it’s just me.

“I did tell you not to look at what was happening,” Polly says with a wry smile, studying my deflated expression. “But something

tells me that not looking is not in your DNA, Margot.”

She sits herself at my dining table.

“I’ve written a script for you,” she says, pushing forward a piece of paper. “And don’t worry about memorizing it—I can get

it on a prompter.”

I pick it up and swallow. “Do you think it will help?”

“It can’t hurt.” She nods. “After that, we’ll need to make a plan to regain followers, get back sponsorship deals, reach out

to new ones. Maybe brands that actually exist, for starters.”

She smiles and I try to smile back. “I’m an idiot.”

“People have been forgiven for far worse than being an idiot,” she says, putting on glasses. “After we’ve managed the damage,

it might be a good idea to start expanding past Instagram. You’re a highly trained meteorologist, Margot. Your passion is

infectious, and it helps that you’re gorgeous. I think there could be some really exciting areas you could branch out into.

Media, radio, even television.”

“Mmm.” I look up from the script I’m studying intensely. “Sorry, what?”

“You must have thought about using your skills elsewhere,” she says in surprise.

“Um.” I think about what prompted my sudden career shift. Heartbreak, panic, jealousy, competition. “Not really.”

“Well. One step at a time.” Polly stands up and starts surveying my flat. “Let’s fight this particular fire first.”

I watch her study my bleak and empty living room and feel a sudden intense urge to explain that I’m not a woman with no personality:

I’m just working out what it actually is before I start distributing it everywhere.

“We don’t want this in front of a green screen,” she says firmly. “It needs to feel personal. Remind people you’re a real

person.”

“I am.” I follow her gaze and guess what she’s thinking. “At least, I think I am.”

“I know you are,” she laughs. “Do you have a book collection? Anything we can put on the shelves behind you so you seem more

personable?”

I shake my head: all my books stayed in Exeter. I assumed I’d return at some point to collect them, but it would mean seeing Aaron again, and frankly, I’d rather stab 2B pencils up my nose until I can draw lines on my eyeballs.

“That’s fine.” Polly evaluates the room and her obediently engrossed children, watching some kind of cartoon on the iPads.

“We’ll just pop you on the sofa and I’ll go grab some art from my house to jazz it up a bit in the background. Back in a minute.”

“Wait, no, I—”

She’s gone. Shit.

I stare at the twins, who—as if by magic—are no longer absorbed in cartoons. I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. This

is going to be fine. It’s two minutes, three, max. I can entertain children for three minutes. Right? I am not “no good with children.” I just haven’t had a chance yet, that’s all.

“Hello.” I perch myself in front of them. “I’m Margot. Fuck. You already know that, don’t you?”

“Fuck!” Paige agrees solemnly.

“Fuck.” Perry nods. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“No, no!” I wave my hands around frantically. “Not that! No! Shit.”

“Shit,” Paige tries out experimentally, rolling it around in her mouth. “Daddy says shit sometimes. Not fuck .”

“Not fuck ,” Perry agrees. “Fuck is one of the bad ones.”

I look in desperation at the front door, waiting for Polly to return, hear that I’ve broken her children with my potty mouth

and promptly leave again, taking the twins and what remains of my career with her.

“Hey!” I quickly jump up and grab the weather station blackboard from where I’ve stashed it at the back of the living room.

“Look what I’ve got! Doesn’t this look fun!”

The twins stand up and move toward it, eyes huge.

“See?” I point at the illustrated dial. “This one is showing us the season . Do you know what season it is now?”

They stare at me. “Sunny.”

“Well, no. Because that’s not a season. Summer would be the picture of the tree with all its leaves. Then there’s winter, which is the tree with no leaves. Spring, with blossoms. And autumn, with orange leaves. That’s what it is now. Just.”

I self-consciously move the dial while they stare at me.

“And do you know why we have seasons? It’s because the Earth is tilted on its orbital plane, and sometimes that’s toward the sun. That means longer

days and shorter nights. Then it tilts away, so there are shorter days and longer nights.”

Orbital planes might be a little too much for three-year-olds, but they’re still staring at me with wide eyes, so I crash on.

“When the days get shorter, hormones in the plants are triggered, which changes the colors of the leaves and causes them to

die and drop from the tree.”

Paige’s eyes grow very wide. “They’re dead?”

“Yes,” I confirm happily. “Super dead.”

Then I watch in horror as her little face screws up and her blue eyes start to fill.

“They’re dead ,” she starts to wail. “Perry, the leaves are dead. ”

“But they come back,” Perry says, trying to comfort her by wrapping his arms around her neck. “When it’s sunny. Don’t worry.”

“They don’t,” I say without thinking. “I’m afraid they’re different leaves.”

Now Perry starts to cry too.

“Gosh,” Polly says from behind me as the twins sob incoherently into the air. “Chaos. How long was I gone?”

“Mummmmyyyyy,” Paige sobs, lobbing herself forward to cling to a leg again. “Margot says leaves die and they don’t come back and they’re just orange because they’re saying goodbye .”

“Well,” Polly says calmly as I try to stop Perry from ripping the windsock off the blackboard in a fit of anguish. “Isn’t

that lovely, darling? They turn orange to tell you they’ve lived a happy life and now they’re done. Thank you for explaining

it so nicely, Margot.”

Paige’s wails grow slightly softer, and I turn around.

My blood freezes.

In Polly’s pale hands is a giant painting: bright blues and turquoise with flecks of silver.

I know this painting. It’s the unfamiliar painting in my vision of a future with Henry: same size, same colors, same details.

In shock, I watch as Polly walks it round the room, pausing by the fireplace, over the television, by the window.

Breath held, I wait for her to take it to the wall behind the sofa—which she does.

“There,” she says, holding it up. “Doesn’t that look perfect?”

I suddenly feel dizzy.

Is it the future? Is that what I’m seeing? Am I going to be watching my life build, piece by piece, like a Lego house with a

picture on the front of the box, knowing exactly how it’s going to look? If so, is that a good thing?

“You know what?” Polly smiles at me. “This painting doesn’t really fit our color scheme, but it was a wedding gift, so I can’t

get rid of it. Why don’t we leave it there, just for a little bit? Bring some life into the room.”

I swallow. It’ll be here at least a year and a half. “OK.”

The painting goes on an empty nail on the wall and I find myself looking around the room, wondering when everything else will

start turning up: the black-and-white photos, the cushions, the antique portrait of the lady. It’s a sense of déjà vu, except

now working backward. Jamais vu. Never seen.

“Are you OK, Margot?” Polly grabs the camera and settles the twins back down again in one seamless movement. “You look like

you’ve seen a ghost.”

I suppose I’ve spent so long haunted by the past, it’s extremely bewildering to have the future following me instead.

“Not quite,” I smile. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”

I sit on the sofa, trying to refocus, then pick up the script again and clear my throat.

“Right.” Polly looks up at the camera. “We’re going to keep this short and sweet. Just say the words and we’ll edit later.

Action.”

“Action?” My nostrils twitch. “Is this Hollywood?”

“Sorry.” She laughs brightly and her entire face changes: her composure shatters slightly. “I wasn’t sure what other word to use. You know— go .”

Smiling, I breathe out and quickly scan the paper again.

“Hello,” I say, looking up and into the lens. “This is Mar—”

A familiar wave of cold rushes through me.

Fuck. Not now, not here, not—

“This is M—”

The room flickers, blurs, and I’m hanging on to the present by my fingertips.

“This is—”

And I’m gone.

Cautiously, I open my eyes.

This time, I have no idea where I am: it’s a totally unfamiliar location. I look around with a slightly nauseous spin, a sensation

of vertigo, as if I’m on a boat. I’m lying under a thick mustard blanket, on—I pull it slightly to the side—a dark green velvet

couch. It’s nighttime, and in front of me is an ornate Victorian fireplace covered with lit candles, and there’s a bowl of

something green on the coffee table in front of me. Surprised, I prod it slightly: soup. It’s soup. A stale piece of cold

toast is perched next to it with a faint air of disappointment.