Page 36 of I Know How This Ends

I stay with Henry and Winter for all of it. I don’t leave, they don’t ask me to, and as the days pass, I realize how right it all feels. Wandering about in my star pajamas, watching terrible films while I recuperate, making pancakes for Winter

when Henry goes to work and waking up every morning to him checking my temperature with his funny little bedside-table thermometer.

I sit quietly next to him, reading a book while he studies, watching cooking shows (no pavlova yet, thank God) and—when I’m

feeling better—giggling every time he grabs me for a kiss while Winter’s out of the room. I discover that the lemon-and-pepper

scent is a new aftershave he bought “to impress” me, but apparently I told him when I was sick that it makes him smell like

a “sexy chicken,” so he’s a little disappointed.

Henry was also right that Winnie didn’t get the flu anywhere near as badly as I did—she probably doesn’t live off pot noodles—and after a couple of days she bounces back and very sweetly tries to “nurse me back to health”: copying her dad by conscientiously patting my forehead with flannels she’s found under the sink and which I don’t have the heart to tell her are meant for cleaning the oven.

“Sssshhhh,” she tells me, hauling some fresh ice cubes out of the freezer and vigorously rubbing them all over my face. “You’ll

feel better soon, don’t worry.”

One of the ice cubes sticks to my cheek and she rips it off: ouch .

“I think I’m better now,” I say as firmly as possible.

“Sssssshhh,” she says again, having none of it. “You’re very, very sick, maybe dying, so you just lie down and be quiet. I’m a trained vet, you know.”

Alarmed, I watch her wander off, presumably to find a cone for my head.

By the time I’ve regained my health, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know these two beautiful humans—when they weren’t

an integral part of my daily life—and when it’s finally time, I don’t want to go.

“You can stay longer,” Henry says for the third time as I gather my belongings, which consist of a phone, a coat and a ruined

red satin dress. “There’s no rush at all. In fact, as your new not-quite-doctor boyfriend, I highly recommend staying. Vague

safety reasons and so on.”

“I really do have to go home.” I smile at him. “I have a life I need to get back to.”

“Fair.” Henry pauses. “You know, it feels like I’ve known you a really long time, Margot. I’m not sure how, or why, because

it makes no sense, but it feels like I have.”

I feel it too, and wonder if my visions have left a mark. As if, somehow, a part of him knows what’s coming for us too, just

without having to see it first.

And it is coming. For the first time, I’m sure.

“Soppy bastard,” I smile, throwing my coat over my arm. “Thank you for taking care of me. I’ll text you when I’m home.”

Except I don’t.

Because just as I’m walking up the path to my flat, I see Polly. She’s climbing out of a blue car in her driveway, followed

by three small, giggling blond children, and—panicked—I instinctively pretend I haven’t seen her. She’s been leaving long

voicemails all week, and I’ve been far too mortified to listen to them. It took me three whole days of vomiting to realize

I’d accidentally ghosted the interview, and I’m guessing our budding friendship is now firmly over.

“Margot!” Polly waves at me as she opens her front door. “Hang on! Kids, get in, grab an orange juice carton each out of the

fridge and I’ll be there in a second.”

Then she crosses toward me and I look for an escape route.

Shit. She knows where I live.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, holding my hands up as if she’s about to shoot me. “I disappeared on you, there’s no excuse, but

I was really—”

“Oh, hush.” Polly shakes her head in exasperation. “Are you alright? Henry told me how sick you were and I’ve felt awful about

it all week. I assumed you’d freaked out, but I should have realized you wouldn’t just evaporate without a good reason. I’m

so sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I say in relief.

“No, I am.”

“I am.”

“How about we’re both sorry,” Polly laughs.

“And Charlie?” I wince slightly. “Does she know I was ill?”

“Ah.” Polly clears her throat. “Charlie’s not picking up my calls. She came all the way to Bristol from London for that interview,

and I don’t think she was super happy about it just being me and a stale piece of cake.”

I deflate further. “So what do we do now?”

“I’m not sure,” Polly admits, at a visible loss for the first time since I met her. “I’ve been approaching all my media contacts but haven’t had any bites. Apparently there’s ‘just no market for a show like that.’”

We stare at each other for a few seconds, both willing each other to remain hopeful but failing.

“This is it,” I say flatly. “Isn’t it? The end of my meteorology career.”

My voice catches slightly.

“I’ll think of something,” she promises me, rubbing my arm. “Just leave it with—”

Behind her, a blue car door opens. I stare at the man leisurely climbing out of the driver’s seat: ridiculously handsome and

well dressed, all five foot ten of him.

“Pols,” he says flatly, still looking at his phone, “do you want me to take the car seat out of the—”

Peter looks up and locks eyes with me.

His face changes color, and his eyes widen so abruptly he looks like one of those fluid-filled toys that’s just been squeezed.

I hold his gaze without looking away. His LOL-ing days are now very much numbered, and he knows it.

“Oh!” Polly smiles at him, distracted. “Don’t worry about it, Pete. Leave it in there. I’ve got to take Paige to the dentist’s

in an hour anyway.”

She looks back to me, apparently not noticing anything amiss.

“This is Margot,” Polly adds easily, gesturing toward me. “She moved in not very long ago. I was just saying hi.”

“Hi,” I say through gritted teeth.

OK: that’s slightly weird. She hasn’t mentioned me before? Not even once? Hasn’t she been making copious notes about branding

me for the last two weeks?

“Hello, Margot.” Peter lifts a hand, trying to control his face. “Nice to meet you.”

“Mummy!” a small voice screams from the house. “Perry took the last orange juice and it’s not fair because he likes apple juice too and I don’t and he says I have to have apple instead and you have to come in and make him give it baaaaaaack !”

Polly closes her eyes briefly and pinches the bridge of her nose. It’s nice to know her children are normal and not the well-behaved

little clones I initially thought they were.

“Bloody hell,” Polly sighs. “God forbid they share an orange juice.”

Then she opens her eyes and smiles brightly—“Coming!”—before hurrying toward the house and lobbing a farewell wave at me.

“I’ll text you, OK?”

I nod, slightly bewildered by the vagueness. “OK.”

Then I turn back to Peter. He looks even more alarmed—what are we texting each other about?—and presumably is also trying

to work out the odds of this happening, much like I did. He’s an accountant. I’d imagine he can do the math quicker .

“Um,” he says slowly as soon as Polly’s gone. “Ah.”

“ Margot. ” I point to myself and jab my collarbone a few times. “Mar-got. M, A, R, G, O, T. And how do you spell Peter? Is it J, O, H,

N?”

Peter flinches and I suddenly want to smack him: did he actually think I was just going to let him get away with it?

“You’re...” He takes a deep breath. “Not going to tell her, right?”

Oh. Yes. Apparently, he did.

“Of course I’m going to tell her.” I scowl at him, now absolutely furious. The sheer audacity of this man . “You bought an Italian dinner, not me . ”

And I turn and slam back into my house.