Page 37 of I Know How This Ends

But a fire has been lit.

I’m not sitting around any longer, waiting for the great hand of fate—or Polly—to fix my life for me. I will not be lulled

into a false sense of security, like Macbeth, but I won’t be defeated by visions of failure either. And I sure as hell will

not allow men to decide the pattern my life takes, yet again.

Who I become will not be decided by Other Margot, or anyone else. I am going to choose what I want, make a decision and carve

my own route: shaping the landscape around me by force, like a strong wind. I will not be just blown around by the breeze

of other people, even if that person is my... future self.

Still furious—fucking Pete— I pull out my notepads.

With venom, I go to the back of my cupboard and find one forgotten photo album: the only one that didn’t get burned with everything else.

Impatiently, I rip out every photo of me and Aaron—drunk, giggling, hiding the truth behind happy selfies—and throw them in the bin.

Then I grab my laptop and printer and set to work.

I start with extreme weather conditions, always exciting.

I note down physical demonstrations, where possible: the size of the largest hailstone ever recorded—bigger than a melon—and how quickly the hottest temperature on Earth could cook an egg.

Blood rain (caused by microalgae spores); the strongest wind; the biggest tornado.

I remember that the longest recorded lightning flash was an unbelievable 790 kilometers, which is roughly the distance from London to Zurich, so I diligently draw that on a map too.

I print out images and scrawl notes about how the moon affects tides and how the planet is lopsided; that you measure snow

accurately by melting it down.

Then I move on to seasons, climate change, rainbows and satellites.

Fogs and fires, floods and heatwaves.

The scope is never-ending—the world is full of infinite content—and as I bury myself in my work, I can’t remember the last

time I was this fired up.

Finally, exhausted and covered in paper cuts, I turn on my video camera.

“Hello, Charlie,” I say in a clear and steady voice. “This is Margot the Meteorologist. I can understand why you think I’m

not the right person for this show, but I want to prove to you that I am.”

I pause and hold up the scrapbook, now stuffed full, and point at the huge words I’ve scribbled across it: Weather or Not .

“In this book, enclosed, I have included detailed ideas for our weather show . I want it to be interactive, where kids can ask as many questions as they want. Perhaps with a little mascot, some kind of

cartoon. A lightning bolt, or a raindrop.”

Winter would like that, wouldn’t she? I shall take her as my guide.

“Why am I right for this? I have a decade of experience working as a meteorologist, plus almost a year of creating successful

video content for social media. But, more importantly, I have an entire lifetime of loving the sky and everything that comes

from it. This is the job I was meant to do.”

I can’t go back to the Met Office, but that’s OK: I don’t want to.

I want to move forward .

“So if you give me another chance, I will bring everything I have to help you make a show that captures the imaginations of children all over the world. I will bring the fresh ideas you were looking for. And I will—”

Cold runs through me.

For God’s sake, not now, I am concentrating —

I ’ m staring at Henry.

His face is all I can see, all I want to see, and it is so beautiful, so warm, so incredibly kind; the little silvery hairs

in his beard are shining like metal. I smile at him—hello, you—then realize with alarm that his eyes are slightly wet, as

if he’s about to start crying.

“Are you OK?” I whisper, taking his hand.

“Yes,” he whispers back, squeezing my fingers.

I squeeze back, then become faintly aware that we’re still staring at each other and there’s piano music playing, except it

sounds like it’s coming from a real piano, and it feels as if I’m supposed to say something?

Blinking, I pull my eyes away from his face and look down. What the—

Bloody hell, am I wearing a long white dress?

“Henry...” I say in shock, then hold out a foot so I can check what kind of shoes I’m wearing. Yup, they’re white too—flat,

with beads all over them. Now I glance up at Henry more carefully. He’s wearing a dark gray tux, with a little purple flower

in the buttonhole, and when I look slightly down I see Winter—taller, about ten years old, hair beautifully plaited—beaming

at me, wearing a matching purple dress.

She gives me an encouraging nod and my heart squeezes.

“I think it’s your turn,” Henry whispers. “Take your time. No big deal.”

Nodding—I was going to, thank you—I turn to my side and see Polly standing there with Eve, both in lilac with yellow bouquets.

Eve has clearly been crying (her nose is all pink), but Polly is standing steadfast, as always.

Amazed, I look upward: we’re outside, under a bower of lilac and yellow flowers—wow, we really went hard on the purple theme—and huge trees stretch all the way around us.

Huh. I’m getting married in the middle of a wood.

That seems very unlike me: did I put up a fight?

Did I complain about the mud? I look at the fairy lights hanging in the trees.

It’s so beautiful. No, I do not think I put up a fight. Everything is absolutely perfect.

Still bewildered, I turn to look at the crowd—a sea of faces I don’t recognize; Henry must have a lot of friends—when there’s

a tug on my dress.

Amazed, I look down.

A little boy with brown curls, about four years old, is trying to talk to me. He’s so gorgeous, so completely beautiful, and

I can feel the fierce love I have for him rising up like a tide. I bend down slightly and put a hand on the top of his fluffy head. Oh

my God—is this my child? Is this my child with Henry?

My eyes fill and suddenly I can’t speak.

“Not just yet, Gus,” I hear Henry whisper gently. “Hold your horses.”

“OK,” the little boy says with visible disappointment, putting two rings back in his pocket. Gus. Gustavo? Angus? Who is he

named after? Or did we just like the name? So many questions, but now is not the time to ask them.

Overwhelmed, I look up at my beautiful nearly-husband and now I can feel Other Margot’s frustration with me. She remembers

this, she remembers me , my confusion, and she knows we’re just standing, gormless and weepy, in front of everyone we’ve ever met.

Just get on with it , I can almost hear her saying, sharp but amused. Yes, you’ve been here before, it’s the vision, congrats, just say yes so I can marry this man.

Smiling, I pull myself—ourselves—together. We both want the same thing: it doesn’t matter if I’m not ready to marry Henry

right now, I will be by this point of our relationship and I know it.

“Yes,” I say clearly, my voice wobbling.

“I think the classic response is usually I do .” Henry grins widely. “But I’ll take it. No backsies.”

The crowd laughs and I feel my grandfather’s eyes on me, full of love.

Thanks for that , Other Margot whispers.

“I mean, I do,” I say quickly. “Obviously. And so on.”

The priest, celebrant—whoever he is—smiles warmly.

“And do you, Henry Armstrong, take—”

I can feel the vision fading, but this time I’m holding on as hard as I can: I want to stay here, I want to hear him say I do , I want to see our little boy again, I want to give Winnie a cuddle, I want to enjoy the party with my friends and my family,

and most of all I want to stay in the blissful, intense, all-consuming love I feel: for Henry, for my life, for everything that has brought me to this point.

You’ll get here eventually, but it’s my turn now.

With a twinge of sadness—and a weird sense of love for myself, for a version of me I haven’t become yet—I nod and say goodbye

to her, to me, to us.

And I leave myself in the future we have built together.

With wet eyes, I stare at myself on the screen.

I’ve only been gone three seconds, and everything has changed. I’m going to be a wife and there’s a chance I’m going to be

a mum, and it feels nothing like I expected. I don’t feel scared, or anxious, or convinced that I’m going to screw it up.

I don’t worry about what it “ really means” for my life. I’m not terrified of change or if I’ll do it right, because somehow I know I will. I’m just... happy.

Ridiculously, overwhelmingly happy.

I will choose this future too, I abruptly realize. I’m not being forced down this path by an unseen hand. This is the path

I want , the landscape I want to carve, and I don’t need to even think about it.

I want it all .

Smiling, I wipe my eye: I can edit my little trance out of the video in a minute.

“So please consider me for the job,” I finish with a tiny, emotional nod. “Because I want this to be my future.”