Page 51 of I Know How This Ends

“MARGOT!” The car horn beeps again. “Get your lovely bottom out here right now so we can start our Big Sexy Weekend, please!”

Grinning, I swing open the window and lean out.

“Henry! Please. I have neighbors .”

I don’t actually care about the neighbors—I’m quite proud of Henry’s shouting—but I’m slightly conscious that I’m now a children’s

TV presenter and shouldn’t be having the word sex yelled at me in the middle of a public street.

Or bottom , for that matter.

“They can’t come!” Henry roars back. “I’m sorry, but there’s just no room!”

Giggling, I blow him a kiss and close the window.

Then I run to the mirror again, like a teenager. I’m in a little floral blue dress—it looks a bit like the bedding we eventually

get, maybe that’s why—and my dark hair has decided to be inexplicably chic and European. My eyes are bright, my cheeks are

pink, and joy is scribbled across my face. I am lit from within by some kind of internal source, and it’s transformed scooped-out, hollow-cheeked

Margot into a goddess with cheekbones for days and a fringe that knows exactly what it’s doing.

This is going to be the best weekend of my life: I can feel it.

Blowing a quick kiss at myself—better get that out of the way before I start doing it in Cornwall and Henry questions every decision he’s ever made about me—I automatically look round the room for Cheddar, then realize Eve picked him up half an hour ago and gave the distinct impression she wouldn’t be giving him back.

Quickly, I glance around my flat to see if I’ve forgotten anything.

It’s still pretty empty, but not quite as empty as it used to be. Over the last few weeks, I’ve gradually collected a few

bits and pieces: a rug, a couple of cushions, a plant. Polly’s painting is still on the wall, and when I get back on Sunday

night I might think about turning my kitchen yellow. It looks so nice in my visions. Like a real home . It’s all happening, exactly as the universe wants it to. No: as I want it to. Because I’m choosing this. It’s not fate, or destiny. These are my own decisions, pushing me forward.

With a jubilant bounce, I grab my suitcase—very light, it’s basically just lace—and wheel it out of the front door. Then I

essentially skip (embarrassing) toward the little blue Mini with its small red seats parked outside.

“How am I supposed to focus on driving when you look like that?” Henry leans over and kisses me. “You’re a bloody health-and-safety

hazard.”

“I know ,” I giggle. “I should come with a warning on the bottle.”

“Dangerously attractive: do not take while driving.”

“Or using heavy machinery.”

“Ugh. I’ll have to put the tractor back.”

We both laugh and as I turn to put my seatbelt on, I see Pol pause by the window in her living room. She sees me, grins, winks;

I wink back.

“Hurry up,” Henry grins impishly. “We need to get going, because I am way too eager to get you naked.”

With a laugh, I look down and realize he’s wearing his pink-star jacket: the little embroidered patch is glowing on his arm.

He won’t be wearing it for long, I can tell you that. I’m going to rip it off him as soon as appropriately possible.

Gently, so it doesn’t ruin the stitching.

Let the sexy times commence.

No road trip has ever been this fun.

I dreaded going anywhere with Aaron: his ridiculous road rage, his impatience, his desire to “get there” so we could “start.”

He’d huff and puff; he’d snap at me if I talked at the wrong moment and we took a late exit; he’d ask me to stop singing because

I just didn’t have “the vocal cords for that kind of volume.” If we bought sweets, he’d intermittently hold out his hand in

silence and expect me to obediently place one there, as if summoning a genie.

When we eventually reached wherever we were going, he’d breathe out in relief, collapse on the bed and say, “ Finally. ” As if sitting next to me in a car was some kind of arduous task he’d been asked to complete by an angry God and now it was

time for his reward. Which, predominantly, was asking me to move out of the way so he could see the telly properly.

This is completely different territory: a different country, a different planet .

Henry is in no rush at all—if anything, he’s driving slightly too slowly and keeps insisting on “pit stops” so we can buy

more “snacks”—and instead of simply holding his hand out and expecting me to deliver the right thing at the right time, he

opens his mouth until I put a sweet or crisp in there. Which, while it may sound like the same thing, doesn’t feel the same at all. It feels trusting and organic, as if he’s a baby bird and knows that whatever

I feed him is going to be lovely.

It’s only a three-hour drive, but I find myself willing it to be longer.

We chat, we joke and we point out interesting things on the side of the road; we turn the radio up, duetting one of the worst

harmonies I’ve ever witnessed, let alone been part of. We’re both completely tone-deaf, but Henry doesn’t seem to care: he

knows the words of every song in every genre and is bellowing them out at the top of his lungs.

As we finally turn off the motorway and start heading into the countryside, I open the window and lean out to watch the greenery, the narrowing roads, the hedges with their tiny little yellow flowers and—

Oh my God. I’m here. I’ve reached another vision.

I’m not sure how I know this, unless it’s the intense sense of déjà vu I suddenly feel, but—with a tingle—I turn to look at

Henry.

His face is in profile.

The hawk-like nose, the bushy eyebrows, tanned hands on the wheel. He glances toward me briefly, dark eyes warm, and I feel

a rush of something intense, giddy, almost solid. Then he turns back to focus on the road and I look around the car again,

recognizing all of it: this moment, exactly as I was shown. The seats are bright red, ripped and worn, our knees are slightly

bunched because the car is so small. Green and yellow on either side of us: the tiny flowers, the hedges, the narrow road.

I’m in the vision I had in the spa and—as if watching myself from a distance—I see my hand instinctively reach out and touch

the pink star on his elbow, to hold on to him, to make sure he’s really here. Henry looks at me and smiles, happy and kind

and relaxed and generous and clever and the sweetest soul I’ve ever met.

I feel myself glow at him like a nacreous cloud, illuminated from below.

And I realize: I love him.

I love him.

I love this man.

And it doesn’t matter that we’ve only known each other properly for five weeks, or that a lot of this love is coming from

a future I wasn’t supposed to see, or that it’s too early, or too fast, or too nonsensical, a complete sidestepping of every

bit of the logic I claim to adhere to.

I love him. I can feel it now, and I felt it then; I just didn’t know what it was.

I love him.

Then—just as I know he will—Henry reaches forward to twiddle with the car radio: the air crinkles with a sand shaker—no, it’s a cowbell— and an electric guitar, he hits the wheel with his palms and says:

“TUUUUUUNE.”

Beaming at me, he begins to bop up and down in his seat, swaying his head from side to side like a parrot. “Don’t fear the

reaper,” he shouts at the top of his voice. “Don’t fear it, Margot. Do not fear it. Come on, baby. What are we not going to do?”

“Fear it,” I grin at him happily. “Not going to fear the reaper.”

“Don’t do it!”

“Not going to do it! I promise!”

“It’s the one thing they’re asking from us, Meg.” Henry laughs loudly, and takes a slow corner. “That’s all they want, and in return we get...”

“THE COWBELL,” I shriek.

“THE BLOODY COWBELL,” Henry yells.

We both start laughing, and this is it, this is as happy as one person gets. It’s not the future anymore, I’m here, this happiness

is mine and I’m going to hold on to it as hard as I can for as long as—

Everything goes cold.

The sunshine has gone.

I’m in a small street in Bristol, down by the river. It’s gray, cold, overcast, getting ready to rain. Blinking, I look down.

I’m not in a blue floral dress anymore, I’m wearing a big pink coat to the knees, large buttons, high-collared. Curious, I

touch it with my hand. Blimey, is this coat... cashmere ? Wool? Alpaca? It feels expensive .

Oooh, Other Margot. You’re doing well for yourself. Good job, you.

Then I look a little further down at my boots: leather, black, a small heel.

They look expensive too. Quickly, I touch my hair.

It’s short. Very short. A crop. Oh my God, I crop my hair?

Does it look nice? Does it look French? Is it a mistake?

Am I currently growing it out, pulling at it every evening, crying in the bathroom when nobody notices?

To place myself in time, I look down at my hand.

No rings: just my grandfather’s emerald.

That puts me roughly in the next three years, before the wedding or engagement, but after whenever I give myself this pretty

dramatic and brave makeover. Future Margot is getting ballsier by the minute, and I love this for both of us.

Then I stare at my hand again.

Wait.

My hand looks different.

Not hugely different, but... more veiny. Paler. A few splodges on the back of it. Alarmed, I stretch my other hand out

just to check. Unsurprisingly, that looks the same. A tiny bit... smaller than usual? Drier? More lined? Do I need to start

using an expensive hand cream? It looks like I can afford to, so why am I not investing in my skincare routine?

Alarmed, I glance up and see myself reflected in a shop window.

The shock rips my breath away.

I’m older.

I’m quite a lot older—in my fifties.

I look good—sophisticated, even—which is a relief, but I am, without any doubt, now a middle-aged woman. The days of being

called a “girl” have long ended. The woman staring back in amazement is me, but also not me. Other Margot is somebody I hoped

I’d become one day, if I was lucky. I just thought I’d get there gradually: not all at once, while sitting in a car, eating