Page 8 of Love and Other Paradoxes

If he had still been living in linear time, he would have heeded Dr. Lewis’s advice and spent the next few days in the library.

But his 2:1 was guaranteed: if he didn’t put the work in now, he was bound to put it in later. Instead, he spent the time

reading and rereading the poems, daydreaming about falling in love with Diana.

On the day of their fateful reunion at the ADC, he headed out to meet Esi. As he left college, he saw Vera across the street,

surrounded by his oddly dressed devotees. They tailed him through town, muttering just out of earshot, leaping comically into

the shadows whenever he turned around. He tried to remind himself that these people had come here from decades in the future

because his poetry meant something to them. Their presence was the ultimate realisation of his dream. But the close, prickling

attention made him feel like he was back in high school, marked out and picked on. He hunched his shoulders and walked faster.

As he crossed the grass of Christ’s Pieces, the muttering subsided. He turned back from New Square Park, pretending to crouch

and admire the autumn leaves. The time travellers were standing in a line on the other side of the road, forlorn as puppies

peering through a stairgate.

“Good,” he said under his breath. “At least some of you are taking the terms and conditions seriously.”

He went on towards the Grafton centre and turned right onto Burleigh Street. Esi was leaning against a bike rack in black

leggings and an oversized grey sweater, working her way through a box of chips.

“The chips are better here,” she said, offering them. “How did we manage, as a society, to make chips worse?”

After the breathless awe of the other time travellers, her total unimpressedness with him was a relief. He took a chip. It

was perfect: hot and greasy. “You’re telling me in return for poetic greatness, I have to accept substandard chips?”

“These are the sacrifices we make, I guess.” She wiped her hands and threw the empty chip box in a bin. She looked briefly

over his shoulder, following someone in the crowd, before focusing back on him. “So. Joseph Greene.”

“So,” he echoed. “Esi...” He laughed. “I don’t know your surname.”

She smiled. “It’s Campbell.”

“Oh! Scottish connection?”

Her smile froze. “I guess? My dad’s family is Jamaican, way back. It’s a pretty common name there.”

“Ah. So not the fun kind of Scottish connection.” He winced. “Sorry.”

She looked at him sideways. “I mean, according to you, all that was just destiny, right? How sorry can you be, if you think

it was meant to happen?”

She was teasing him, and she wasn’t, something serious behind her eyes. “That’s not how it works,” he said, remembering his conversation with Dr. Lewis. “Even if our actions are predetermined, that doesn’t mean we’re not responsible.”

Her smile broadened, showing her tooth gap. “Deep, Joseph Greene. You going to put that in a poem?” Before he could react,

she winced. “I’m doing it again. Sorry. I didn’t want to interact with anyone in the past, and now I’m here talking to you

of all people, and it’s a mess, but it’s the only way to fix the even bigger mess I’ve made already, and I’m just—”

“You’re fine,” he interrupted, laughing. “Do you think I’d be standing here asking you to help me impress Diana Dartnell if

I took myself that seriously?”

She looked quietly surprised. “I guess not.”

“Okay.” He spread his arms. “So. Where do we start?”

“Where every good romance starts. With a makeover.” She stepped back, her eyes moving over him. “We need to overhaul your

look.”

“My look ?” He blinked. “I wasn’t aware I had one.”

She waved her hand at him. “What else do you call this whole messy-hair tatty-jumper aesthetic you have going on? We can lean

into it, but it needs work. We need to make you look more—arty.”

“I am arty!” he protested.

“Arty like my dad owns a gallery , not arty like I got rashed at the library then fell asleep in a bin .”

“Rashed?”

“Use context, Joseph Greene. You can figure it out.” She turned, beckoning him to follow. “Come on. Time to dress you up in

the finest vintage early 2000s fashion.”

“Can you stop calling now ‘vintage’? It’s making me time-sick.”

Reluctantly, he followed her into Oxfam. She sorted through the racks, pausing on a pale blue fitted shirt. She examined the label, then the price, and whistled. “Okay, your friend has a point.”

Her surprise made him curious. “Do you not have charity shops in the future?”

“Yeah, but they’re expensive. Only rich people shop there.”

“That doesn’t seem right.”

She threw him an amused look. “No one said things only get better.” She lifted the shirt from the rack. “To bring out your

eyes,” she said, glancing briefly into them.

“Uh—okay,” he said, feeling a little flustered.

She moved through the racks, gleaning clothes like a magpie, then dropped an armful on him and steered him for the changing

room. “Transform, butterfly, transform.”

There was a gap in the curtain that wouldn’t close. Through it, he could see Esi looking at her phone. She appeared to be

playing Snake. “What difference is this going to make?” he complained, pulling off his jeans. “It doesn’t matter how I look

if I don’t know what to say to her.”

She turned. Down to his boxers now, he hid behind the curtain. “Patience, Joseph Greene. This is Phase One. The goal of Phase

One is to maximise the chances she’ll actually let you near her.”

“I see. Which she’s unlikely to do if she recognises me as the guy who—how did you put it? Walked up to her dressed as a railway

accident and told her I’m her destiny?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Look at Joseph Greene quoting me.”

He caught his own smile in the mirror as he buttoned his shirt. “So what’s Phase Two?”

“Don’t rush me.” She looked airily back to her phone.

The shirt was tighter than he would usually have been comfort able with. He pulled on a pair of black boot-cut jeans and a long black trench coat. He tried to fix his hair, which had got all messed up in the process of taking off his jumper, then sighed and gave up. “All right. Coming out.”

Esi’s snake crashed into itself and died. She reached up and smoothed out his collar, breaking into a grin. “This is—wow.

Not terrible, actually. Can you take the coat off for a second?” He obliged, and she stepped back, appraising him with frank

attention. “The shirt was a gamble, to be honest. I couldn’t tell what you were shaped like under all those jumpers. But turns

out, you’ve got nice arms.” She clapped. “Buy it. Buy it all.”

He bought it all, for a surprisingly small amount, and met her back outside the shop. “Now we need to do something about the

hair,” she announced. “Do you use any product?”

“What kind of products?”

She sighed and took him to Boots. Armed with a tub of blue goop, she dragged him into the shopping centre toilets and stood

him by the sinks. “Stand still,” she commanded, and started dolloping the goop into his hair.

At first, he was uncomfortable. Then, the feeling of her hands in his hair started to be almost relaxing. She was humming

a soft melody, a little furrow of concentration between her brows. He became acutely aware of her breath and his, touching

in the space between them.

She met his eyes. Surprise, and a flicker of something else. “There,” she said, stepping back.

He looked in the mirror. His hair was swept into an artfully tousled faux-bedhead. “I look like I have a trust fund.”

“Exactly.” She grinned. “Phase One complete.”

He stared at the man he was pretending to be. An uncanny fear swept over him, that his reflection was going to walk off without him into a successful future, leaving him floating in the Grafton centre toilets like a sad and unsanitary ghost.

Esi was already leaving. “So,” she said as he hurried to catch up. “If Phase One was about giving you a chance to talk to

her, Phase Two is about what you’re going to say.”

“Right.” He stepped out into Burleigh Street. A bike bell rang, and he jumped back.

She looked at him quizzically. “Why are you acting like the road is made of lava?”

He glanced nervously down the street. “The book says I’m going to get run over by a bike this year.”

“I see,” she said innocently. “So if it’s meant to happen, why bother trying to stop it?”

He opened his mouth to retort, but she had him. Even though it was impossible, he couldn’t repress the impulse to thwart the

future.

She looked away with a smile of satisfaction. “The first thing you need to say to Diana is sorry . She’s going to ask you for an explanation, but that’s not what she really needs. She needs to know you realise what you

did was bad, and creepy, and invasive, and you’re never going to do anything like it ever again.”

“Got it,” he said. “Bad, creepy, invasive, never again.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“No, I’m not taking the piss,” he said. “I’m making mental bullet points. It’s a revision technique.”

She sighed. “Then, you need to focus on her. And I don’t mean, like, brainstorming the next poem you’re going to write.”

“But she’s going to be my muse,” he protested. “Having poetic thoughts about her is the whole point.”

“I’m not banning you from having poetic thoughts. I’m just saying, don’t pay more attention to them than to what she’s actually saying.”

“Okay. Fine. What else?”

“Don’t think about the future. And whatever you do, don’t talk about your destiny.” She turned round, facing him as she walked

backwards. “Listen to her. Be present in the conversation. And don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. Women like it if you’re not

always trying to look like a winner.”

“That shouldn’t be hard.” He scratched his head. “Anything else?”

She shrugged. “She’s a person, Joseph Greene. Treat her like one.”

He felt oddly disappointed. “Doesn’t sound that complicated.”

“It isn’t. But honestly, the bar is so low that if you can manage it, she’s going to think you’re some kind of wizard.”

The sun had sunk below the buildings. He checked his watch. A surprising amount of time had elapsed. “Fuck. I have to be at

the ADC in fifteen minutes.”

She nodded. “I’d walk you there, but, you know. The adoring fans wouldn’t like it.”

“Guess not.” He looked down the road towards town. “Actually, it’s been nice not to be followed around for a while.”

She looked surprised. “You don’t like the attention?”

He laughed. “Do I seem to you like the kind of person who enjoys being stared at?”

Her keen gaze took him in. “Why do you want to be a famous poet, then?”

It took him a while to articulate his answer. “I want to make something that matters. I don’t want to be the thing that matters. Does that make any sense?”

She looked at him for a long time, then laughed. He liked her laugh. It was warm and chaotic. “What?” he asked, smiling.

“Nothing. You just keep being the complete opposite of what I expected.” The traffic lights ahead of them changed, and a car

roared off down East Road. She jumped at the noise, briefly clutching his arm.

“You okay?” he said, his heart beating strangely.

She let him go. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just—cars are so loud here.”

He nodded sagely. “Guess you usually can’t hear them because they’re so high up.” She gave him an uncomprehending look. “Flying

car joke,” he explained. “Because you’re from the future.”

She stared at him, then burst into a laugh. “You are such a goob.”

He should have been practising his serious poetic persona, but he couldn’t regret making her smile. “I thought I was a nozz.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I haven’t decided.” She swayed closer to him, then seemed to become aware of herself. She stepped back,

crossing her arms. “Did you find out anything about the award?”

“Oh. Right.” He cleared his throat. “My supervisor said the twenty-third of June’s too early for it to be something academic.

But she thought there might be societies who give awards out then.”

“Societies?”

“Like, extracurricular stuff. Sports, drama, that kind of thing.” A thought struck him. “Drama might actually be a good shout.

If she’s friends with Diana, maybe she’s part of the ADC crowd.”

“An actor?” She looked sceptical. “I can’t see it.”

“Still. If I spot her, I’ll text you.”

“Text me either way. I don’t want to be waiting and hoping.” Another piece of her, offered up like a clue in a treasure hunt.

He suspected that if it had been him, he would have wanted to hold on to hope as long as he could. She headed across the road.

“You not going to wish me luck?” he called after her.

She turned back. “Luck isn’t enough. You have to make this work.”

In the dying light, solemn as a priestess, she was an image of frozen grief. It brought home what she had to lose: what she

had already lost. In that moment, he felt the responsibility like a weight he had no power to lift. Strange, that he wanted

so much to help her when he knew what she longed for was impossible.

“I will,” he promised.