The cassandra complex, p.30
The Cassandra Complex, page 30
‘Cassandra.’
Raspberry and mint and cornflower and crimson and jade.
‘Cassandra.’
Ruby and flax and flamingo and azure; cream and bronze and cyan and lavender and coral; tangerine, charcoal and mustard. And as the brightness melts and spirals I feel an abrupt shudder of happiness so overwhelming – so three-dimensional – I have to bounce up and down and wriggle and flex as it moves through me: channelling the excess joy through the soles of my feet.
I did it.
I used time travel to take me to a happier place, and I’m so incredibly grateful for it – so thankful to the universe for this extraordinary gift – but now I simply don’t need it any more. It’s something I have but will never use, like one of those gadgets that turn courgettes into spaghetti.
‘Cassandra Dankworth,’ Jack says loudly as Ron gently leans to the side and nudges me with his shoulder. I turn to stare at him briefly, amazed that I haven’t instinctively lurched away. Then I look back at Jack, staring at me over his champagne. ‘OK, she’s back. I would like to raise a toast to Cassandra. It’s certainly true that I may have had my misgivings about you in the beginning.’
Stifling a sigh, I wait for the onslaught of adjectives to begin.
‘But …’ Jack holds his glass in the air ‘… I’m delighted to say that you have proven me wrong. You may not work as most people do, or indeed probably should, but you are an asset to the SharkSkin team. So I’d like to say thank you, from all of us, and congratulations on a fantastic launch. To Cassandra!’
‘Speech!’ Sophie claps loudly next to me. ‘Speech!’
Everyone raises a glass in my direction, so I tentatively pick up my glass and stand. The candles are flaring and the colours are bleeding and I can feel the safe cocoon of my breath, wrapped around me like a roaring blanket. A solid sensation settles on my shoulder blades, and suddenly I feel transformed: dropping my disguise and holding up my imaginary sword like Athena.
With a smile, I lift my glass. ‘I quit.’
My colleagues are staring at me with slightly open mouths, but I have never felt this calm, steady or powerful. I feel solid, whole, unbroken, as if all my colours have finally settled into the right place.
‘I hate this job,’ I clarify helpfully. ‘So I quit.’
My speech is obviously over – that’s all I have to say – so I sit back down, but everyone is staring at me in silence, so I reluctantly stand up again.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ I explain, staring fixedly at a napkin on the table. ‘I’ve been fired from this job about nineteen times over the last month, and I think I was supposed to stay fired. We are entirely incompatible. I don’t like the public, I don’t like relating, I don’t like SharkSkin moisturiser and I also don’t need time travel to undo this mistake. So I’d like to quit, please. And Sophie –’ I flash a shy smile at her ‘– thank you for being so kind to me. I know this version of you won’t remember a lot of it, but the impact you have had on all my timelines has been … enormous.’
Done, I sit down again and briefly study Jack’s face.
He looks … shocked. Unimpressed. Irritated?
Ah. Mad as hell.
‘Can I wait to eat my dinner before I leave?’ I glance around the still gobsmacked table. ‘No, you’re right. I think I’m probably supposed to make a big dramatic exit now, aren’t I.’
With a wave of something that feels surprisingly like sadness, I stand up, take out my earplugs and hold them out towards Ron. I really was looking forward to getting to know him properly. ‘It was very nice to meet you, Ron. Would you like these? You might want to clean them first, obviously.’
‘Thanks.’ Ron takes them and grins up at me. My stomach flips again. ‘Good luck, Cassie. I really hope I catch you around sometime.’
I smile at him. Some time. Who knows? There’s so much of it.
‘I really hope so too.’
Feeling triumphant and glorious, I clear my throat and push my seat noisily back just as a compère starts slapping a microphone at the front of the room. I’ve actually done it. I’ve made a change. Altered my own path. Time travel aside, I’ve been stuck in a loop of my own making for a very long time now, just going round and round.
‘I haven’t even made my first joke yet,’ the compère laughs loudly. ‘And already someone is leaving!’
Every person in the room turns to stare at me in one smooth motion.
But all I can think about now is the biggest reveal story of all: that of the poor mortal Semele. Zeus visited her in human form, and the two fell madly in love with each other. When his wife Hera discovered yet another flagrant infidelity, she visited Semele in the disguised form of an old lady and convinced her that she was a fool, because it couldn’t possibly be the king of the gods she loved. The only way to find out for sure was to demand that Zeus show himself to her in his real form.
Convinced, Semele begged Zeus to show himself to her as he really was.
Reluctantly, Zeus did exactly that.
Within seconds, the sheer reality of Zeus caused Semele to explode: pop like a blood blister and burst into flames. As I stand in the middle of the gala and feel 398 eyes on me, I realise that’s how it sometimes feels to be me.
As if I have to hide who I am, all of the time.
As if I have to pretend to be like everyone else, just so people will love me.
As if I’m constantly being asked to share, to reveal myself, to open up, and when I do – when I finally show people who I truly am – it’s not what anyone wanted and they explode right in front of me.
I am so fucking done with making myself smaller.
Without a word, I pick up my handbag, grin at Sophie, Ron and Gareth and walk towards the exit with my head held high, eyes burning holes into my back. Because I am not a monster or a goddess; I am not a prophet or a princess, a gorgon or a priestess. I am not Aphrodite or Athena, Arachne or Medusa. I did not emerge from a seashell, or the inside of a head; I do not have to weave my story, over and over again, and it is not – and never should be – told by other people.
My fate is not written in time, or sand, or stars, or in a tapestry, or a spider’s web, and it never actually was.
I am Cassandra: the future was always in me.
As I walk calmly out of the building, I feel the earth settle.
A rumble, now flattening.
And when I see my sister, sitting impatiently on the steps outside the gala, I finally realise why I couldn’t time travel back to that moment, ten years ago: the moment my life exploded and took me with it.
I couldn’t travel there because I didn’t need to.
In one way or another, a part of me has been stuck there all along.
37
Ten years ago
‘Thank you for another touching speech, Cassandra.’
The vicar patiently waits for me to return to my seat at the front of the congregation, hands folded neatly in my lap. My black dress is damp and tight. ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ is being played loudly on the organ, which seems a bit ironic given how clearly nothing will be bright or beautiful, ever again.
‘Is it my turn now?’ Art staggers to her feet. ‘I have something to say.’
‘Artemis,’ the vicar smiles patiently. ‘Your turn is after the end of the second hymn, if you look at the schedule.’
‘Bugger the schedule,’ my sister slurs, adjusting her hat.
Everyone watches as my nineteen-year-old sister sways to the front of the church, red wine bottle gripped firmly in her right hand. She’s dripping in black lace with a little perched pillbox hat and veil, and everyone thinks she’s grieving in style, but I know she’s mocking it: dressing up in sadness like a kid raiding their mother’s wardrobe.
‘Wow.’ Art stands behind the pulpit and takes a flask out of a lacy cape sleeve. She takes a swig and pops it on top of the hymn book, then follows it with a swig of red wine. ‘This is a proper party, isn’t it? So many people.’ She whips round to glitter furiously at the poor little organ boy. ‘Could you shut the hell up, please? Who chose that song anyway? It’s not a school assembly. What are you going to play next – “Cauliflower’s Fluffy”? Jesus fucking Christ.’
The entire congregation inhales in one go, like synchronised swimmers.
‘Oh, please,’ she sighs. ‘It’s just words. And we’re not even religious. We’re only doing this in a church because it’s close to the house. Where was I?’
Artemis sways slightly and I abruptly realise why she turned up late.
Also why she sat at the back of the church.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Art hiccups and holds her hands out, and I have a sudden image of her at six years old, preparing me for a dramatic two-person performance of a play about unicorns. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Death of My Parents. It’s a show we weren’t prepared for, isn’t it, Cassie? No rehearsal for this one. One moment you’re on your gap year, lying on a beach in Costa Rica, and the next you’re being told to come home because your parents just exploded in a ball of flames at the same sodding time, very typically efficient of them.’
Art’s mouth is stained bright red all the way around and her colours are the saddest I’ve ever seen: greys, silvers, blacks, all spiky and sharpened.
I can feel my body temperature start to drop steadily.
‘We’ve talked a lot so far about the loveliness of my parents.’ Art hiccups and grips the pulpit with both hands. ‘And they were. They were lovely. Susan Dankworth, genius, oddball and world-renowned Classics professor at Cambridge University. A lot of you are here for her, which is nice. And Gordon Dankworth, the nicest man that ever walked the earth, gardener and a big fan of what are they called? Begonias. Some of you are here for him, which is nice too.’
My eyes are starting to close; the darkness is coming.
‘I mean,’ Artemis continues, audibly slurring, ‘I don’t feel like we talked enough about how terrible they were at driving, clearly, but time and place, right?’
Art’s eyes intensify and as I lift mine to meet them pain shoots through me like a single flying arrow.
Sleep cascades in another wave.
‘But for a show about their death,’ Artemis says, leaning forward on the pulpit with her elbows propped and her chin in her hands as if she’s a tiny child posing for a picture, ‘nobody yet has brought up the cause of it. I mean, it feels like a key part of the narrative is missing, is it not? Don’t bury the lede before you bury the leads, so to speak.’
Art laughs wildly and takes another huge swig of wine.
My head is starting to bob, my chin drifting towards my chest; everything feels distant and muffled, as if it’s being slowly tugged away.
‘Wake up, Cassandra,’ my sister snaps. ‘Don’t worry, this bit is about you.’
Desperately, I try to lift my chin, but I’m slipping into unconsciousness as if it’s a big empty hole and there’s nothing around the edges left to grab on to.
‘My sister, ladies and gentlemen.’ From a few metres away, I feel Artemis gesture towards me. ‘Cassandra Penelope Dankworth. Let me tell you about Cassie. She’s not what you call a People Person. No, Cassandra is allll about Cassandra. You want to go play outside with her? Nope, it’s dirty. Keen on a birthday party? You can’t, because Cassie won’t be able to handle the noise or mess. Would love a dog? Or a cat, or even a sodding gerbil? No, sorry, Cassie doesn’t like animal hair or being licked or climbed on. Want to go to a new restaurant as a family? Bad luck, Cassie can only go to the same bloody restaurant and eat the same bloody meal, so that’s where we’re going. Again. And school? Let me tell you about school.’
My eyes close briefly; the church is slipping away.
‘You try to make friends, but everyone is like oh, is that your big sister, hiding in bushes again? Rocking and clawing at her legs? What the hell is wrong with her anyway? So you say nothing is wrong with her and punch someone in the stomach and next thing you know you’re the one with “behavioural problems”.’
I try to sit up but time is shifting away like sand in an egg timer.
‘But there is something wrong with her,’ Artemis slurs fiercely, and suddenly her voice is choked, blocked, a sink full of debris. ‘Cassandra is broken and it’s ruined my goddamn life. Her rules, her restrictions, her schedules, her rigidity. Everything has been about her, and now she’s the reason our parents are dead.’
Somehow, I get to my feet and stand, frozen.
‘You are, Cassandra.’ She’s started crying loudly. ‘You’re the reason they’re gone. They were five minutes late for your graduation ceremony, but you couldn’t handle it so you rang them. And rang them. And rang them. And rang them. You told me you rang them fifteen times, and somewhere in all that obsessive, relentless, batshit crazy ringing, they got distracted and crashed the bloody car.’
Her sobs are filling the church, bouncing off the stained-glass windows.
‘I hate you, Cassandra. If I could choose, I would pick somebody else for a sister. I just wanted a normal life, like everyone else, and I couldn’t have one because of you.’
She takes a large step off the podium and stumbles into the aisle.
‘And you don’t care.’ Hiccups, makes herself vertical again. ‘It’s our parents’ funeral and you haven’t even cried. Look at you, standing there, dry-eyed and sleepy, like you’re bored already. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re somewhere else. You’re a monster.’ Hiccups. ‘Why can’t you just be normal.’ Hiccups. ‘Be human for, like, one minute.’ Hiccups. ‘This bottle is empty,’ she concludes, holding it upside down. ‘Vicar, do your water into wine thing for me, pronto. Or is that Jesus. Or Moses. Who the hell cares any more, I am here to party.’
Slowly, I lift my chin and turn around.
Everything is still and everything is calm and as everything I have ever known and loved crumbles around me, I stand in the wreckage with my face still and my eyes still dry and rubble in my hair.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I say quietly to the hushed congregation. ‘There are cucumber sandwiches back at the house. And more wine, although you may want to get there before Artemis does.’
Shoulders straight, I walk slowly down the aisle like a bride.
I open the church door.
I hold my hand up against the light and feel the scaffolding inside me dismantle, fall inwards like a building that can’t stand up any more.
Then I close the door gently behind me.
38
Now
‘I couldn’t go home,’ Artemis says.
‘Yes.’ I sit down on the step next to her. ‘I can see that.’
‘I got all the way back to our house and all I could see was you, everywhere. The house is full of you. So I needed to come back.’ My little sister stares at me with wet eyes like a pavement after it’s been raining. ‘Your flatmate told me where you were. The girl one. Not the dick one. She seems really nice.’
‘Sal,’ I say. ‘She is.’
‘And I know you don’t want to talk about it, Cass, but I think we need to.’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
There’s a long silence as we both listen to the laughter pouring out of the thick door behind us. I do not think the Tudors had much noise insulation; they should think about putting that in.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ Artemis says eventually. ‘Any of it. I was crazy with grief. I was in so much pain, and I just needed you to hurt like I was hurting. Also, I was very, very drunk. Like, so drunk that I think I puked on a member of the choir.’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘That sounds likely.’
‘I think I lost my mind that day. You’ve always been able to control your emotions, contain them somehow, but mine just get so … big. Too big to fit me. And it’s not an excuse – there isn’t an excuse – but I didn’t know where to put them. You were all I had left in the world. So I put them on you.’
I nod, looking at my hands.
‘And I’ve spent the last ten years hating myself for it.’ Artemis is crying again. ‘I am so sorry, Cass. I am so, so sorry. It wasn’t even your fault – you know that? I found out afterwards. I mean, even if it had been your phone calls that … it still wouldn’t have been your fault. But it really wasn’t your fault. They found Mum’s phone on silent in her handbag, at the back of the car, where she always put it. It was just an accident. A horrible, tragic accident, and you had nothing to do with it.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I checked.’
It was the first thing I did when I got to London: just before I went into a meltdown that obliterated half a year and all of my memories. Perhaps it shouldn’t be that surprising that I’m not very keen on sharing after a heartbroken confession was used to destroy me in front of everyone I’ve ever met.
‘And I don’t know how to fix it.’ Artemis rubs her jumper sleeve across her face. ‘I thought time would help, but that just came between us too. I sent letters, I sent gifts. I tried to call you, and you kept changing your number. Every time I found you, you disappeared again. You kept avoiding me, so I kept running away. I feel like somehow I wrecked both of us.’
‘You didn’t,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve always known that—’
My face crumples, so I wait until I can speak again.
‘In early Greek mythology, Zeus fell in love with Metis, the goddess of prudence. When she was pregnant with his child, Metis outwitted him. She turned herself into a fly, so Zeus turned himself into a lizard and swallowed her, whole.’
Artemis frowns and opens her mouth. ‘I’m not sure what—’
‘Eventually Zeus got a massive headache, and in agony he demanded that Hephaestus cut open his head, which he did. Out popped a fully formed Athena, the goddess of wisdom. But Metis stayed inside his head, and she whispered words to him. It tempered everything Zeus did and everything he thought from that point on, for the rest of time. Metis became a part of him.’
