Fast Forward (3 page)

So I had three choices:

1. Remain naked.

2. Put my nightgown back on.

3. Suck it up and wear one of the outfits.

As my stomach grumbled for food and my nose detected a faint smell of something good cooking, I stepped into a coral-coloured starched skirt in which the hem ended halfway down my calves before turning upwards into a revolting curved abomination and looking like a baby catch-all bib. The matching top was just as bad, its hem curving upwards too, but if the need arose at least I’d have a place to store snacks. Or Valium.

Now desperately hungry and looking like a middle-aged Oompa-Loompa, I followed the smell out of the bedroom, down a hallway and into a kitchen, where William sat at the bench sipping from a mug. If he was there, then who was cooking?

I looked towards the source of the delicious aroma and nearly threw up into my curved hems. A young man stood there in a pink apron. He was tall, with various pieces of metal jewellery adorning his pierced skin and his hair was jet black despite one hot pink streak falling loose from his mullet/Mohawk/ponytail thingy.

“Happy birthday, Mum!” he said and for the second time that day I wilted to the floor.

“Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened.”

–
Jennifer Yane

“Mum! Are you alright?”

Warm hands patted my cheeks as I opened my eyes to the concerned faces of two men hovering above me, one apparently my husband, the other apparently my …

No way! I had a son?

“No, I’m not alright! Yesterday I was young, unmarried and … firm, and now I’m old, married and … saggy,” I said with a quivering lip, as the men each hooked an arm under my armpits and lifted me up, leading me towards a chair at the dining table.

“Your mother’s just having a few issues around turning fifty, Ryan,” William said to his son in hushed tones, before looking at me with a hopeful smile. “But you’ll be right, won’t you, honey? Once you’ve had breakfast you’ll feel better and then you can get started on the birthday of your dreams!”

Birthday of my dreams? Not in this body.

My stomach grumbled as I buried my face in my hands and the young man, Ryan—my son—placed a plate of food next to me on the table. A warm, buttery aroma wafted into my nostrils and I lifted my head from my hands. Ryan quickly shoved the plate in front of me.

“Eat up, Mum.”

Two boiled eggs, shiny curls of smoked salmon, toast and grilled tomatoes. My stomach grumbled again at the sight and without thinking I slid a curl of salmon into my mouth. Yum. Maybe I was just experiencing a severe bout of low blood sugar. It wouldn’t be the first time. Once, a swimwear photo shoot had taken three hours longer than planned, due to unforseen weather changes and faulty equipment, and I’d collapsed on the beach not having eaten anything since the bowl of blueberries I’d had for breakfast. The last thing you wanted when you’re modelling swimwear was a bloated stomach from a hearty breakfast.

But could my low blood sugar really be severe enough to cause a realistic hallucination like this? Unless I’d collapsed and was in a coma, having some sort of coma-dream. That might be what’s going on. Soon I’d begin hearing the caring voices of hospital staff around me as I slowly woke up and Grant would be there holding my hand.

“Buuurrrrp!”

My fork dropped to the table with a clang as the loud, revolting sound escaped Ryan’s mouth.

“Ryan!” William scolded.

“Sorry, those eggs do it to me every time,” he said, sitting down opposite me and scooping the rest of the boiled egg into his mouth, swallowing it in one gulp.

“If you took smaller bites and chewed more thoroughly, they might not give you any problems,” William suggested.

Ryan shrugged, tipping his head back and dropping a sliver of smoked salmon down his throat, before releasing an encore performance of even greater intensity.

“Sorry, Mum. I really can’t help it.”

Strangely, it didn’t bother me. I was preoccupied with my breakfast and couldn’t believe how hungry I was. I picked up a slice of toast but then hesitated. Normally I’d never eat this much, maybe I should go easy on the carbs. Then again, this wasn’t really my body and if it was just a dream then I’m sure calories didn’t count in dreams, right? I tore off a corner with my teeth and chewed the crusty bread till it disappeared down my throat. I then tapped the side of the egg and peeled off the shell, before digging my spoon into the smooth white flesh. Hopefully the burping problem wasn’t hereditary. I dug the spoon in a second time and then paused, my eyebrows drawing together.

“There’s no yolk in my egg,” I remarked.

“So?”

“So? Eggs have yolks. Why doesn’t this one?”

“You always prefer to have the yolkless eggs, Mum,” Ryan said.

Yolkless eggs? If I wasn’t so confused and distraught at my predicament I’d jump for joy at the brilliance of it. “Oh, um, of course. I just thought with it being my birthday and all …”

“Oh, you wanted a treat. I should have thought, sorry,” Ryan said.

I shuddered at the mention of the word…Mum. I wasn’t a mum. I’d never been pregnant, or been through childbirth and yet here I was having breakfast in the McSnelly residence with the young man who was apparently my son.

I wolfed down the rest of my breakfast, hoping somehow the rising blood sugar would reach a magical point and turn me back into my normal self. I clenched my eyes shut and opened them several times, hoping for the best, but without any luck. Swallowing hard to quench a developing burp (yep, hereditary!), I pushed my chair back with a grating screech and stood up, glancing around the open-plan house. Coffee-coloured walls merged with coffee-coloured carpet on the living room floor, on which sat a semi-circular couch of muted aubergine. An odd-shaped lamp stood in the corner and multiple tiny light fittings hung like stars from the ceiling. A variety of ornaments, vases and candles decorated the room, and a bulky multi-coloured blanket hung heavily on the couch. The room was subtly stylish in one way and irritatingly homely in another. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not, but either way, it wasn’t the sort of decor I’d choose.

“Dad, while you’re up, do you mind making me another egg?” Ryan asked, as William took his mug and put it into some sort of chute on the kitchen bench. A moment later it popped out of another chute and William put it away in a cupboard.

“You’ve got to be kidding, right?” he replied.

“I’m still hungry. You wouldn’t deny your growing twenty-one-year-old son adequate sustenance, would you?” He raised his eyebrows.

William sighed and put an egg into a large machine, pressed a couple of buttons, and held an egg cup against an opening from which the now boiled egg emerged. He placed it on the table in front of Ryan, who began peeling off the shell.

“We really should upgrade the Kitchen Assistant,” Ryan said. “That one’s ancient. The new version not only boils the egg in five seconds but peels the eggshell for you too.”

There was no doubt about it; I was definitely in the future. Twenty five years into the future. Genetically modified yolkless eggs and Kitchen Assistant machines that boiled them in five seconds. Maybe there were flying cars as well. Curious, I walked over to the window and peered outside. The street was quiet, except for a dog that appeared to be walking its owner and a little girl walking …
rolling
down the street with her mother. She must have those shoes with the inbuilt wheels. Nothing new, I’d seen them before. No one was on hover-boards and no cars were airborne, although the few vehicles parked nearby certainly looked different. More square-shaped—and taller—and not at all what I’d imagined cars to look like in the future.

“What are you looking at, Kel?” William asked, as I peered up, down, around and around, trying to spot anything outside that looked different.

“Um, nothing.” I said, stepping back and smoothing out my clothes with my hands, a gesture I always did whenever I felt uncomfortable. Which wasn’t often. Until today.

“Do you feel better now, having eaten?” he asked, slipping his arms into a suit jacket and shrugging it into place.

Translation: ‘Do you now accept that you’re really fifty and not twenty five and have you finished with your mid-life-crisis freak-out episode?’

No.

“Yes, of course.” I reassured him. He was obviously anxious to get going somewhere. Some husband—rushing out the door on my birthday and leaving me alone with my egg-addicted, burping punk son.

“Good.” He leaned into me with lips puckered and I turned my face sideways so his kiss landed on my cheek. “I have to go, but I’ll see you at the office this afternoon for the meeting.”

“Ah … meeting?” I asked. “But it’s my birthday. I think I’d better, um … cancel the meeting.”

William laughed. “I don’t think so, honey. After waiting over a year for this opportunity we’re not going to let it go. Mr Turrow’s heading back to the UK tonight, remember? Today’s the only chance we’ll get and there’s more likelihood of success if we meet face to face than via e-pad.”

What was he talking about? What opportunity? Who was Mr Turrow? And what in the name of Dior was an e-pad? And I couldn’t work in an office, it just wasn’t possible. What happened to my modelling career? Unanswered questions swung from one side of my brain to the other like a trapeze, picking up others on the way and throwing them all over the place.

“Oh, and I’ll give you your birthday presents later on,” William added.

“Presents? There’s more than one?” Okay maybe he wasn’t such a bad husband after all.

“Yep, there’s two. And you’ll love them,” he said with a confident smile, before leaning in close to me again and whispering into my ear. “Actually, make that three. I’ll give you the third one tonight after our guests have gone home.” His cheeky wink sent a jolt of dread through my veins.

Does he mean what I think he means? Oh hell, how am I going to get out of that?

William disappeared through a door and moments later an engine revved, building to a crescendo before abating in the distance. I rushed to the window to watch, but the car didn’t fly. What a disappointment. If the universe was going to hold me captive in the future, you’d think it’d have the decency to provide technology that was more fun to experience than an egg boiling wonder machine.

The arrival of a tall white vehicle with fake flowers protruding from its top had me glued to the window, as a man walked up the pathway to our front door, a bunch of colourful flowers in his hand. Ryan removed his apron and opened the door at the exact moment a bell sounded and he took the flowers from the man’s hands, thanking him.

“Special delivery from Her Royal Highness,” he said in a posh voice, handing me the flowers.

“Who?” I asked, turning the card over to read the greeting.

Wishing you love and luxury on your birthday
^~
Selena xx

Selena! I had to speak to her. She’d help me make sense of what’s going on, she’d believe me when I tell her what happened. “Where’s my phone?” I asked Ryan, plonking the flowers on the kitchen bench.

He looked at me like I’d asked him where my feet were. “Your phone?”

“Yeah, I need to call Selena, right now!”

“Then you better get your e-pad from its charger, Mum.”

There’s that e-pad word again. I turned side to side, not knowing what on Earth I was supposed to be looking for. Ryan came up to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “It’s okay, Mum. I’ll get it. You just sit down and relax, okay?” He led me to the chair and then disappeared into my bedroom, before emerging with what looked like a wristwatch. Just like the one William had used that morning. “Here you go.” He strapped it to my wrist. As soon as the clasp locked it made a subtle beep sound. He pinched the tiny screen and flicked his fingers in front of me, and I jumped in shock as a holographic menu appeared before my eyes.

“Selena, Selena …” he said, scrolling through the screen with his finger. “Here she is, although I bet you won’t be able to reach her as usual.”

Why the hell not? We spoke to each other pretty much every day. I pressed her name and the holographic screen disappeared. “Where’d it go?”

Ryan scoffed at my technological incompetence and pinched the e-pad, drawing an imaginary line to my ear, just like William had done himself when his e-pad rang. “When you call someone, the screen disappears, remember? Just pinch and flick if you want the menu back again. Geez, Mum, you’re only fifty, not a hundred and fifty.”

I walked back into my bedroom, not only to speak to Selena privately, but to get away from Ryan. It was all too much. He couldn’t possibly be my son, could he? We looked nothing alike and any son of mine would surely have a classier appearance and less burping tendencies.

The ringing on the line persisted, until a click ensued, followed by a stranger’s voice in an American accent.

“You’ve reached Ms Westley, personal assistant to Selena York. I’m currently unable to take your call, please leave a message with your name, access number and reason for your call. Alternatively, please contact Ms York’s agent at The Fulton Agency in West Hollywood, on 555-6772.”

Access number? Reason for my call? I just want to speak to my friend!

Beep
!

“Crap!” Oops, didn’t mean to say that out loud. “I mean, hello! I need to speak to Selena urgently, this is Kelli Crawford, er … McSnelly. I seem to have misplaced my access number, but she knows me, we’re best friends, so if you could have her call me that would be awesome, I mean, wonderful.” I tried to change my speech to better reflect a fifty-year-old woman. “It’s regarding a rather pressing matter relating to something that happened twenty five years ago and if I could only speak to her as soon as possible, that would—”

Beep
!

Geez, they didn’t give much time to leave a complete message. And since when do I need an access number to speak to my friend?

“No luck, huh?” Ryan asked, peeking into my bedroom.

I shook my head and slumped onto the bed.