Surely not. It was ridiculous to even entertain the notion. Impossible. And yet... I gazed out the window at the familiar street, hope fluttering in my stomach. I had been here before. Eleven years ago I’d indulged in a cream tea, sitting in the front window of that little shopacross the street, smearing warm scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam.
Could it be true? Was I actually, amazingly, against all common sense, somehow living a different version of my life, one where Toast was a reality? It was a terrifying thought but oddly exciting. What did this mean? How long would it last? What had Aunt Gert said when she gave me the lemon drops? I closed my eyes and tried to remember, feeling a little panicky.
Don’t be alarmed. The effects are only temporary. The following morning, you’ll return to your normal existence as if nothing has changed.
I remembered her saying those words, sipping tea like it was the most ordinary sentence in the world. Okay. I blew out a breath. Just a day then. Even if this wasn’t a dream, if I was, indeed, somehow miraculously in Brighton, England, this was only temporary. I gave a little sigh of relief.
Picking up the cell phone, I glanced at the time and date. It was later than I normally slept, already past seven. The date read Wednesday, February 23. I’d gone to sleep sucking on that lemon drop on Tuesday night, the twenty-second. Okay, so no weird juju with the space-time continuum. That was a relief. It was the day it was supposed to be. I was just not where I thought I would wake up. I looked around the room, then over at the tea shop again, my apprehension melting into something else, a growing sense of anticipation.
What if I had one beautiful, extraordinary day to revisit England, to actually see what my life would have been like had I chosen to open Toast? What a strange, improbable, amazing gift.
I shifted, realizing I was sitting on a hot water bottle, and extricated it. It was still lukewarm. I looked around the room cautiously, then was struck with another thought. What did I look like? Was I still me, or was this some weirdQuantum Leapscenario where I’d switched bodies? My mom had lovedQuantum Leapwhen I was a kid. She hada little crush on Scott Bakula and his chin dimple. I hopped up and peered at the oval mirror hanging next to the wardrobe. The reflection staring back was decidedly me, albeit with a few changes.
“A bob? Bold choice.” My hair was smooth and sleekly bobbed and highlighted with caramel notes that didn’t quite match my pale complexion. It washed me out a little, to be honest. I put my hands on my hips, noting to my surprise how bony they felt. I lifted my shirt and turned sideways in amazement. I was skinny, skinnier than I had been since I’d hit puberty. Chic skinny, with pronounced clavicles and wrist bones. In real life I wasn’t overweight, but I had a few softer curves. Not in England, though. No wonder I felt chilled to the bone. No padding against that brisk seaside air.
I stared at sleek, skinny me in morbid fascination. My face looked older, a bit wan. Maybe it was the lighting. Or maybe chic skinny didn’t really agree with me.
Just then the phone rang from the bedside table. I hesitated, then picked it up. The facial recognition feature unlocked the phone immediately.
“Hello?” Did my voice sound a little British? I could have sworn my accent had an English tinge. How posh.
“Well, this really does take the biscuit. He’s gone and done it again, the bloody wanker.” The woman on the other end had a strong northern English accent and sounded shrilly outraged. “While your lover boy’s faffing about, we’ve got a regular dog’s dinner of a delivery order over here. No sprouts, no swede. Just iceberg for the salads. It’s not like we’re over-egging the pudding to ask him to follow a simple list and just once, for the love of all that is holy,deliver what we ordered!”
Wincing, I held the phone away from my ear but could still hear her clearly, though her sentences were just as indecipherable. I heard her words but was scrambling to understand what they meant.
I had to think fast. Whatever this woman’s relationship to me, shewas looking to me for some sort of intelligible response. The only problem was, I hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on. I was all of a sudden in way over my head.
“Um, sorry. Who is this?” I tried to buy time.
A long pause. “What do you mean who is this? It’sNicola. Your head chef. Remember me? Are you mad? How many pints did you have at the pub last night?” She sounded indignant.
“Uh, yes, must have been one too many. So sorry,” I stalled, frantically trying to recall all the UK idioms I’d learned in my brief stint in London. What had she said about a pudding, a swede, and something about... biscuits? And who was lover boy?
“Where are you right now?” I gritted my teeth, holding the phone away from my ear, already expecting the explosion.
“Where do you think I’d be? Where I always am. Where we both bloodylive.” Her voice, incredibly, went even higher in pitch. “I’m at Toast, and you’d better get over here, or we’re going to have nothing to offer when we open for brunch except bog standard Tesco house salad!”
“Right, ah. On my way.” But she’d already hung up. I looked around, the reality of my situation sinking in a bit more. I was myself but not myself, in England, in a life I knew nothing about, apparently running my own restaurant with a highly volatile British chef. How in the world was I going to navigate a day in a life I didn’t have the first clue about?
And who was lover boy? Was I single? Married? I glanced down at my hand. No ring. That would have been complicated. I didn’t know where my underwear or toothbrush was. I didn’t even know if this was actually my house. I shook my head. Surely I was still tucked up in bed at home in Magnolia, sleeping peacefully and dreaming lemon-scented dreams. Surely I’d awaken to the scent of Dad frying bacon and Daphne belting out Ariana Grande tunes.
But I had no time to linger over the marvelous and deeplyunsettling improbability of it all. Whether it was a dream or real or I’d gone stark raving mad, I was late for something. I hadn’t the faintest idea where to find it or what to do about it once I got there, and I was still in my pajamas and really needed to pee. First things first. I took a deep breath, gathered my composure, and went in search of the toilet.
Thirty minutes later I emerged into the pale, pearly light of a crisp late-winter English morning. I was feeling a bit steadier on my feet, having located the bathroom, my clothes, and breakfast in that order.
I’d surmised that it was, indeed, my apartment after finding a photo of myself with a group of people gathered around a simple black-and-white sign that read:Toast. I studied the faces. All of us wore an expression that was a mixture of exhaustion and euphoria. I flipped the photo over. The caption readOpening day, May 15, 2016.Almost six years ago. Brighton. Toast. I’d done it. I felt a wave of bittersweet pride. In some other life I’d followed my dream and opened Toast.
The rest of the apartment was decorated in my usual vintage style, but it felt plain, a little forlorn. Nothing in the refrigerator except expired milk and a few wrinkled pears. I had no pets, just one small African violet sitting on the tiny kitchen table. Even it looked dejected, with a few fuzzy leaves curling brown at the tips. There was only one chair. Strangely there were no family photos. That gave me pause. Where were photos of Daphne and Dad? I wondered what my life was like here in England. Was I happy? Did I have friends, a social life? Was I in love?
My closet was a major disappointment. I’d stared for five minutes at the neat line of hangers in the wardrobe, eyes roving over the prim and proper beige pencil skirts and fitted navy blazers and crisp white button-downs. Where were my vintage tea dresses? My bright jewel-toned fitted wool cardigans, my polka-dotted cigarette pants? Was this really my closet? It was... sensible to the point of being boring. The most color I could find was a blouse with a pussycat bow in a verysubdued blush color, which I donned, pairing it with tan slacks and pearl earrings. I looked in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looked eminently respectable and professional but a bit severe. A grown-up version of me. I looked like someone who didn’t have a lot of fun.
Fortified with coffee (instant, weak; oh, England, why the love affair with instant coffee?) and a half packet of Hobnobs tea biscuits, happily the delicious milk chocolate–coated kind, I set off in search of Toast. The GPS on my phone indicated that it was a brisk fifteen-minute walk away in the North Laine area of the city, so I set off, keeping one eye on the route as I soaked up the atmosphere of Brighton.
Although still baffled by the surprising situation I’d found myself in upon waking, I couldn’t help feeling elated to be back in this city that I loved. Oh, how I’d missed it! I’d come often during my semester abroad, taking the train down from London. I was impressed by London but found its size and pace intimidating. Brighton, with its warren of charming alleys, its gray seaside jauntiness, felt perfect. It was by turns a little bohemian and just slightly tourist-tacky, with the merest hint of a seedy feel beneath its charming historical veneer. I found it delightful.
The city hadn’t changed much in the past decade. I inhaled the familiar salt smell tinged with a touch of greasy fish and chips. Seagulls cried from the beach a few blocks away, wheeling above me in the cool morning air. My phone’s GPS led me through the quaint narrow alleys of the Lanes, past boutiques and jewelers and high-end antiques shops housed in darling little storefronts with bright-colored facades and fancy signs. There were no cars allowed in this section of Brighton, and since most of the shops didn’t open for another hour or two, it was quiet and fairly empty.
I wandered around a little, drinking in the atmosphere. It was as intoxicating as it had been when I was in college. I closed my eyes and breathed it in. Whiffs of pavement and gasoline, acrid cigarette smoke,and always the cold air of the sea. Oh, how I had missed it. Oh, how good it felt to be back. And right then and there, I determined to enjoy it, every last second, for as long as it lasted. I still didn’t know the whys and hows of my current situation, but I’d dreamed of this very thing for so long. I vowed to relish it now.
