Tomorrow- Chapter Three

I’m standing in a large, well-furnished bedroom.

“You press that to order food when you’re ready.” He says, pointing to a small blue button by the dressing table in the corner of the room.

“What food is it?” I ask. To be honest, at the moment, after living on stale bread, any food is welcome. As long as it isn’t bread.

He reads my mind. “What, do you have special culinary needs?” He asks sarcastically. “Did you discover a liking for caviar whilst you were hiding out in shacks?”

“Oh ha ha.” I say, rolling my eyes. He’s kind of funny in a snarky way. “You do know that sarcasm’s the lowest form of wit, right?”

“But the highest form of intelligence.” He says loftily.

“Well, there’re exceptions to every rule.” I tell him, raising my eyebrows.

“Well, I am exceptional.” He says, smiling slightly.

“How modest of you.”

“I never claimed to be modest; I claimed to be exceptional.”

I laugh and walk over to the button, pressing it. I don’t think I can wait any longer for food. After all, the last meal I had was a piece of stale bread.

“Well, enjoy your caviar, milady.” He says, bowing sarcastically as he leaves the room.

“I will!” I call after him. I can hear him laughing down the corridor.

As soon as I’m certain that there’s no one watching, I launch myself onto the bed. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever sat on. It feels like I’m floating on clouds…

I wake up with a jolt as someone pushes their way into the room, a tray of china clattering in their hands. My eyes fly open and I leap off of the bed. The woman holding the tray looks alarmed to see a feral-looking girl standing in front of her, her eyes wide and scared, her fists up and ready to fight. Not that I’ve got much strength to fight. She puts the tray down on a table before backing away slowly, her palms open and outstretched.

Once she’s left the room, I pounce on the food, whipping the lid off in five seconds flat. I’ve got absolutely no idea what I’m eating and I don’t let it hang around for long enough to find out. Whatever it is, it tastes pretty damn good. It’s warm and comforting. It reminds me of the beef stews we used to have in the winter. It tastes like home. Only home doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t know if I home will ever exist again. I shrug away the dark thoughts and pick up a piece of bread, mopping up the rich sauce which came with the meal.

Someone knocks on the door. I look up as they walk in but this time, I don’t try to attack them. I think the food’s calmed my nerves. They carefully place the next tray on the table before removing the one I’m finished with.

My eyes light up when I lift the lid and see the food. There’s an enormous sticky toffee pudding sitting like a castle in a moat of syrup. I lick my lips. It’s my favourite dessert. I pick up the spoon and attack it. I’ve missed this. I don’t come up for air until the bowl’s practically been licked clean. Why would I? It would be sacrilege to waste an ounce of sticky toffee pudding. It is the master of all puddings.

Next to the now empty bowl, there’s a small glass of blue liquid. Without thinking, I tip it down my throat. It warms me from the inside out. I feel content, happy even… Then, my stomach rumbles loudly, interrupting my happiness. I thought I’d just eaten enough to fill a small rhinoceros. I stumble over to the button and press it again.

Within minutes, another tray of food replaces the last. I eye it greedily as it’s placed in front of me. This time it’s chicken pie. I shovel pieces of the delicious, comforting food into my hungry mouth, burning my tongue as I go. I don’t care though. A burnt tongue’s a small price to pay for a full stomach again. Once the plate’s empty, I eye it mournfully. I wish I could bring the chicken pie back and eat it again. Perhaps regurgitating it isn’t the answer though.

Just as I’m about to request more food, someone arrives with another tray.

“What does that do?” I ask, pointing to the blue liquid.

“Oh that?” She says. “That helps you gain weight.” She tells me, eying my protruding bones.

“Does it make me hungry again?” I ask.

She nods and hands me the tray. I look at the slice of banoffee pie. I’ve never enjoyed a meal so much. Despite the fact that I’ve already eaten a mammoth-sized portion of chicken pie, I manage to eat the sickly-sweet cream and caramel confection surprisingly fast. Before my taste buds can barely register what they’re eating, I’m licking caramel off of the plate. I don’t care what they make me do here; if they keep feeding me, I’m happy. I swallow the blue liquid in one gulp and press the button again. I tap my feet on the floor as I wait for round three.

I practically assault the poor woman bringing my meal when she opens the door. She thrusts the tray into my hands before turning around and moving as quickly as she can in the opposite direction. Anything to get away from the crazy girl.

This time, I get to enjoy shepherd’s pie (pies are a big thing in England) followed by a hunk of fruitcake which I manage to gulp down with surprising ease. Once I’m done, I look at the small glass, expecting the liquid inside to be blue. I’m surprised to see that this time, it’s bright green. I shrug my shoulders and gulp it down anyway.

As soon as it touches my lips, I feel sleepy. I stagger to the bed, my eyes closing as I fumble around with the duvet. I sigh and curl up into a ball under the warm covers before falling fast asleep.

When I wake up, I expect to see the crumbling ceiling of the last hovel I stayed in. It takes me a couple of minutes to work out where I am and why I’m here. You’re going to become an undercover agent, I tell myself several times as I wake up. You’re going to change the world. Or, at least, that’s what they say you’re going to do. Somehow, I don’t think changing the world is quite as easy as it seems. I stay curled up in the bed for a couple of minutes before I force myself to get up. You can’t change the world from under the duvet.

I stagger to the dressing table, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. I’m hungry again. I ring for more food. I quite like being fattened up. It’s rather fun.

I’m presented with an enormous silver tray filled with every breakfast food imaginable. I devour two croissants, five pieces of jam and toast, three crumpets, six rashers of bacon, a plate of scrambled eggs, two cups of coffee, a blueberry muffin and a bowl of cereal before I notice that there’s a piece of paper lying next to one of the plates. I pick it up and start to read whilst licking the remains of my breakfast from my lips.

Dear Rebecca,

Before you undergo the initial makeover process, you must be prepared for the physical rigours which will be demanded of you during your time here at The Cottage. Whilst we are aware that you have enjoyed physical exercise whilst running away from the government, your body is in need of rest. Therefore, we have decided that to ensure that you have the strength to cope with our physical regime, you’re to be given several days off before your makeover begins. Our team of experts will determine when you’re ready. Meanwhile, we hope you enjoy the food and leisure activities available. I suggest that the next time you ring for food, you ask for a book. Being idle for days can get boring if you don’t have anything to read.

I reread the bizarre note, looking for the author’s name. Unless I’ve suddenly gone blind, it isn’t there. However, I decide to heed their advice on the book front. When I had pneumonia, I couldn’t leave my bed for days. If I hadn’t have had a book, I would’ve gone insane.

I’m brought a plate of buttered toast when the food arrives.

“D’you know where I can get a book around here?” I ask the woman as she turns to leave.

“Sure, I’ll get you one.” She says, smiling at me kindly. I smile and pick up a piece of toast, stuffing it into my mouth. Yeah, being fed up’s pretty damn good. I resolve to be fattened up more often.

The woman returns several minutes later (I’ve finished the toast by now) with a slightly old, slightly dog-eared book. My father would’ve thought it was Christmas being presented with such a book; he used to love old books because he said he liked to think about the people who’d owned them before him.

I look at the cover of the book when she gives it to me. It’s a picture of a woman lying in the arms of a tanned man with a very large black moustache. I can’t help but think that he looks like a Walrus. I read the title. It’s ‘Gone with the Wind’. My mother had a copy of this book but it was a much more recent version. This one looks like it’s a couple of centuries old.

I flip open the cover to find that the title page’s covered in writing. Upon closer inspection, I discover that they’re names. I pick out several names; Margaret Taylor, Bridget Wyvern, Thomas Price, Angus Scythe and finally, the most recent, Charles Grey. It’s odd to think that hundreds of people held this book before me. Half of them are probably long dead and forgotten. I suppose that, it doesn’t matter what you do in life, at the end of the day, no one’s going to remember it. Throughout history, we’ve cared only about those who either do extremely bad or extremely good things; we never focus on those who simply live like normal human beings. I won’t be like the forgotten people. I don’t care what I’m remembered for. All I care about is that I don’t die knowing that I’ll be forgotten. I’m not a girl who can stand being forgotten.

I curl up on my bed with the book in my hands and start to read.

I’m not sure how long I stay in the room, eating, sleeping and reading. I know that I stayed long enough to read Gone with the Wind twice from cover-to-cover but, that’s the only time reference I have. After several days of eating as much as I can, I begin to lose track of time, my days sliding into endless days filled with relaxation and contentedness. That’s not exactly a bad thing though.

Once I’ve finished reading the book for the second time and am about to embark on my third time, someone opens the door and Charles Grey steps inside.

“Ahh, Gone With the Wind.” He says when he sees the book in my hands. “I wasn’t aware they still made people read that.”

“D’you not like it?” I ask, aghast. Personally, I love the story of Scarlett O’Hara; she’s less helpless than the usual drippy heroines.

“No, how dare you suggest that?” He asks, pretending to be shocked. “It’s a crime not to love it.”

I laugh. I hate having things in common with him but, when it comes to books, I can’t help it.

“Come on,” He says, “We’ve got to get you to your long-awaited makeover.”

“My what?” I ask, forgetting about my pre-booked torture session at the hands of makeup artists.

“Come on, it’s going to take them ages to clean all the grime off you.” He says, staring pointedly at my tattered clothes. I was too busy eating to ask for a bath and some clean clothes. I have my priorities.

I glare at him. “I’m not that dirty.” I mutter defensively although I don’t really believe it.

He snorts. “Come on.”

I follow him through the maze of corridors until we reach a large steel door. He pushes it open and I follow him inside.