I Don’t Like Creme Eggs

“Richard’s bagged himself a job.” Charlotte says it so casually it almost slides past me — a harmless sentence wearing the disguise of something ordinary, blissfully unaware of its own ridiculousness. Richard. Not Dad. Never Dad. Always Richard — like he’s a mildly disappointing colleague rather than the man who raised her and occasionally forgot to participate. I’ve never questioned it. Some things don’t make sense — they just keep turning up until they feel like part of the parcel. Still. I blink at her. “Sorry… Richard Richard?” She nods, deadpan. “The very same. The eight-year veteran of ‘job seeking’ … in the loosest sense of the word.” I let out a slow breath, like I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. This is a man who has rejected more jobs than most people have had hot dinners. A man who considers anything under six figures a personal insult. A man who once described a part-time admin role as “spiritually beneath him,” as though excel might tarnish his essence. “Punching, perhaps?” I had said. “Deluded,” Charlotte had replied, with a laugh that carried history. Richard, professional Temu enthusiast. Bulk buyer of things nobody needs. A man who has somehow turned spending money he doesn’t have into a full-time occupation — unpaid, but passionately pursued. As one point, he bulk bought enough Cadbury Creme Eggs to last a decade — stacked like sugary ammunition in a spare room, a shrine to discounted indulgence and poor impulse control. And now — “Primark,” she says. There’s a pause. A sacred, stunned pause. I squint at her. “You’re joking.” “No,” she says. “No, I wish I was joking. He starts Monday.” I let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Well… he does like a bargain.” But even as I say it, something inside me shifts. Not dramatically, just… enough. Like a picture frame tilting a few degrees off straight, and the world pretending not to notice. I climb out of the work van. A wave of dizziness hits me — that familiar mix of prickling heat, cellophane haze, and déjà vu pushing through the veil. Ah. One of those turns. “Brilliant,” I mutter. The ground rises to meet me with all the grace of a dropped piano. Black. I wake up in a pub. Sticky floors that whisper underfoot. Carpet that’s seen things and made peace with them. The smell of ale, sweat, and pork scratchings that have long since given up on being edible. Pensioners sit hunched into themselves, staring wistfully into their pints like they're waiting for the answers at the bottom. “You okay, love?” I turn. An old man peers at me through a beard so long it’s dipped halfway into his drink. He doesn’t seem concerned about this. “I… think so,” I say, although my voice sounds like it’s coming from slightly behind me. There’s a function happening. Balloons that gave up halfway. A buffet that looks like it has nothing left to give. I approach a group around a pool table. “Any idea where I am?” I ask. One of them looks at me. “The Hellhole.” I laugh. He doesn’t. “No, really,” I say. “No,” he replies. “Really. This pub is called The Hellhole.” Of course it is. I approach the bar, already mourning my usual Aperol spritz. “Prosecco?” I try, optimistically. The barman looks at me like I’ve just asked for a unicorn in a glass. “We only sell ale, love.” I nod slowly. “Of course you do.” I take the pint he hands me. It looks like something you’d scoop out of a pond and apologise to afterwards. I sit, staring it. And then — “Amanda?” I freeze. I’d know that voice anywhere. Even underwater. Even buried. Even echoing from the bottom of a well. Ash. I turn. There she is. In a pub. At night. Unsupervised. Without children attached to her like decorative barnacles. But somethings off. She sways slightly when she stands still, smiles a fraction too long, and her words arrive a second too late, like they’ve taken the scenic route. “What are you doing here?” I ask, standing too quickly. “Just here for a drink,” she says, gesturing with a pint that sloshes precariously close to betrayal. I stare at her. “A drink,” I repeat. “Yes, Mand. A drink,” she says, and laughs — slightly delayed, slightly overcooked. Something is very wrong. “Where are the kids?” “Oh, Aksen’s babysitting.” She leans in like this is gossip, then nearly misses the table when she sets her drink down. I feel the world tilt another fraction. Richard has a job. Ash is as drunk as a skunk. Reality is… loosening its grip. “I’m just grabbing something from the bar,” she says, wandering slightly off-course before overcorrecting herself. I stand there, holding my swamp-water ale, when I spot another familiar face. Abbie. Same red hair. Same laugh — a high-pitched cackle, head thrown back, full-bodied, unapologetic. Time hasn’t touched her. Or it has — and smoothed over something it shouldn’t have. We hug. It feels right and wrong at the same time. She smells exactly the same. That bar soap smell, solid and familiar, clean but stubbornly so. But when she pulls back… her smile lingers a beat too long. Her eyes don’t quite match it, like she’s remembering how to be herself rather than being it. “Ash is here,” I say. Her face lights up like I’ve just handed her gossip in physical form. “Oh my GOD— where? I have so much to tell her.” I point. Abbie disappears into the crowd too smoothly, like a ghost slipping back into noise. And suddenly — I’m alone. Again. I look down at the pint in my hand. The surface ripples slightly, though I haven’t moved it. And it hits me. Hard. This isn’t right. None of this is right. This reality has seams — and I can see the stitching. I am dreaming. I stand. Close my eyes. And fall backwards. A trust fall into something that has not earned my trust. I land in an alleyway. Of all the places. Dusty. Narrow. The kind of place where light goes to die alone. And there’s my mum. Laughing, chatting, surrounded by a group of youths who look fresh out of juvenile prison. All hoodies and menace. “Mum,” I call, stepping forwards. “I don’t think—” “They’re nice,” she says, waving me off. They are not nice. My stomach tightens into a hard, quiet knot Before I can move, they grab her. They lift her into the air by the scruff of her clothes and start pushing her into a barbed wire fence. “Oi!” I shout, sprinting. “Put her down!” But something shifts— Her body changes in their grip. Shrinks. Fur replaces skin. “Mum—?” No. Monkey. My cat. Of course. Because why wouldn’t he be? They’re trying to force him through the barbed wire. My chest tightens. “PUT HIM DOWN!” I scramble up the fence, ignoring the metal biting into my hands. He’s stuck — rounder than he should be. “Should’ve laid off the Dreamies,” I mutter through gritted teeth, hauling him free inch by inch. Eventually — He comes loose. I clutch him to me, slide down the fence, and collapse onto the ground, sobbing into his fur. “They didn’t hurt you,” I whisper. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” The youths back away. Then they run. That’s right — off you jolly well fuck. After a moment, Monkey starts to dissolve in my arms — like mist, like memory losing its grip — until there is nothing left. I sit there, empty-handed. And it hits me again. I am dreaming. Still dreaming. Still falling for it. I stand again. Close my eyes. And fall backwards. I wake up in a bed. Mine, but not mine. The room is all wrong. Shuffled. Shifted. Rewritten. In the corner: a creative station. Overflowing. Paints, paper, half-finished ideas. A shrine to creativity. On the table is a book. An autobiography. A woman’s face on the cover. I don’t recognise her, but there are folded pages. Notes. My handwriting. Margins filled with thoughts I don’t remember thinking. Am I… stealing this? Or studying it? Or — have I already become it and simply don’t remember agreeing to it? Before I can decide — I hear voices in the next room. Charlotte and Robin. Whispering. But I hear it perfectly. “There were two lines on the test.” Silence. My breath catches. Two lines. No ambiguity. No wiggle room. Pregnant. Charlotte? I walk into the room. But it’s empty. Completely empty. No Charlotte. No Robin. Just the echo of something that’s already happened. Or hasn’t yet. And then — I don’t understand fully, but something aligns. These aren’t just dreams. They’re leaks. Cross-contamination between versions. Reality bleeding through poorly sealed edges. Fragments. Other timelines brushing up against mine like strangers in the dark. Richard working. Ash drinking. Charlotte — pregnant. Things that feel impossible here… perfectly normal somewhere else. I look down at the book again. At the notes. At the life I don’t remember living. And a thought slides quietly into place — What if I’m not dreaming them… What if I’m remembering them? On the bedside table something catches my eye. A half-eaten Cadbury Creme Egg. Foil peeled back. Leaning slightly. Rocking. It shouldn’t exist here. I don’t like Creme Eggs.