The desk was covered with administrative trays barely containing scattered piles of papers and boxes, and the computer.
The computer was a really old-fashioned-looking, cream-coloured boxy one on the desk by the papers.
The kind that Mrs Elm would once have had in her school library.
She was at the keyboard now, typing with urgency, staring at the monitor as Nora stood behind her.
The lights above – the same bare light bulbs hanging down from wires – were flickering wildly.
“My dad was alive because of me. But he’d also had an affair, and my mum died earlier,
and I got on with my brother because I had never let him down, but he was still the same brother, really,
and he was only really okay with me in that life because I was helping him make money and... and... it wasn’t the Olympic dream I imagined.
It was the same me. And something had happened in Portugal.
I’d probably tried to kill myself or something... Are there any other lives at all or is it just the furnishings that change?”
But Mrs Elm wasn’t listening. Nora noticed something on the desk. An old plastic orange fountain pen.
The exact same kind that Nora had once owned at school.
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