If you knew how your life would turn out, what would you change now?
The second brilliantly uplifting and page-turning novel from the multi-million bestselling author of Geek Girl and Reese's Book Club Pick Cassandra in Reverse.
Margot Wayward is in manically gleeful self-destruct mode. Following the implosion of a ten-year relationship, she’s wilfully derailing her successful career, joyfully taking down men on dating apps, and living in total chaos.
Until one day, when Margot has a vision of herself with a man she’s never met before. She doesn’t believe in fate. But when Margot meets single-dad Henry, the vision comes true: exactly as she’d foreseen it.
As her future continues to reveal itself, a glimpse at a time, Margot realises she knows exactly what’s going to happen, and when. And there’s nothing she can do to change any of it.
So Margot has to decide how to live, how to love again, and how to be herself… Because if you can’t change your destiny, how on earth do you live your present?
Excerpt
“So, basically you’re a Weather Girl.”
I lean back in my chair and study the face of Date Number Fifteen. According to his online profile, the key to John’s heart is “Cuddles and Coffee,” and he doesn’t like “people who don’t message back— we r hear to talk!” (But not to spell, apparently.) John enjoys “long walks on the beach,” “honesty LOL” and randomly adding LOL to basic statements. He claims to be forty- two years old, a Gemini (“whatever that means haha”) and
a “six-foot- stop- asking” accountant who drinks “socially” but “never smokes” and is looking for his “next big adventure—i s it you?”
At no point did John say he enjoys smugly demeaning his dates, yet here we are.
“Sure.” I take another sip of red wine. “Why not.”
“But not on telly.” There’s a manic, slightly feverish glint in his eyes, like a light bulb about to pop. “So not a real Weather Girl. Bet you would look very nice in one of those perky little suits, though. Just saying.”
John winks and takes a huge swig of his pint: fingertips stained yellow.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say brightly. “As you say, I’m not On Telly.”
“You could be, though.” He leans forward and I catch a strong whiff of the cigarettes he never smokes. “You’re hot enough, Margaret. Like, an eight. Maybe. Not quite. Seven and a half, but with the right lighting . . .”
I grin at the waiter as he arrives with two plates of pasta.
“Thank you so much.” Picking up my fork, I attack my tagliatelle. “Could we also please get a side of garlic bread— make that two— a burrata with pesto and tiny tomatoes, a Ca-prese salad, stuffed artichokes, garlic mushrooms and . . . ooh, a bottle of your most expensive red wine? And a tiramisu, please.” John chokes slightly on his free bread roll and I smile sweetly at him.
“How rude of me,” I add. “Was there anything extra you wanted? Coffee, obviously. It is the key to your heart, after all.”
Date Number Fifteen glances at the menu, boggles slightly at the prices, then forces a smile at the patient waiter.
“No, I’m good.”
John looks me up and down, presumably to work out what my body will look like after £65 worth of Italian side dishes and whether it’ll be worth the financial investment. He says he’s an accountant; I’d imagine he’s calculating it to the penny.
“I like a girl who isn’t afraid to eat,” he says uncertainly as I pile pasta into my mouth and wipe carbonara sauce off my chin. “It’s very . . . sexy.”
“What a relief, John.” I finish my wine. “You’re a true gentle-man.”
This pleases him: he is a gentleman. Here, finally, is a woman who sees him.
“You’re a breath of fresh air, Margaret.” He shakes his head, ruefully picking at his ravioli. “Online dating is the worst. You would not believe the amount of crazies I’ve met. Absolutely bonkers out there.”
“Oh no.” I tilt my head at him. “How awful for you.”
“At least you look mostly like your profile photos,” Date Fifteen grins at me with an errant piece of crab stuck between his teeth, “although obviously they’re flattering— but we all tweak now and then, don’t we?”
“We do.” I feel my nostrils flare slightly. “Which beach do you favor for your long walks, in this non- coastal city of Bristol?”
“Oh.” He blinks. “I went to Weston- super- Mare last year.” “True commitment! And what’s an average weekend like in the life of Gemini John?”
He’s starting to look irritated now, and I think I can guess why. “You know, just . . . normal stuff.” John rubs his finger yet again, and I make a mental note of it: number seven.
“Wonderful.” I beam at him. “And last weekend, specifically?”
“What is this?” John tries to laugh, which is unfortunate because the crab is still protruding, as if making a final doomed bid for freedom— possibly encouraged by all the talk of beaches. “A first date or an interview?”
I glance at my watch. “Are they not the same thing?” Just in time, the waiter arrives with my order. I grin at him and he grins back.
“Actually.” I put my fork down and pat my stomach. “Can we get all this to go? I want to make sure we have enough energy for later, if you know what I mean.”
I wink at John and his surliness evaporates like water drop-lets on a hot car bonnet.
“Ooooh, bad girl. Straight to the point. I like it.”
“I’m thirty-six years old,” I say calmly, wiping my mouth and watching as John rubs his finger for the eighth time. “I haven’t been a girl for two decades. But thank you so much for repeatedly overlooking that chronological flaw. Much in the same way you have overlooked your own age, which I’m guessing is what— forty- seven?”
Date Number Fifteen winces. “Like I said— we all tweak. Right?”
“Absolutely!” I grin at him. “It makes sense to strategically alter the data to make sure you hit a younger female demographic. What an interesting way to reject the burden of time we all carry.”
The waiter saves him from responding by arriving with the bill and, with a twitching mouth, placing it in the middle of the table. I keep my hands flat and dimple at John for a few seconds— playing a game of bill chicken— until he sighs slightly and reaches for it. The muscles under his eyes twitch, and I watch his internal struggle. Am I worth extra garlic mushrooms? He glances at my breasts and decides: just. With a gallant flourish, Date Fifteen pays the whole bill, leaving no tip.
“So.” With my most seductive eyes, I push back my chair. “Shall we go?”
Poor John’s face lights up with such ferocity, I almost feel guilty. Almost but not quite. “Absolutely. My place or yours?”
I grin. “Both.”
“Um, how does that work?”
“Well, John.” I put a twenty- pound note on the table, stand up and grab my raincoat, handbag and giant umbrella. “I am going to go to my house, and you are going to yours. So that’s how it will work.”
“But— ”
“You’ve failed this date, John. Sorry.”
“I don’t— ” He stands up too and stares at me for a few seconds with his mouth open (crab still present), then looks at my tip lying on the table. “Why?”
“I’m so glad you asked.” I smile at the waiter, who is holding a paper bag. “Because you haven’t asked me a single non- rhetorical question all evening. You have stared at my breasts for the entire, uncomfortable hour. And not a single thing on your profile is true, including your height.”
All five foot ten of him bridles. “I am six foot. It’s not my fault you’re wearing bloody heels.”
“Oh, and you’re married.”
At this, his face completely changes, which immediately erases the one percent uncertainty still remaining. “What the— ”
“With children.”
John pales. “You’re— ”
“Crazy?” I laugh properly for the first time this evening. “I doubt it, John. You’ve rubbed the indent on your ring finger eight times. You also have one piece of dried alphabet cereal stuck to the back of your jacket, along with baby spit- up on your collar. Having assessed this data, I surmise that you have two children. One is less than six months, the other learning to read, so I’m guessing three or four years old. It’s an A, by the way. In case he or she is missing a vowel.”
John— or whatever his actual name is, I’m assuming I’ll never know now—s tarts to froth like an overloaded washing machine. “What the hell kind of business is it of yours if my wife and I are— ”
“Except your phone has pinged six times this evening and you checked it as soon as I went to the bathroom. So I’m guessing you are currently ‘stuck at work,’ sad- face emoji. Don’t feel too bad. Statistically, thirty percent of people using online dating apps are secretly married, so it’s not just you. You’re just shockingly bad at covering it up.”
Suffice to say, John isn’t LOL-ing anymore. It’s a good thing this little Italian restaurant in Clifton is so quiet on a Monday, because I think now he’s really “hear to talk.”
“So, you knew you weren’t interested and just let me pay for dinner anyway?”
“Yes.” I pick up my takeout bag. “Thank you. Much appreciated.” I hold up the bottle of wine to the waiter, along with the previous glass I’d already poured. “I’ll bring this back next Monday, OK? Washed, obviously.”
The waiter laughs. “Gotcha.”
I glance out of the window— yup, just as expected— and sling my raincoat on. John told me when we met that my raincoat and umbrella were “overkill in August,” but I’ve been watching the cumulonimbus clouds gather all afternoon. The sky doesn’t lie, unlike the majority of my online dates. As I walk toward the front door, I can feel John crackling behind me, the way you feel electricity in the air just before a thunderstorm.
“By the way,” I say, holding up the bottle of wine, before he can start yelling. “My name is Margot. And I’m not a ‘Weather Girl.’ I’m a bloody meteorologist.”
Then I open my umbrella just as the first few drops begin to fall.
And walk straight into the rain.
Excerpted from I KNOW HOW THIS ENDS. Copyright © 2025 by Holly Smale. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HTP/HarperCollins.
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