The revolving doors start spinning and I see Daff emerging from the building with a few other people behind her. They all seem in pretty high spirits: laughing and back-slapping and hugging goodbye. I can see from here that Daff is clutching a chunky glass block that must be her Rising Star award. I give her a wave from across the crawling traffic, and she waves back, grinning.
The four years we’ve just skimmed over seem to have done nothing at all to her face; she looks just as young and fresh and happy as she did back in 2006. She’s wearing a smart dark blue shirt and tight black velvet skirt; and weirdly, I remember the outfit exactly from this night ten years ago. When she arrived at my flat, my first thought was to ask what she was so dressed up for. But then my own selfish problems squeezed that question straight back out of my head.
They must have given her the award the next day, as she muttered some excuse about why she hadn’t been able to stick around. I clasp the tulips tighter as I feel yet another spasm of resentment towards my egotistical twenty-four-year-old self.
Daff is walking across the road now, doing a mock-overwhelmed are-those-for-me? mime as she spots the flowers, which get even more crumpled as I pull her into a hug.
‘Well done! Daff, this is so great.’
‘Thank you.’ She breaks out of the hug and smells the tulips. ‘And thanks for these.’
‘They’re already pretty much destroyed. Sorry about that.’
‘No, don’t worry. They’re beautiful.’
She’s smiling from ear to ear and her flushed cheeks suggest she’s already had one or two celebratory drinks. She looks amazing.
‘So, what happened, then?’ I ask. ‘I want the full details.’
‘Well, it was all pretty embarrassing, really. I had to get up and make a speech and everything.’
‘I hope you went full Gwyneth Paltrow?’
‘Oh yeah. I was weeping, dedicating it to my parents, thanking God … No, I just mumbled “Cheers for this” and then ran straight back to the wine.’
I take the award off her, feeling its weight. ‘Seriously, this is so brilliant, Daff. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s not that big a deal. You know I’ve been out seeing tons of plays lately, and I mentioned a couple of the playwrights to Sarah, and she’s ended up taking them on as clients. So I guess they think I’m showing some promise, or whatever.’ I can almost hear the speech marks around ‘showing some promise’. Daff has always been so modest. Too modest.
I hand the award back. ‘You’re doing absolutely amazing.’
She frowns at me. ‘Are you sure you’re OK about that email? You’re being a bit weird about it. I thought you’d be a lot more upset, to be honest.’
‘So did I. But as it turns out … I’m not.’
She nods back towards her office. ‘You know, I could always give your book to the fiction team at work. They could take a look at it.’
‘No, honestly. I don’t want to talk or think about the book at all tonight. I just want us to do something fun’ – I tap the award – ‘to celebrate this.’
‘Something fun,’ she repeats. And then her eyes sparkle and her mouth twists up at the corner. ‘I can think of something fun.’
Half an hour later, we are sitting in the cheapest of cheap seats in the Leicester Square theatre, our view partially obscured by a concrete pillar, watching a man I vaguely recognise from EastEnders scamper across the stage dressed as Aladdin.
‘I cannot believe this is your first ever pantomime,’ Daff whispers, her mouth half full of Revels. ‘I should report your mum to social services.’
‘I can’t believe this isn’t your first pantomime,’ I say, as the EastEnders guy gets his cheeks tweaked by Widow Twankey, being played here by the orange bloke off Bargain Hunt.
‘Dad used to take us every year when we were little,’ Daff says, passing me the chocolates and taking a sip of her beer. ‘Family tradition.’
‘Since when is Widow Twankey Aladdin’s mum?’ I ask.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Since forever.’
‘They don’t even look alike. Plus, Twankey doesn’t sound like a particularly Arabic surname.’
‘You know, Ben,’ she deadpans, ‘I’m not sure that realism was at the forefront of the production team’s mind here.’ With perfect timing, a former Big Brother runner-up covered entirely in blue paint emerges from a giant smoking lamp in front of us.
‘If only your colleagues could see you now,’ I say, smiling. ‘The great Rising Star, eating Revels and watching Ian Beale run around in a pair of MC Hammer trousers.’
She elbows me in the ribs. ‘Oi! I love panto. Best thing about Christmas. Just because something’s considered lowbrow doesn’t mean it can’t also be brilliant and fun and entertaining.’ She laughs. ‘Hey, d’you remember, I had pretty much this exact argument with Marek on the night we met?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I do, vividly.’ We join the audience in collectively alerting Ian Beale to the fact that someone is behind him.
Daff is giving the stage her full attention now, but her mention of the night we met – the night I’ve only just relived – makes me want to double-check what the watch-seller told me. ‘Hey, so you recall that night,’ I say. ‘The play at uni?’ She nods, her eyes still fixed on the stage. ‘Do you remember when I forgot my lines? And you had to go and find me a script?’
She turns to me. ‘No I didn’t. Did I?’
‘Yeah … And I totally fluffed it when I was on stage? Forgot to shoot Marek?’
She’s looking at me like I’ve gone mad. ‘No
