Alice coughs and fiddles with her fringe. She keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead as she says, ‘It sounds stupid, but I always felt like Daphne had a weird … thing about me. That maybe she didn’t like me very much?’
I try to work some moisture into my mouth. ‘No … I don’t think that’s true.’
Alice just nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. I can’t think of anything more to say, so I just keep quiet. A boat full of rowdy tourists in Santa hats drifts past, and I scour my brain for a change of subject.
Before I can find one, she carries on: ‘So, how come you guys split up, then? If you don’t mind me asking?’ That same studiedly casual tone has slipped back into her voice, as if we’re talking about a two-week fling rather than a nine-year relationship.
I try to keep my voice as steady as hers. ‘Well, we didn’t really split up. I mean, technically we’re not together right now, but—’
‘Something must have changed, though?’ she cuts in. ‘If she’s in New York, and you’re here?’
‘Yeah. I guess. It’s … complicated.’
‘Mmm,’ she says. ‘Yeah, it sounds like it.’ Her face is blank – totally unreadable. But then she stops in front of a big flight of stone stairs and turns to smile at me. ‘Anyway, here we are. Next stop.’
Thankfully, all talk of Daphne dries up after that.
We head up and onto the Left Bank, where we eat the same incredible steak-frites at Le Relais de l’Entrecôte restaurant in Montparnasse. And after that, we retreat to the same crowded little piano bar in Denfert-Rochereau, where we huddle up at the same corner table and see off what is almost certainly the same bottle of house red. I just sit there, feeling increasingly drunk, listening to Alice talk about her co-workers, occasionally pouring scorn on them with an acidity I definitely don’t recall from the first time around. Everything is beginning to blur at the edges now, starting to feel scary and unreal. Because I know what will happen once we leave this restaurant, and I have no idea what I should do when it does.
Even though Alice has stopped grilling me about her, I still can’t get Daphne out of my mind. Something Mum said to me during that Monopoly game comes back suddenly: you and Daphne seem to have a relationship that’s worth working at. That’s what I was supposed to be doing here in Paris: working at it. When really I was sitting in this bar doing the exact opposite.
And then it hits me … Mum.
She’s out there too, in this reality. She’s still alive.
As soon as the thought enters my head, I’m up and out of my chair, mumbling an excuse to Alice behind me. My heart is thudding in my chest; I’m suddenly desperate to hear her voice. I step out into the freezing cold and press my phone against my ear, thinking: please, please, please pick up …
‘Hello, darling!’ she trills. ‘Merry Christmas!’
The winking Christmas lights on the lamp posts begin to dissolve in front of me as the tears blur my vision. I have to bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep it together. ‘Hi, Mum, merry Christmas!’ I’m trying to keep my voice steady, but I’m not totally sure I’m succeeding.
‘I was going to call you later, when I got back from Simon’s,’ she says. ‘Is this costing you an absolute fortune? I can call you back if you want?’
‘No, no, don’t worry.’ God, it is so good to hear her voice. She sounds happy – and more than a little tipsy – and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for this chance to speak to her again.
‘I just wanted to say that I miss you,’ I mumble. ‘I wish I was there with you.’
She drops her voice to a whisper. ‘Trust me, you don’t. I spent the whole of lunch sitting next to your cousin Lucy’s incredibly dull new boyfriend. The man talked about nothing but Top Gear for an hour and a half. I am now the world’s leading expert on Richard Hammond. I think I know more about Richard Hammond than Richard Hammond does.’
I am half laughing and half crying now, receiving some very concerned looks from people walking past.
‘So, what are you up to?’ she asks. ‘Please tell me you’re not moping about on your own?’
I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together. ‘No, don’t worry. I’m spending the day with a friend, actually.’
‘Oh, that’s nice. Where do you know him from?’
‘Her, actually. She’s an old friend from uni.’
‘Oh. Right.’ There’s a pause on the other end of the line. And then I hear Mum clear her throat stiffly. ‘And have you heard from Daphne today?’
‘Yeah. Well, I got a Christmas card from her yesterday.’
‘Yes, I got one, too.’ There’s another pause, and she adds, ‘She’s such a lovely girl, honestly.’ I can feel the prickle in her voice.
‘I know,’ I say.
‘I hope you do. You bloody should.’
I was never totally honest with Mum about why Daff and I were taking this break. I just told her it was because Daff was going to New York; I didn’t mention anything about my marriage freak-out; it was way too closely intertwined with her and Dad.
For a second, I consider telling her about it now. But then I hear a muffled voice behind her. ‘I’ll be right in,’ she calls to somebody. And then: ‘I’d better go, love. We’re about to do presents.’
I feel a spasm of panic rip through me. If I let her go now, I don’t know if I’ll ever get to speak to her again. But then what can I do? I can’t exactly spend the rest of this evening standing out here chatting to her.
I stare dumbly at the pavement, feeling my throat constrict so tightly that I can’t get any words through it. Luckily, Mum speaks for me. ‘It feels rather
