That night in the bar at uni when I felt this instant connection with a girl I’d just met; that moment in the maze where I snapped the branch on purpose so she’d find me. The discovery that she’d given up her Rising Star evening to come and pick me up when I was down; the blinding misery I felt waking up in Alice’s bed in Paris. Some of these memories have made me feel good; some have made me feel sick with shame and guilt. But all of them have served to reinforce one thing: it’s always been Daphne.
Always.
I keep thinking of what I said to my dad back in the car: She’s pretty much kept me together over the past couple of weeks. I don’t know what I’d do without her. It’s true. I would be lost if I didn’t have Daff. I’d fall to pieces, I know I would. But that’s not a relationship, is it? That’s … dependency.
She said earlier, when we were sitting in the churchyard, that we were a team. Well, for years, she’s been doing all the teamwork. If I want to be with her, I need to earn it. I have to stop taking her for granted and start pulling my weight.
I wasted so many years trying to salvage my relationship with my dad – a relationship that wasn’t even worth saving. But my marriage to Daphne is. I’ve got to make things better. I know that now.
The clock on the bedroom wall now reads 11.54 p.m. I’m only two years away from the present at this moment. Will that be where I find myself in five minutes’ time? My whole body tingles with excitement at the thought. I can’t wait to get back to 2020 and start rebuilding my life.
The first step will be to have a perfect Christmas Day with Daff. And then, after that, look for a new job, maybe even restart the conversation about having kids … and who knows what else? For the first time in a long time, the future actually seems like an inviting prospect.
Daff wriggles next to me and nuzzles further into my neck.
I pull her close and kiss her cheek gently. ‘Everything’s going to be OK, Daff,’ I whisper. ‘I promise. I love you.’
‘Love you too,’ she murmurs. ‘See you in the morning.’
On the wall, 11.57 becomes 11.58.
I hold my arm up so that my watch hovers right next to the clock in my eyeline, and wait for the time to match up.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I must have been subconsciously bracing myself for the hard wooden attic floor, because the soft mattress feels strangely disconcerting beneath me.
I know I’ve jumped again, because the dizziness and motion sickness are both in full effect. But when I open my eyes and sit up, I see I’m still in the same bed, in the same bedroom.
It’s light outside now, though, and Daphne has disappeared. I can hear the gurgle and splutter of the coffee machine from downstairs. I reach across to the bedside table and open my phone. The date reads: 25 December 2020.
The realisation fizzes through me: I’m back. I’m definitely back.
But how did I get down from the attic? And when did Daff get home? There’s a blank space between me falling asleep while poring over that stuff in the biscuit tin, and me waking up here now. And that blank space feels extremely unsettling.
The watch is still fixed tightly around my wrist, its hands stuck at one minute to midnight.
My heart starts hammering, but as I step out of bed, I decide to worry about filling in the gaps later. The only thing that matters right now is that I’m back, and I can start making things right with Daphne.
I get dressed quickly and head downstairs, but as I pass the living room, I spot the Christmas tree through the half-open door. It’s fully decorated, with a stack of neatly wrapped presents underneath it. My heart sinks. Daff must have got up early to do the chores I was supposed to be doing last night. After everything I’ve just been through – and all my resolutions to make things better – are we right back where we were before? Am I about to walk into the kitchen and straight into another fight?
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading something on her iPad, one hand clasped around a steaming cup of coffee. She’s wearing pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt, her curly hair piled messily into a topknot on her head. The urge to go straight across and put my arms around her is almost overpowering, but she doesn’t even look up as I walk in.
‘Hey. Merry Christmas. There’s coffee in the pot.’
‘Ah, nice one. Merry Christmas …’
‘Thanks for doing the tree. And the presents.’ She looks up at me and gives me a quick, tight smile.
‘I …’ I stare at her, trying desperately to read her face for any traces of sarcasm or passive-aggression. There don’t seem to be any. Did I do the tree and the presents? I have no memory of it. But chucking a few bits of tinsel up and not remembering certainly wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened over the past few days.
‘No worries,’ I say tentatively.
Instead of rolling her eyes, or yelling something along the lines of ‘I was being sarcastic, you selfish knob’, Daff just smiles again and looks back down at the iPad. Something is definitely not right here. But still: I assumed an argument was on the cards, and it doesn’t appear to be. So it’s probably best to let the matter lie for now.
I pour myself a coffee and stand at the kitchen counter. She carries on reading in silence, and even though we’re not in open verbal combat, I
