‘Any change, lads?’ he asks brightly.
Harv digs into his pocket and slots in a pound coin. ‘There you go, mate. Merry Christmas.’
‘And to you too,’ the old man twinkles.
‘Good work on that tune. I was saying to my friend here, you’ve got a serious set of lungs on you.’
The watch-seller gives a warm chuckle at this. ‘What I lack in capability, I feel I more than make up for in effort.’
‘You definitely do.’ Harv grins, and then glances back at the pub. ‘Ben, can you hang on one sec? I’m just gonna nip back in for a wee.’ He turns to the watch-seller. ‘Long Tube journey, and I’m not used to drinking pints.’
The watch-seller laughs politely. ‘No. You’re a vodka and tonic man.’
‘Er … yeah,’ Harv says, wrinkling his forehead. He gives me a confused look, and then walks off.
The old man smiles at me. ‘You’ve managed to get him back on the black stuff, then?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s the sign of a true friend: they’ll abandon all dietary plans for you.’
I’m too desperate for answers to even acknowledge this remark. ‘Look, can you please tell me what’s going on?’ I whisper urgently. ‘Am I back in the real world or not?’
He readjusts his wonky Santa hat. ‘I thought someone with your particular theatrical background might have realised that after Christmas past comes … Christmas present.’
‘Christmas present?’ I repeat, stupidly.
I think of Marek’s play – The Carol Revisited. His version of Christmas present involved Vinny Scrooge weeping uncontrollably as he watched a papier-mâché model of his own corpse being dumped in the harbour (a paddling pool) by rival gangsters.
But it was only a hallucination – a warning of what would come if he didn’t change his ways …
‘So today didn’t really happen,’ I say slowly, feeling a spark of hope ignite in my chest. ‘Daff will have no memory of seeing those messages when I finally get back to reality. If I get back.’ The hope gives way briefly to anger, and I look up at the old man. ‘Or will I keep flitting about from one random moment to the next? No future, no consequences?’
The watch-seller smoothes his reindeer tie and chuckles. ‘Oh, the future’s on its way, my friend, don’t you worry,’ he says, his eyes twinkling. Before I can ask what he means by that, he adds, ‘Just remember: “If you don’t like your life, you can change it.” H. G. Wells wrote that.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘He also wrote The Time Machine, didn’t he? I guess that’s why you’re into him.’
He laughs – a hearty Grandad Jack laugh that sends another shiver of recognition down my spine. ‘It’s one of the reasons. Of course, The Time Machine is no Groundhog Day.’
I see my chance to ask the question that’s been nagging at me for what feels like weeks. ‘Listen, do we know each other? It’s just that you remind me a lot of my grandad.’
The watch-seller twinkles at this, puffing his chest out and smirking. ‘Good-looking fellow, I presume? No, I think I’ve just got one of those faces. People often remark on how similar I look to someone they know.’
‘Oh. OK.’
I’m not entirely sure I believe him, but I can tell he’s not going to be drawn any further. We stand in silence for a few seconds, while the crowd disperses around us. I feel the way I always feel in his presence: unreal. Like I’ve fallen through the cracks of reality and landed in some hidden pocket that no one else can see.
‘Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?’ I ask finally.
‘Because you’ll find out soon enough,’ he says.
‘It really doesn’t feel like it.’
Across the street, I see Harv re-emerging from the pub. I rub my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket. I feel more knackered than I have done all day.
The old man puts a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. ‘Trust me,’ he says kindly. ‘You’re nearly there.’
The sofa bed feels like it’s made of broken coat hangers.
We’ve coaxed its rickety skeleton out from the depths of Harv’s couch, and now the two of us are lying side by side on top of the duvet, eating Haribo Tangfastics and watching Love Actually on TV.
‘The signs bit is coming up now,’ Harv says, through a mouthful of heavily sugared gelatin.
‘The signs bit?’
‘Yeah, you know – when that Walking Dead guy goes round Keira Knightley’s house with his creepy signs.’ He takes another handful of sweets. ‘I’ve always wondered – what would he have done if his mate had opened the door instead of Keira? He’s literally standing there with a boom box and a shitload of signs about his wasted heart. Obviously his mate would ask to see them, and then he’s screwed, you know?’
I turn to look at him. ‘How many times have you seen this film?’
His cheeks flush. ‘Like, once … or, I don’t know. Maybe twice. It’s always on telly.’
He meets my eyes and we both start laughing.
After our deluge of emotional frankness in the pub, Harv seems to have adopted the firm position that breeziness and banter are now the way forward. Since we left the watch-seller in that square a few hours ago, he hasn’t mentioned Daphne or Alice once. He obviously feels that the best method for keeping my mind off the horror show of my life is simply to act like nothing has happened: my marriage is not really on the brink of collapse, and this is just a normal Christmas Day like any other, ending as it always
