To be quite honest, I appreciate it. Not just because I’m too frazzled to talk any more about deep, serious, depressing stuff, but also because his tactic is more spot-on than he realises. Nothing has happened.
This is not reality.
Which means Daphne didn’t see those texts, which means – surely – I have another chance to make things right. At the moment, that thought is the only thing keeping me going.
I flinch every time I remember the look on her face as she handed me my phone. I can’t even bear to think of the hurt I’ve caused her. There has to be a way to mend this. There just has to be.
I lift my phone off the arm of the sofa. The time is 11.47 p.m. In twelve minutes, all this will disappear, and even though I have no idea where or when I’ll end up, I know that I have to find her. I have to tell her the truth – about everything. I have to somehow show her how much she means to me.
And preferably not by turning up on the doorstep with a load of creepy signs.
Harv stuffs another large fistful of sweets into his mouth. Clearly, that pint of Guinness was the beginning of a slippery slope, because we’ve now emptied a packet and a half of Haribo between us, in addition to the large kebab and chips we had on the Tube home.
If this was reality, I’d be considering staging an intervention.
I check my phone again: 11.48. It’s like time is purposely slowing down, just to mess with me.
‘Ben, come on,’ Harv says quietly.
‘What?’
He nods at the armrest. ‘Stop looking at your phone. She’s not going to text you now.’
‘No. Yeah. I know.’
I lay it back down and we watch the Walking Dead guy doing his heart-warming stalker act in silence for a bit. And then, still looking at the TV, Harv suddenly says: ‘You will be OK, man. Honestly. You and Daff, I mean.’
‘Yeah.’ I breathe out shakily. ‘I hope so, but I’m not so sure.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s your natural pessimism talking,’ he says. ‘You need to tap into your inner optimist.’
‘I don’t think I’ve got one.’
‘Well, fucking get one.’ Harv mutes Love Actually and turns to look at me. ‘Look, man, this situation is going to require some serious effort if you want to fix it. You screwed up big time.’
‘Yeah, thanks, Harv. You don’t need to remind me.’
‘Well clearly I do, because you’re not going to get Daphne back by wallowing in your own misery, are you? You have to believe in yourself a bit more, otherwise why the hell should she believe in you?’
I shrug. ‘Self-belief doesn’t exactly come naturally to me.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Self-pity, on the other hand, you’ve got coming out of your ears.’
The accuracy of this statement sends a shiver down my spine. I think of the funeral, of my dad’s cloying self-pity in the car. I can’t give in to that side of myself. I have to be better. Not just for Daff, but for me.
Harv shuffles back against the cushions and continues. ‘It’s not going to be easy to win her trust back. It might be the hardest thing you ever do in your life. But isn’t it worth the effort?’
‘Of course it is. She …’ My voice catches in my throat. ‘She’s everything to me.’
Harv nods firmly. ‘There you go then. Pep talk over.’ He unmutes the TV. ‘Now can we please get back to arguably the greatest cinematic achievement of the twenty-first century?’
Without thinking, I glance at my phone again: 11.52.
‘Stop bloody doing that!’ Harv snaps. ‘Seriously – don’t make me confiscate it.’
‘Sorry. Sorry.’
He sighs. ‘Tomorrow, Ben. You can sort all this out tomorrow.’
All I can do is pray that he’s right. In eight minutes’ time, maybe I’ll get another chance. Maybe I’ll wake up next to Daphne again, all ready to lay everything out there and try desperately to rebuild what I’ve nearly destroyed.
My heart soars at the thought as I count down the seconds in my head.
Chapter Forty
There’s a high-pitched ringing sound, like a phone going off. Or an alarm.
I scramble upright, trying to calm my gasping breath, as the tinny noise continues to drill deep into my eardrums.
I’m in bed. At least, I think I am. Although it’s a noticeably comfier one than Harv’s sofa bed. My eyes are wide open, but it’s pitch dark and I can’t see a thing. The alarm is still going off, its cries for attention getting louder and more aggressive with every second.
I fumble blindly around me, trying to locate where it’s coming from. My hand grasps something cold on the bedside table – an iPhone I don’t recognise – and I shut the alarm off before dropping the phone back down. According to the flash of screen I caught a glimpse of, it’s just after 9 a.m. And the date underneath said …
No, hang on. That can’t be right.
I go to pick up the phone again, but before I can, I feel movement beside me. The bed covers shifting as somebody turns over.
‘Mmm. Morning, you,’ a female voice mumbles. ‘Merry Christmas.’ An arm stretches out across my bare chest and a messy head of hair nuzzles underneath my chin.
I freeze. I know it’s not Daphne. It’s pitch dark, but somehow, I just know.
My heart is stampeding in my chest. I try to hack my sandpaper-dry throat clear, but I can’t get any words out.
‘Ben? Are you OK? You’re shivering.’
The voice is harder now. It has an edge to it. I recognise it this time, and the shock hits me like a punch in the gut.
‘What’s wrong?’
I still can’t quite get my mouth to emit any actual human words. I feel her sit up and reach across to the other side of the bed. A light comes on, and the sudden brightness forces my eyes shut.
‘Oh my
