I am thirty-seven years old, and I very much look it.
I run a hand over my face. The world feels less real than it’s ever felt, but it doesn’t change the fact that this could be it: I could very well be back in reality right now. The thought makes my stomach flip. And then, from down the hall, I hear:
‘Ben, come on! Breakfast!’
I tear myself away from my thirty-seven-year-old reflection and follow the sound of clinking plates down the corridor. As I push open the kitchen door, I see Alice at the counter, her back turned to me, pouring almond milk into a bowl of something that looks like it should be lining the floor of a hamster cage.
‘Hey, you,’ she says, without turning round. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Yeah, I’m—’
‘Don’t be ill, Ben, seriously,’ she says, cutting me off. ‘Not on Christmas Day. I want you on good form today, charming the pants off everyone.’
She spins around, holding the bowl of moist sawdust out to me, and prods me three times in the stomach: ‘Don’t. Be. Ill!’ She’s smiling, but her teeth are clenched, and those stomach prods were definitely straddling the border between playful and aggressive. Is she pretending to be annoyed, or is she actually annoyed? It’s very hard to tell.
‘OK?’ she adds.
I nod. ‘Yep. OK … No, I feel better already, actually.’
‘Great. Good.’ She sweeps back to the counter, and as she starts pulling spoons out of the cutlery drawer, I get the chance to take in her face properly. Like me, she’s gained a couple more wrinkles, but she still looks great. Beautiful, even. Long hair really suits her.
None of which makes this situation feel any less terrifying or wrong.
‘Back in a sec. I’m just going to wrap the last few presents.’ She leaves the room, and I put the bowl down on the table and take the opportunity to have a look around my new home.
The first thing that catches my eye is a large black-and-white framed photograph of Alice and me. It’s at the back of the room, hanging in pride of place behind the head of the table.
It must have been taken by a professional photographer, because the two of us are perfectly positioned – and possibly even artificially lit – in the middle of an outlandishly picturesque garden. Alice is sitting on a wicker chair wearing a long, flowing dress, and I’m standing next to her in a suit I don’t recognise, my hand draped awkwardly on her shoulder. We are both smiling at the camera, but while Alice is managing to exude happiness and sophistication, I look like I am in genuine physical pain.
The whole thing is so ridiculous it almost makes me snort with laughter. I flash back suddenly to the attic on Christmas Eve 2020, when I saw that picture of myself in the university play programme. I didn’t recognise the grinning, carefree nineteen-year-old in that photo, and I don’t recognise the ludicrous, gurning thirty-seven-year-old in this one, either. There is no way I would ever pose for a photo like this – even if Daphne suggested it.
But the truth is, Daphne would never, ever suggest it.
The only photo of us on public display in our flat is frayed at the edges and dangling from a magnet on the fridge. It shows the two of us drunk and bent double with laughter at Bestival 2017 – her dressed as the Ultimate Warrior and me as Hulk Hogan. I love that photo.
As I stare at this gold-framed monstrosity on the wall, I can’t help imagining Daff’s reaction to it. I’m fairly sure it would involve a significant amount of giggling.
Who the hell have I become?
Next to the preposterous photo there is a calendar hanging on a little hook above the Wi-Fi box. I squint at it to see that it reaffirms the day and year, and that under today’s date, someone – Alice – has written: XMAS DRINKS DO! and under tomorrow – Boxing Day – LUNCH AT M&D’s.
Scanning down the calendar, I spot another entry, four days from today, on December 29th. There are only two words, with a flurry of red pen strokes surrounding them, as if they’ve just caught fire: WEDDING PLANNER!
My blood turns to ice.
I glance down at my left hand to see that my wedding ring has disappeared.
I am getting married to Alice. I am no longer married to Daphne and I am getting married to Alice.
The kitchen door swings opens and she comes back in, humming under her breath. ‘OK, presents are done … I need to ice the cake, and get the wine out. What are you going to wear, by the way, babe? Why don’t you wear that shirt I like …’
She tails off as she finally looks over at me.
‘Ben, what are you doing?’ she says sharply. ‘Why are you looking at the calendar?’
‘I just … I was … The wedding planner?’
I’ve been in the future for half an hour now, and I’m still yet to form a coherent sentence.
Alice’s face falls and she puts a hand to her forehead. ‘Ben, you are kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding. I told you about that appointment three days ago.’ She shakes her head irritably. ‘You probably just zoned out as usual, didn’t you? God, you’ve been so out of it lately. I feel like I’m doing everything myself. Which is fine, obviously, as I don’t think you’d be much use anyway.’ She laughs to herself at this, and then whirs back into activity, pulling tin foil out of
