Is this really what I do now? How have I not had at least one heart attack?
I try reading one of the emails, but I understand roughly one word in six. In the desk drawer, though, I discover something else entirely. Underneath another sheaf of terrifying business papers, there’s a slim cardboard folder containing a brochure for a company called Those Who Can. Flicking through, I see that it’s advertising a year-long paid course to train as a secondary school teacher. There are forms inside it – pages and pages of complex forms – and by the look of it, I’m about three quarters of the way through filling them out.
Future Me is obviously serious about this – about teaching – and for the first time, I feel a glow of pride at what I’ve become, rather than the usual blend of shame and embarrassment.
My throat tightens as I catch a glimpse of one of my longer answers on the form: I’m attracted to teaching because of my mum, the paragraph begins. But before the memories of her can take hold, the doorbell sounds.
I slam the drawer shut as I see Alice whisk down the stairs in a long dark blue dress, and all of a sudden the hallway is filled with loud voices and the frantic plap of cheek-kissing.
‘Hello! Hello! Happy Christmas!’ I hear her cry merrily. And then, less merrily: ‘Ben! They’re here!’
I walk downstairs to see a stupidly good-looking couple beaming back at me. They look like something out of an IKEA advert. The man is in jeans and rolled-up shirt sleeves, salt-and-pepper stubble covering his Captain America jawline. The woman is all golden hair and gleaming teeth and a very un-December tan. She is also heavily pregnant.
‘Ben! Happy Christmas! How are you?’
She pulls me in and pecks me on both cheeks over the exercise ball of her stomach.
‘Oops – belly bump!’ she laughs. ‘Sorry, I can’t help it these days!’
‘Yeah, watch out, mate,’ the man grins. ‘The little bastard’s kicking like mad at the moment – you’re liable to get a boot to the chest if you go anywhere near her.’
The woman sticks her bottom lip out, mock angry. ‘Phil! Please don’t call our son a little bastard.’
‘Sorry, sorry …’ The man holds his hands up. ‘I meant big bastard – if he’s anything like his old man!’
They both bray with laughter at this, and I decide that either the standard of comedy has dropped significantly in 2023, or these people are absolutely dreadful.
‘Anyway, merry Christmas, fella,’ the man says, slapping me hard on the back. ‘Good to see you.’
Alice is standing with her hands on her hips, staring at the woman in awe.
‘Honestly, Becks, you’re glowing! Isn’t she glowing, Ben?’
‘Yes, you are,’ I say. ‘You’re glowing.’
Becks gives a satisfied squeal and flaps at our compliments with both hands. As she follows Alice through to the living room, the man – Phil – leans in to me and whispers, ‘This’ll be your life in a few months, buddy. Zero sex and constantly getting your ear chewed off about swollen ankles. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’
He shoots me an unpleasant grin, and I’m reminded strongly of Jonno from Thump.
In the living room, we stand in a circle beside the Anna Wintour tree, which looks on disdainfully while Alice passes round a tray of vol-au-vents.
‘Oh God, you are brilliant, Ali,’ Becky says through a mouthful of pastry flakes. ‘Did you really make these?’
Alice flushes. ‘No, they’re er … they’re Waitrose, actually.’
‘Aw.’ Becky tilts her head and smiles. ‘Oh well. Still yummy!’
We all murmur in agreement, and I swear I see Alice’s left eye twitch slightly as she takes the tray back.
‘Drop of cava?’ she asks, holding up the bottle.
‘Bubbles?’ Phil smacks his palms together. ‘Fuck yes!’
Becky places a hand on her stomach. ‘Just water for me, Ali.’
‘Oh babe, really?’ Alice frowns. ‘They say you can have one little glass, don’t they?’
Becks smiles at her kindly: a primary school teacher correcting a pupil. ‘Yes, they do say that, but it just doesn’t feel very responsible, if you know what I mean? When you guys are expecting, you’ll understand.’
‘Sure,’ says Alice, through clenched teeth.
‘Well, you can fill me up,’ Phil chuckles. ‘If the missus is eating for two, then I’m drinking for two!’
This is rewarded with another gale of laughter, and I suddenly wish Harv was here so I had someone to telekinetically cringe with. But in this reality, I haven’t spoken to Harv in years. I’ve ditched my best friend for the world’s most irritating couple.
‘Well, cheers,’ Phil says, as we all clink glasses. ‘Christmas with mates instead of family is so the way forward.’
‘Mmm,’ Becky agrees. ‘A year off from listening to Phil’s granny rattle on about how much she hates everyone at her nursing home.’
Phil rolls his eyes. ‘The old bird can talk for England, it’s true.’
‘Are you guys seeing your folks at all?’ Becky asks Alice.
Alice nods. ‘We’re going up tomorrow.’
‘Oh, lovely.’ Becky pouts at me sadly. ‘Aw, you must miss your mum terribly at this time of year, Ben?’
‘Yes, I … Yeah.’ I scratch the back of my neck. ‘Christmas was always—’
‘So, how’s the wedding prep going?’ she asks, turning to Alice.
‘Good! So good!’ Alice trills. ‘I meant to tell you: we had a bit of luck with that string quartet. They’re available! Oceano Strings!’ She wrinkles her forehead. ‘I think maybe you guys were thinking about them for your wedding, weren’t you?’ She looks genuinely unsure, and despite everything, I can’t help marvelling at the performance. She’s definitely
