The words pour out of me uncontrollably, and even though I burn with shame at most of them, and it rips me apart to see how much they hurt Daphne, it’s a relief to finally have them out there. It’s a relief to finally be honest with her.
The hours afterwards pass in a blizzard of tears and anger and disbelief. I’ve said everything I needed to say, and so, for the rest of the night, I listen.
Daff is quiet at first. She seems almost dazed, shaking her head like she’s still processing everything I’ve told her. But as she starts talking, the fire rises in her, and the fury and the pain come spilling out. She cries and she shouts at me, and I take it, because it’s exactly what I deserve, and I can’t bear to see the hurt I’ve caused her. Through jagged tears, she tells me how lonely she’s felt over the past few years, how agonising it’s been to feel that we’re drifting apart without either of us even acknowledging it.
At one point, with anger flashing in her eyes, she tells me that Rich has hinted several times that he’s interested in her, but even when things were at their worst between us, she never dreamed of letting anything happen.
This vaporises what little strength I have left, and all I can do is cry breathlessly, just repeating how sorry I am, over and over again, like a broken record.
We move from room to room in the flat, alternately crying and talking and shouting, until finally, as the sun starts to come up outside, we’re left sitting in silent, broken exhaustion at opposite ends of the living room sofa.
Daff goes upstairs and packs a bag. She tells me she’s going to her parents’ and she needs some time to think about everything. I tell her that of course that’s fine, she should take as long as she wants.
And then she leaves, and she doesn’t come back.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The undecorated Christmas tree stares back at me from the other side of the living room. It seems mildly insane to suspect an inanimate object of taunting me, but that’s what it feels like.
According to my watch, it’s now half past ten in the morning, and outside, I can hear the cheery sounds of Christmas Day whirring into action: kids laughing, dogs barking, car boots being opened and loaded with presents. Neighbours calling ‘Merry Christmas!’ as they pass each other in the street.
And here I am: alone in my flat with the curtains drawn, two biscuit tins full of keepsakes open on the sofa beside me. I’m not sure why I even brought them down. To remind myself of what Daff and I have been through? To convince myself that we’ll be OK in the end?
She’s been gone a few hours now, and even though I haven’t slept a wink all night, I don’t feel in the slightest bit tired. I don’t know what I feel really. Devastated at hurting her, of course. Heartbroken that she’s gone. Terrified because I don’t know when – if – she’ll come back.
But as crazy as it sounds, I also feel a weird kind of peaceful stillness. Everything is out in the open now; both of us have been completely honest with each other for the first time in years. I’ve finally owned up to my mistakes, to the hurt that they’ve caused, and now I can focus on trying to make up for them.
When Daff walked out of the door, a horrible feeling swept through me that maybe that glimpse of my Christmas future had been real. That by telling her about Paris and everything else, I had set in motion a timeline that would lead me, inevitably, to Alice and Marek and Phil and Becky and Wyndham’s.
But as soon as that thought arose, I swept it away. That’s not how I’ll end up. I just know it. I’ve spent too long drifting, allowing myself to be a passenger in my own life, blaming other people for the mistakes I make. It’s not Daff’s fault or Alice’s fault or my dad’s fault that I screwed up; it’s mine. I’m the one in control here. I need to remember that.
If you don’t like your life, you can change it.
The watch-seller was right about that – and he was right about something else, too. All that hopping about through Christmases past, present and future did make me realise once and for all what I really wanted.
Daphne.
It’s always been her, and it always will be. Even if I never get to hold her or kiss her or even see her again, at least I know now for sure. That’s why I have to fight for her, even if it takes everything I’ve got. If she says it’s over, I will accept that – I’ll have to – but I need to try. I need to prove to her that I’ve changed, that I can be the kind of husband she deserves.
My phone rattles on top of the biscuit tin: a message from Alice. I switch it off. I can deal with that later. I sent her a text an hour ago, cancelling our drink on the 29th and apologising for everything: for what happened in Paris, and afterwards, and at Marek’s wedding. I told her that I was still in love with Daphne and I was going to do everything I could to make it work between us. Whatever Alice has said in reply, this – today – will be the last time we speak.
I glance down at my watch again. It’s hard to stop looking at it: the novelty of seeing the thing actually ticking after all this time. I wonder if I’ll ever see the watch-seller again. Or whether he was telling the truth when I asked him about his resemblance to my grandad Jack. A mad thought suddenly surfaces that maybe he was my grandad Jack, sent back to earth
