But then look where that’s got me.
Anyway. Over the next four years, Harv drifted gradually away from me until he was completely absorbed into Liv’s friendship group. We’d almost lost touch altogether by the time everything came crashing down around him.
He found out that Liv had been cheating on him with a stupidly handsome start-up millionaire who’d appeared in one series of Made in Chelsea. They broke up, and I naïvely assumed I would get my best mate back. But he didn’t magically change back into the bloke he once was; instead, he seemed to move even further away from him. He became suddenly and terrifyingly fitness-obsessed; I guess out of concern that his slight chubbiness had been the reason Liv had gone off with the Made in Chelsea guy (who, as I recall, was built like Zac Efron).
It strikes me now, watching Harv bogle around the kitchen in post-coital bliss, that I never talked to him about any of this at the time. We fell slowly and cautiously back into friendship, but I never once properly checked whether he was OK. I never once offered anything beyond the cursory ‘Ah, buck up, mate, plenty more fish’ platitudes. I probably told myself this was because we were blokes, and blokes didn’t really talk about that stuff. But that’s bollocks, really. I was too wrapped up in myself, and my own problems.
I think back suddenly to Christmas Eve 2020, in the pub, feeling that disconnect between us – that inability to ever talk about anything real, anything important. It all started here, really; this was the period when our friendship first began to unravel. Not just because he hooked up with a girl I couldn’t stand, but because I was too self-involved to be there for him when it all went to shit.
Maybe that’s what today is all about, then. Maybe that’s why I’m back here, on this specific day. Am I supposed to tell him what will happen in the future? Surely he wouldn’t believe me even if I did?
Harv interrupts my thought process by opening the fridge and asking, ‘Have you fed Ghostface and Raekwon?’
I stare at him. ‘The … Oh, right, the goldfish?’
‘No, the Staten Island-based rap duo. Yes, the goldfish.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘What is wrong with you this morning, man?’
‘Sorry, I’m just feeling a bit … off, I guess.’
‘So, is it a yes or a no to the feeding?’
‘It’s a no.’
‘Right.’ He takes the fish food out of the fridge and glances up at the clock. ‘Aren’t you going to work?’
God. Shit. Maybe I am. I find myself just staring blankly at him again, with absolutely no idea what to say. Since I’ve no idea when exactly I am, I also have no idea what exactly it is I do.
‘It’s your office Christmas thing tonight, isn’t it?’ he reminds me. ‘Y’know: “Ain’t no party like a lads’ mag party”.’
And then, finally, everything slots into place. I know exactly what day it is. And I’m not looking forward to reliving it one bit.
Chapter Nineteen
Within a few seconds of leaving the flat, my assumption is confirmed.
A quick scan of the newspapers in the shop downstairs tells me that today’s date is 16 December 2010. I remember quite clearly what happened on this day, although I have no clue why I am being forced to go through it again. It was, in pretty much every respect, an absolute shit-show.
It briefly crosses my mind that I don’t actually have to go through it again. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s forcing me to do anything. If I wanted, I could go full Ferris Bueller: ditch work completely and spend the whole day lip-synching to Beatles songs, or whatever it is Ferris does with his freedom.
My heart stutters as I realise I could even go back and see Mum again. She’s still here, just a few Tube stops away, alive and well.
But I keep coming back to what the watch-seller said at that chestnut stall. I must have landed on this particular date for a reason. And as much as I’m dreading what this day will bring, I’m also eager to find out if I’ll see something or hear something or remember something new. It happened in the maze, it happened at Mum’s house: will it happen again here? The best way to find out, I figure, is to live this day exactly as I did originally, and keep my eyes peeled for anything I might have missed.
With that in mind, muscle memory kicks in efficiently and I find myself mechanically retracing the steps I walked every weekday for three years. They take me to the bus stop at the end of the street, where I wait a few minutes for the 243 to arrive. When it does, I find a seat on the top deck, and slump my head against the juddering window as we start to weave our way slowly south through Bethnal Green. Garish Christmas decorations adorn pretty much every tree and lamp post and shopfront we pass: constant reminders of what tonight will bring.
I feel a buzz in my pocket, and take out the phone I didn’t even realise was in there. It’s an early iPhone, which to my 2020 eyes looks clunky and quite cute – like a kid’s toy. There’s a message glowing on the screen. It’s from Daphne.
My stomach flips as I open it.
Hey, hope this eve is OK! I’m sure it’ll be fine – will be thinking of you. Just see it as a field trip. It’s research: you’re like David Attenborough, observing the LAD in his natural environment. David Lad-enborough? Doesn’t quite work. Anyway, see you later maybe, love you xx
I slide the phone back in my pocket and watch my breath fug and unfug the grimy bus window. It’s so weird, thinking back to a time when Daff and I didn’t live together. When I didn’t see her every single day. Back then, the idea that I’d be meeting her after work, or getting to wake up with her, seemed like light at the end of the tunnel: a reward for getting through a tough day.
After uni finished, we both decided it was too soon – or maybe too boringly grown-up – to live together straight away. So I moved in with Harv, and Daff found a place in Balham with Jamila and some other mates. But about a year from now – at the end of 2011 – we will finally pool our meagre earnings and rent our first flat together: a poky little fifth-floor apartment in Shepherd’s Bush.
As the bus winds its way down through Barbican, it all comes rushing back to me: the giddy thrill we felt picking up the keys from the estate agent; how amazing our first night there was. We sat giggling on the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes, like kids playing at being adults. Which, to some extent, I guess we were. We watched Dazed and Confused on my laptop, and ate takeaway curry with plastic forks because neither of us owned any actual cutlery. It strikes me now that that night was probably one of my happiest ever. Back then, it felt like we could do anything together. Like we had it all ahead of us.
I scrub the fugged-up bus window with my sleeve and peer up at the towering brutalist buildings above me.
Yes, at this point in my life – the tail end of 2010 – everything still felt just about possible. For a start, I was finally writing for a living. Well, sort of. After months of desperately emailing and cold-calling magazine editors all over the country, and hearing nothing back, I’d spotted an advert for a newly launched lads’ mag that was on the lookout for ‘young ’n’ hungry’ staff. The magazine was called Thump – and from the brief description of it in the ad, it was clear that it was to be the kind of publication built predominantly around topless women, Jason Statham films and pictures of botched tattoos. But I was pretty desperate by now – and sick to death of pub shifts and office temping – so I’d applied for a fortnight’s work experience. I got it, and when it ended – to my immense surprise – I was offered the job of editorial assistant.