They must have given her the award the next day, as she muttered some excuse about why she hadn’t been able to stick around. I clasp the tulips tighter as I feel yet another spasm of resentment towards my egotistical twenty-four-year-old self.
Daff is walking across the road now, doing a mock-overwhelmed are-those-for-me? mime as she spots the flowers, which get even more crumpled as I pull her into a hug.
‘Well done! Daff, this is so great.’
‘Thank you.’ She breaks out of the hug and smells the tulips. ‘And thanks for these.’
‘They’re already pretty much destroyed. Sorry about that.’
‘No, don’t worry. They’re beautiful.’
She’s smiling from ear to ear and her flushed cheeks suggest she’s already had one or two celebratory drinks. She looks amazing.
‘So, what happened, then?’ I ask. ‘I want the full details.’
‘Well, it was all pretty embarrassing, really. I had to get up and make a speech and everything.’
‘I hope you went full Gwyneth Paltrow?’
‘Oh yeah. I was weeping, dedicating it to my parents, thanking God … No, I just mumbled “Cheers for this” and then ran straight back to the wine.’
I take the award off her, feeling its weight. ‘Seriously, this is so brilliant, Daff. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s not that big a deal. You know I’ve been out seeing tons of plays lately, and I mentioned a couple of the playwrights to Sarah, and she’s ended up taking them on as clients. So I guess they think I’m showing some promise, or whatever.’ I can almost hear the speech marks around ‘showing some promise’. Daff has always been so modest. Too modest.
I hand the award back. ‘You’re doing absolutely amazing.’
She frowns at me. ‘Are you sure you’re OK about that email? You’re being a bit weird about it. I thought you’d be a lot more upset, to be honest.’
‘So did I. But as it turns out … I’m not.’
She nods back towards her office. ‘You know, I could always give your book to the fiction team at work. They could take a look at it.’
‘No, honestly. I don’t want to talk or think about the book at all tonight. I just want us to do something fun’ – I tap the award – ‘to celebrate this.’
‘Something fun,’ she repeats. And then her eyes sparkle and her mouth twists up at the corner. ‘I can think of something fun.’
Half an hour later, we are sitting in the cheapest of cheap seats in the Leicester Square theatre, our view partially obscured by a concrete pillar, watching a man I vaguely recognise from EastEnders scamper across the stage dressed as Aladdin.
‘I cannot believe this is your first ever pantomime,’ Daff whispers, her mouth half full of Revels. ‘I should report your mum to social services.’
‘I can’t believe this isn’t your first pantomime,’ I say, as the EastEnders guy gets his cheeks tweaked by Widow Twankey, being played here by the orange bloke off Bargain Hunt.
‘Dad used to take us every year when we were little,’ Daff says, passing me the chocolates and taking a sip of her beer. ‘Family tradition.’
‘Since when is Widow Twankey Aladdin’s mum?’ I ask.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Since forever.’
‘They don’t even look alike. Plus, Twankey doesn’t sound like a particularly Arabic surname.’
‘You know, Ben,’ she deadpans, ‘I’m not sure that realism was at the forefront of the production team’s mind here.’ With perfect timing, a former Big Brother runner-up covered entirely in blue paint emerges from a giant smoking lamp in front of us.
‘If only your colleagues could see you now,’ I say, smiling. ‘The great Rising Star, eating Revels and watching Ian Beale run around in a pair of MC Hammer trousers.’
She elbows me in the ribs. ‘Oi! I love panto. Best thing about Christmas. Just because something’s considered lowbrow doesn’t mean it can’t also be brilliant and fun and entertaining.’ She laughs. ‘Hey, d’you remember, I had pretty much this exact argument with Marek on the night we met?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I do, vividly.’ We join the audience in collectively alerting Ian Beale to the fact that someone is behind him.
Daff is giving the stage her full attention now, but her mention of the night we met – the night I’ve only just relived – makes me want to double-check what the watch-seller told me. ‘Hey, so you recall that night,’ I say. ‘The play at uni?’ She nods, her eyes still fixed on the stage. ‘Do you remember when I forgot my lines? And you had to go and find me a script?’
She turns to me. ‘No I didn’t. Did I?’
‘Yeah … And I totally fluffed it when I was on stage? Forgot to shoot Marek?’
She’s looking at me like I’ve gone mad. ‘No … I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened, Ben.’
‘Oh, OK. Doesn’t matter. Maybe I’ve remembered it wrong.’
She turns her attention back to the panto, still frowning slightly. So it’s definitely true, then. Nothing I do here has any knock-on effect whatsoever.
I try to work out how all of this makes me feel, but before I can come to any definite conclusion, Daff nudges me gently in the ribs. ‘Benjamin. Too cool for audience participation?’
I snap out of it, and smile at her. And then I’m yelling, ‘Oh yes you have!’ along with everyone else.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s pitch dark and freezing by the time we troop out of the theatre.
The Revels and beers have sharpened our appetites, so we stroll through Covent Garden hand in hand in search of a place to eat. Daff has the flowers poking out of her backpack like some strange alien antennae. I’m carrying the award for her, occasionally holding it up to random passers-by and announcing, ‘Rising Star coming through,’ before she slaps my hand down. As we wander towards the river under the never-ending cascade of Christmas lights, everything feels absolutely right with the world.
It strikes me suddenly that this is the complete opposite of our last theatre trip together. That was a total and utter disaster.
It was on September 25th, 2020: Daff’s thirty-third birthday. We’d gone to see one of her clients’ new plays at the Lyric Theatre. It was only a few weeks after Marek’s wedding – after I kissed Alice (or Alice kissed me) in that photo booth. My head was still swimming with that moment: guilt and regret mingling with daydreams of what life would have been like if Alice and I had actually got together. All mixed in with a side helping of dark thoughts about my non-starting career, and even darker thoughts about Mum. I got sulky when Daff left me on my own to go and chat to Rich at the after-show drinks, and when it was just the two of us later, at dinner, things got even worse. We spent the entire three courses snapping at each other, and at the end of the night, Daff sighed heavily as we stood up and said, ‘Well, thanks, Ben. This has definitely been a memorable birthday.’
Looking at her now as she bounces alongside me, so happy and carefree, it’s impossible to imagine that we’ll turn into that couple one day. And it might be the alcohol swimming to my head, but I can’t help thinking: maybe I should just forget that we will. Maybe, just for tonight, I should forget about the future, and all the shit that will come with it, and try to make the next few hours as perfect as they can possibly be.