She’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading something on her iPad, one hand clasped around a steaming cup of coffee. She’s wearing pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt, her curly hair piled messily into a topknot on her head. The urge to go straight across and put my arms around her is almost overpowering, but she doesn’t even look up as I walk in.
‘Hey. Merry Christmas. There’s coffee in the pot.’
‘Ah, nice one. Merry Christmas …’
‘Thanks for doing the tree. And the presents.’ She looks up at me and gives me a quick, tight smile.
‘I …’ I stare at her, trying desperately to read her face for any traces of sarcasm or passive-aggression. There don’t seem to be any. Did I do the tree and the presents? I have no memory of it. But chucking a few bits of tinsel up and not remembering certainly wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened over the past few days.
‘No worries,’ I say tentatively.
Instead of rolling her eyes, or yelling something along the lines of ‘I was being sarcastic, you selfish knob’, Daff just smiles again and looks back down at the iPad. Something is definitely not right here. But still: I assumed an argument was on the cards, and it doesn’t appear to be. So it’s probably best to let the matter lie for now.
I pour myself a coffee and stand at the kitchen counter. She carries on reading in silence, and even though we’re not in open verbal combat, I can tell the atmosphere is still definitely on the frosty side. Is this just about the fight we had on Christmas Eve, about me not coming to her work party? Or has something else happened that I can’t remember?
I can’t bear this grim, icy tension when all I want to do is hold her and tell her I’m sorry. Before I can weigh up whether this is actually a good idea or not, I’m rushing across the room to do it.
‘Ben, what …’ She wriggles out of the hug, and looks at me with her brow furrowed. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I just wanted to give you a hug. Sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s just …’ She tails off and shakes her head.
I step away from her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ She fiddles with her topknot, and avoids my eye. ‘I’ve just got stuff on my mind, that’s all.’
‘About us?’
She gives a short, impatient sigh. ‘About lots of things.’
I kneel down and take hold of her hand. I’m trying to keep my voice steady, but the words come gabbling out manically. ‘Well, let’s talk about it. We can sort it out. I’m sorry for how rubbish I’ve been lately. Whatever’s gone wrong, we can fix it, and—’
I’m about to tell her how much I love her when she pulls her hand away, cutting me off in mid-flow. ‘Not right now. Let’s just get through today. We can talk about everything else later.’
I’m desperate to put my arms back around her. To promise her that I’ve changed and everything’s different now and it’s all going to be OK. But I can tell this is definitely not the time. After all, she’s put up with years of me acting like a selfish arsehole – sulking and moaning and clamming up. I can’t expect everything to magically fall into place just because I appear to have woken up in an uncharacteristically upbeat mood.
It’s actions that count, not words. I need to prove to her that I’ve changed, and I can’t do that in five minutes.
I stand up and walk back over to the counter. I take a sip of my coffee, and ask, ‘How was last night?’
‘It was fine.’ She swipes a finger across the iPad screen. ‘Bit boring, but OK.’
‘Any gossip? Anyone get off with anyone?’
She shrugs. ‘Rich got very pissed and insisted we all try out Sarah’s new karaoke machine. Nadia and I did “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa. Went down pretty well. That was about as wild as it got, really. You didn’t miss much.’
‘You’re not hung-over, then?’
She yawns, and covers her mouth with her wrist. ‘No, just tired. What did you do?’
‘I went out for a drink with Harv. Once I’d, erm, done the tree and stuff, obviously.’
‘Oh, right.’ She raises her eyebrows, her gaze still fixed firmly on the screen. ‘I thought you’d stayed in for a drink.’
‘How d’you mean?’
She flicks her eyes up to the kitchen counter and I turn around to look. The bottle of red wine I near-emptied before heading up to the attic sits there staring guiltily back at me.
Crap. I completely forgot about that.
‘God, Daff, I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. I had a couple of glasses when I came in. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
She breathes out through her nose, irritably. ‘You knew that was supposed to be for today.’
‘I’ll go out and get another one this morning, I promise.’
She just sighs and keeps swiping. So even though it turns out I did do the presents and tree, I still also necked that forty quid’s worth of Haut-Médoc. I’m guessing one cancels the other out in Daphne’s head. Which is fair enough, really.
And then I remember something. If I drank that bottle of wine, then I also surely sent that message to Alice. Which means I still have to cancel our meeting.
‘Back in a sec,’ I say.
I walk out of the kitchen and open Facebook on my phone. There it is: the message chain with Alice, ending with my most recent one arranging to meet up in four days’ time. Cancelling on Christmas morning looks a bit weird, but there’s no other option.
I start tapping out a message.
Hey, Alice – happy Christmas! I’m really sorry but something’s come up for the 29th that I can’t get out of, so I’ll have to cancel our drink, I’m afraid. I’m not sure I’ll be around much after that either to be honest. Sorry. Ben x
I reread the message and imagine Alice receiving it. There’s no two ways about it: it looks pretty horrible. No actual explanation or reason for why I can’t make our date. But I’m too frazzled to come up with a proper excuse, and the only thing that matters right now is getting out of it.
Without thinking any more about it, I hit send and slip the phone back in my pocket. Then I head back to the kitchen, fully intent on showing Daphne the best Christmas Day ever.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘Right, I think I’ve got everything here: crisps, dips, beer, and orange squash for the kids. Plus a new bottle of wine that’s one whole pound more expensive than the other one.’
I waggle the plastic bags triumphantly as I step back into the kitchen.
It’s two hours later, and I’ve just been dispatched to the corner shop to pick up the last few things we need. Daff’s family are currently en route, and all six of them should be arriving any minute: her mum, Clio, and dad, Michael, plus her sister Kat with her husband Joe and their twin sons Charlie and Fred.
Daff is squatting down, squinting into the oven at the turkey, the heat blasting her cheeks pink. The kitchen is hot and noisy and the food smells incredible. She wipes her eyes and shuts the oven door, and I can see she’s fighting a smile as she turns around to face me.
‘You specifically went out of your way to get a slightly more expensive bottle?’