‘Yeah.’
‘Well, that had been going on for a while. She didn’t tell me – I found out. Same as Daphne did. And that’s … Even though it was the worst I’ve ever felt, and the idea of losing her made me sick, I knew that it couldn’t ever work if I didn’t trust her. That’s why you need to be totally honest with Daff. Tell her everything that happened – everything – and then tell her it won’t ever happen again. And make sure that you mean it.’ He takes another sip of Guinness and looks me straight in the eye. ‘In the end, Liv wasn’t worth fighting for, but Daphne definitely is. She’s fucking brilliant. I’ve always said it.’
I blink and nod, feeling lighter suddenly. For the first time since I walked out of our flat three hours ago, I can see a tiny crack of light in the darkness. My heart is pumping, and I’m much more sober than I was a few seconds back. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I have to fight for her. I just hope it’s not too late.’
‘It’s not, mate.’ Harv smiles. ‘Trust me.’
He takes another swig of his pint. His cheeks are flushed – presumably from the novelty of us discussing something that actually matters for once. He slams the glass down and smacks his lips. ‘God, I’ve missed Guinness. Vodka tonic really can’t compete.’
I laugh. ‘Harv, I’ve wanted to say for a while now that I’m really sorry about Liv. I feel like I was a shit friend to you throughout that whole time.’
He shakes his head. ‘No, you weren’t, man. I completely cut everyone off. I was trying so hard to blend in with her and her mates: going to those awful private members’ clubs, listening to terrible house music. I was trying to be someone else, I guess. So it was my fault too.’
‘Still, I should have tried harder to be there for you when it ended, and to chat to you about it. I’m sorry for that. But I’m just so glad that we …’ I pause, because I can’t think of any other way to finish this sentence than ‘got back together’.
‘Got back together?’ Harv says with a grin.
‘Yeah, exactly.’
‘I’m glad too.’
We catch each other’s eye and laugh. And just for a second, despite the fact that my entire life is lying in pieces around me, I actually feel good.
On the stereo, the Pogues give way to Slade, drawing a muted cheer from the old guys at the bar. ‘We should talk about proper things more often,’ I say to Harv. ‘Not just football and hip hop.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Benjamin, there’s nothing more proper on earth than football and hip hop.’
‘True.’ I spin my phone on the table and take a deep breath. ‘So, do you think I should text Daff? Or call her?’
Harv takes a final sip of Guinness as he considers this. ‘No. I reckon we should go back to mine so you can get your head straight, and then you should give her a call tomorrow.’
Tomorrow. For the first time in what feels like forever, I am actually going to have a tomorrow. I glance instinctively down at my watch. The main reason I picked this pub as our meeting place was the chance that I might see the watch-seller here again. This is where we first met in the real world, so surely there’s a good chance I might see him here again now that I’m back.
But no: there’s no sign of him. I guess his job – whatever the hell it was – is done.
‘You haven’t seen that old guy anywhere, have you?’ I ask Harv absently as I scan the bar again. ‘The one from last night?’
Harv frowns. ‘Which old guy?’
‘You know: the old guy with the beard.’ I hold up my wrist. ‘That weird bloke who gave me this watch.’
Harv shakes his head slowly. ‘You’ve lost me there, Benjamin. You weren’t even wearing that watch yesterday, were you? And we definitely didn’t bump into any weird old guys with beards.’
‘But you saw me talking to him …’ I tail off as Harv’s frown deepens. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t remember our time-jumping 2010 house call, but it’s been less than twenty-four hours since he saw the watch-seller with his own eyes, in this very pub, in the real world.
Unless …
Harv stands up. ‘Come on, man. Let’s get back to mine so I can make you some coffee. You’re obviously more pissed than I thought. The only non-existent bearded bloke you should be talking about today is Santa Claus. Or Jesus, I suppose.’
I stand up with him, but my head is swimming.
I don’t remember Daff coming home. I don’t remember coming down from the attic. I don’t remember doing the tree or the presents. And now Harv doesn’t remember the watch-seller from last night, despite the fact that I am still wearing the watch.
What the hell is going on?
Harv pushes open the door, and I take one last look back at the bar before I follow him out into the freezing night air.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
We step outside the pub to see that the little square across the road is packed full of people. They spill out into the street on both sides, blocking our route.
At the centre of them, right in the middle of the square, a group of carol singers is belting out an enthusiastic rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’, and the crowd is bellowing along with gusto, sounding full to the brim with both festive cheer and copious mulled wine.
‘Here we go,’ Harv says, nudging my shoulder with his. ‘This is exactly what we need – a bit of Christmas spirit.’
I’m about to protest – joining in with a load of drunk carollers is about the last thing on earth I feel like doing right now – but Harv is already crossing the road, making his way through the crowd towards them.
I follow him through the sea of Santa hats and hastily fashioned tinsel scarves, my brain still fizzing from our conversation in the pub. Once he finds a choice spot, Harv slings an arm around me and thwacks my shoulder repeatedly until I start singing along with him. And maybe it’s the undeniable glow of festive goodwill in this square – or, more likely, the sight of my best mate gleefully strangling the high note on ‘Oh-oh tidings of comfort and joy’ – but for a few seconds, I actually find myself carried along by it all. For a brief moment, I almost lose myself.
And then I spot him.
He’s standing right at the back of the group of carollers, singing at the top of his voice, even more enthusiastically and tunelessly than everyone else. As he catches my eye, he inclines his shaggy head and shoots me a wink.
My stomach performs several vigorous forward rolls. He doesn’t look in the slightest bit different from when I last saw him, at Mum’s funeral. He’s still wearing the same shabby suit and garish reindeer-speckled tie, and his tangle of grey-gold hair is as wild as ever.
Through the roar of confusion, I nudge Harv and indicate the watch-seller.
‘Oh yeah.’ Harv laughs. ‘He’s really going for it. Dude could give Brian Blessed a run for his money.’
There’s not even a flicker of recognition in his face. He has clearly never seen this man before in his life – let alone in the past twenty-four hours.
Before I can process what this might mean, someone starts handing out Santa hats to the carollers. I watch the old man stick his on at a jaunty angle, still singing boisterously, and I’m struck once again by his resemblance to Grandad Jack.