Is this it? Is this where I’ve finally washed up? Have I just sleepwalked through three whole years of my life and ended up here, with Alice?
I can hear her footsteps pounding back down the hallway. The bedroom door opens and she sweeps in, holding a glass of water and two small white pills.
‘God, you really don’t look good. How do you feel?’ She doesn’t bother to wait for an answer, which is probably for the best since I’m unable to give one. Instead, she presses the glass and the pills into my hands, and says, ‘Just take them, OK? I’m going to get breakfast started. They’re going to be here at half eleven.’ She snaps her fingers irritably in front of my face. ‘Ben? OK?’
‘Yeah, OK,’ I croak.
And with that, she sweeps back out of the room.
It’s still not fully light in the room, but even with the drawn curtains, I could tell how different she looks. Most obviously, her hair is much longer – the French Amélie bob she was still sporting at Marek’s wedding is long gone, and her dark blonde locks now hang down past her shoulders.
I stare at the glass of water and the pills. My head is throbbing, and I do now genuinely feel a bit sick, so I decide it’s probably a good idea to take them. As I chase them down with the lukewarm water, all that’s going through my mind is: where is Daphne? What the hell happened to land me here?
I stand up unsteadily and pull some clothes on, before venturing out into the corridor, and the not-too-distant future.
Chapter Forty-One
At first sight, 2023 doesn’t seem hugely different to 2020.
A quick glance through the upstairs window at the street below reveals a disappointing lack of hover cars, and there’s not a single jetpack to be seen either. Closer inspection of the unfamiliar phone by my bed has revealed it to be an iPhone 13 – which would be quite exciting if it wasn’t exactly the same as my old iPhone 8, albeit with a slightly shinier back.
Cars still can’t hover, people still can’t fly and Apple continues to massively rip us all off: clearly, three years is not sufficient time for the planet to undergo any genuinely seismic changes.
I creep down the stairs, which are lined with photos of Alice and people who are presumably members of Alice’s family, and as I catch another glimpse of the street outside, I realise I have absolutely no idea where I am. Am I even still in London?
I check Google Maps on my trusty iPhone 13 to find that I’m currently in Hammersmith. Only a few miles from Daff’s and my flat in Kensal Rise.
Which, surely, is no longer Daff’s and my flat …
Panic ripples through me again. Is she there now? What is she doing?
I get the sudden urge to call her, but I’m instantly distracted from this idea by the sight of my reflection in the hallway mirror. I actually have to stop myself letting out an audible gasp as I see it. If the outside world appears unchanged, the same can definitely not be said for my face.
My hair has shuffled a good quarter-inch backwards on my forehead, and I’m sporting new wrinkles in places I didn’t even know you could get them: the side of my nose, for instance. The patches of grey at my temples have extended their territory significantly, and most disturbingly, my eyebrow hair has taken on a vaguely owlish quality. A couple of strands are so long that they could almost be stretched out to meet my retreating hairline.
I am thirty-seven years old, and I very much look it.
I run a hand over my face. The world feels less real than it’s ever felt, but it doesn’t change the fact that this could be it: I could very well be back in reality right now. The thought makes my stomach flip. And then, from down the hall, I hear:
‘Ben, come on! Breakfast!’
I tear myself away from my thirty-seven-year-old reflection and follow the sound of clinking plates down the corridor. As I push open the kitchen door, I see Alice at the counter, her back turned to me, pouring almond milk into a bowl of something that looks like it should be lining the floor of a hamster cage.
‘Hey, you,’ she says, without turning round. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Yeah, I’m—’
‘Don’t be ill, Ben, seriously,’ she says, cutting me off. ‘Not on Christmas Day. I want you on good form today, charming the pants off everyone.’
She spins around, holding the bowl of moist sawdust out to me, and prods me three times in the stomach: ‘Don’t. Be. Ill!’ She’s smiling, but her teeth are clenched, and those stomach prods were definitely straddling the border between playful and aggressive. Is she pretending to be annoyed, or is she actually annoyed? It’s very hard to tell.
‘OK?’ she adds.
I nod. ‘Yep. OK … No, I feel better already, actually.’
‘Great. Good.’ She sweeps back to the counter, and as she starts pulling spoons out of the cutlery drawer, I get the chance to take in her face properly. Like me, she’s gained a couple more wrinkles, but she still looks great. Beautiful, even. Long hair really suits her.
None of which makes this situation feel any less terrifying or wrong.
‘Back in a sec. I’m just going to wrap the last few presents.’ She leaves the room, and I put the bowl down on the table and take the opportunity to have a look around my new home.
The first thing that catches my eye is a large black-and-white framed photograph of Alice and me. It’s at the back of the room, hanging in pride of place behind the head of the table.
It must have been taken by a professional photographer, because the two of us are perfectly positioned – and possibly even artificially lit – in the middle of an outlandishly picturesque garden. Alice is sitting on a wicker chair wearing a long, flowing dress, and I’m standing next to her in a suit I don’t recognise, my hand draped awkwardly on her shoulder. We are both smiling at the camera, but while Alice is managing to exude happiness and sophistication, I look like I am in genuine physical pain.
The whole thing is so ridiculous it almost makes me snort with laughter. I flash back suddenly to the attic on Christmas Eve 2020, when I saw that picture of myself in the university play programme. I didn’t recognise the grinning, carefree nineteen-year-old in that photo, and I don’t recognise the ludicrous, gurning thirty-seven-year-old in this one, either. There is no way I would ever pose for a photo like this – even if Daphne suggested it.
But the truth is, Daphne would never, ever suggest it.
The only photo of us on public display in our flat is frayed at the edges and dangling from a magnet on the fridge. It shows the two of us drunk and bent double with laughter at Bestival 2017 – her dressed as the Ultimate Warrior and me as Hulk Hogan. I love that photo.
As I stare at this gold-framed monstrosity on the wall, I can’t help imagining Daff’s reaction to it. I’m fairly sure it would involve a significant amount of giggling.
Who the hell have I become?
Next to the preposterous photo there is a calendar hanging on a little hook above the Wi-Fi box. I squint at it to see that it reaffirms the day and year, and that under today’s date, someone – Alice – has written: XMAS DRINKS DO! and under tomorrow – Boxing Day – LUNCH AT M&D’s.
Scanning down the calendar, I spot another entry, four days from today, on December 29th. There are only two words, with a flurry of red pen strokes surrounding them, as if they’ve just caught fire: WEDDING PLANNER!