Daff goes upstairs and packs a bag. She tells me she’s going to her parents’ and she needs some time to think about everything. I tell her that of course that’s fine, she should take as long as she wants.
And then she leaves, and she doesn’t come back.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The undecorated Christmas tree stares back at me from the other side of the living room. It seems mildly insane to suspect an inanimate object of taunting me, but that’s what it feels like.
According to my watch, it’s now half past ten in the morning, and outside, I can hear the cheery sounds of Christmas Day whirring into action: kids laughing, dogs barking, car boots being opened and loaded with presents. Neighbours calling ‘Merry Christmas!’ as they pass each other in the street.
And here I am: alone in my flat with the curtains drawn, two biscuit tins full of keepsakes open on the sofa beside me. I’m not sure why I even brought them down. To remind myself of what Daff and I have been through? To convince myself that we’ll be OK in the end?
She’s been gone a few hours now, and even though I haven’t slept a wink all night, I don’t feel in the slightest bit tired. I don’t know what I feel really. Devastated at hurting her, of course. Heartbroken that she’s gone. Terrified because I don’t know when – if – she’ll come back.
But as crazy as it sounds, I also feel a weird kind of peaceful stillness. Everything is out in the open now; both of us have been completely honest with each other for the first time in years. I’ve finally owned up to my mistakes, to the hurt that they’ve caused, and now I can focus on trying to make up for them.
When Daff walked out of the door, a horrible feeling swept through me that maybe that glimpse of my Christmas future had been real. That by telling her about Paris and everything else, I had set in motion a timeline that would lead me, inevitably, to Alice and Marek and Phil and Becky and Wyndham’s.
But as soon as that thought arose, I swept it away. That’s not how I’ll end up. I just know it. I’ve spent too long drifting, allowing myself to be a passenger in my own life, blaming other people for the mistakes I make. It’s not Daff’s fault or Alice’s fault or my dad’s fault that I screwed up; it’s mine. I’m the one in control here. I need to remember that.
If you don’t like your life, you can change it.
The watch-seller was right about that – and he was right about something else, too. All that hopping about through Christmases past, present and future did make me realise once and for all what I really wanted.
Daphne.
It’s always been her, and it always will be. Even if I never get to hold her or kiss her or even see her again, at least I know now for sure. That’s why I have to fight for her, even if it takes everything I’ve got. If she says it’s over, I will accept that – I’ll have to – but I need to try. I need to prove to her that I’ve changed, that I can be the kind of husband she deserves.
My phone rattles on top of the biscuit tin: a message from Alice. I switch it off. I can deal with that later. I sent her a text an hour ago, cancelling our drink on the 29th and apologising for everything: for what happened in Paris, and afterwards, and at Marek’s wedding. I told her that I was still in love with Daphne and I was going to do everything I could to make it work between us. Whatever Alice has said in reply, this – today – will be the last time we speak.
I glance down at my watch again. It’s hard to stop looking at it: the novelty of seeing the thing actually ticking after all this time. I wonder if I’ll ever see the watch-seller again. Or whether he was telling the truth when I asked him about his resemblance to my grandad Jack. A mad thought suddenly surfaces that maybe he was my grandad Jack, sent back to earth from God-knows-where to look out for me. Probably best to sweep that one away too. I’m not sure I’ll ever find out the truth. Either way, I feel an overwhelming rush of gratitude towards him. Despite his maddening tendency towards vagueness, I’ve learned so much on this journey he sent me on: about myself, about the world, about how to love and how to show love. Part of me keeps wondering if I just dreamed the whole thing, but deep down, I know it all happened. I can’t explain why; I just know.
A car engine starts up outside, and its radio bursts into life midway through ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’. I can hear the family inside singing along as they drive off. For some reason, the sound fills me with an intense sadness. My family was Mum and Daphne. One is gone and now the other might be too.
Those old feelings of self-pity start to stir inside me again: the childish sense of injustice, the inclination to hide away, feeling sorry for myself, getting angry at things I can’t define and forces I can’t see.
I have to fight that. Another nugget of Harv-brand wisdom pops into my head: You’re not going to get Daphne back by wallowing in your own misery, are you? You have to believe in yourself a bit more.
He said it off the cuff, I think – out of sheer frustration with my moaning – but for some reason, it gives me strength. I can do this. I can be a better man. I can make Mum proud, make Daphne proud, make myself proud.
I take a deep breath and stand up, and as I pull the curtains open, sunlight floods the room. The sky is a clear blue, and it’s cold, crisp and bright outside: a beautiful Christmas Day.
I seal the lids back on the biscuit tins. Enough digging through the past. It’s the present that matters now. As I take them back up to the attic and tidy up the mess I made, I spot something else: the box of Christmas tree decorations. I did promise Daphne I’d put them up. And even if it’s way too late, it’s about time I started keeping my promises.
Downstairs, in the sun-soaked living room, I open the box and start stringing tinsel and fairy lights around the tree’s branches in much the same haphazard way I remember Mum doing when I was a kid.
I know it’s not much, and there’s no one else here to see it, but still … It feels like the first step on a long road ahead.
Chapter Fifty
London, 25 December 2021
The kettle’s boiling, the bacon’s sizzling and the scrambled eggs have just hit that split-second sweet spot between too runny and too firm.
I dish the food out onto two plates, humming along to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’, which is currently thumping out of the radio on top of the fridge. Moving quickly around the tinsel-lined kitchen, I plunge the cafetière and pour two cups of fresh hot coffee, as well as two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. I arrange everything neatly on the trays and stand back to admire my work: perfect.
I flick the radio off, but just as I’m about to head up to the bedroom, I wonder if, actually, I should let her sleep in a bit longer.
I look down at my watch – the watch – which is somehow still ticking faultlessly after all this time. It’s not even eight yet, and we were out late last night. Well, late for us, anyway.
For the first time in ages, I’m hung-over – that eggnog brandy was lethal – but I just can’t sleep in these days. In my freelance years, I’d sometimes stay in bed until mid-morning, trying to summon the resolve to get up and get on with things. Now, though, I have to be up at 6.30 on the dot most days, and the routine has installed a sort of internal alarm clock within me. Not that I need it: starting the day is something I genuinely look forward to now.