These last few months have been maybe the happiest of my whole life, which is crazy, really, when I think back to how this year started. On Christmas Day 2020, I would never have imagined that next Christmas could look like this. Not for the first time this year, I’m struck by how incredibly lucky I am.
I pick up the trays. I’ll just go up and see if she’s awake.
I walk slowly out of the kitchen, trying not to spill anything, and as I pass the living room, I see the Christmas tree. It’s heaving under countless layers of multicoloured ornaments, and I can’t help smiling as I remember the chic, scarcely decorated tree that greeted me in that unfamiliar flat on Christmas Day 2023. If that was the Anna Wintour of Christmas trees, then this one is probably the Dame Edna Everage. And let’s be honest, Dame Edna is the look every decent Christmas tree should aspire to.
I tiptoe up the stairs, balancing the trays precariously as I go. Holly and ivy and tinsel have been draped at random around every photo or painting on the staircase, and right at the top, a combination of all three frames my favourite picture. It’s one I found recently while going through some of Mum’s stuff. It’s of me, Daphne and Mum, huddled up in coats and scarves, in Queen’s Park on Christmas Eve 2011. We’re all mugging cheerfully at the camera, our cheeks pink from the cold, arms flung around each other’s shoulders.
On the wall at the end of the landing, just outside our bedroom, there’s another picture I discovered in the same box. This one’s of Mum and her dad – Grandad Jack – on the beach at Whitley Bay. Mum must be about nineteen. She’s grinning, a towel around her shoulders, while Grandad stands next to her, beaming, his blue eyes twinkling. This photo always makes me smile when I see it.
I nudge the bedroom door open with my shoulder, trying to be as quiet as possible in case she’s still asleep. But she’s not. She’s sitting up in bed, reading a book. Her curly black hair is piled messily on top of her head, and she’s wearing my faded Rick and Morty T-shirt as a pyjama top.
For just a moment, I stand in the doorway looking at her, the heavy trays balanced in my hands.
Daff. Sometimes I still can’t believe that she’s back here with me.
When she walked out of this flat a year ago to the day, I honestly thought I’d lost her. She stayed put at her parents’ house for weeks, and we talked only on the phone: sporadically at first, and then more frequently – long, fraught conversations about things we’d never really spoken about before. I listened as she told me how isolated she’d been feeling over the past few years, how she felt she couldn’t get through to me, and how – even before I told her about Alice – she’d been questioning whether or not we were really meant to be together. It was hard to hear. Horrible, even. But she also told me that despite all this, she’d never stopped loving me, and I saw there was still hope.
At her suggestion, I tried grief counselling – to finally talk properly to a professional about what happened with Mum. I was hesitant at first, but honestly, it’s been one of the best things I’ve ever done. I can feel myself starting to let go of stuff that’s gnawed at me for years – stuff from even before Mum died. I’m learning that it’s OK to miss her so badly that it hurts, but it shouldn’t stop me letting in the people I love.
Gradually, as winter turned into spring and we began to meet up in person again, I think Daff started to see a genuine change in me. A change I was only just beginning to recognise myself. She started to truly believe that I’d never lie to her, or keep anything from her again. She started to forgive me.
And then, a few months ago, just after I started the new job, she moved back in.
I’d be lying if I said it’s been plain sailing from then on. It hasn’t. It’s still tough. In fact, it turned out Harv was right when he said that regaining Daff’s trust would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to do. I still don’t know if I’ve fully achieved it. But we’ve learned to communicate with total honesty now, and because of that, it feels like we’re in a better place than we have ever been.
And today, we’re going to tell everyone the news. The news that we’re still reeling from ourselves …
The floorboards squeak under me suddenly, and I realise I’ve been standing here looking at Daff for a period of time that may have slipped beyond romantic, and into Walking-Dead-guy-in-Love-Actually territory. As I enter the room, she looks up and gives me the full wattage of her incredible smile.
‘There you are. I wondered where you’d …’ And then she spots the trays. ‘Oh my God. No. Way.’
I nod. ‘Way. Oh yes. Surprise Christmas breakfast in bed.’
She puts her book down, shaking her head. ‘I mean … this is next-level. Does this even happen in real life? I thought it was just a sitcoms-and-films thing.’
‘What can I say? I’m just a really, really great guy.’
She nods solemnly. ‘That does appear to be the case.’
I lay the tray down with a flourish across her lap, and she laughs. ‘Thank you.’ She takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘Seriously, this is lovely.’
I squeeze back. ‘No worries. How are you feeling?’
She picks up a rasher of crispy bacon and bites off the end. ‘Mmm. Good.’
‘You, or the bacon?’
She laughs. ‘Both. The bacon and I are both great.’
‘Good.’ I slide into bed next to her, settling my own tray on top of the duvet.
‘The bigger question,’ Daff says, a smile playing on her lips, ‘is how are you feeling?’
I wince. ‘Was I that bad last night?’
She grins. ‘No, you were great! My colleagues all loved you. I think everyone was a bit weirded out by how great you were, to be honest. After previous work Christmas Eve dos.’
‘I know, I know. Don’t remind me.’
She lays her head on my shoulder. ‘I loved seeing you talking to them all about the teaching stuff.’
‘Ha. I hope I didn’t ramble on too much.’
‘No! I can’t tell you how amazing it is to see you actually being proud of what you’re doing. And you were so funny with Nadia and Sarah.’ She kisses my neck and looks up at me. ‘You weren’t faking, right? You did genuinely enjoy yourself?’
I put my arm around her. ‘Yeah. I genuinely did.’
I mean it, too. Daff’s annual Christmas Eve work do used to instil a pathetic sort of dread in me. I’d worry about it for weeks beforehand, certain that everyone there would be secretly looking down on me, or wondering what Daff was still doing with me. But last night, none of those thoughts even crossed my mind. For the first time, I found I was able to just relax and have fun.
‘I’ll be honest, though, I am a bit hung-over,’ I add, yawning widely. ‘You don’t mind that I ended up having a few, do you?’
‘I was mortified,’ she deadpans. ‘No, of course not. It’s weird, actually: I don’t miss drinking at all. Yet, anyway. And it’s so funny being sober at these things; watching everyone else get progressively more pissed around you.’
I laugh. ‘So what do you remember from last night that I might’ve drunkenly forgotten?’