All About Us: Escape with the bestselling, most gorgeously romantic debut love story of 2020!

by Tom Ellen

  ‘What’s the point of all this if I can’t actually change anything?’ I mutter. ‘Nothing I do here even matters!’

  ‘On the contrary,’ the old man says. ‘It matters very much. Other people won’t change as a result of all this, but you might.’ He leans towards me, pressing the tips of his fingers together to form a triangle. ‘Maybe you’ll end up with a clearer understanding of what you really want.’

  ‘Will I get back to the present eventually, then?’ I ask.

  He breathes out through his nose, and I see his moustache hairs wriggle. ‘That’s complicated. It … depends.’

  This time it’s me who thumps the table. ‘Can you please stop being so bloody vague?!’ I suddenly don’t even care that Harv is still here, staring at me as if I’ve completely lost my mind. ‘I need to know why this is happening to me!’

  The old man just sighs. ‘You already know. Think back to that night in the pub: all the things you wanted to say to your friend here, but couldn’t.’

  ‘What things?’ Harv snaps.

  It all pours back into my mind: Mum, Daphne, Alice. The regrets I’ve managed to accumulate over the years. That terrifying feeling that my life had ground to a halt and I didn’t know how to restart it.

  ‘But why is this …’ The words dry up, and I put my head in my hands. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Just keep going,’ the old man says softly. ‘You’ll get there. That’s all I can tell you at this point. And now …’ He looks up at one of the many clocks on the wall. ‘You’d better be off. After all, you’ve got a date, if I’m not mistaken?’

  His blue eyes twinkle at me again, and with a sudden jolt, I realise who it is he reminds me of: my grandad Jack. Mum’s father.

  He died when I was twelve, so my memories of him are pretty sketchy: mainly based around that faded photo in the hallway at Mum’s house. But I do remember his hearty laugh, his bright blue eyes and his kind, crumpled smile: three things the watch-seller also possesses. His wild face fuzz makes it hard to pinpoint any further similarities, though: Grandad Jack was always clean-shaven.

  The old man stands up from the table. ‘Time to go,’ he says. ‘But don’t worry: I’ll see you again.’

  Harv and I stand blinking on the doorstep of 15 Foster Road. It’s dark now, and the street lights are flickering on, sending our shadows stretching down the steps to the pavement.

  ‘So,’ Harv says, ‘whenever you’re ready to explain what the hell just happened, I’m all ears.’

  I puff my cheeks out. ‘He’s, erm … he’s a theatre bloke. Immersive theatre. My editor at Thump is thinking about interviewing him for the mag, and he wanted me to go along and check him out first. So you were sort of our guinea pig. Hope you don’t mind.’

  Harv scratches his nose as he takes this in. ‘Right. OK. Well, I wouldn’t bother with the interview. He was rubbish. It didn’t make any sense. You were quite good, though.’ He thumps me on the back. ‘You’ve definitely come a long way since Marek’s play.’

  I laugh.

  ‘I was genuinely freaked out back there for a second,’ he adds. ‘You’re lucky I’ve just hooked up with the hottest girl on the planet, or else I’d be pretty pissed off with you right now.’

  He can’t help grinning as he says it, and it breaks my heart. I look at him – my best mate – standing on the threshold of a relationship that’s going to snap him in two. That’s going to bend him out of shape and change him completely. And now I know there’s nothing I can do about it. I can warn him, but it won’t make one bit of difference. No matter what I tell him in this moment, things will turn out exactly the same.

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ I say. ‘On the phone. What I said about Liv. I’m happy that you’re happy.’

  He nods, and I carry on. ‘I just … Whatever’s going to happen will happen. But I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you, man. I promise.’

  I’m not quite sure why, but at that moment I pull him towards me into a tight hug. I feel his body tense up in my grip. But then he laughs and squeezes me back.

  ‘All right, cheers, man. Bit weird, but … cheers.’

  We break out of the hug, and he points at the pub across the road. ‘So, what you saying, then? Pint?’

  I look down at my watch, forgetting that it’s frozen. One minute to midnight: that’s when this day will disappear forever. But I can’t think of a better way to spend the next hour than by reconnecting with my pre-heartbreak, pre-Ryan-Gosling-six-pack best mate.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got time for a quick one before I go and meet Daphne.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It’s just after seven, and I’m standing in the middle of Soho holding a huge bunch of red tulips.

  I’m pretty much clueless when it comes to flowers, so I’ve chosen these purely because they were Mum’s favourite. But now, as I stand here opposite Daphne’s office, on what might be the busiest corner in central London, I’m starting to realise that as romantic gifts go, flowers are actually incredibly impractical. The delicate red bulbs are being constantly knocked this way and that by the shoulder-barging throng of pedestrians storming past me. There is no way these things are going to survive the whole evening.

  Still, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? Hopefully.

  Because midway through my pint with Harv, I made a decision. I decided that even though I don’t know what will happen in the future – even though I don’t know if Daff and I are really meant for each other – I can still make tonight right. In the real world, I ruined this special evening for her with my own stupid self-pity. So at least, in this alternate reality, I can try and make up for that. I can give her the night she deserved – even if she’ll never remember it.

  The revolving doors start spinning and I see Daff emerging from the building with a few other people behind her. They all seem in pretty high spirits: laughing and back-slapping and hugging goodbye. I can see from here that Daff is clutching a chunky glass block that must be her Rising Star award. I give her a wave from across the crawling traffic, and she waves back, grinning.

  The four years we’ve just skimmed over seem to have done nothing at all to her face; she looks just as young and fresh and happy as she did back in 2006. She’s wearing a smart dark blue shirt and tight black velvet skirt; and weirdly, I remember the outfit exactly from this night ten years ago. When she arrived at my flat, my first thought was to ask what she was so dressed up for. But then my own selfish problems squeezed that question straight back out of my head.

  They must have given her the award the next day, as she muttered some excuse about why she hadn’t been able to stick around. I clasp the tulips tighter as I feel yet another spasm of resentment towards my egotistical twenty-four-year-old self.

  Daff is walking across the road now, doing a mock-overwhelmed are-those-for-me? mime as she spots the flowers, which get even more crumpled as I pull her into a hug.

  ‘Well done! Daff, this is so great.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She breaks out of the hug and smells the tulips. ‘And thanks for these.’

  ‘They’re already pretty much destroyed. Sorry about that.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. They’re beautiful.’

  She’s smiling from ear to ear and her flushed cheeks suggest she’s already had one or two celebratory drinks. She looks amazing.

  ‘So, what happened, then?’ I ask. ‘I want the full details.’

  ‘Well, it was all pretty embarrassing, really. I had to get up and make a speech and everything.’

  ‘I hope you went full Gwyneth Paltrow?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I was weeping, dedicating it to my parents, thanking God … No, I just mumbled “Cheers for this” and then ran straight back to the wine.’

  I take the award off her, feeling its weight. ‘Seriously, this is so brilliant, Daff. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’

  She shrugs. ‘It’s not that big a deal. You know I’v
e been out seeing tons of plays lately, and I mentioned a couple of the playwrights to Sarah, and she’s ended up taking them on as clients. So I guess they think I’m showing some promise, or whatever.’ I can almost hear the speech marks around ‘showing some promise’. Daff has always been so modest. Too modest.

  I hand the award back. ‘You’re doing absolutely amazing.’

  She frowns at me. ‘Are you sure you’re OK about that email? You’re being a bit weird about it. I thought you’d be a lot more upset, to be honest.’

  ‘So did I. But as it turns out … I’m not.’

  She nods back towards her office. ‘You know, I could always give your book to the fiction team at work. They could take a look at it.’

  ‘No, honestly. I don’t want to talk or think about the book at all tonight. I just want us to do something fun’ – I tap the award – ‘to celebrate this.’

  ‘Something fun,’ she repeats. And then her eyes sparkle and her mouth twists up at the corner. ‘I can think of something fun.’

  Half an hour later, we are sitting in the cheapest of cheap seats in the Leicester Square theatre, our view partially obscured by a concrete pillar, watching a man I vaguely recognise from EastEnders scamper across the stage dressed as Aladdin.

  ‘I cannot believe this is your first ever pantomime,’ Daff whispers, her mouth half full of Revels. ‘I should report your mum to social services.’

  ‘I can’t believe this isn’t your first pantomime,’ I say, as the EastEnders guy gets his cheeks tweaked by Widow Twankey, being played here by the orange bloke off Bargain Hunt.

  ‘Dad used to take us every year when we were little,’ Daff says, passing me the chocolates and taking a sip of her beer. ‘Family tradition.’

  ‘Since when is Widow Twankey Aladdin’s mum?’ I ask.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Since forever.’

  ‘They don’t even look alike. Plus, Twankey doesn’t sound like a particularly Arabic surname.’

  ‘You know, Ben,’ she deadpans, ‘I’m not sure that realism was at the forefront of the production team’s mind here.’ With perfect timing, a former Big Brother runner-up covered entirely in blue paint emerges from a giant smoking lamp in front of us.

  ‘If only your colleagues could see you now,’ I say, smiling. ‘The great Rising Star, eating Revels and watching Ian Beale run around in a pair of MC Hammer trousers.’

  She elbows me in the ribs. ‘Oi! I love panto. Best thing about Christmas. Just because something’s considered lowbrow doesn’t mean it can’t also be brilliant and fun and entertaining.’ She laughs. ‘Hey, d’you remember, I had pretty much this exact argument with Marek on the night we met?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I do, vividly.’ We join the audience in collectively alerting Ian Beale to the fact that someone is behind him.

  Daff is giving the stage her full attention now, but her mention of the night we met – the night I’ve only just relived – makes me want to double-check what the watch-seller told me. ‘Hey, so you recall that night,’ I say. ‘The play at uni?’ She nods, her eyes still fixed on the stage. ‘Do you remember when I forgot my lines? And you had to go and find me a script?’

  She turns to me. ‘No I didn’t. Did I?’

  ‘Yeah … And I totally fluffed it when I was on stage? Forgot to shoot Marek?’

  She’s looking at me like I’ve gone mad. ‘No … I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened, Ben.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Doesn’t matter. Maybe I’ve remembered it wrong.’

  She turns her attention back to the panto, still frowning slightly. So it’s definitely true, then. Nothing I do here has any knock-on effect whatsoever.

  I try to work out how all of this makes me feel, but before I can come to any definite conclusion, Daff nudges me gently in the ribs. ‘Benjamin. Too cool for audience participation?’

  I snap out of it, and smile at her. And then I’m yelling, ‘Oh yes you have!’ along with everyone else.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It’s pitch dark and freezing by the time we troop out of the theatre.

  The Revels and beers have sharpened our appetites, so we stroll through Covent Garden hand in hand in search of a place to eat. Daff has the flowers poking out of her backpack like some strange alien antennae. I’m carrying the award for her, occasionally holding it up to random passers-by and announcing, ‘Rising Star coming through,’ before she slaps my hand down. As we wander towards the river under the never-ending cascade of Christmas lights, everything feels absolutely right with the world.

  It strikes me suddenly that this is the complete opposite of our last theatre trip together. That was a total and utter disaster.

  It was on September 25th, 2020: Daff’s thirty-third birthday. We’d gone to see one of her clients’ new plays at the Lyric Theatre. It was only a few weeks after Marek’s wedding – after I kissed Alice (or Alice kissed me) in that photo booth. My head was still swimming with that moment: guilt and regret mingling with daydreams of what life would have been like if Alice and I had actually got together. All mixed in with a side helping of dark thoughts about my non-starting career, and even darker thoughts about Mum. I got sulky when Daff left me on my own to go and chat to Rich at the after-show drinks, and when it was just the two of us later, at dinner, things got even worse. We spent the entire three courses snapping at each other, and at the end of the night, Daff sighed heavily as we stood up and said, ‘Well, thanks, Ben. This has definitely been a memorable birthday.’

  Looking at her now as she bounces alongside me, so happy and carefree, it’s impossible to imagine that we’ll turn into that couple one day. And it might be the alcohol swimming to my head, but I can’t help thinking: maybe I should just forget that we will. Maybe, just for tonight, I should forget about the future, and all the shit that will come with it, and try to make the next few hours as perfect as they can possibly be.

  When we get down to the Thames, we find that a festive-themed cluster of food vans have been set up next to Waterloo Bridge. I buy two large turkey baps packed with smoking hot stuffing and cranberry sauce, and two paper cups full of steaming cinnamon-laced mulled wine.

  Daff and I sit on a bench eating and drinking, huddled together for warmth, and even though we’ve been going out in this reality for nearly five years, it honestly feels like a first date. A really, really good first date.

  I tell her about waking up this morning and seeing Harv and Liv in our kitchen, and how worried I am about it all going wrong between them. Daff just shrugs and says, ‘Yeah, well, what can you do? Have you actually said anything to him?’

  ‘Yeah, I sort of did on the phone earlier. I don’t think he wants to listen. But I just know she’s wrong for him.’

  She swallows a bite of her sandwich. ‘How do you know? You can’t know someone’s wrong for someone.’

  ‘Why not? You can know someone’s right for someone.’ I’m not sure where this comment comes from, but clearly Daff thinks it’s about us, because she leans into me and says, ‘Smoooooth.’

  A brightly coloured boat full of loud pissed people in tuxedos and ball gowns floats slowly past us on the river. When it’s finally out of earshot, Daff turns to me and says, ‘I think I knew you were right for me pretty much straight away.’

  I look at her. ‘Seriously? How come?’

  She shuffles even closer to me on the bench. ‘Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’ I laugh involuntarily at that, as it’s the sort of statement you tend to hear in films rather than in real life. But Daff just shrugs and continues. ‘I know it sounds cheesy, but honestly, it’s true. D’you remember our first date?’

  ‘What, at the cinema?’

  She nods, and the memory comes trickling back. After that night in the maze, I spent the entire Christmas holidays moping about at home, wondering if I should text her, wondering why she hadn’t texted me, and generally counting the days until uni restarted and I’d be able to bump into her. And then, two days into the new
term, I did bump into her. We chatted for a while outside the library, and she mentioned that she fancied seeing that Keira Knightley Pride & Prejudice film that had just come out. Seeing my chance, I told her I was desperate to see it too, and, hey, why didn’t we go together?

  ‘I took the bus into town to meet you at that pub first, d’you remember?’ she says. ‘And it sounds weird because we’d only actually met once at that point, but I’d thought about you a lot over the holidays, and I was really nervous about seeing you again. So I started daydreaming on the bus, thinking about that kiss in the maze, and what might happen tonight. And in the end, I got so caught up in these stupid daydreams that I completely missed my stop.’ She breaks off and laughs into the steam rising from her cup. ‘I ended up in Clifton bus depot. That’s when I knew you were probably more than just a crush.’

  I’m laughing now too, and despite the bitter cold, I can feel a warm glow spreading gradually through my body. ‘So that’s why you were late that night?’ I say. ‘You told me your washing machine flooded!’

  ‘Well, what was I supposed to say? “Sorry I’m late for our first date; it’s just that I was thinking so hard about you I ended up in a different town.” I didn’t want to come across as a total psychopath.’

  I shake my head. ‘I remember getting so stressed in that pub, waiting for you. I genuinely thought you weren’t going to show. The barman even gave me a free half-pint because he assumed I’d been stood up.’

  ‘What?’ She nudges my elbow with hers. ‘You told me you’d arrived late as well! You said, and I quote: “Don’t worry, I’ve only just got here myself.”’

  ‘I was trying to play it cool! I got there bang on time. I think I was even early.’

  She laughs and takes a sip of mulled wine. ‘Well. It’s all coming out now. What a revelation.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘and here’s another one for you: I’d already seen the film. My mum dragged me along over the Christmas holidays.’