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

by Tom Ellen

  Simon glances back at me, and nods. In the passenger seat next to him, his wife, my aunt Chrissie, sits with the wreath of lilies perched carefully on her lap. And beside me in the back of the car, Daff reaches across and squeezes my hand, giving me a tearful smile. Our fingers interlock, and our wedding rings clink gently against one another. Mine has been missing from my finger over these past few days, since I was revisiting moments when Daff and I weren’t yet married. I never even noticed it was gone. It seems strange that I’ve only realised it now.

  It’s even stranger to think that I’m here with her now, when only last night I was in Paris, in Alice’s flat. What would I have done, I wonder, if my time hadn’t run out? If the clock hadn’t reached one minute to midnight?

  I honestly don’t know.

  I stare out of the car window at the trees and houses whizzing by. It was on the Eurostar back from Paris that I decided I would ask Daphne to marry me. The thought popped into my head totally at random, and at first it seemed crass and embarrassing: a knee-jerk response to the guilt I felt over sleeping with Alice. An over-the-top way of making amends for what I’d done. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew that it wasn’t any of those things. I was in love with Daff. That was the only fact in my life I was really sure of. The idea of losing her was genuinely terrifying; what had happened with Alice had only served to make me realise that.

  It was as if all my worries about marriage and what it had done to my parents had suddenly dissolved, because I knew now for absolute certain that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Daphne. But to come to that realisation, I’d had to do something that could easily break us apart for good if she ever found out about it. So I quickly came to the conclusion that she never, ever would.

  I’d slunk out of Alice’s flat early on Boxing Day morning, refusing her offer of breakfast with a few grunted monosyllables. I knew how shitty it was – how rude I was being – but I couldn’t help it. I felt like I was suffocating in there; I needed to get outside and clear my head.

  Three days later, when I’d decided to go back to London early, I messaged Alice to tell her I was sorry; that I was heading home, and maybe I’d see her soon. She never replied.

  Daff came back from New York in February 2015. Obviously, I didn’t propose to her straight away; we were still technically on a break, so immediately popping the question would have seemed at best optimistic and at worst utterly insane. All I told her was that I wanted to try again. To make it work between us. Luckily, she agreed – and for those next few months, it did work. We had fun again. I started pursuing boring but lucrative temp work as a copywriter, and gradually I pushed what had happened in Paris into a corner of my mind so remote that it only emerged very occasionally, creeping out in the middle of the night to remind me what might have been.

  I finally proposed in summer 2015, during a holiday in Greece, and we were married a year later, on August 18th 2016, at Islington Town Hall. Nothing very fancy: Daff didn’t want some massive posh do, and neither did I. We just wanted our families and our best mates and a fun, memorable day. I was nervous, obviously, but only about the practical things: speeches and seating plans and whether Harv’s DJ set would contain anything at all for the elderly relatives to dance to (it very much didn’t). I certainly wasn’t nervous about the bigger, existential concerns I’d always imagined would rear their heads on my wedding day: all the scary is-this-really-what-I-want-type questions. As Daff walked up the aisle towards me, beaming from ear to ear, I knew for certain that this was exactly what I wanted.

  I remember how happy Mum looked, too. She didn’t stop smiling all day – laughing and joking with friends of mine she hadn’t seen for years. At the end of the night, once Harv’s drum ’n’ bass onslaught was over, we danced together tipsily to one of her favourite songs – an old doo-wop track called ‘Life Could Be a Dream’ – and when it finished, she clasped me by the shoulders and told me, ‘I’m so proud of you, love.’ The memory bites so hard that I have to physically shake my head to remove it. I can’t let myself break down before I even get into the church.

  We’re nearly there now: the car is purring slowly down the high street. Every single shop window is screaming with Christmas decorations: manic grinning elves and jolly potbellied Santas. I remember noticing this stuff first time around, too, and thinking how jarring it all seemed. It just didn’t make any sense to be surrounded by brightness and festivity on such a miserable, desperate day.

  Finally, the car slows and comes to a stop. Up front, Simon takes a deep breath and meets my eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Here we are then,’ he says.

  The funeral is taking place at the little church a few streets over from Mum’s house in Acton – a church that Mum and I had never even been into before today.

  My stomach is churning and my throat is parched. I’m desperate to just get inside and get it over with, but there’s already a little crowd of people gathered by the church door. They’re family members, mostly, and a few of Mum’s friends too. They move towards me one by one, and I let them take my hand and tell me they’re sorry, or pull me into tight, breathless hugs. I let this weird, pointless procession of tears and apologies play out in front of me as if I’m not even part of it; just a spectator, watching from behind a screen.

  Then, with a jolt of surprise, I spot Harv through the crowd. I’d totally forgotten he would be here. He’s standing by the big wooden door, hands jammed in the pockets of his suit jacket, looking uncharacteristically awkward and shy. He was away on holiday when Mum died, and even though we spoke briefly on the phone, this was the first time I’d actually seen him since it happened.

  He’s changed a lot since 2010. The weight has dropped off him, and his face is all cheekbones and laughter lines. He looks like present-day Harv again. He catches my eye for a split second, then sort of grimaces and looks away. He clearly doesn’t know how to react, or what to say, and I can’t really blame him. There are no guidelines for this kind of situation. I don’t think either of us ever imagined we’d have to help the other through a day like this.

  Our friendship – like most male friendships – has been built primarily on ripping the piss out of each other. For more than a decade, it has been nothing but banter and trivia and talking bollocks. And now, suddenly, Harv is standing outside a church, waiting for my mum’s coffin to be lowered into the ground, and trying to figure out what the hell he should say to me. I watch him squirming on the spot, wrinkling and unwrinkling his brow, and feel an intense rush of affection for him. Because despite everything, he’s still here for me. He’s always been here.

  I walk towards him and he yanks his hands out of his pockets and wrings them together. He stares down at the ground, shaking his head and muttering, ‘Mate … Fuck … I just … Fuck …’ like a malfunctioning foul-mouthed robot.

  And then, almost violently, he pulls me towards him and hugs me. This must have happened last time, but like everything else, I suppose I blocked it out. I hug him back, and feel the tears start to prickle in my eyes.

  ‘I’m so fucking sorry, man,’ he whispers. ‘I’m just … so, so sorry.’

  And then he sniffs loudly and lets me go, shoving his hands back into his pockets again, and not quite meeting my eye.

  When it’s finally time to go in and sit down, I take the exact same seat in the middle of the dark brown pew at the front.

  Daff sits on one side of me, her hand clamped tightly in mine. Simon and Chrissie and my cousins sit on the other side, taking it in turns to shoot me sad, concerned glances.

  It’s strange, once the service starts, the things I notice that I didn’t first time round. Originally I blanked out everything the vicar was saying; my brain was just white noise as I stared at the coffin behind him. But this time I find myself listening closely to his every word. Mum wasn’t in the least bit religious, so to hear him talking so earnestly about how she is ‘with God now’ just makes me angry. Because what kind of God
decides to randomly rupture an aneurysm in the brain of a fifty-eight-year-old woman as she’s walking home from Tesco on a Monday afternoon?

  I’m suddenly struck by the image of her falling – what she must have looked like laid out in the middle of the high street. I feel Daff pull me towards her, because all my steel and self-control is faltering now, and I’m starting to gulp and heave. Hot, salty tears are running down my face and I can feel Daff’s whole body shaking as she kisses my soaking cheek and whispers, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’

  But it’s not OK. I am so angry, and I don’t know if I will ever not be. I am angry about what happened to Mum. I am angry at the injustice of it. I am angry at my dad for leaving us, for not giving a shit about us, for not even bothering to show his face today. But I am also angry at myself, for the terrible things I said to Mum before she died, which I’ve never told anyone about. And it’s so tiring being angry all the time, and not knowing if it will ever end.

  Uncle Simon is at the podium now, telling everyone that I’ll be coming up to read a poem, and for one awful second, I think the tears will completely overwhelm me.

  But then Daff grips my hand tightly, and presses her forehead against mine and whispers, ‘I love you.’ And somehow, I find that I’m in control again. Just.

  Simon looks over at me, his brow furrowed with concern. But Daff gives my hand one more squeeze, and I think: I can do this. If I know she’s here, I can do it.

  The walk to the podium feels like a hundred miles. The only sound in the church is my echoing footsteps. I look out at the sea of gloomy faces, but the only one I focus on is Daphne’s. I feel unsteady on my feet, and my stomach is roiling like crazy, but slowly, I start speaking.

  ‘I wanted to read one of Mum’s favourite poems,’ I say into the microphone. ‘It’s called “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman. Mum was always on at me to read it when I was younger. She was always on at me to read a lot of things but, being a typical moody teenager, I never listened to her. And then, a week ago, Simon and I were going through stuff at her house, and I spotted this on one of her bookshelves.’ I take the tatty Walt Whitman paperback out of my pocket and hold it up. ‘It’s not exactly in great condition, as you can see. And as everyone here will probably know, that’s typical for one of Mum’s books. Pretty much every book she ever owned has a cracked spine and dog-eared pages and is full of scribbled notes in the margins. She was proud of that. She used to say to me: “That’s how you know they’ve been properly read.”’

  There’s a warm ripple of laughter at this, and for a moment it drowns out all the sobs and sniffs. I keep going.

  ‘A week ago I finally read this poem, and I can see that I should have listened to her all along. Because she was right: it’s brilliant. She was always right, really … about everything.’ I feel myself starting to falter, and I have to grip both sides of the podium. ‘I’m not going to read the whole thing, because it’s far too long. But the last stanza was where Mum had done most of her underlining and scribbling, so I thought I’d read that. So, here goes.’

  I take a deep, wobbly breath. And as I lay the book open on the podium, I spot him.

  The watch-seller.

  He’s sitting in an empty pew right at the back of the church, his blue eyes fixed straight on me. The rest of his face is unreadable beneath his wild grey-gold facial hair. He’s still wearing his shabby suit, with the jacket buttoned right up and his reindeer tie just about visible underneath. He nods at me solemnly, and without thinking, I nod back. A sad smile cuts through his scruffy beard, and I’m reminded again of Grandad Jack. It’s weirdly comforting, like there’s another member of my family here, spurring me on.

  In the front row, Daphne is smiling encouragingly too. Three rows behind her, Harv is doing the exact same thing.

  For some reason, I don’t feel angry at being back here any more. I don’t need an explanation. I understand.

  Trying to keep my voice steady, I open the book and focus on the words in front of me:

  The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

  I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,

  I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

  The last scud of day holds back for me,

  It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,

  It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

  I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

  I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

  I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

  If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

  You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

  But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

  And filter and fibre your blood.

  Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

  Missing me one place search another,

  I stop somewhere waiting for you.

  I look up. The sea of faces is now completely blurred by my own tears. But I got through it. I didn’t let her down.

  People are clapping now as I walk back to my seat, and Uncle Simon grabs my shoulder as I pass and whispers, ‘Well done.’ And as I reach Daphne, she stands and takes me in her arms, and I just feel so pathetically grateful that I was given this second chance.

  When the ceremony is over, my cousins and I carry the coffin outside while Mum’s all-time favourite track, ‘A Song For You’ by Gram Parsons, echoes around the church’s wooden beams.

  I look around for the watch-seller, but I can’t see him. The whole congregation gathers as the coffin sinks down into the earth, and I remember what happened at this point last time. I just walked out: told Daphne I needed some time to myself before I joined everyone else at the wake, and spent the next hour wandering the streets alone, fizzing with misery and anger and horror at the idea of living the rest of my life without Mum in it.

  This time, though, I take hold of Daff’s hand and ask if she minds if we stay here a little longer, just the two of us. I tell Simon and Harv we’ll be right behind them all, and before long the graveyard is empty, and it’s just me and Daphne, sitting in silence on a bench in front of Mum’s grave.

  ‘I’m so glad you did that reading,’ Daff says. ‘Your mum would’ve been so proud.’

  ‘I’m glad, too,’ I tell her. ‘Though to be honest, just before I got up to do it, I thought I was going to lose it completely. I’m sorry.’

  She shakes her head almost angrily. ‘Ben, are you crazy? You don’t have to say sorry. You should be losing it. You don’t ever have to apologise for that.’

  ‘I do, Daff. I wish I’d told her … I wish I could have said sorry to her.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly. What would you possibly need to say sorry for?’

  And so, finally, I decide to tell her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It was a Sunday night, eight days before she died.

  Daphne and I were supposed to be round at Mum’s for dinner, but Daff had been called to some last-minute film screening in Soho. So in the end, it was just Mum and me.

  And that felt weird for a start, because at that point I hadn’t actually seen Mum, just the two of us, for a while. Whenever we met up, Daff was usually there too – the old clichés about hating your mother-in-law being totally untrue in our case – and her presence always softened the edges, made the conversation flow more easily. Not just because she was upbeat and fun, in contrast to my usual mardiness around that time, but because she actually had stuff going on in her life. She had things to talk about. She’d tell Mum about whatever exciting project she was currently working on, or whatever gossip she’d heard about such-and-such actor or writer. Mum loved all that.

  But I had nothing going on, nothing to say. So when it was just the two of us, the room felt smaller somehow, the silences harder to fill.

  And on that particular Sunday night, they felt even ha
rder than usual. I was in the middle of an arid spell work-wise, staring down the barrel of another entirely blank week, so I arrived at Mum’s in a pretty rotten mood. And over the course of dinner, it got steadily worse, despite the deliciousness of her beef-and-Yorkshire-pudding Sunday roast. We small-talked our way through the meal, and when the plates were cleared away and soaking in the sink, Mum made coffee and set a slab of the posh Waitrose dark chocolate she liked on the table between us.

  ‘So, what time will Daphne be home tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea.’ I shrugged.

  Mum tutted and broke off a chunk of chocolate. ‘Poor girl. They work her far too hard at that place.’

  ‘She’s all right. She enjoys it.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s brilliant that she’s doing so well.’

  I shrugged again at this, tore off some of the silver foil from the chocolate wrapper and curled it into a tight, tiny ball between my fingers.

  Mum gave me a look that fell somewhere between exasperation and pity. ‘Come on, love. It won’t be like this forever. I’m sure things will calm down at some point, and she’ll be around more.’

  ‘I know, it’s just … I barely ever see her these days. She was in the office all weekend, and out most nights last week too.’

  ‘Well, like I said, she’s doing well. That’s a good thing. You should be proud of her.’

  ‘I am,’ I muttered, but clearly it wasn’t very convincing, because Mum snorted into her coffee and said, ‘Please don’t tell me you’re having a ridiculous macho crisis because your wife makes more money than you do?’

  I flicked the little foil ball into the middle of the table. ‘No, Mum. Of course not.’

  ‘Good. Because I thought I’d raised you better than that,’ she said huffily.

  ‘It’s not about money,’ I snapped. ‘Money’s got nothing to do with it. I’m happy she’s doing something she’s good at and she loves. It just reminds me that I’m not doing it, that’s all.’