by Tom Ellen
He picks up a squashed packet of Marlboro Reds from next to the gearstick. I notice his fingers are tinted yellow-brown at the tips. They’re shaking ever so slightly as he pulls a cigarette out. He turns it between his fingers, but doesn’t light it.
‘How are you coping?’ he asks. And then he shakes his head. ‘Stupid fucking question. Sorry.’ He closes his eyes and rubs the dark circles underneath them.
‘I’m OK,’ I tell him. ‘Well, no, I’m not OK. But I suppose I’m coping. Trying to.’
‘Good. That’s good. And … I heard you got married.’ He blinks. ‘How’s your wife doing?’
That nearly makes me laugh out loud. My own father doesn’t know my wife’s name. No reason why he should, I suppose.
‘Daphne,’ I say.
‘Daphne. How is she?’
‘She’s OK. She’s pretty much kept me together over the past couple of weeks. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’ Despite everything, the truth of that statement hits me like a train.
‘That’s good.’ Dad waves his lighter in front of me. ‘Do you mind if I …?’
‘No, go ahead.’
He rolls the window down and lights the cigarette, inhaling deeply.
‘How’s Bianca?’ I ask him. Bianca was the woman he was with the last time we spoke on the phone. After Clara, there was Lucy, then Fay, then Bianca, each one a few years younger than the last.
He sucks on the cigarette and rubs at his stubble again. ‘Bianca? Christ. No, that was years ago. Bianca’s long gone.’
I nod. ‘Right.’
He taps the cigarette ash out of the window and adds, ‘A bit of a nightmare in the end, Bianca. Complete headcase. Not sure what I was thinking.’
He shoots me a kind of roguish half-smile, which withers pretty quickly when I don’t return it. I have vague memories of him talking like this about all the women he dated after Mum. He would jokingly put them down; dismiss them as crazy or high-maintenance when the relationship failed. As a kid, I was impressed by it: it made him seem like this funny, swaggering man of the world.
It doesn’t seem in the least bit funny now.
‘No, I’m seeing someone else at the moment,’ he continues, taking another drag on his Malboro. ‘An actress from my play. Erin. She lives out in Brooklyn.’
I remember seeing the pictures of his play online: Erin was the lead role. Very attractive – and about my age, I reckon.
I watch him for a second, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks the cigarette. It strikes me suddenly that in the end, Mum was right. I only admired him because I didn’t really know him. All I had was this idea of him – successful, talented, dating a string of younger and younger women. But here, now, that idea doesn’t add up to anything. It certainly doesn’t seem to have made him happy. He just seems lonely and confused and messed up.
I don’t want to end up like that.
All these years, I’ve assumed it was predestined: my dad was a cheat, so I would end up cheating too. It almost became an excuse for what happened in Paris. I’d tell myself it wasn’t my fault; it was written into my genetic code. But that’s bullshit. I chose to sleep with Alice. And if I meet up with her for that drink in 2020, that’ll be my choice too. I can’t keep blaming all my mistakes and fears and failings on a father I don’t even know. I didn’t want to get married because I was afraid I’d turn into him. I wanted to have kids so that I could prove I wouldn’t. He’s coloured all my big life decisions, in one way or another. When really he’s a total stranger.
It makes me flinch with shame that I thought I needed him to look up to, when I had Mum all along: a thousand times kinder, funnier, better.
He takes a final drag on his cigarette and flicks the butt out of the window.
‘Where’s the wake?’ he asks.
‘Simon’s house. Come along, if you want.’
He glances at me. ‘Do you want me to?’
‘I don’t mind either way.’ And, honestly, I don’t. I just want to get out of this car and back to Daphne.
He lays one hand on the steering wheel and nods. ‘Well, I don’t think it’d do anyone any good if I came.’ Once again, I can hear the self-pity dripping from this statement, and it makes my skin crawl. I’m prone to self-pity too, and I hate myself for it. I must have got it from him, because I definitely didn’t get it from Mum.
He sniffs and straightens his back against the seat. ‘So, Ben, listen. If you need anything, or you want to meet up, or—’
‘Well, you’ll be in New York,’ I interrupt.
‘No … Well, yes, I will be. For the next few weeks. But I mean, you can call me if you like. I can give you my direct line.’
‘Your direct line?’ The phrase is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh out loud. It’s always been like this: me calling him, trying desperately to forge some kind of relationship. ‘So, now Mum’s gone, you’re … stepping up, is that it?’ I ask him. ‘You’re finally ready to be my dad?’
‘No, I just …’ He exhales heavily and starts chewing the nail on his little finger. It’s the exact same thing I do when I’m anxious. Daff is constantly moaning at me about it, batting my hand away from my mouth.
‘Look, I know I fucked up, Ben,’ he says slowly. ‘I made a hash of everything, especially with you. But after your mother and I split up, I did try to see you. I tried. But she didn’t always make it easy.’
I keep my voice steady as I look him in the eye. ‘I don’t want to get into some big fight today. But if you blame my mum for anything, ever, then we won’t speak again. OK?’
He rubs the back of his neck and nods. ‘OK.’
I open the door and put one foot out onto the pavement.
‘Take care of yourself, Ben,’ he says.
‘You too. Good luck with the play.’
He smiles at me sadly. ‘I’ll see you.’
I get out and shut the door behind me. I know there’s a good chance that I will never see him again, and for the first time in my life, that doesn’t make me feel bad or frightened or like a total failure. In fact, I don’t really feel anything towards him at all.
I pull my coat collar up and walk into the whipping wind, listening to the big maroon Renault pull away behind me. It’s a freezing December day, but the sun is beginning to creep shyly out from behind the clouds.
Suddenly the desire to see Daphne, to be with the people I really love, grips me so tightly that I break into a run.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The rest of the day is … well, not good, obviously. But better.
I certainly get through the wake with a fair bit more poise and dignity and social interaction than I did last time. And by the time it’s all over, and the black suit is off, and I’m lying in bed next to Daphne, I really feel like I have resolved something – with both my parents. Even if neither of them will ever know about it.
I can feel Daff’s body start to relax as she drifts into sleep beside me. But my stomach is still churning like crazy. Not just because it’s 11.49 p.m. and I have no clue where I’ll find myself in ten minutes’ time, but also because of everything I’ve realised or remembered or learned over the past few days.
That night in the bar at uni when I felt this instant connection with a girl I’d just met; that moment in the maze where I snapped the branch on purpose so she’d find me. The discovery that she’d given up her Rising Star evening to come and pick me up when I was down; the blinding misery I felt waking up in Alice’s bed in Paris. Some of these memories have made me feel good; some have made me feel sick with shame and guilt. But all of them have served to reinforce one thing: it’s always been Daphne.
Always.
I keep thinking of what I said to my dad back in the car: She’s pretty much kept me together over the past couple of weeks. I don’t know what I’d do without her. It’s true. I would be lost if I didn’t have Daff. I’d fall to pieces, I know I would. But that’s not a relationship, is it? That’s … dependency.
She sa
id earlier, when we were sitting in the churchyard, that we were a team. Well, for years, she’s been doing all the teamwork. If I want to be with her, I need to earn it. I have to stop taking her for granted and start pulling my weight.
I wasted so many years trying to salvage my relationship with my dad – a relationship that wasn’t even worth saving. But my marriage to Daphne is. I’ve got to make things better. I know that now.
The clock on the bedroom wall now reads 11.54 p.m. I’m only two years away from the present at this moment. Will that be where I find myself in five minutes’ time? My whole body tingles with excitement at the thought. I can’t wait to get back to 2020 and start rebuilding my life.
The first step will be to have a perfect Christmas Day with Daff. And then, after that, look for a new job, maybe even restart the conversation about having kids … and who knows what else? For the first time in a long time, the future actually seems like an inviting prospect.
Daff wriggles next to me and nuzzles further into my neck.
I pull her close and kiss her cheek gently. ‘Everything’s going to be OK, Daff,’ I whisper. ‘I promise. I love you.’
‘Love you too,’ she murmurs. ‘See you in the morning.’
On the wall, 11.57 becomes 11.58.
I hold my arm up so that my watch hovers right next to the clock in my eyeline, and wait for the time to match up.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I must have been subconsciously bracing myself for the hard wooden attic floor, because the soft mattress feels strangely disconcerting beneath me.
I know I’ve jumped again, because the dizziness and motion sickness are both in full effect. But when I open my eyes and sit up, I see I’m still in the same bed, in the same bedroom.
It’s light outside now, though, and Daphne has disappeared. I can hear the gurgle and splutter of the coffee machine from downstairs. I reach across to the bedside table and open my phone. The date reads: 25 December 2020.
The realisation fizzes through me: I’m back. I’m definitely back.
But how did I get down from the attic? And when did Daff get home? There’s a blank space between me falling asleep while poring over that stuff in the biscuit tin, and me waking up here now. And that blank space feels extremely unsettling.
The watch is still fixed tightly around my wrist, its hands stuck at one minute to midnight.
My heart starts hammering, but as I step out of bed, I decide to worry about filling in the gaps later. The only thing that matters right now is that I’m back, and I can start making things right with Daphne.
I get dressed quickly and head downstairs, but as I pass the living room, I spot the Christmas tree through the half-open door. It’s fully decorated, with a stack of neatly wrapped presents underneath it. My heart sinks. Daff must have got up early to do the chores I was supposed to be doing last night. After everything I’ve just been through – and all my resolutions to make things better – are we right back where we were before? Am I about to walk into the kitchen and straight into another fight?
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading something on her iPad, one hand clasped around a steaming cup of coffee. She’s wearing pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt, her curly hair piled messily into a topknot on her head. The urge to go straight across and put my arms around her is almost overpowering, but she doesn’t even look up as I walk in.
‘Hey. Merry Christmas. There’s coffee in the pot.’
‘Ah, nice one. Merry Christmas …’
‘Thanks for doing the tree. And the presents.’ She looks up at me and gives me a quick, tight smile.
‘I …’ I stare at her, trying desperately to read her face for any traces of sarcasm or passive-aggression. There don’t seem to be any. Did I do the tree and the presents? I have no memory of it. But chucking a few bits of tinsel up and not remembering certainly wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened over the past few days.
‘No worries,’ I say tentatively.
Instead of rolling her eyes, or yelling something along the lines of ‘I was being sarcastic, you selfish knob’, Daff just smiles again and looks back down at the iPad. Something is definitely not right here. But still: I assumed an argument was on the cards, and it doesn’t appear to be. So it’s probably best to let the matter lie for now.
I pour myself a coffee and stand at the kitchen counter. She carries on reading in silence, and even though we’re not in open verbal combat, I can tell the atmosphere is still definitely on the frosty side. Is this just about the fight we had on Christmas Eve, about me not coming to her work party? Or has something else happened that I can’t remember?
I can’t bear this grim, icy tension when all I want to do is hold her and tell her I’m sorry. Before I can weigh up whether this is actually a good idea or not, I’m rushing across the room to do it.
‘Ben, what …’ She wriggles out of the hug, and looks at me with her brow furrowed. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I just wanted to give you a hug. Sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s just …’ She tails off and shakes her head.
I step away from her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ She fiddles with her topknot, and avoids my eye. ‘I’ve just got stuff on my mind, that’s all.’
‘About us?’
She gives a short, impatient sigh. ‘About lots of things.’
I kneel down and take hold of her hand. I’m trying to keep my voice steady, but the words come gabbling out manically. ‘Well, let’s talk about it. We can sort it out. I’m sorry for how rubbish I’ve been lately. Whatever’s gone wrong, we can fix it, and—’
I’m about to tell her how much I love her when she pulls her hand away, cutting me off in mid-flow. ‘Not right now. Let’s just get through today. We can talk about everything else later.’
I’m desperate to put my arms back around her. To promise her that I’ve changed and everything’s different now and it’s all going to be OK. But I can tell this is definitely not the time. After all, she’s put up with years of me acting like a selfish arsehole – sulking and moaning and clamming up. I can’t expect everything to magically fall into place just because I appear to have woken up in an uncharacteristically upbeat mood.
It’s actions that count, not words. I need to prove to her that I’ve changed, and I can’t do that in five minutes.
I stand up and walk back over to the counter. I take a sip of my coffee, and ask, ‘How was last night?’
‘It was fine.’ She swipes a finger across the iPad screen. ‘Bit boring, but OK.’
‘Any gossip? Anyone get off with anyone?’
She shrugs. ‘Rich got very pissed and insisted we all try out Sarah’s new karaoke machine. Nadia and I did “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa. Went down pretty well. That was about as wild as it got, really. You didn’t miss much.’
‘You’re not hung-over, then?’
She yawns, and covers her mouth with her wrist. ‘No, just tired. What did you do?’
‘I went out for a drink with Harv. Once I’d, erm, done the tree and stuff, obviously.’
‘Oh, right.’ She raises her eyebrows, her gaze still fixed firmly on the screen. ‘I thought you’d stayed in for a drink.’
‘How d’you mean?’
She flicks her eyes up to the kitchen counter and I turn around to look. The bottle of red wine I near-emptied before heading up to the attic sits there staring guiltily back at me.
Crap. I completely forgot about that.
‘God, Daff, I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. I had a couple of glasses when I came in. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
She breathes out through her nose, irritably. ‘You knew that was supposed to be for today.’
‘I’ll go out and get another one this morning, I promise.’
She just sighs and keeps swiping. So even though it turns out I did do the presents and tree, I still also necked that forty quid’s worth of Haut-Médoc. I’m guessing one cancels the oth
er out in Daphne’s head. Which is fair enough, really.
And then I remember something. If I drank that bottle of wine, then I also surely sent that message to Alice. Which means I still have to cancel our meeting.
‘Back in a sec,’ I say.
I walk out of the kitchen and open Facebook on my phone. There it is: the message chain with Alice, ending with my most recent one arranging to meet up in four days’ time. Cancelling on Christmas morning looks a bit weird, but there’s no other option.
I start tapping out a message.
Hey, Alice – happy Christmas! I’m really sorry but something’s come up for the 29th that I can’t get out of, so I’ll have to cancel our drink, I’m afraid. I’m not sure I’ll be around much after that either to be honest. Sorry. Ben x
I reread the message and imagine Alice receiving it. There’s no two ways about it: it looks pretty horrible. No actual explanation or reason for why I can’t make our date. But I’m too frazzled to come up with a proper excuse, and the only thing that matters right now is getting out of it.
Without thinking any more about it, I hit send and slip the phone back in my pocket. Then I head back to the kitchen, fully intent on showing Daphne the best Christmas Day ever.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘Right, I think I’ve got everything here: crisps, dips, beer, and orange squash for the kids. Plus a new bottle of wine that’s one whole pound more expensive than the other one.’
I waggle the plastic bags triumphantly as I step back into the kitchen.
It’s two hours later, and I’ve just been dispatched to the corner shop to pick up the last few things we need. Daff’s family are currently en route, and all six of them should be arriving any minute: her mum, Clio, and dad, Michael, plus her sister Kat with her husband Joe and their twin sons Charlie and Fred.
Daff is squatting down, squinting into the oven at the turkey, the heat blasting her cheeks pink. The kitchen is hot and noisy and the food smells incredible. She wipes her eyes and shuts the oven door, and I can see she’s fighting a smile as she turns around to face me.