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

by Tom Ellen

I almost laugh, before I remember just how extreme these circumstances are.

  ‘So listen,’ I say. ‘Can I stay at yours tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, man, of course. Stay for as long as you want.’

  ‘Really? I’m not going to get in the way of you and your fitness instructor Tinder girl, am I?’

  ‘Nah. I’m not sure that’s a long-term thing anyway, to be honest.’

  ‘OK. Thanks, man. Seriously. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘No worries. Of course.’

  I breathe out shakily and lean back in my chair. For Harv, it was only last night that we were sitting in this exact same spot while I wrestled internally with how to lay my emotions bare in front of him. This time, there’s no need to wrestle. I’m drunk and broken and it all just spills out.

  ‘What the fuck am I going to do, Harv?’ I slur.

  He shifts awkwardly in his seat. I can tell before he even opens his mouth that he’s going to reach for the tried-and-tested banter to put out this fire. ‘Come live with me permanently,’ he deadpans. ‘It’ll be like old times. We’ll get some goldfish, name them after rappers. Sit around playing FIFA all day in our pants. It’ll be great.’

  I attempt a laugh, but it gets swallowed by a strangled sob. I can feel my eyes starting to prickle again. I’m going to break down in front of him, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  ‘I think my marriage is over,’ I whisper. And as I hear myself say the words, the cold, hard reality of them hits me like a truck. All this jumping about through time has been for nothing. All it’s done has made me realise how much I love Daphne. But now I’m here – back in the real world, where actions actually have consequences – and I’ve screwed it all up.

  I’ve lost her. Maybe for good.

  I put a hand over my eyes, but I can feel the tears leaking through my fingers.

  ‘Sorry, man …’ I mutter.

  I can’t see Harv, but I feel him reach across and place a hand on my shoulder. ‘Mate, don’t be stupid,’ he says quietly. ‘This is you and Daphne. It can’t be over. You’re clearly meant to be together.’

  That just makes the tears come even faster. ‘You really think so?’ I gulp.

  ‘Of course.’ He squeezes my shoulder. ‘It’s obvious. It always has been. You can totally save this. You just need to be sure that you actually want to.’

  ‘I do,’ I say. ‘More than anything.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you tell her, then?’

  ‘Tell her what?’

  ‘About Alice.’

  I take my hand away from my face and look at him. ‘Because … Are you mad? You’ve just heard how she reacted when she found out.’

  He nods. ‘Yeah, because she found out. That’s very different from you choosing to tell her. You say you want it to work, but if you’re planning on keeping massive secrets from her, it’s never going to, is it?’

  I sniff loudly and stare into the dregs of my pint. ‘No, I guess not.’

  He takes another sip of his drink and wriggles in his chair again. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘this whole thing is a bit like what happened with me and Liv.’

  He’s using that same forced-casual tone that Alice used in Paris when she was asking about me and Daphne. He’s trying very hard to make out like this is just a casual statement; that it’s no big deal. But I know full well that it is.

  I clear my throat and push my pint away. ‘How d’you mean?’

  He avoids my eye, concentrates instead on spinning his beer mat. ‘You know she went off with that guy, that Made in Chelsea dickhead?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, that had been going on for a while. She didn’t tell me – I found out. Same as Daphne did. And that’s … Even though it was the worst I’ve ever felt, and the idea of losing her made me sick, I knew that it couldn’t ever work if I didn’t trust her. That’s why you need to be totally honest with Daff. Tell her everything that happened – everything – and then tell her it won’t ever happen again. And make sure that you mean it.’ He takes another sip of Guinness and looks me straight in the eye. ‘In the end, Liv wasn’t worth fighting for, but Daphne definitely is. She’s fucking brilliant. I’ve always said it.’

  I blink and nod, feeling lighter suddenly. For the first time since I walked out of our flat three hours ago, I can see a tiny crack of light in the darkness. My heart is pumping, and I’m much more sober than I was a few seconds back. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I have to fight for her. I just hope it’s not too late.’

  ‘It’s not, mate.’ Harv smiles. ‘Trust me.’

  He takes another swig of his pint. His cheeks are flushed – presumably from the novelty of us discussing something that actually matters for once. He slams the glass down and smacks his lips. ‘God, I’ve missed Guinness. Vodka tonic really can’t compete.’

  I laugh. ‘Harv, I’ve wanted to say for a while now that I’m really sorry about Liv. I feel like I was a shit friend to you throughout that whole time.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, you weren’t, man. I completely cut everyone off. I was trying so hard to blend in with her and her mates: going to those awful private members’ clubs, listening to terrible house music. I was trying to be someone else, I guess. So it was my fault too.’

  ‘Still, I should have tried harder to be there for you when it ended, and to chat to you about it. I’m sorry for that. But I’m just so glad that we …’ I pause, because I can’t think of any other way to finish this sentence than ‘got back together’.

  ‘Got back together?’ Harv says with a grin.

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  ‘I’m glad too.’

  We catch each other’s eye and laugh. And just for a second, despite the fact that my entire life is lying in pieces around me, I actually feel good.

  On the stereo, the Pogues give way to Slade, drawing a muted cheer from the old guys at the bar. ‘We should talk about proper things more often,’ I say to Harv. ‘Not just football and hip hop.’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘Benjamin, there’s nothing more proper on earth than football and hip hop.’

  ‘True.’ I spin my phone on the table and take a deep breath. ‘So, do you think I should text Daff? Or call her?’

  Harv takes a final sip of Guinness as he considers this. ‘No. I reckon we should go back to mine so you can get your head straight, and then you should give her a call tomorrow.’

  Tomorrow. For the first time in what feels like forever, I am actually going to have a tomorrow. I glance instinctively down at my watch. The main reason I picked this pub as our meeting place was the chance that I might see the watch-seller here again. This is where we first met in the real world, so surely there’s a good chance I might see him here again now that I’m back.

  But no: there’s no sign of him. I guess his job – whatever the hell it was – is done.

  ‘You haven’t seen that old guy anywhere, have you?’ I ask Harv absently as I scan the bar again. ‘The one from last night?’

  Harv frowns. ‘Which old guy?’

  ‘You know: the old guy with the beard.’ I hold up my wrist. ‘That weird bloke who gave me this watch.’

  Harv shakes his head slowly. ‘You’ve lost me there, Benjamin. You weren’t even wearing that watch yesterday, were you? And we definitely didn’t bump into any weird old guys with beards.’

  ‘But you saw me talking to him …’ I tail off as Harv’s frown deepens. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t remember our time-jumping 2010 house call, but it’s been less than twenty-four hours since he saw the watch-seller with his own eyes, in this very pub, in the real world.

  Unless …

  Harv stands up. ‘Come on, man. Let’s get back to mine so I can make you some coffee. You’re obviously more pissed than I thought. The only non-existent bearded bloke you should be talking about today is Santa Claus. Or Jesus, I suppose.’

  I stand up with him, but my head is swimming.

  I don’t remember Daff coming home. I d
on’t remember coming down from the attic. I don’t remember doing the tree or the presents. And now Harv doesn’t remember the watch-seller from last night, despite the fact that I am still wearing the watch.

  What the hell is going on?

  Harv pushes open the door, and I take one last look back at the bar before I follow him out into the freezing night air.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  We step outside the pub to see that the little square across the road is packed full of people. They spill out into the street on both sides, blocking our route.

  At the centre of them, right in the middle of the square, a group of carol singers is belting out an enthusiastic rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’, and the crowd is bellowing along with gusto, sounding full to the brim with both festive cheer and copious mulled wine.

  ‘Here we go,’ Harv says, nudging my shoulder with his. ‘This is exactly what we need – a bit of Christmas spirit.’

  I’m about to protest – joining in with a load of drunk carollers is about the last thing on earth I feel like doing right now – but Harv is already crossing the road, making his way through the crowd towards them.

  I follow him through the sea of Santa hats and hastily fashioned tinsel scarves, my brain still fizzing from our conversation in the pub. Once he finds a choice spot, Harv slings an arm around me and thwacks my shoulder repeatedly until I start singing along with him. And maybe it’s the undeniable glow of festive goodwill in this square – or, more likely, the sight of my best mate gleefully strangling the high note on ‘Oh-oh tidings of comfort and joy’ – but for a few seconds, I actually find myself carried along by it all. For a brief moment, I almost lose myself.

  And then I spot him.

  He’s standing right at the back of the group of carollers, singing at the top of his voice, even more enthusiastically and tunelessly than everyone else. As he catches my eye, he inclines his shaggy head and shoots me a wink.

  My stomach performs several vigorous forward rolls. He doesn’t look in the slightest bit different from when I last saw him, at Mum’s funeral. He’s still wearing the same shabby suit and garish reindeer-speckled tie, and his tangle of grey-gold hair is as wild as ever.

  Through the roar of confusion, I nudge Harv and indicate the watch-seller.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Harv laughs. ‘He’s really going for it. Dude could give Brian Blessed a run for his money.’

  There’s not even a flicker of recognition in his face. He has clearly never seen this man before in his life – let alone in the past twenty-four hours.

  Before I can process what this might mean, someone starts handing out Santa hats to the carollers. I watch the old man stick his on at a jaunty angle, still singing boisterously, and I’m struck once again by his resemblance to Grandad Jack.

  The song comes to an end – the final protracted ‘co-om-fort and joy’ collapsing under the laughter of the performers – and the onlookers clap and cheer and stamp their feet as the singers take a mock-dramatic bow. A few Santa hats are thrown into the air, and people are hollering ‘Merry Christmas!’ over the applause. A few of the carollers weave straight in among us, shaking Salvation Army-branded tins, and before I know it, the watch-seller is right there.

  ‘Any change, lads?’ he asks brightly.

  Harv digs into his pocket and slots in a pound coin. ‘There you go, mate. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘And to you too,’ the old man twinkles.

  ‘Good work on that tune. I was saying to my friend here, you’ve got a serious set of lungs on you.’

  The watch-seller gives a warm chuckle at this. ‘What I lack in capability, I feel I more than make up for in effort.’

  ‘You definitely do.’ Harv grins, and then glances back at the pub. ‘Ben, can you hang on one sec? I’m just gonna nip back in for a wee.’ He turns to the watch-seller. ‘Long Tube journey, and I’m not used to drinking pints.’

  The watch-seller laughs politely. ‘No. You’re a vodka and tonic man.’

  ‘Er … yeah,’ Harv says, wrinkling his forehead. He gives me a confused look, and then walks off.

  The old man smiles at me. ‘You’ve managed to get him back on the black stuff, then?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s the sign of a true friend: they’ll abandon all dietary plans for you.’

  I’m too desperate for answers to even acknowledge this remark. ‘Look, can you please tell me what’s going on?’ I whisper urgently. ‘Am I back in the real world or not?’

  He readjusts his wonky Santa hat. ‘I thought someone with your particular theatrical background might have realised that after Christmas past comes … Christmas present.’

  ‘Christmas present?’ I repeat, stupidly.

  I think of Marek’s play – The Carol Revisited. His version of Christmas present involved Vinny Scrooge weeping uncontrollably as he watched a papier-mâché model of his own corpse being dumped in the harbour (a paddling pool) by rival gangsters.

  But it was only a hallucination – a warning of what would come if he didn’t change his ways …

  ‘So today didn’t really happen,’ I say slowly, feeling a spark of hope ignite in my chest. ‘Daff will have no memory of seeing those messages when I finally get back to reality. If I get back.’ The hope gives way briefly to anger, and I look up at the old man. ‘Or will I keep flitting about from one random moment to the next? No future, no consequences?’

  The watch-seller smoothes his reindeer tie and chuckles. ‘Oh, the future’s on its way, my friend, don’t you worry,’ he says, his eyes twinkling. Before I can ask what he means by that, he adds, ‘Just remember: “If you don’t like your life, you can change it.” H. G. Wells wrote that.’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘He also wrote The Time Machine, didn’t he? I guess that’s why you’re into him.’

  He laughs – a hearty Grandad Jack laugh that sends another shiver of recognition down my spine. ‘It’s one of the reasons. Of course, The Time Machine is no Groundhog Day.’

  I see my chance to ask the question that’s been nagging at me for what feels like weeks. ‘Listen, do we know each other? It’s just that you remind me a lot of my grandad.’

  The watch-seller twinkles at this, puffing his chest out and smirking. ‘Good-looking fellow, I presume? No, I think I’ve just got one of those faces. People often remark on how similar I look to someone they know.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’

  I’m not entirely sure I believe him, but I can tell he’s not going to be drawn any further. We stand in silence for a few seconds, while the crowd disperses around us. I feel the way I always feel in his presence: unreal. Like I’ve fallen through the cracks of reality and landed in some hidden pocket that no one else can see.

  ‘Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?’ I ask finally.

  ‘Because you’ll find out soon enough,’ he says.

  ‘It really doesn’t feel like it.’

  Across the street, I see Harv re-emerging from the pub. I rub my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket. I feel more knackered than I have done all day.

  The old man puts a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. ‘Trust me,’ he says kindly. ‘You’re nearly there.’

  The sofa bed feels like it’s made of broken coat hangers.

  We’ve coaxed its rickety skeleton out from the depths of Harv’s couch, and now the two of us are lying side by side on top of the duvet, eating Haribo Tangfastics and watching Love Actually on TV.

  ‘The signs bit is coming up now,’ Harv says, through a mouthful of heavily sugared gelatin.

  ‘The signs bit?’

  ‘Yeah, you know – when that Walking Dead guy goes round Keira Knightley’s house with his creepy signs.’ He takes another handful of sweets. ‘I’ve always wondered – what would he have done if his mate had opened the door instead of Keira? He’s literally standing there with a boom box and a shitload of signs about his wasted heart. Obviously his mate would ask to see them, and then he’s screwed, you know?’

  I tu
rn to look at him. ‘How many times have you seen this film?’

  His cheeks flush. ‘Like, once … or, I don’t know. Maybe twice. It’s always on telly.’

  He meets my eyes and we both start laughing.

  After our deluge of emotional frankness in the pub, Harv seems to have adopted the firm position that breeziness and banter are now the way forward. Since we left the watch-seller in that square a few hours ago, he hasn’t mentioned Daphne or Alice once. He obviously feels that the best method for keeping my mind off the horror show of my life is simply to act like nothing has happened: my marriage is not really on the brink of collapse, and this is just a normal Christmas Day like any other, ending as it always does with the two of us lying on a sofa bed watching a Richard Curtis film.

  To be quite honest, I appreciate it. Not just because I’m too frazzled to talk any more about deep, serious, depressing stuff, but also because his tactic is more spot-on than he realises. Nothing has happened.

  This is not reality.

  Which means Daphne didn’t see those texts, which means – surely – I have another chance to make things right. At the moment, that thought is the only thing keeping me going.

  I flinch every time I remember the look on her face as she handed me my phone. I can’t even bear to think of the hurt I’ve caused her. There has to be a way to mend this. There just has to be.

  I lift my phone off the arm of the sofa. The time is 11.47 p.m. In twelve minutes, all this will disappear, and even though I have no idea where or when I’ll end up, I know that I have to find her. I have to tell her the truth – about everything. I have to somehow show her how much she means to me.

  And preferably not by turning up on the doorstep with a load of creepy signs.

  Harv stuffs another large fistful of sweets into his mouth. Clearly, that pint of Guinness was the beginning of a slippery slope, because we’ve now emptied a packet and a half of Haribo between us, in addition to the large kebab and chips we had on the Tube home.

  If this was reality, I’d be considering staging an intervention.

  I check my phone again: 11.48. It’s like time is purposely slowing down, just to mess with me.