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

by Tom Ellen

  There must be another way. There must be a way back.

  By the time we stagger out of the pub, the white sun is beginning to sink into the horizon.

  Decked out in thick scarves and woolly hats, we meander slowly through Queen’s Park, trying to work off the goose and gravy. Phil leads the way, stumbling slightly from his excessive wine intake while outlining his New Year’s resolution to buy a sailboat. Becky looks distinctly unimpressed – by either his nautical ambitions or his drunkenness, or both.

  My head is fuzzy from too much booze, and I realise with a lurch that this route through the park is one Daff and I used to take occasionally on weekends, just after we’d bought our flat in Kensal Rise. We’d wander hand in hand through the trees and read our books on the grass, or sit and people-watch on the bandstand.

  I’m lingering at the rear of the pack, lost in these memories, only half listening to Alice telling everyone about the second series of some Game of Thrones prequel we’ve apparently started watching – ‘Ben can’t stand it, but I’m hooked. Aren’t I, babe?’ – when suddenly a bright red rubber ball stops us all in our tracks.

  It skitters across the grass in front of us, followed a split second later by a shaggy-haired miniature Schnauzer, which scoops it up in its slobbery jaws and beams at us triumphantly.

  ‘God, I wish people would learn to control their dogs,’ Becky tuts.

  I glance in the direction it came from, and in an instant, my wine-fugged head is clear, and my heartbeat has tripled in speed.

  On the other side of the park, a scruffy-bearded man in a shabby-looking suit is waving at us.

  ‘Yeah, OK, mate, chill out,’ Phil mutters, waving back. ‘Apology accepted.’

  That lead weight on my shoulders has disappeared, and my whole body is suddenly alive with hope. He’s here!

  I glance around frantically for somewhere – anywhere – I might be able to talk to him privately, but the others keep walking on. The little dog stays rooted to the spot, staring up at me with its tail wagging. I get the strange impression that it won’t move until I start walking with it.

  ‘Hey – I’ll catch you guys up,’ I blurt.

  Alice turns around. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just seen someone I know. From work. I should go and say merry Christmas. I’ll catch up with you in a sec.’

  Alice appears faintly appalled by this suggestion, but makes no effort to stop me. ‘All right … fine. We’ll meet you by the bandstand.’

  ‘OK.’

  It’s all I can do to stop myself sprinting in the watch-seller’s direction. I set off speed-walking as a compromise, and the Schnauzer begins trotting along next to me, panting happily. The watch-seller is wearing his usual crumpled Grandad Jack grin, and as I approach, he raises a hand in cheery salute.

  ‘Lovely day for a Christmas stroll!’ He nods in the direction of Alice and the others. ‘They seem like a friendly bunch.’

  ‘Look, what the hell is—’ I begin, but he holds up a finger to stop me.

  ‘Just a moment.’

  He wrangles the ball from the Schnauzer’s mouth and hurls it back across the park – with impressive force for a man who could well be pushing seventy. The little dog blazes after it, yelping with delight, and the old man watches it go with a fond smile.

  ‘He gets rather fidgety if we stand around talking. Now then …’ He pats my shoulder gently, and we set off on the Schnauzer’s trail. ‘What do you think?’ He glances around the park. ‘Is it everything you hoped for?’

  I ignore this question and instead vent the thought that’s been gnawing at me all day. ‘This isn’t it, is it? This isn’t really where I end up?’

  The old man shrugs. ‘Why not? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? That night in the pub, the night I met you, this was exactly where you were heading. You’ve just arrived a little earlier than expected, that’s all.’

  I stop dead and stare at him. Any trace of hope I felt is starting to disappear with the fading sunlight. ‘So you’re telling me this is the final stop?’ I say breathlessly.

  ‘Your life is the decisions you make,’ the watch-seller says with his trademark infuriating vagueness. ‘Those decisions have led you here.’

  It doesn’t compute somehow. My brain won’t let it. ‘But … I can’t be stuck here!’ I’m shouting now. People are starting to stare. ‘There has to be a way back!’

  The old man tugs at his beard thoughtfully. ‘But do you want a way back? You know as well as I do what you were thinking on Christmas Eve 2020: that you’d made all the wrong choices, taken the wrong path. Perhaps this is the right one.’

  ‘This is not the right path!’ I yell.

  ‘How do you know?’ He looks genuinely curious as he asks this, his blue eyes narrowed, his shaggy head tilted.

  I feel the desperation boiling up inside me. ‘Because I’m not in love with Alice! I’m in love with Daphne! She’s …’ My throat tightens and I find I can’t shout any more. ‘She’s my home,’ I say quietly. ‘I have to get back to her. I just have to. If I could only see her, talk to her, just for a minute …’ My eyes are stinging now, and I rub a hand across them. ‘I just … I just want to find out what happened. I want to find out if she’s OK.’

  The old man takes this in silently as the Schnauzer comes trotting back over with the red ball.

  He reaches down to pet the dog.

  ‘OK,’ he says softly. And then he glances at something – or someone – behind me.

  I turn to follow his gaze, and the whole world starts to blur at the edges.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Daphne is not alone.

  That’s the first thing I notice. There’s someone sitting beside her on the bench on the other side of the park.

  He’s too far away for me to see him clearly, but I know instantly who he is, and suddenly the identity of that sun-hatted man in her profile picture seems agonisingly, gut-wrenchingly obvious.

  The old man says something that I don’t catch, because I am on autopilot now: walking away from him, moving towards the bench. I feel like I’m in a snow globe that’s been shaken violently. I want to stop walking, but I can’t. I have to get closer. I have to know.

  They’re sitting together, talking animatedly. I can’t tell if they’re holding hands, but they might be. Daphne is turned away from me; I haven’t even seen her face yet.

  And as I get closer, all I can think is: I made this happen. Your life is the decisions you make. Well, this was my decision. The worst one I ever made.

  Suddenly Rich turns and looks in my direction. Panic rushes through me, freezing me to the spot. I see him mutter something, and then Daphne looks round too, eyes wide, palms out in a what-are-the-chances gesture.

  They both stand up, and in the few seconds it takes me to reach them, my whole body clenches so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.

  ‘Hey,’ Daphne says. ‘This is weird. Merry Christmas.’

  Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her cheeks and the tip of her nose have been brushed pink by the chilly air. She’s wearing a smart black coat I don’t recognise and a brick-red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She doesn’t look a day older than when I last saw her. In fact, she looks so beautiful I actually have to glance away.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ I say, somehow.

  Rich eyes me warily and gives a curt nod. ‘Merry Christmas, mate.’

  ‘It’s been ages.’ Daphne smiles. Fucking hell, her smile. She hugs herself tightly against the cold wind. ‘So … how are you, Ben? What are you doing here?’ She glances around. ‘Are you by yourself?’

  I swallow hard and do everything I can to keep my voice steady. ‘No. Alice is …’ I nod in the direction of the bandstand.

  ‘Oh, OK. Is she all right?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s … good.’

  ‘Good. And hey – congratulations are in order, right?’ She taps her gloved ring finger. ‘Saw her posts on Facebook.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. T
hanks.’

  ‘Yeah, nice one, mate.’ Rich gives another unsmiling nod. ‘Congrats.’

  He seems obviously on edge – like he’s more than ready to thump me if I come one step closer. But Daff … Daff doesn’t seem fazed. It’s almost like we’re work colleagues who’ve bumped into each other randomly, and she’s obliged to go through the awkward motions of small talk.

  I don’t know how I was expecting her to react. I suppose I imagined her breaking down in tears, or screaming at me, or calling me every name under the sun. Whatever I imagined, this is a million times worse.

  It’s like she hardly even knows me.

  ‘So …’ Rich shifts from one foot to the other. ‘We’d better be heading back, actually, mate. Only came out to get a bit of a breather from Daphne’s lot.’

  ‘Oi.’ Daff rolls her eyes at him. She looks half annoyed, half amused. It’s a look I remember well, and it blows yet another hole straight through me. ‘My mum’s been on the sherry,’ she deadpans. ‘You remember how she gets. Very … Greek.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I remember.’

  I must be staring at her too hard now, because she glances down at the ground, and Rich slinks a protective arm around her waist. The sight makes my stomach flip.

  He has aged since I last saw him, but maddeningly, he actually looks better for it. Back in 2020, he was lean and skinny and almost boyish, but he must have been hitting the gym hard, because he’s now filled out into a proper, handsome, sturdy man. He has Phil’s salt-and-pepper stubble, as well as his apparently immovable hairline. There is no denying it: he and Daff make a very good-looking couple. The realisation is like a punch in the gut.

  My eyes drift back to her. I can’t help it. Is she happy with him? Is this what she wants? Is she happier than she was with me? My head is throbbing with so many questions, but just as I take a breath to steady myself, Rich clears his throat and gives Daphne a look.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘It was good to see you, Ben. Really. Take care of yourself, OK?’

  ‘You too,’ is all I can manage.

  She looks me straight in the eyes then, and in that moment, I see it. Something flashes between us. Pain, maybe – the same hurt I saw shining in her eyes when she found those messages from Alice. Or it might even be regret for what we’ve lost. For what I caused us to lose.

  Whatever it is, it’s only there for a second before it fades away.

  ‘See you, then,’ she says. Rich nods goodbye too, and then the two of them walk away, towards the park’s exit, Rich’s arm still fixed tightly around Daphne’s waist.

  The pain of it is real – physical – like a blade in my chest. I can feel my eyes beginning to sting. I have to get out of here.

  I turn and start walking, and as I stare straight ahead, I see that the watch-seller and his dog have both disappeared.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Christmas Day 2023 is finally crawling to a close.

  It’s approaching midnight now, and we’re back home, in our bedroom. Alice sits at the dressing table in her nightie, rubbing various powerfully scented creams into her face. I lie on the bed behind her feeling … not much of anything, really. Just hollow and wrung-out: half wanting this day to end, half terrified of what might come next.

  The rest of the evening passed in an unreal fog, as if I was observing everything from behind smudged glass. Everyone came back to ours for coffee and cake, and I went through the motions as best I could. But it felt – it feels – like something has broken inside me. I can’t stop thinking about that look in Daphne’s eyes as we said goodbye. That flicker of sadness that told me she was still hurting too.

  ‘We need to be on the road tomorrow by half nine latest,’ Alice says. ‘Boxing Day traffic is always horrendous, and you know how annoying my dad is about lateness.’ She tuts at my silence, and catches my eye in the mirror. ‘Ben? OK? Half nine latest?’

  ‘Yep, sure.’

  ‘So that means getting up about half seven, eight?’

  ‘OK.’

  She spins round to face me. ‘And try not to be so down about Wyndham’s tomorrow, OK? Because Dad’s obviously going to ask how it’s going. It was so embarrassing, you just sort of muttering vaguely about it in front of Phil and everyone. You should be proud to work there. I mean, isn’t it better than what you were doing before?’

  ‘Yeah, it is.’ I nod. ‘Sorry – I don’t mean to be down on it.’

  ‘It’s a good job, Ben.’

  ‘I know. I’m grateful for it. I’ll be on better form tomorrow, I promise. I’ve just been feeling sort of spaced out all day. Maybe I’ll take another Nurofen.’

  ‘Well, take something.’ She turns back to the mirror, snapping the lid off another pot of cream. ‘I don’t know what’s up with you, honestly …’

  I shake my head. I don’t know either. I feel completely cut loose – like I’m sinking slowly into deep, dark water.

  I have no idea what’s coming next: will I just keep jumping forward at random? Will I wake up next on my wedding day to Alice, and then on our honeymoon? And if so, when will it stop? What if I just keep hurtling randomly from month to month, year to year, deeper and deeper into a life I don’t even want?

  The thought makes me giddy, like peering off the edge of a skyscraper.

  On the other hand, what if the watch-seller was right? I wanted all this to happen back in 2020; this was where my life was heading. Your life is the decisions you make, he said. So maybe this is it now: this is reality, and I really will wake up tomorrow, bright and early, ready to drive up to Alice’s parents. And then it’ll be the wedding planner on the 29th, and back to work on the 3rd, and I’ll somehow have to keep going. Keep living this life, day after day, trying to make the best of it.

  If that’s the case, then one thing’s for certain: I’ll have to bite the bullet and tell Alice how I feel.

  It’s not fair to stay with her – to marry her – when I’m still in love with someone else. She’ll be upset, of course, but it will be for the best in the end, for both of us. I don’t believe she’s truly in love with me either. I can feel that she isn’t. Maybe she’s just scared of falling too far behind Becky and Dee in the life-goals stakes.

  The question is, though: what will I do after that? Daphne has moved on. She’s with someone else now; it wouldn’t be fair for me to try and ruin that for her too. No, I had my chance with her. I had hundreds of chances. I blew them all.

  The future stretches out ahead of me, blank and unknowable, just like it did all those years ago in the maze at uni. But this time it doesn’t fill me with excitement; only with a hopeless, dizzying dread.

  Alice screws the lid back on her final pot of cream and climbs into bed next to me. She lets out a tired sigh. ‘Well. It was a good day in the end, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. It was.’

  ‘Although Becks was a bit much at lunch, don’t you think?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Just going on about the baby all the time. After a while, it’s like: OK, we get it. You know?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She reaches across to switch off the light, and I think suddenly about Daphne and her best mate, Jamila; the way they are together. The absolute polar opposite of Alice and Becky. I’ll never forget coming home from a night out a few weeks after we got married to find them both sprawled drunkenly on our sofa holding bags of frozen peas to their shoulders. It transpired they’d cricked their necks dancing far too energetically to the song ‘Whip My Hair’ by Willow Smith. I remember them groaning with laughter as they told me about it. I don’t think it’s possible to love anyone more than I loved Daphne at that moment.

  In the darkness, Alice flips her pillow over. ‘Please don’t be weird with my parents tomorrow, OK? Just try and be … normal.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And definitely don’t say anything to Dad about the teaching thing.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She sighs again and rolls over, turning
her back to me. ‘OK. Night, babe.’

  ‘Night.’

  On the bedside table, my iPhone 13 tells me it’s just turned 11.58 p.m. For some mad reason, I decide to see if I can hold my breath for the next sixty seconds. As though maybe, if I manage it, I’ll somehow beat the system: make myself jump again, but this time back into the past.

  Just as I’m about to explode, 11.58 becomes 11.59.

  I breathe out raggedly. I’m still here.

  This is it. This is the rest of my life.

  Alice mutters something and turns over.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said: what’s that noise?’ she mumbles.

  I listen carefully. ‘It’s, erm … I think it’s …’

  I hold my wrist up to my ear.

  The watch has started ticking.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  For years, when I was a kid, I used to have this recurring dream.

  I’m in my bedroom at home – home home, Mum’s home – and the doorbell rings. I run out of my room and down the corridor, and as I get to the top of the stairs, I can see the outline of a person behind the stained-glass panel on the front door.

  I jump onto the banister and slide down gracefully, but as I approach the door, I still can’t make out the figure behind the glass. I reach up to open the latch, and then … nothing.

  Either I’d wake up, or the dream would just fizzle out.

  I started having this dream when I was about ten, soon after my dad left, so it doesn’t exactly take Sigmund Freud to figure out that it might have been about him; about me wishing desperately that he would come back.

  Anyway, it’s a dream I haven’t had – haven’t even thought about – for decades.

  Until now.

  As soon as I raise the ticking watch to my ear, everything goes dark, and there I am again: in my bedroom at home, hearing the doorbell ring out downstairs.

  As usual, I sprint out and see that shadow behind the glass. And as usual, I slide down the banister and run towards the door. But this time the figure is clearer – I can make out that he’s wearing a blue suit and some kind of colourful tie – and the dream holds together even as I reach up and place my hand on the latch.