She laughs, and then holds a hand up in apology. ‘Sorry, that was just very Ross and Rachel. Remember how pissed off you used to get at uni when I wanted to watch Friends, and you wanted to watch The Wire?’

‘Yeah, I remember.’ My head feels heavy suddenly. I have no idea what I should do.

Alice sighs and shuffles closer to me. ‘Look, I don’t want to fuck things up with you and Daphne. But I guess I always thought there was something between us. And maybe, if it’s not going to work out with her in the long run …’ She tails off and swirls the wine around her glass. ‘I mean, you don’t exactly know what she’s doing in New York right now, do you?’

It’s true: I don’t. I never asked Daphne if anything happened in New York, just as she’s never asked me about Paris. I guess we both took it as read that the other had stayed faithful.

Guilt stabs me sharply in the chest, and all of a sudden I think I understand why I’m here: why I decided to come up to Alice’s flat. In 2020, I’ve arranged to meet Alice for a drink at her hotel. And this is how it will feel if I go. This is how it will feel to be on the brink of cheating on my wife; to be on the brink of knowing I’m about to lose Daphne for good.

Am I really prepared to go through with that?

Alice puts her glass back down and stands up in front of me. Without saying a word, she holds her hand out.

I stare at it for a second, trying desperately to decide whether I should take it. And that’s when everything disappears.

Chapter Thirty

‘Ben … Ben?’

I groan and roll over. I can feel someone rubbing my arm gently.

‘Ben, wake up. We need to get going.’

The feeling is the same every time I jump: dizziness, motion sickness, and a dull pain in my chest like I’ve just had the wind thumped out of me. My eyes flick open, and as I take in my surroundings, the first thought that enters my still-fuzzy brain is: I’m back.

Daphne is perched on the edge of the bed beside me, stroking my shoulder. But this isn’t the twenty-three-year-old Daphne I fell asleep with two nights ago in Balham. This looks more like the thirty-three-year-old Daphne I’m married to in the real world. In 2020. I inhale sharply, and glance around me. This is our flat. The flat we bought together. The flat we currently live in.

This madness is finally over. I’m back in the present.

The relief is so overwhelming that I scramble up and pull Daphne towards me, hugging her tightly. ‘Oh my God, Daff …’ is about all I can manage to say.