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 said 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.