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.

‘You specifically went out of your way to get a slightly more expensive bottle?’

‘Yeah.’ I take it out and show her. ‘You said the one you bought was forty quid. This one was forty ninety-nine. It’s a symbolic gesture. To show how sorry I am for drinking it.’

‘Mmm. Ninety-nine pee’s worth of apology. Nice.’ She turns her attention back to chopping potatoes, but I can sense the frost in the air beginning to thaw.

I begin unpacking the bags, and as I dump the items on the counter, Daff reaches immediately for the tube of sour cream and chive Pringles. She pops it open and scoops out a fistful.

‘Oi! Those are supposed to be for everyone.’

She scrunches her nose up and raises a hand to her brow. ‘My head hurts, I need carbs,’ she mutters, packing her mouth with crisps.

‘I knew it!’ I laugh. ‘You are hung-over!’

She smiles, and covers her mouth to prevent Pringle detritus spilling out. ‘Well, I’m surprised you’re not too,’ she says. ‘To be honest, you seem weirdly sprightly for someone who drank a whole bottle of wine last night.’

‘I feel weirdly sprightly.’

I’m well aware that I’m behaving oddly – in that I’m not being a sulky, uncooperative douche – but I can’t help it. I feel almost childishly excited. The last time I can remember experiencing this kind of nervous, tingly anticipation was on Christmas Day when I was a kid. That infectious sense of knowing that the next few hours would bring nothing but good things.

I’ve spent the past few days constantly retracing old steps, and even though surprises have popped up along the way, I’ve always known roughly what was coming. Now, though, I have absolutely no idea. And it feels brilliant. Like I’ve been given a second chance. A blank slate.

I’m still having to fight the urge to tell Daphne how much I’ve changed, to promise her that things will be better from now on. But she’s right: the first thing we need to do is get through today. Then, tomorrow, I can focus on rebuilding our relationship – being the kind of husband she deserves.

I finish unpacking the bags. ‘Right. Shopping’s done, turkey’s in, veg are simmering.’ I clap my hands together. ‘What else can I do?’