I take a big gulp of Guinness and flinch as it washes stickily down my throat. My head is woozy, I’m definitely drunk, and all I want to do is stop thinking. But I can’t. I can’t get that look out of my head: the one on Daphne’s face as she handed me the phone. The hurt shining in her brown eyes like she just couldn’t believe this was happening. All those jokes she’s made over the years about Alice fancying me. All the times I laughed along at them. The betrayal, the humiliation she must have felt reading those messages and seeing that picture. I can’t even bear to think about it.

In that split second, the whole world crashed down around me. It felt a little like waking up after an 11.59 p.m. jump: the combination of confusion, dizziness and motion sickness, as if I’d just been swung around and then punched hard in the stomach.

Before all this time-travel madness began, I thought that maybe this was what I wanted. Up in the attic on Christmas Eve, I dreamed of a blank canvas, getting the chance to start all over again. I wondered if, maybe, Daphne and me splitting up might be for the best.

Well now I know: it’s not. Not for me, anyway.

I can’t bear the idea that I’ve lost her, and no matter how much I drink, the stabbing pain of it won’t go away.

I take another sip and realise that I’m crying again, the tears dropping steadily onto the sticky table. I don’t even bother to wipe my face. I can’t find the strength to care about what I must look like.

‘Are you all right, son?’

I look up, half expecting to see the watch-seller standing over me. But it’s not him. Just another old bloke with a kindly smile.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Thank you.’

He pats me on the arm and walks back to the bar.

The door opens and Harv enters in his comically huge parka, cold wind rushing in behind him. I scrub my eyes hard on my sleeve and try to pull myself together.

Harv’s face is already etched with concern before he even spots me. Fair enough, really, since I wasn’t clear about why I urgently needed to see him at 8 p.m. on Christmas Day, in the very same pub we met up in last night.

As he sits down, I slide the full pint towards him.

‘Guinness?’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘Didn’t we have this conversation yesterday?’

‘Shit, yeah. Sorry. I forgot.’

He pushes the glass aside and looks at me. ‘How many of these have you had?’

‘This is my fourth.’ I hiccup and taste cranberry sauce. I’m finding it very hard to focus. ‘Sorry … I didn’t drag you away from family stuff, did I?’