The accuracy of this statement sends a shiver down my spine. I think of the funeral, of my dad’s cloying self-pity in the car. I can’t give in to that side of myself. I have to be better. Not just for Daff, but for me.

Harv shuffles back against the cushions and continues. ‘It’s not going to be easy to win her trust back. It might be the hardest thing you ever do in your life. But isn’t it worth the effort?’

‘Of course it is. She …’ My voice catches in my throat. ‘She’s everything to me.’

Harv nods firmly. ‘There you go then. Pep talk over.’ He unmutes the TV. ‘Now can we please get back to arguably the greatest cinematic achievement of the twenty-first century?’

Without thinking, I glance at my phone again: 11.52.

‘Stop bloody doing that!’ Harv snaps. ‘Seriously – don’t make me confiscate it.’

‘Sorry. Sorry.’

He sighs. ‘Tomorrow, Ben. You can sort all this out tomorrow.’

All I can do is pray that he’s right. In eight minutes’ time, maybe I’ll get another chance. Maybe I’ll wake up next to Daphne again, all ready to lay everything out there and try desperately to rebuild what I’ve nearly destroyed.

My heart soars at the thought as I count down the seconds in my head.

Chapter Forty

There’s a high-pitched ringing sound, like a phone going off. Or an alarm.

I scramble upright, trying to calm my gasping breath, as the tinny noise continues to drill deep into my eardrums.

I’m in bed. At least, I think I am. Although it’s a noticeably comfier one than Harv’s sofa bed. My eyes are wide open, but it’s pitch dark and I can’t see a thing. The alarm is still going off, its cries for attention getting louder and more aggressive with every second.

I fumble blindly around me, trying to locate where it’s coming from. My hand grasps something cold on the bedside table – an iPhone I don’t recognise – and I shut the alarm off before dropping the phone back down. According to the flash of screen I caught a glimpse of, it’s just after 9 a.m. And the date underneath said …

No, hang on. That can’t be right.

I go to pick up the phone again, but before I can, I feel movement beside me. The bed covers shifting as somebody turns over.

‘Mmm. Morning, you,’ a female voice mumbles. ‘Merry Christmas.’ An arm stretches out across my bare chest and a messy head of hair nuzzles underneath my chin.

I freeze. I know it’s not Daphne. It’s pitch dark, but somehow, I just know.

My heart is stampeding in my chest. I try to hack my sandpaper-dry throat clear, but I can’t get any words out.

‘Ben? Are you OK? You’re shivering.’