I look down at my watch, forgetting that it’s frozen. One minute to midnight: that’s when this day will disappear forever. But I can’t think of a better way to spend the next hour than by reconnecting with my pre-heartbreak, pre-Ryan-Gosling-six-pack best mate.

‘Yeah, why not?’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got time for a quick one before I go and meet Daphne.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

It’s just after seven, and I’m standing in the middle of Soho holding a huge bunch of red tulips.

I’m pretty much clueless when it comes to flowers, so I’ve chosen these purely because they were Mum’s favourite. But now, as I stand here opposite Daphne’s office, on what might be the busiest corner in central London, I’m starting to realise that as romantic gifts go, flowers are actually incredibly impractical. The delicate red bulbs are being constantly knocked this way and that by the shoulder-barging throng of pedestrians storming past me. There is no way these things are going to survive the whole evening.

Still, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? Hopefully.

Because midway through my pint with Harv, I made a decision. I decided that even though I don’t know what will happen in the future – even though I don’t know if Daff and I are really meant for each other – I can still make tonight right. In the real world, I ruined this special evening for her with my own stupid self-pity. So at least, in this alternate reality, I can try and make up for that. I can give her the night she deserved – even if she’ll never remember it.

The revolving doors start spinning and I see Daff emerging from the building with a few other people behind her. They all seem in pretty high spirits: laughing and back-slapping and hugging goodbye. I can see from here that Daff is clutching a chunky glass block that must be her Rising Star award. I give her a wave from across the crawling traffic, and she waves back, grinning.

The four years we’ve just skimmed over seem to have done nothing at all to her face; she looks just as young and fresh and happy as she did back in 2006. She’s wearing a smart dark blue shirt and tight black velvet skirt; and weirdly, I remember the outfit exactly from this night ten years ago. When she arrived at my flat, my first thought was to ask what she was so dressed up for. But then my own selfish problems squeezed that question straight back out of my head.

They must have given her the award the next day, as she muttered some excuse about why she hadn’t been able to stick around. I clasp the tulips tighter as I feel yet another spasm of resentment towards my egotistical twenty-four-year-old self.