0568188_DCD32_david_nicholls_one_day

cheeks.

The menu had been prepped in advance for humour, and while Emma tried to concentrate, Ian went into his act and ran through some of the choicer puns: penne for your thoughts, etc. The presence of grilled sea bass allowed him to do the one about how you wait ages for one bass, then three come along at the same time, and was this a minute steak or a mine-ute, like a really, really small steak? and what was it with ‘ragu’ these days, when did good old spag bol become ‘ragu’? What, he speculated, would they, like, call ‘alphabetti spaghetti?’ Moist alphabetical forms in a sauce rouge? Or what?

As line followed line, Emma felt her hopes for the evening fade. He is trying to laugh me into bed, she thought, when in fact what he is really doing is laughing me onto the tube home. In the cinema there had at least been the Revels and the violence to distract him, but here, face to face, there was nothing but a compulsion to riff. Emma got this a lot. The boys on her PGCE course were all proam gagsters, especially in the pub after a few pints, and while it drove her crazy she knew that she encouraged it too, the girls sitting and grinning while the boys did tricks with matchsticks and jammed on Children’s TV or Forgotten Confectionery of the Seventies. Spangles Disease, the maddening non-stop cabaret of boys in pubs.

She gulped down her vodka. Ian had the wine list now, and was doing his schtick about how snooty wine is: a voluptuous mouthful of forest fire with a back note of exploding toffee apple etc. The C-major scale of the

amateur stand-up, this routine had the potential to be infinite, and Emma found herself trying to imagine a notional man, a fantastical figure who didn’t make a big deal about it, just looked at the wine list and ordered, unpretentiously but with authority.

‘. . . flavours of smoky bacon Wotsits with a succulent back note of giraffe . . .’

He’s laughing me into a stupor, she thought. I could heckle, I suppose, I could throw a bread roll at him, but he’s eaten them all. She glanced at the other diners, all of them going into their act, and thought is this what it all boils down to? Romantic love, is this all it is, a talent show? Eat a meal, go to bed, fall in love with me and I promise you years and years of top notch material like this?

‘. . . imagine if they sold lager this way?’ A Glaswegian accent. ‘Our Special Brew sits heavy on the palate, with a strong hint of council estate, old shopping trolley and urban decay. Goes particularly well with domestic violence! . . .’

She wondered where the fallacy had come from, that there was something irresistible about funny men; Cathy doesn’t long for Heathcliff because he’s a really great laugh, and what was all the more galling about this barrage was that she actually quite liked Ian, had set out with high hopes and even some excitement about seeing him again, but instead he was saying . . .

‘. . . our orange juice is orange with a heavy bass note of oranges . . .’

Right, that’s enough now.

a medley of carbohydrates, starting with an immense bowl of meaty pasta which he buried between snow banks of parmesan. This and the red wine had sedated him a little, and Emma had relaxed too, was in fact well on her way to drunkenness. And why not? Didn’t she deserve it? The last ten months had been spent working hard at something she believed in, and though some of the teaching placements had been frankly terrifying, she was clearsighted enough to realise she was good at it. At her interview this afternoon they had obviously felt the same way, the headmaster nodding and smiling in approval, and though she didn’t dare say it out loud, she knew that she had the job.

So why not celebrate with Ian? As he talked, she scrutinised his face and decided that he was definitely more attractive than he used to be; looking at him, she no longer thought of tractors. There was nothing refined or delicate about him; if you were casting a war film, he’d be the plucky Tommy maybe, writing letters to his mum, while Dexter would be – what? An effete Nazi. Even so, she liked the way he looked at her. Fond, that was the word. Fond and drunk, and she too felt heavy-limbed and sultry and fond of him in return.

He poured the last of the wine into her glass. ‘So do you see any of the old gang?’

‘Not really. I bumped into Scott once, in Hail Caesar’s, that awful Italian. He was fine, still angry. Apart from that, I try to avoid it. It’s a bit like prison – best not to associate with the old lags. Except you of course.’

‘It wasn’t that bad, was it? Working there?’

‘Well it’s two years of my life I’ll never get back.’ Spoken aloud, the observation shocked her but she shrugged it away. ‘I don’t know, I suppose it wasn’t a very happy time, that’s all.’

He smiled ruefully and nudged her knuckles with his. ‘That why you didn’t answer my phone-calls?’

‘Didn’t I? I don’t know, maybe.’ She raised the glass to her lips. ‘We’re here now. Let’s change the subject. How’s the stand-up career going?’

‘Oh, alright. I’ve got this improv gig which is real seat- of-the-pants stuff, really unpredictable. Sometimes I’m just not funny at all! But I suppose that’s the joy of improv, isn’t it?’ Emma wasn’t sure that this was true, but nodded just the same. ‘And I do this Tuesday night gig at Mr Chuckles in Kennington. It’s a bit more hard-edged, more topical. Like I do this kind of Bill Hicks thing about advertising? Like the stupid adverts on TV? . . .’

He slipped into his routine and Emma freeze-framed her smile. It would kill him to say it but in all the time she had known Ian he had caused her to laugh perhaps twice, and one of those was when he fell down the cellar stairs. He was a man with a great sense of humour while at the same time being in no way funny. Unlike Dexter: Dexter had no interest at all in jokes, probably thought that a sense of humour, like a political conscience, was a little embarrassing and un-cool, and yet with Dexter she laughed all the time, hysterically, sometimes, frankly, until she peed a little. On holiday in Greece, they had laughed for ten days straight, once they’d settled that little misunderstanding. Where was Dexter right now? she

wondered.

‘Have you been watching him on telly then?’ said Ian. Emma flinched, as if she’d been caught out. ‘Who?’ ‘Your friend Dexter, on that stupid programme.’ ‘Sometimes. You know, if it’s on.’

‘And how is he?’

‘Oh fine, the usual. Well, a bit nutty to be honest, a bit off the rails. His mother’s sick and, well, he’s not taking it very well.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Ian frowned with concern and tried to work out a way of changing the subject. Not callously; he just didn’t want a stranger’s illness to get in the way of his evening. ‘Do you speak a lot?’

‘Me and Dex? Most days. I don’t see him much though, with his TV commitments, and his girlfriends.’

‘Who’s he seeing now then?’

‘No idea. They’re like funfair goldfish; no point giving them names, they never last that long.’ She had used the line before and hoped that Ian might like it, but he was still frowning. ‘What’s that face?’

‘Just never liked him, I suppose.’ ‘No, I remember.’

‘I tried.’

‘Well you mustn’t take it personally. He’s not that good with other men, he doesn’t see the point of them.’

‘As a matter of fact, I always thought—’ ‘What?’

‘That he took you a bit for granted. That’s all.’

Me again! Just checking in. Bit drunk now actually. Bit

sentimental. You’re a great thing, Emma Morley. Be nice to see you. Call when you get in. What else did I want to say? Nothing, except that you are a great, great thing. So. When you get in. Call me. Give me a call.

By the time the second brandies arrived there was no doubting that they were drunk. The whole restaurant seemed drunk, even the silver-haired pianist, clattering sloppily through ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’, his foot pumping the sustain pedal as if someone had cut his brake cable. Forced to raise her voice, Emma could hear it echoing in her head as she spoke with great passion and force about her new career.

‘It’s a big comprehensive in north London, teaching English and a bit of Drama. Nice school, really mixed, not one of those cushy suburban numbers where it’s all yesmiss no-miss. So the kids are a bit of a challenge, but that’s alright isn’t it? That’s what kids are meant to be. I say that now. They’ll probably eat me alive, little sods.’ She rolled the brandy round the glass in a way that she’d seen in films. ‘I’ve got this vision of me sitting on the edge of the desk, talking about how Shakespeare was the first rapper or something, and all these kids are just gazing at me with their mouths open just – hypnotised. I sort of imagine being carried aloft on inspired young shoulders. That’s how I’m going to get around the school, the car park, the canteen, everywhere I go I’m going to be on the shoulders of adoring kids. One of those carpe diem teachers.’

‘Sorry, what-teachers?’ ‘Carpe diem.’

‘Carpe—?’

‘You know, seize the day!’

‘Is that what it means? I thought it meant seize the carpet!’

Emma gave a polite hiccough of mirth, which for Ian was like a starting pistol. ‘That’s where I went wrong! Wow, my school days would have been so different if I’d known! All those years, scrambling around on the floor . . .’

Enough of this. ‘Ian, don’t do that,’ she said sharply. ‘What?’

‘Slip into your act. You don’t have to, you know.’ He looked hurt, and she regretted her tone, leaning across the table to take his hand. ‘I just don’t think you have to be observing all the time, or riffing or quipping or punning. It’s not improv, Ian, it’s just, you know, talking and listening.’

‘Sorry, I—’

‘Oh, it’s not just you, it’s men in general, all of you doing your number all the time. God, what I’d give for someone who just talked and listened!’ She was aware of saying too much, but momentum carried her on. ‘I just can’t work out why it’s necessary. It’s not an audition.’

‘Except it sort of is, isn’t it?’

‘Not with me. It doesn’t have to be.’ ‘Sorry.’

‘And don’t keep apologising either.’ ‘Oh. Okay.’

Ian was silent for a moment, and now it was Emma who felt like apologising. She shouldn’t speak her thoughts; nothing good ever came of speaking your thoughts. She was about to apologise, when Ian sighed

and rested his cheek against his fist.

‘I think what it is is, if you’re at school and you’re not that bright or good-looking or popular or whatever, and one day you say something and someone laughs, well, you sort of grab onto it, don’t you? You think, well I run funny and I’ve got this stupid big face and big thighs and no-one fancies me, but at least I can make people laugh. And it’s such a nice feeling, making someone laugh, that maybe you get a bit reliant on it. Like, if you’re not funny then you’re not . . . anything.’ He was looking at the tablecloth now, pinching the crumbs into a little pyramid with his fingertips as he said, ‘Actually I thought you might know what that’s like yourself.’

Emma’s hand went to her chest. ‘Me?’ ‘Putting on an act.’

‘I don’t put on an act.’

‘That bit about the funfair goldfish, you’ve said that before.’

‘No, I . . . so?’

‘So I just think we’re quite similar, you and me. Sometimes.’

Her first thought was to be offended. No I’m not, she wanted to say, what an absurd idea, but he was smiling at her so – what was the word – fondly, and perhaps she had been a little harsh on him. Instead, she shrugged. ‘I don’t believe it anyway.’

‘What?’

‘That no-one fancied you.’

He spoke in a jokey, nasal voice. ‘Well, documentary evidence would seem to suggest otherwise.’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ There was a silence; she really had drunk too much, and now it was her turn to play with the crumbs on the table. ‘S’matter of fact, I was thinking how much better looking you were these days.’

He grasped his belly with both hands. ‘Well, I’ve been working out.’

She laughed, quite naturally, looked at him and decided that it really wasn’t such a bad face after all; not some silly pretty boy’s face, just a decent, proper man’s face. She knew that after the bill was paid that he would try and kiss her, and this time she would let him.

‘We should go,’ she said.

‘I’ll get the bill.’ He made the little bill-writing sign at the waiter. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it, that little mime that everyone does? Whose idea was that, I wonder?’

‘Ian?’

‘What? Sorry. Sorry.’

They split the bill two ways as promised and on the way out Ian pulled the door open, sharply kicking the bottom so that it gave the illusion of having hit him in the face. ‘Little bit of physical comedy there . . .’

Outside a heavy curtain of black and purple clouds had formed across the sky. The warm wind had that ferric tang that precedes a storm, and Emma felt pleasantly woozy and brandy-flavoured as they walked north across the piazza. She had always hated Covent Garden, with its Peruvian pipe bands, jugglers and forced fun, but tonight it seemed fine, just as it seemed fine and natural to hang on the arm of this man who was always so nice and interested in her, even if he did carry his jacket slung over