David Nicholls - One Day

one hand over his face and push him firmly backwards. The peasant remark is entirely in character, but even so –

‗If that is what he said—‘

‗It is, Miss—‘

‗I‘l talk to him and find out, but if it is what he said it just reveals how ignorant he is, and how daft you are too, for rising to it.‘ She stumbles on ‗daft‘, an Ilkley

Moor word.

Street, be more street, she tel s herself. ‗But, hey, if we can‘t settle this . . . beef, then we real y can‘t do the show.‘

Sonya‘s face tightens again, and Emma is startled to notice that she seems as if she might cry. ‗You wouldn‘t do that.‘

‗I might have to.‘

‗Miss!‘

‗We can‘t do the show, Sonya.‘

‗We can!‘

‗What, with you bitch-slapping Martin during ―Who Wil Buy‖?‘ Sonya smiles despite herself. ‗You are smart, Sonya, so so smart, but people set these traps for you and you walk right into them.‘ Sonya sighs, sets her face and looks out at the smal rectangle of parched grass outside the science block. ‗You could do so wel , not just in the play but in class too. Your work this term‘s been real y intel igent and sensitive and thoughtful.‘ Unsure how to deal with praise, Sonya sniffs and scowls. ‗Next term you could do even better, but you‘ve got to control your temper, Sonya, you‘ve got to show people you‘re better than that.‘ It‘s another speech, and Emma sometimes thinks she expends too much energy making speeches like this. She had hoped that it might have some kind of inspirational effect, but Sonya‘s gaze has drifted over Emma‘s shoulder now, towards the classroom door. ‗Sonya, are you listening to me?‘

‗Beard‘s here.‘

Emma glances round and sees a dark-haired face at the door‘s glass panel, two eyes peering through like a curious bear. ‗Don‘t cal him Beard. He‘s the headmaster,‘ she tel s Sonya, then beckons him in. But it‘s true, the first, and second words that enter her head whenever she sees Mr Godalming are ‗beard‘. It‘s one of those startling ful -face affairs: not straggly, cut very close and neat but very, very black, a Conquistador, his blue eyes peeping out like holes cut in

carpet. So he is The Beard. As he enters Sonya starts to scratch at her chin and Emma widens her eyes in warning.

‗Evening al ,‘ he cal s, in his jaunty out-of-hours voice.

‗How‘s it going? Everything alright, Sonya?‘

‗Bit hairy, sir,‘ says Sonya, ‗but I think we‘l be okay.‘

Emma snuffles, and Mr Godalming turns to her.

‗Everything alright, Emma?‘

‗Sonya and I were just having a little pre-show pep-talk.

Do you want to go and carry on getting ready, Sonya?‘ With a smile of relief, she pushes herself off the desk and saunters to the door. ‗Tel Martin I‘l be two minutes.‘

Emma and Mr Godalming are alone.

‗Wel !‘ he smiles.

‗Wel .‘

In a fit of informality Mr Godalming goes to sit astride a chair, showbiz-style, appearing to change his mind halfway through the action before deciding that there‘s no going back. ‗Bit of a handful, that Sonya.‘

‗Oh, just bravado.‘

‗I heard reports of a fight.‘

‗That was nothing. Pre-show nerves.‘ Straddling his chair, he real y does look fantastical y uncomfortable.

‗I heard your protégé has been laying into our future head-boy.‘

‗Youthful high spirits. And I don‘t think Martin was completely innocent.‘

‗Bitch-slapped was the phrase I heard.‘

‗You seem very wel informed.‘

‗Wel I am the headmaster.‘ Mr Godalming smiles through his balaclava, and

Emma wonders if you looked long enough, would you actual y be able to see the hair grow? What‘s going on under al that stuff? Might Mr Godalming actual y

be quite good-looking? He nods towards the door. ‗I saw Martin in the corridor. He‘s very . . .

emotional.‘

‗Wel he‘s been in character for the last six weeks. He‘s taking a Method approach. I think if he could he‘d have given himself rickets.‘

‗Is he any good?‘

‗God no, he‘s awful. An orphanage‘s the best place for him. You‘re welcome to jam bits of the programme in your ears during ―Where is Love?‖.‘ Mr

Godalming laughs.

‗Sonya‘s great though.‘ The headmaster looks unconvinced.

‗You‘l see.‘

He shifts uneasily on the chair. ‗What can I expect tonight, Emma?‘

‗No idea. Could go either way.‘

‗Personal y I‘m more of a Sweet Charity man. Remind me, why couldn‘t we do

Sweet Charity?‘

‗Wel it‘s a musical about prostitution, so . . .‘

Once more Mr Godalming laughs. He does this a lot with Emma, and others have noticed it too. There is gossip in the staffroom, dark murmurs about favouritism, and certainly he‘s looking at her very intently tonight. A moment passes, and she glances back towards the door where Martin Dawson peeks tearful y through the glass panel. ‗I‘d better have a word with Edith Piaf out there, before he goes off the rails.‘

‗Of course, of course.‘ Mr Godalming seems pleased to dismount the chair. ‗Good luck tonight. My wife and I have been looking forward to it al week.‘

‗I don‘t believe that for a second.‘

‗It‘s true! You must meet her afterwards. Perhaps Fiona and I can have a drink with your . . . fiancé?‘

‗God, no, just boyfriend. Ian—‘

‗At the after-show drinks—‘

‗Beaker of dilute squash—‘

‗Cook‘s been to the cash-and-carry—‘

‗I hear rumours of mini kievs—‘

‗Teaching, eh?—‘

‗And people say it‘s not glamorous—‘

‗You look beautiful, Emma, by the way.‘

Emma holds her arms out to the side. She is wearing make-up, just a little lipstick to go with a vintage floral dress which is dark pink and a little on the tight side perhaps. She looks down at her dress as if it has taken her by surprise, but real y it‘s the remark that has thrown her. ‗Ta very much!‘

she says, but he has noticed her hesitation.

A moment passes, and he looks towards the door. ‗I‘l send Martin in, shal I?‘

‗Please do.‘

He heads to the door, then stops and turns. ‗I‘m sorry, have I broken some sort of professional code? Can I say that to a member of my staff? That they look nice?‘

‗Course you can,‘ she says, but both know that ‗nice‘

was not the word he had used. The word was ‗beautiful.‘

‗Excuse me, but I‘m looking for the most odious man on television?‘ says Toby Moray from the doorway, in that whiny, pinched little voice of his. He‘s wearing a tartan suit and his on-screen make-up, his hair slick and oiled into a jokey quiff and Dexter wants to throw a bottle at him.

‗I think you‘l find that that‘s you who you‘re looking for, not me,‘ says Dexter, concise speech suddenly beyond him.

‗Nice come-back, superstar,‘ says his co-presenter. ‗So you saw the previews then?‘

‗Nope.‘

‗Because I can run off some photocopies for you—‘

‗Just one bad write-up, Toby.‘

‗You didn‘t read the Mirror then. Or the Express, The Times . . .‘

Dexter pretends to be studying his running order. ‗No-one ever built a statue of a critic.‘

‗True, but no-one built a statue of a TV presenter either.‘

‗Fuck off, Toby.‘

‗Ah, le mot juste!‘

‗Why are you here anyway?‘

‗To wish you luck.‘ He crosses, places his hands on Dexter‘s shoulders and squeezes. Round and waspish, Toby‘s role on the show is a kind of irreverent, say-anything jester figure and Dexter despises him, this jumped-up little warmup man, and envies him too. In the pilot and in rehearsals he has run rings around Dexter, slyly mocking and deriding him, making him feel fat-tongued, slow-witted, doltish, the pretty boy who can‘t think on his feet. He shrugs Toby‘s hands away. This antagonism is meant to be the stuff of great TV they say, but Dexter feels paranoid, persecuted.

He needs another vodka to recover some of his good spirits, but he can‘t, not while Toby‘s smirking at him in the mirror with his little owlish face. ‗If you don‘t mind I‘d like to gather my thoughts.‘

‗I understand. Focus that mind of yours.‘

‗See you out there, yeah?‘

‗See you, handsome. Good luck.‘ He pul s the door closed then opens it again. ‗No, real y. I mean it. Good luck.‘

When Dexter‘s sure he‘s alone he pours himself that drink and checks himself in the mirror. Bright red t-shirt worn under black dinner jacket over washed out jeans over pointed black shoes, his hair cut short and sharp, he is meant to be the picture of metropolitan male youth but suddenly he feels old and tired and impossibly sad. He presses two fingers against each eye and attempts to account for this crippling melancholy, but is having trouble with rational thought. It feels as if someone has taken his head and shaken it. Words are turning to mush and he can see no plausible way of getting through this. Don‘t fal apart, he tel s himself, not here, not now. Hold it together.

But an hour is an impossibly long time on live TV, and he decides that he might need a little help. There‘s a smal water bottle on his dressing table, and he empties it into the sink then, glancing at the door, takes the bottle of vodka from the drawer once again and pours three, no, four inches of the viscous liquid into the bottle and replaces the lid. He holds it up to the light. No-one would ever tel

the difference and of course he‘s not going to drink it al , but it‘s there, in his hand, to help him out and get him through. The deceit makes him feel excited and confident again, ready to show the viewing public, and Emma, and his father at home just what he can do. He is not just some presenter. He is a broadcaster.

The door opens. ‗WAHEY!‘ says Suki Meadows, his co-presenter. Suki is the nation‘s ideal girlfriend, a woman for whom bubbliness is a way of life, verging on a disorder.

Suki would probably start a letter of condolence with the word ‗Wahey!‘ and

Dexter might find this relentless perkiness a bit wearing if she weren‘t so attractive and popular and crazy about him.

‗HOW ARE YOU, SWEETHEART? SHITTING BRICKS, I EXPECT!‘ and this is Suki‘s other great talent as a TV

presenter, to hold every conversation as if she‘s addressing the Bank Holiday crowd on the sea-front at Weston-super-Mare.

‗I am a little nervous, yes.‘

‗AWWWW! COME HERE YOU!‘ She wraps her arm around his head and holds it like a footbal . Suki Meadows is pretty and what used to be cal ed petite, and fizzes and bubbles like a fan-heater dropped into a bath. There has been some flirtation between them recently, if you can cal this flirtation, Suki pushing his face into her breast like this.

Like a head-boy and head-girl, there has been some pressure for the two stars to get together, and it does sort of make sense from a professional, if not emotional point of view. She squeezes his head beneath her arm – ‗YOU‘RE

GOING TO BE GREAT‘ – then suddenly holds onto his ears and jerks his face towards her. ‗LISTEN TO ME. YOU‘RE

GORGEOUS, YOU KNOW THAT, AND WE ARE GOING

TO BE SUCH A GREAT TEAM, YOU AND ME. MY MUM‘S

HERE TONIGHT AND SHE WANTS TO MEET YOU

AFTERWARDS. BETWEEN ME AND YOU I THINK SHE

FANCIES YOU. I FANCY YOU, SO SHE MUST FANCY

YOU TOO. SHE WANTS YOUR AUTOGRAPH BUT YOU

HAVE TO PROMISE NOT TO GET OFF WITH HER!‘

‗I‘l do my best, Suki.‘

‗YOU GOT FAMILY IN?‘

‗No—‘

‗FRIENDS?

‗No—‘

‗WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS OUTFIT?‘ She‘s wearing a clubby top and a tiny skirt, and carries the obligatory bottle of water. ‗CAN YOU SEE MY NIPPLES?‘

Is she flirting? ‗Only if you look for them,‘ he flirts back mechanical y, smiling weakly, and Suki senses something.

She holds out his hands to the side and intimately bel ows,

‗WHAT‘S UP WITH YOU, SWEETHEART?‘

He shrugs. ‗Toby‘s been in here, winding me up . . .‘ and before he can finish she has pul ed him to his feet and her arms are round his waist, her hands twanging the waistband of his underpants in sympathy. ‗YOU IGNORE HIM, HE‘S

JUST JEALOUS ‘CAUSE YOU‘RE BETTER AT THIS

THAN HE IS.‘ She looks up at him, her chin poking his chest. ‗YOU‘RE A NATURAL, YOU KNOW YOU ARE.‘

The floor manager is at the door. ‗Ready for you now, guys.‘

‗WE‘RE GREAT TOGETHER, AREN‘T WE, ME AND

YOU. SUKI AND DEX, DEX AND SUKI? WE‘RE GOING

TO KNOCK EM DEAD.‘ Suddenly she kisses him once, very hard, as if rubberstamping a document. ‗MORE OF

THAT LATER, GOLDEN BOY,‘ she says in his ear, then picks up her bottle of water and bounds out onto the studio floor.

Dexter takes a moment to look at his reflection in the mirror. Golden Boy. He sighs and presses al ten fingers hard into his skul and tries not to think about his mother.

Hold it together, don‘t foul this up. Be good. Do something good. He smiles the smile that he keeps especial y for use on television, picks up his spiked water bottle, and heads out onto the studio floor.

Suki waits for him at the edge of the immense set, taking his hand and squeezing it. The crew are running round, patting his shoulder and punching his arm matily as they pass, and high above their heads ironic go-go dancers in bikinis and cowboy boots stretch out their calves in their ironic cages. Toby Moray is doing the warm-up, and getting big laughs too, until suddenly he‘s introducing them, a big hand please for your hosts tonight, Suki Meadows and Dexter Mayhew!

He doesn‘t want to go. Music thumps from the speakers:

‗Start the Dance‘ by The Prodigy, and he wants to stay here in the wings, but

Suki is tugging on his hand, and suddenly she is bounding out into the bright studio lights, bawling:

‗ALLLLLLLLLLRIGGGGGGHHHHHT!‘

Dexter fol ows on, the suave and urbane half of the presenting duo. As always the set involves a lot of scaffolding, and they climb the ramps until they‘re looking down at the audience below them, Suki chattering al the way: ‗LOOK AT YOU, YOU‘RE ALL GORGEOUS, ARE

YOU READY TO HAVE A GREAT TIME? MAKE SOME

NOISE!‘ Dexter stands mute on the gantry next to her, the microphone dead in his hand as he realises that he is drunk.

His big break on live national television and he is sodden with vodka, dizzy with it. The gantry seems impossibly high, far higher than in rehearsals, and he wants to lie down but if he does this there‘s a chance that two mil ion people wil notice, so he assumes the manner and offers:

‗El oyoulothowareyoual feelingalright?‘

A single clear male voice sails up to the gantry.

‗ Wanker! ‘

Dexter seeks out the heckler, a skinny, grinning twerp with Wonder Stuff hair, but it gets a laugh, a big laugh. Even the cameramen are laughing. ‗My agent, ladies and gentlemen,‘ replies Dexter, and there‘s a ripple of amusement, but that‘s al . They must have read the papers.

Is this the most odious man on television? Good God, it‘s true, he thinks. They hate me.

‗One minute everyone,‘ shouts the floor manager, and Dexter suddenly feels like he‘s standing on a scaffold. He searches the crowd for a friendly face, but there are none and once again he wishes Emma were here. He could show-off for

Emma, be at his best if Emma or his mother were here, but they‘re not, just this leering, jeering crowd of people much, much younger than himself. He has got to find a bit of spirit from somewhere, a bit of attitude and with the laser logic of the drunk he decides that alcohol might help, because why not? The damage is already done. The go-go dancers stand poised in their cages, the cameras glide into place, and he unscrews the lid of his il icit bottle, raises it, swal ows and winces. Water. The water bottle contains water. Someone has replaced the vodka in his water bottle with—

Suki has his bottle.

Thirty seconds to air. She has picked up the wrong bottle. She is holding it in her hand now, a clubby little accessory.

Twenty seconds to air. She is unscrewing the lid.

‗Are you keeping hold of that?‘ he squeaks.

‗THAT‘S ALRIGHT, ISN‘T IT?‘ She bounces on her toes like a prizefighter.

‗I‘ve got your bottle by mistake.‘

‗SO? WIPE THE TOP!‘

Ten seconds to air and the audience starts to cheer and roar, the dancers hold onto the bars of their cages and start to gyrate as Suki raises the bottle to her lips.

Seven, six, five . . .

He reaches for the bottle, but she knocks his hand away laughing.

‗GET OFF, DEXTER, YOU‘VE GOT YOUR OWN!‘

Four, three, two . . .

‗But it isn‘t water,‘ he says.

She gulps it down.

Rol titles.

And now Suki is coughing, red-faced and spluttering as guitars crash over the speakers, drums pound, go-go dancers writhe and a camera on wires swoops down from the high ceiling like a bird of prey, soaring over the audience‘s heads towards the presenters, so that it seems to the viewers at home as if three hundred young people are cheering an attractive woman as she stands on scaffolding and retches.

The music fades, and al you can hear is Suki coughing.

Dexter has frozen, dried, dead on air and drunkenly crashing his own vehicle.

The plane is going down, the ground looming up to meet him. ‗Say something Dexter,‘

says a voice in his earpiece. ‗Hel o? Dexter? Say something?‘ but his brain won‘t work and his mouth won‘t work, and he stands there, dumb in every way.

The seconds stretch.

But thank God for Suki, a true professional, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‗WELL PROOF THERE

THAT WE‘RE GOING OUT LIVE!‘ and there‘s a relieved little flurry of laughter from the audience. ‗IT‘S ALL GOING

VERY WELL SO FAR, ISN‘T IT, DEX?‘ She jabs him in the ribs with a finger, and he springs to life.

‗Sorry about Suki there—‘ he says. ‗The bottle‘s got vodka in it!‘ and he does the little comic wriggle of the wrist that suggests a secret drinker, and there‘s another laugh, and he feels better. Suki laughs too, nudges him and raises a fist, says, ‗Why I oughta . . .‘ Three Stooges-style, and only he can see the glint of contempt behind the bubbliness. He latches onto the safety of the autocue.

‗Welcome to the Late-Night Lock-In, I‘m Dexter Mayhew

—‘

‗—AND I‘M SUKI MEADOWS!‘

And they‘re back on course, introducing the Friday night feast of great comedy and music, appealing and attractive like the two coolest kids at school. ‗So without further ado, let‘s make some noise please—‘ He flings his arm out behind him, like a ring-master ‗—and give a big Late-Night Lock-In welcome to

Shed! Seven!‘

The camera swoops away from them as if it has lost interest, and now the voices from the gal ery are chattering in his head over the sound of the band.