David Nicholls - One Day

The remark was so bel igerent and sour that Emma visibly winced, and Dexter seemed a little taken aback too, hiding his face in the wine list. ‗What do you want: red or white? I‘m going to get another martini, then we‘l start with a nice biscuity Muscadet for the oysters then go onto something like a Margaux. What d‘you think?‘

He ordered and then was off to the loo again, taking his second martini with him, which Emma found unusual and vaguely unsettling. The minutes stretched. She read the wine label then read it again then stared into space and wondered at what point he had become such a, such a . . .

mixologist? And why was she sounding so spiky, mean and joyless? She didn‘t care what the Cigarette Girl wore, not real y, not that much, so why did she sound so priggish and judgemental? She resolved to relax and enjoy herself.

This was Dexter after al , her best friend whom she loved. Didn‘t she?

In London‘s most amazing toilets, Dexter hunched over the cistern and thought much the same thing. He loved Emma Morley, supposed he did, but more and more resented that air of self-righteousness, of the community centre, the theatre co-op, of 1988. She was so, so . . .

subsidised. It wasn‘t appropriate, especial y not in a setting like this, a place specifical y designed to make a man feel like a secret agent. After the grim ideological gulag of a mid-Eighties education, its guilt and bolshy politics, he was final y being al owed to have some fun, and was it real y such a bad thing to like a cocktail, a cigarette, a flirtation with a pretty girl?

And the jokes; why was she always getting at him, reminding him of his failings? He hadn‘t forgotten them. Al that stuff about things being ‗posh‘ and my-fat-bum and orthopaedic high-heels, the endless, endless self-deprecation. Wel God save me from comedi ennes, he thought, with their put-downs and their smart asides, their insecurities and self-loathing. Why couldn‘t a woman have a bit of grace and elegance and self-confidence, instead of behaving al the time like some chippy stand-up?

And class! Don‘t even mention class. He takes her to a great restaurant at his own expense, and on goes the cloth cap! There was a kind of vanity and selfregard in that working-class-hero act that sent him crazy. Why is she stil harping on about how she went to a comp, never went abroad on holiday, has never eaten an oyster? She‘s nearly thirty years old, al that was a long, long time ago, and it‘s time she took responsibility for her own life. He gave a pound to the

Nigerian man who passed him his hand towel, stepped out into the restaurant, saw Emma across the room fiddling with her cutlery in her High Street funeral dress, and he felt a new wave of irritation. In the bar, to his right, he could see

the Cigarette Girl, standing alone. She saw him, and smiled, and he decided to make a detour.

‗Twenty Marlboro Lights, please.‘

‗What, again?‘ she laughed, her hand touching his wrist.

‗What can I say? I‘m like one of those beagles.‘

She laughed again, and he pictured her in the banquette next to him, his hand under the table on her stockinged thigh. He reached for his wal et. ‗Actual y, I‘m going to this party later with my old mate from col ege over there—‘ Old mate, he thought, was a nice touch. ‗—and I don‘t want to run out of cigarettes.‘ He handed her a five-pound note, folded crisply lengthwise in two, held between first and second finger. ‗Keep the change.‘

She smiled, and he noticed a tiny speck of ruby lipstick on her white front teeth. He wanted very much to hold her chin and wipe it off with his thumb.

‗You have lipstick . . .‘

‗Where?‘

He extended his arm until his finger was two inches from her mouth. ‗Just. There.‘

‗Can‘t take me anywhere!‘ She ran the point of her pink tongue back and forth across her teeth. ‗Better?‘ she grinned.

‗Much.‘ He smiled and stepped away, then turned back to her.

‗Just out of interest,‘ he said, ‗what time do you finish here tonight?‘

The oysters had arrived, lying glossy and alien on their bed of melting ice. Emma had been passing the time by drinking heavily, with the fixed smile of someone who‘s been left alone and real y doesn‘t mind at al . Final y she saw him weaving across the restaurant a little unsteadily. He bundled into the booth.

‗I thought you‘d fal en in!‘ This was something that her granny used to say. She was using her grandmother‘s material.

‗Sorry,‘ he said, but nothing more. They began on the oysters. ‗So listen, there‘s a party later tonight. My mate Oliver, who I play poker with. I‘ve told you about him.‘ He tipped the oyster into his mouth. ‗He‘s a baronet.‘

Emma felt sea-water dribble down her wrist. ‗And what‘s that got to do with anything?‘

‗What do you mean?‘

‗Him being a baronet.‘

‗I‘m just saying, he‘s a nice bloke. Lemon on that?‘

‗No thank you.‘ She swal owed the thing, stil trying to work out if she had been invited to the party or just informed that a party was taking place. ‗So where is this party then?‘

she said.

‗Hol and Park. Massive great house.‘

‗Oh. Okay.‘

Stil not sure. Was he inviting her, or excusing himself early? She ate another oyster.

‗You‘re very welcome to come along,‘ he said final y, reaching for the Tabasco sauce.

‗Am I?‘

‗Absolutely,‘ he said. She watched as he unblocked the sticky neck of the Tabasco bottle with the tine of his fork. ‗It‘s just you won‘t know anyone there, that‘s al .‘

Clearly she was not invited. ‗I‘l know you,‘ she said weakly.

‗Yes, I suppose so. And Suki! Suki wil be there.‘

‗Isn‘t she filming in Scarborough?‘

‗They‘re driving her back tonight.‘

‗She‘s doing very wel , isn‘t she?‘

‗Wel , we both are,‘ he said, quickly and a little too loud.

She decided to let it pass. ‗Yes. That‘s that what I meant.

You both are.‘ She picked up an oyster, then put it back. ‗I real y like Suki,‘ she said, though she had met her only once, at an intimidating Studio 54-themed party in a private club in Hoxton. And Emma had liked her, though she couldn‘t escape the feeling that Suki treated her as rather quaint, one of Dexter‘s homely, old-style friends, as if she were only at the party because she‘d won the phone-in competition.

He necked another oyster. ‗She‘s great, isn‘t she? Suki.‘

‗Yes, she is. How‘s it going with you two?‘

‗Oh alright. Bit tricky, you know, being in the public eye al the time . . .‘

‗Tel me about it!‘ said Emma, but he didn‘t seem to hear.

‗And I sometimes feel like I‘m going out with this public address system, but it‘s great. Real y. You know the best thing about the relationship?‘

‗Go on.‘

‗She knows what it‘s like. Being on the tel y. She understands.‘

‗Dexter – that is the most romantic thing I‘ve ever heard.‘

And there she goes again, he thought, the snippy little comments. ‗Wel it‘s true,‘ he shrugged and decided that as soon as he could pay the bil , their evening would be over.

As if as an afterthought, he added, ‗So, this party. I‘m just worried about you getting home, that‘s al .‘

‗Walthamstow‘s not Mars, Dex, it‘s just North East London. It supports human life.‘

‗I know!‘

‗It‘s on the Victoria Line!‘

‗But it‘s just a long way on public transport, and the party won‘t get going ‘til midnight. You‘l arrive and then you‘l have to go. Unless I give you money for the cab—‘

‗I do have money, they do pay me.‘

‗Hol and Park to Walthamstow though?‘

‗If it‘s awkward for me to come—‘

‗It‘s not! It‘s not awkward. I want you to come. Let‘s decide later, shal we?‘ and without excusing himself he went to the toilet again, taking his glass with him as if he had another table in there. Emma sat and drank glass after glass of wine and continued to simmer, building to a steady rol ing boil.

And so the pleasure wore on. He returned just as the main courses arrived. Emma examined her beer-battered haddock with minted pea puree. The thick

pale chips had been machine-cut into perfect oblongs and were stacked up like building blocks with the battered fish teetering precariously on top, six inches off the plate, as if it might hurl itself into the pool of thick green gloop below. What was that game? The stacked wooden blocks? Careful y, she extracted a chip from the top of the pile. Hard and cold inside.

‗How‘s the King of Comedy?‘ Since returning from the toilet, Dexter‘s tone had become even more bel igerent and provoking.

Emma felt traitorous. This might have been her cue to confide in someone about the mess of her relationship and her confusion as to what to do next. But she couldn‘t talk to Dexter, not now. She swal owed raw potato.

‗Ian‘s great,‘ she said emphatical y.

‗Co-habiting okay? Flat coming along, is it?‘

‗Fantastic. You haven‘t seen it yet, have you? You should come round!‘ The invite was half-hearted and the reply a non-committal ‗Hm,‘ as if Dexter was doubtful of the existence of pleasure beyond Underground Zone 2. There was a silence, and they returned to their plates.

‗How‘s your steak?‘ she asked, eventual y. Dexter seemed to have lost his appetite, dissecting the bloody red meat without actual y eating it.

‗Sensational. How‘s the fish?‘

‗Cold.‘

‗Is it?‘ He peered at her plate then shook his head sagely. ‗It‘s opaque, Em. That‘s how fish should be cooked, so it just turns opaque.‘

‗Dexter—‘ Her voice was hard and sharp. ‗—it‘s opaque because it‘s deepfrozen. It hasn‘t been defrosted.‘

‗Is it?‘ He prodded angrily inside the sleeve of batter with his finger. ‗Wel , we‘l send it back!‘

‗It‘s fine. I‘l just eat the chips.‘

‗No, fuck it! Send it back! I‘m not paying for fucking frozen fish! What is this, Bejams? We‘l get you something else.‘ He waved a waiter over and Emma watched Dexter assert himself, insisting that it wasn‘t good enough, it said fresh fish on the menu, he wanted it taken off the bil and a replacement main course provided free of charge. She tried to insist she wasn‘t hungry anymore while Dexter in turn insisted that she had to have a proper main course because it was

free. There was no choice but to stare at the menu al over again, while the waiter and Dexter glared at her and al the time his own steak sat there, mauled but uneaten, until final y it was settled, she got her free green salad, and they were alone again.

They sat in silence in the wreckage of the evening in front of two plates of unwanted food and she thought that she might cry.

‗Wel . This is going wel ,‘ he said, and tossed down his napkin.

She wanted to go home. She would skip dessert, forget the party – he clearly didn‘t want her there anyway – and go home. Maybe Ian would be back, kind and considerate and in love with her, and they could sit and talk, or just cuddle up and watch TV.

‗So.‘ His eyes were scanning the room as he spoke.

‗How‘s the teaching?‘

‗It‘s fine, Dexter,‘ she scowled.

‗What? What have I done?‘ he replied indignantly, eyes snapping back to her.

She spoke level y. ‗If you‘re not interested, don‘t ask.‘

‗I am interested! It‘s just . . .‘ He poured himself more wine. ‗I thought you were meant to be writing some book or something?‘

‗I am writing some-book-or-something, but I also have to earn a living. And also more to the point I enjoy it, Dexter, and I‘m a bloody good teacher!‘

‗I‘m sure you are! It‘s just, wel , you know the expression.

―Those who can . . .‖‘

Emma‘s mouth fel open. Stay calm—

‗No, I‘m not familiar with it, Dexter. Tel me. What expression?‘

‗You know . . .‘

‗No, seriously, Dexter, tel me.‘

‗It‘s not important.‘ He was starting to look sheepish.

‗I‘d like to know. Finish the sentence. ―Those who can . . .‖‘

He sighed, a glass of wine in his hand, then spoke flatly.

‗Those who can, do, those who can‘t, teach . . .‘

She spat the words. ‗And those who teach say go fuck yourself.‘

And now his glass of wine was in his lap as Emma shoved the table away and jumped to her feet, grabbing her bag, knocking over bottles, clattering plates as she clambered out of the booth, storming through that hateful, hateful place. Al around her people were staring now but she didn‘t care, she just wanted to be out. Do not cry, you will not cry, she commanded herself and, glancing behind her, saw Dexter mopping furiously at his lap, placating the waiter then fol owing on in pursuit. She turned, broke into a run, and now here was the Cigarette Girl striding down the stairs towards her on long legs and high heels, a grin splitting her scarlet mouth. Despite her vow, Emma felt hot tears of humiliation prick her eyes, and now she was fal ing onto the stairs, stumbling on those stupid, stupid high shoes, and there was an audible gasp from the audience of diners behind her as she fel to her knees. The Cigarette Girl was beside her, holding onto her elbow, with a look of maddening, genuine concern.

‗Are you alright there?‘

‗Yes, thank you, I‘m fine—‘

But now Dexter had caught up with her, was helping her up. Firmly she shook herself free from his grip.

‗Get off me, Dexter!‘

‗Don‘t shout, calm down—‘

‗I wil not calm down—‘

‗Alright, I‘m sorry, I‘m sorry, I‘m sorry. Whatever it is you‘re angry about, I‘m sorry!‘

She turned to him on the stairs, eyes blazing. ‗What, you don‘t know?‘

‗No! Come back to the table, and you can tel me!‘ But she was tumbling on, through the swing doors now, pushing them closed behind her so that the metal edge cracked him sharply on the knee. He limped after her. ‗This is stupid, we‘re both a bit drunk, that‘s al —‘

‗No, you’re drunk! You‘re always drunk or off your face on something or other, every time I see you. D‘you realise I literal y haven‘t seen you sober for, what, three years? I‘ve forgotten what you‘re like sober, you‘re too busy boring on about yourself or your new pals or running to the loo every ten minutes – I don‘t

know if it‘s dysentery or too much coke, but either way it‘s fucking rude and most of al it‘s boring.

Even when you talk to me you‘re always looking over my shoulder in case there‘s some better option . . .‘

‗That‘s not true!‘

‗It is true, Dexter! Wel bol ocks to it. You‘re a TV

presenter, Dex. You‘ve not invented penicil in, it‘s TV, and crap TV at that. Wel sod it, I‘ve had enough.‘

They were out amongst the crowds on Wardour Street in the fading summer light.

‗Let‘s go somewhere and talk about this.‘

‗I don‘t want to talk about it, I just want to go home . . .‘

‗Emma, please?‘

‗Dexter, just leave me alone, wil you?‘

‗You‘re being hysterical. Come here.‘ He took her arm once again and, idiotical y, tried to hug her. She pushed him away, but he held onto her. People were staring at them now, another couple fighting in Soho on a Saturday night, and she relented final y, al owing herself to be pul ed into a side street.

They were silent now, Dexter stepping away from her so that he could take her in. She was standing with her back to him, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, and he suddenly felt a hot pang of shame.

Final y, she spoke, in a quiet voice, her face to the wal .

‗Why are you being like this, Dexter?‘

‗Like what?‘

‗You know what.‘

‗I‘m just being myself!‘

She spun to face him. ‗No, you‘re not. I know what you‘re like and this isn‘t you. You‘re horrible like this. You‘re obnoxious, Dexter. I mean you always were a bit obnoxious, every now and then, a bit ful of yourself, but you were

funny too, and kind sometimes, and interested in people other than yourself. But now you‘re just out of control, with the booze, the drugs—‘

‗I‘m just having fun!‘

She sniffed, once, and looked up at him, through smudged black eyes.

‗And sometimes I get carried away, that‘s al . If you weren‘t so . . . judgemental al the time—‘

‗Am I? I don‘t think I am. I try not to be. I just don‘t . . .‘ She stopped herself speaking, shook her head. ‗I know you‘ve been through a lot, in the last few years, and I‘ve tried to understand that, real y I have, with your mum and al , but

. . .‘

‗Go on,‘ he said.

‗I just don‘t think you‘re the person I used to know. You‘re not my friend anymore. That‘s al .‘

He could think of nothing to say to this, so they stood in silence, until Emma put her hand out, took two fingers of his hand, squeezed them in her palm.

‗Maybe . . . maybe this is it, then,‘ she said. ‗Maybe it‘s just over.‘

‗Over? What‘s over?‘

‗Us. You and me. Friendship. There are things I needed to talk to you about, Dex. About Ian and me. If you‘re my friend I should be able to talk to you but I can‘t, and if I can‘t talk to you, wel , what is the point of you? Of us?‘

‗―What‘s the point?‖‘

‗You said yourself, people change, no use getting sentimental about it. Move on, find someone else.‘

‗Yeah, but I didn‘t mean us . . .‘

‗Why not?‘

‗Because we‘re . . . us. We‘re Dex and Em. Aren‘t we?‘

Emma shrugged. ‗Maybe we‘ve grown out of each other.‘

He said nothing for a moment, then spoke. ‗So, do you think I‘ve grown out of you, or you‘ve grown out of me?‘

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‗I think you think I‘m . . . dreary. I think you think I cramp your style. I think you‘ve lost interest in me.‘

‗Em, I do not think you‘re dreary.‘

‗And neither do I! Neither do I! I think I‘m fucking marvellous if you only knew it, and I think you used to think so too! But if you don‘t or if you‘re going to just take it for granted, then that‘s fine. I‘m just not prepared to be treated like this anymore.‘

‗Treated like what?‘

She sighed, and it was a moment before she spoke.

‗Like you always want to be somewhere else, with someone else.‘

He would have denied this, but the Cigarette Girl was waiting in the restaurant at that very moment, the number of his mobile phone tucked into her garter. Later he would wonder if there was something else he might have said to save the situation, a joke perhaps. But nothing occurred to him and Emma let go of his hand.

‗Wel off you go,‘ she said. ‗Go to your party. You‘re rid of me now. You‘re free.‘

With failing bravado, Dexter tried to laugh. ‗You sound like you‘re dumping me!‘

She smiled sadly. ‗I suppose I am in a way. You‘re not who you used to be, Dex. I real y, real y liked the old one. I‘d like him back, but in the meantime, I‘m sorry, but I don‘t think you should phone me anymore.‘ She turned and, a little unsteadily, began to walk off down the side al ey in the direction of Leicester Square.

For a moment, Dexter had a fleeting but perfectly clear memory of himself at his mother‘s funeral, curled up on the bathroom floor while Emma held onto him and stroked his hair. Yet somehow he had managed to treat this as nothing, to throw it al away for dross. He fol owed a little way behind her. ‗Come on, Em, we‘re stil friends, aren‘t we? I know I‘ve been a little weird, it‘s just . . .‘ She stopped for a moment, but didn‘t turn round, and he knew that she was crying.

‗Emma?‘

Then very quickly she turned, walked up to him and pul ed his face to hers, her cheek warm and wet against his, speaking quickly and quietly in his ear, and for one bright moment he thought he was to be forgiven.