David Nicholls - One Day

‗Or you find me.‘

As punishment for some past slight, Emma had been placed between the groom‘s elderly aunt and uncle from New Zealand, and the phrases ‗beautiful landscape‘ and

‗wonderful quality of life‘ were rotated for a good three hours. Occasional y she would be distracted by a great gale of laughter from the direction of table five, Dexter and Sylvie, Cal um and his girlfriend Luiza; the glamorous table. Emma poured herself another glass of wine and asked once more about the landscape, the quality of life. Whales: had they ever seen real-life whales? she asked and glanced enviously at table five.

At table five, Dexter glanced enviously over at table twenty-four. Sylvie had devised a new game of quickly placing her hand over the top of Dexter‘s wine glass whenever he picked up the bottle, turning the long meal into a stern test of his reflexes. ‗You wil take it easy, won‘t you?‘

she whispered when he had scored a point, and he assured her that he would, but the result was mild boredom, and increasing envy at Cal um‘s maddening selfassurance. At table twenty-four, he could see Emma talking politely and earnestly to a tanned elderly couple, noting the attentive way she listened, her hand placed now on the old man‘s arm, laughing at his joke, now taking their picture with the disposable camera, now leaning in to have her picture taken. Dexter noticed her blue dress, the kind of thing she never would have worn ten years ago, and noticed too that the zip had come undone by three inches or so at the back, that the hem had ridden up to halfway along her thigh, and there fol owed a fleeting but stil vivid memory of Emma in an Edinburgh bedroom on Rankeil or Street. Dawn light through the curtains, a low single bed, her skirt around her waist, arms above her head. What had changed since then? Not that much. The same lines formed around her mouth when she laughed, they were etched just a little deeper now. She stil had the same eyes, bright and shrewd, and she stil laughed with her wide mouth tightly shut, as if holding in some secret. In many ways she was far more attractive than her twenty-two-year-old self. She was no longer cutting her own hair for one thing, and she had lost some of that library pal or, that shoe-gazing petulance and surliness. How would he feel, he wondered, if he were seeing that face for the first time now? If he had been al ocated table twenty-four, had sat down and introduced himself. Of al the people here today, he thought, he would only want to talk to her. He picked up his drink and pushed back his chair.

But glasses were being tapped with knives. The speeches. As tradition demanded, the Father of the Bride was drunk and boorish, the Best Man was drunk and unfunny and also forgot to mention the Bride. With each glass of red

wine Emma felt the energy leeching out of her, and she began to contemplate her hotel room up at the main house, the clean white dressing-gown, the reproduction four-poster. There‘d be one of those walk-through showers that people go crazy for, and far too many towels for a single person. As if to make her mind up, the band were tuning up now, the bassist playing the riff from

‗Another One Bites the Dust‘, and Emma decided that it was time to cal it a day, take her slice of wedding cake in the special velvet drawstring bag, head up to her room and sleep the wedding off.

‗Excuse me, but don‘t I know you from somewhere?‘

A hand on her arm, a voice behind her. Dexter was crouching by her side, grinning woozily, a bottle of champagne in his hand.

Emma held out her glass.

‗It‘s possible, I suppose.‘

With a squeal of feedback, the band began to play and al attention turned to the dance floor, where Malcolm and Til y were frugging to their special song,

‗Brown-Eyed Girl‘, twisting rheumatical y at the hips, four thumbs held aloft.

‗Good God. When did we al start dancing like old people?‘

‗Speak for yourself,‘ said Dexter, perching on a chair.

‗Can you dance?‘

‗You don‘t remember?‘

Emma shook her head. ‗I don‘t mean on a podium with a whistle and your shirt off, I mean proper dancing.‘

‗Course I can.‘ He took her hand. ‗Want me to prove it?‘

‗Maybe later.‘ They were having to shout now. Dexter stood and tugged on her hand. ‗Let‘s go somewhere. Just you and me.‘

‗Where?‘

‗I don‘t know. Apparently, there‘s a maze.‘

‗ A maze?‘ A moment, then she stood. ‗Wel why didn‘t you say?‘

They took two glasses and discreetly stepped out of the marquee and into the night. It was stil warm, and bats were swooping overhead in the inky summer air as they walked arm in arm through the rose garden towards the maze.

‗So how does it feel?‘ she asked. ‗Losing an old flame to the arms of another man.‘

‗Til y Kil ick‘s not an old flame.‘

‗Oh, Dexter . . .‘ Emma shook her head slowly. ‗When wil you learn?‘

‗I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.‘

‗Must have been, let me see . . . December 1992, that flat in Clapton. The one that smelt of fried onions.‘

Dexter winced. ‗How do you know about these things?‘

‗Wel when I left to go to Woolworths you were massaging each other‘s feet with my best olive oil and when I got back from Woolworths she was crying and there were olive oil footprints al over my best rug and the sofa and on the kitchen table and half way up the wal too, I remember.

So I careful y examined the forensic evidence and came to that conclusion. Oh, also, you left your birth control device at the top of the kitchen bin, so that was nice.‘

‗Did I? Sorry about that.‘

‗Plus the fact that she told me.‘

‗Did she?‘ He shook his head, betrayed. ‗That was meant to be our secret!‘

‗Women talk about these things you know. It‘s no use swearing them to secrecy, it al comes out in the end.‘

‗I‘l remember that in future.‘

Now they had arrived at the entrance to the maze, a neatly trimmed privet hedge affair, a good ten feet high, its entrance marked by a heavy wooden door. Emma paused, her hand on the iron handle. ‗Is this a good idea?‘

‗How hard can it be?‘

‗And if we got lost?‘

‗We‘l use the stars or something.‘ The door creaked open. ‗Right or left?‘

‗Right,‘ said Emma, and they stepped into the maze. The high hedges were lit at ground level with different coloured lights, and the air had that summer smel , thick and heady, almost oily from the warm leaves. ‗Where‘s Sylvie?‘

‗Sylvie‘s okay, she‘s being Cal umed. He‘s being the life and soul, the charming Oirish mil ionaire. I thought I‘d leave them to it. I can‘t compete with him anymore. Too tiring.‘

‗He‘s doing very wel , you know.‘

‗So everyone tel s me.‘

‗Crayfish, apparently.‘

‗I know. He just offered me a job.‘

‗Crayfish wrangler?‘

‗Don‘t know yet. He wants to talk to me about

―opportunities‖. Business is people he said, whatever that means.‘

‗But what about Sport Xtreme?

‗Ah,‘ Dexter laughed and rubbed his hair with one hand.

‗You‘ve seen it then?‘

‗Never missed an episode. You know me, there‘s nothing I like more in the early hours of the morning than stuff about BMX. My favourite bit is when you say that things are

―rad‖—‘

‗They make me say that stuff.‘

‗―Rad‖ and ―sweet‖. ―Check out these sweet, old skool moves—‖‘

‗I think I get away with it.‘

‗Not always, pal. Left or right?‘

‗Left, I think.‘ They walked a little way in silence, listening to the muffled thump of the band playing ‗Superstition‘.

‗How‘s the writing going?‘

‗Oh, it‘s okay, when I do it. Most of the time I just sit around eating biscuits.‘

‗Stephanie Shaw says they gave you an advance.‘

‗Just a bit of money, enough to last ‘til Christmas. Then we‘l see. Back to teaching ful -time probably.‘

‗And what‘s it about? This book.‘

‗Not sure yet.‘

‗It‘s about me, isn‘t it?‘

‗Yes, Dexter, it‘s a whole thick book entirely about you.

It‘s cal ed ―Dexter Dexter Dexter Dexter Dexter‖. Right or left?‘

‗Let‘s try a left.‘

‗Actual y it‘s just a book for kids. Teenagers. Boys, relationships, that kind of thing. It‘s about a school play, that production of Oliver! I did al those years ago. A comedy.‘

‗Wel you look very wel on it.‘

‗Do I?‘

‗Absolutely. Some people look better, some people look worse. You are definitely looking better.‘

‗Miffy Buchanan tel s me I‘ve final y lost my puppy-fat.‘

‗She‘s just jealous. You look great.‘

‗Thank you. Want me to say you look better too?‘

‗If you think you can pul it off.‘

‗Wel you do. Left?‘

‗Left.‘

‗Better than during your rock and rol years anyway.

When you were giving-it-large or whatever it was you were doing.‘ They walked a little way in silence, until Emma spoke again. ‗I was worried about you.‘

‗Were you?‘

‗We al were.‘

‗Just a phase. Everybody‘s got to have a phase like that, haven‘t they? Go a bit wild.‘

‗Do they? I haven‘t. Hey, I hope you‘ve stopped wearing that annoying flat cap too.‘

‗I haven‘t worn a hat for years.‘

‗Pleased to hear it. We were thinking about staging an intervention.‘

‗You know how it is, you start with the soft hats, just for kicks, then before you know it, you‘re into flat caps, trilbies, bowlers . . .‘

Another junction. ‗Right or left?‘ she said.

‗No idea.‘

They peered in either direction. ‗Amazing, isn‘t it, how quickly this stopped being fun.‘

‗Let‘s sit down shal we? Over there.‘

A smal marble bench had been set into the hedge wal s, lit from beneath by a blue fluorescent light, and they sat on the cool stone, fil ed their glasses, tapped them together and bumped shoulders.

‗God, I almost forgot . . .‘ Dexter reached into his trouser pocket, and very careful y removed a folded napkin, held it in his palm like a conjurer and unfolded it, a corner at a time.

Nestling in the napkin like birds‘ eggs, were two crumpled cigarettes.

‗From Cal,‘ he whispered, awed. ‗Want one?‘

‗No thank you. Haven‘t touched one for years.‘

‗Wel done you. I‘ve stopped too, official y. But I feel safe here . . .‘ He lit the contraband, his hand shaking stagily.

‗She can‘t find me here . . .‘ Emma laughed. The champagne and the solitude had lifted their mood, and both were now feeling sentimental, nostalgic, exactly as they should feel at a wedding, and they smiled at each other through the smoke. ‗Cal um says that we‘re the ―Marlboro-Light-Generation‖.‘

‗God, that‘s depressing.‘ Emma sniffed. ‗A whole generation defined by a brand of fag. I‘d sort of hoped for more.‘ She smiled, and turned to Dexter. ‗So. How are you these days?‘

‗I‘m fine. Bit more sensible.‘

‗Sex in toilet cubicles lose its bittersweet charm?‘

He laughed and examined the tip of the cigarette. ‗I just had to get something out of my system, that‘s al .‘

‗And is it out now?‘

‗Think so, most of it.‘

‗Because of true love?‘

‗Partly. Also I‘m thirty-four now. At thirty-four you start to run out of excuses.‘

‗Excuses?‘

‗Wel , if you‘re twenty-two and you‘re fucking up, you can say, it‘s okay I‘m only twenty-two. I‘m only twenty-five, I‘m only twenty-eight. But ―I‘m only thirty-four‖?‘ He sipped from his glass, and leant back into the hedge. ‗It‘s like everyone has a central dilemma in their life, and mine was can you be in a committed, mature, loving adult relationship and stil get invited to threesomes?‘

‗And what‘s the answer, Dex?‘ she asked, solemnly.

‗The answer is no, you can‘t. Once you‘ve worked that out, it al gets a bit simpler.‘

‗It‘s true; an orgy won‘t keep you warm at night.‘

‗An orgy won‘t care for you when you‘re old.‘ He took another sip. ‗Anyway, it‘s not even as if I was getting invited to any in the first place, just making a fool of myself, screwing things up. Screwed up my career, screwed up with Mum—‘

‗—wel that‘s not true—‘

‗—screwed up al my friendships.‘ For emphasis, Dexter leant against her arm, and she leant back against his. ‗I just thought it was time to do things properly for once. And now I‘ve met Sylvie, and she‘s great, she real y is, and she keeps me on the straight and narrow.‘

‗Wel she‘s a lovely girl.‘

‗She is. She is.‘

‗Very beautiful. Serene.‘

‗A little bit scary sometimes.‘

‗She‘s got a lovely, warm sort of Leni Riefenstahl quality to her.‘

‗Lenny who?‘

‗Doesn‘t matter.‘

‗Of course she‘s got absolutely no sense of humour.‘

‗Wel that‘s a relief. I think a sense of humour‘s overrated,‘ said Emma. ‗Goofing it up al the time, it‘s boring.

Like Ian. ‘Cept Ian wasn‘t funny. No, much better to have somebody you real y fancy, someone who‘l rub your feet.‘

He tried and failed to imagine Sylvie touching his feet.

‗She told me once that she never laughs because she doesn‘t like what it does to her face.‘

Emma gave a low chuckle. ‗Wow‘ was al she could say.

‗Wow. But you love her, right?‘

‗I adore her.‘

‗Adore. Wel ―adore‖ is even better.‘

‗She‘s sensational.‘

‗She is.‘

‗And she‘s real y turned things around for me too. I‘m off the drugs and booze and not smoking.‘ She glanced at the bottle in his hand, the cigarette in his mouth. He smiled.

‗Special occasion.‘

‗So true love found you in the end.‘

‗Something like that.‘ He fil ed her glass. ‗How about you?‘

‗Oh, I‘m fine. I‘m fine.‘ As a distraction, she stood. ‗Let‘s keep walking, shal we? Left or right?‘

‗Right.‘ With a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet. ‗Do you stil see Ian?‘

‗Not for years now.‘

‗Nobody else on the horizon?‘

‗Don‘t you start, Dexter.‘

‗What?‘

‗Sympathy for the spinster. I‘m perfectly content, thank you. And I refuse to be defined by my boyfriend. Or lack of.‘

She was starting to speak with real zeal now. ‗Once you decide not to worry about that stuff anymore, dating and relationships and love and al that, it‘s like you‘re free to get on with real life. And I‘ve got my work, and I love that. I‘ve got I reckon one more year to real y make a go of it. The money‘s tiny, but I‘m free. I go to the movies in the afternoon.‘ She paused momentarily. ‗Swimming!

I swim a lot. I swim and I swim and I swim, mile after mile. God, I fucking hate swimming. Turn left, I think.‘

‗You know, I feel the same. Not about swimming, I mean about not having to date anymore. Since I‘ve been with Sylvie, it‘s like I‘ve freed up this vast amount of time and energy and mental space.‘

‗And what do you do with it al , this mental space?‘

‗Play Tomb Raider mostly.‘

Emma laughed, and walked a little further in silence, worrying that she was coming across as less self-contained and empowered than she had intended.

‗And anyway, it‘s not like I‘m completely, you know, boring and, and loveless. I have my moments. I had this thing with a guy cal ed Chris.

Cal ed himself a dentist but he was real y just a hygienist.‘

‗What happened to Chris?‘

‗Just fizzled out. Just as wel . I was convinced that he was always staring at my teeth. Kept nagging me to floss, Emma, floss. Going on a date was like going for a check-up. Too much pressure. And before that there was Mr Godalming.‘ She shuddered. ‗Mr Godalming. What a disaster.‘

‗Who was Mr Godalming?‘

‗Another time. Left, right?‘

‗Left.‘

‗Anyway, if I ever get real y desperate, there‘s always your offer to fal back on.‘

Dexter stopped walking. ‗What offer?‘

‗Do you remember you used to say if I was stil single when I got to forty you‘d marry me?‘

‗Did I say that?‘ He winced. ‗Bit patronising.‘

‗I thought so at the time. But don‘t worry, I don‘t think it‘s legal y binding or anything, I‘m not going to hold you to it.

Besides, there‘s stil seven years to go. Plenty of time . . .‘

She began walking again, but Dexter stood stil behind her, rubbing his head like a boy who is about to reveal that he‘s broken the best vase.

‗I‘m afraid I‘m sort of going to have to withdraw the offer anyway.‘

She stopped and turned.

‗Oh real y? Why‘s that?‘ she said, but a part of her knew already.

‗I‘m engaged.‘

Emma blinked once, very slowly.

‗Engaged to what?‘

‗To be married. To Sylvie.‘

A moment passed, perhaps half a second when their faces said what they felt, and then Emma was smiling, laughing, her arms around his neck. ‗Oh, Dexter. That‘s amazing! Congratulations!‘ and she went to kiss his cheek just as he turned his head, their mouths glancing for a moment so that they tasted the champagne on each other‘s lips.

‗You‘re pleased?‘

‗Pleased? I‘m destroyed! But real y, seriously, that‘s fantastic news.‘

‗You think so?‘

‗More than fantastic, it‘s, it‘s . . . rad! It‘s rad and sweet.

It‘s old skool!‘