David Nicholls - One Day

‗Love you,‘ he says.

‗You too.‘

She is about to hang up, but he feels compel ed to say one more thing. ‗And Sylvie? Sylvie? Are you there?‘

She brings the phone back to her ear. ‗Hm?‘

He swal ows, and licks his lips. ‗I just wanted to say . . . I wanted to say I know I‘m not very good at this at the moment, this whole father, husband thing. But I‘m working on it, and I‘m trying. I wil get better, Sylv. I promise you.‘

She seems to take this in because there‘s a short silence before she speaks again, her voice a little tight.

‗Dex, you‘re doing fine. We‘re just . . . feeling our way, that‘s al .‘

He sighs. Somehow he had hoped for more. ‗You‘d better get back to your party.‘

‗I‘l see you tomorrow.‘

‗I love you.‘

‗You too.‘

And she is gone.

The house seems very quiet. He sits there for a ful minute, his daughter sleeping now on his lap, and listens to the roar of blood and wine in his head. For a moment he feels a pulse of dread and loneliness, but he shakes this away, then stands and raises his sleeping daughter to his face, loose-limbed now like a kitten. He inhales her scent: milky, almost sweet, his own flesh and blood. Flesh and blood. The phrase is a cliché but there are fleeting moments when he catches sight of himself in her face, becomes aware of the fact and can‘t quite believe it. For better or for worse, she is a part of me. He lowers her gently into her cot.

He steps on a plastic pig, sharp as flint, which embeds itself painful y in his heel and, swearing to himself, he turns off the bedroom light.

In a hotel room in Westminster, ten miles further east along the Thames, his wife sits naked on the edge of a bed with the phone held loosely in her hand and quietly starts to cry.

From the bathroom comes the sound of a shower running.

Sylvie doesn‘t like what crying does to her face, so when the sound stops she quickly wipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand and drops the phone onto the pile of discarded clothes on the floor.

‗Everything fine?‘

‗Oh, you know. Not real y. He sounded pretty drunk.‘

‗I‘m sure he‘s fine.‘

‗No, but really drunk. He sounded strange. Perhaps I should go home.‘

Cal um belts his dressing-gown, walks back into the bedroom and leans at the waist to kiss her bare shoulder.

‗Like I said, I‘m sure he‘s fine.‘ She says nothing, so he sits and kisses her again. ‗Try and forget about it. Have some fun. Do you want another drink?‘

‗No.‘

‗Do you want to lie down?‘

‗No Cal um!‘ She shakes his arm off her. ‗For Christ‘s sake!‘

He resists the temptation to say something, turns and walks back to the bathroom to brush his teeth, his hopes for the night evaporating. He has a horrible feeling that she is going to want to talk about things – ‗ this isn’t fair, we can’t go on, perhaps I should tell him, ‘ al that stuff. For crying out loud, he thinks indignantly, I‘ve already given the guy a job.

Isn‘t that enough?

He spits and rinses, returns to the room and flops onto the bed. Reaching for the remote, he flicks angrily through the cable channels while Mrs Sylvie Mayhew sits and looks out the window at the lights along the Thames and wonders what to do about her husband.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jean Seberg

SUNDAY 15 JULY 2001

Belleville, Paris

He was due to arrive on 15th July on the 15.55 from Waterloo.

Emma Morley got to the arrival gate at the Gare du Nord in good time and joined the crowd, the anxious lovers clutching flowers, the bored chauffeurs, sweaty in suits with their handwritten signs. Might it be funny to hold up a sign with Dexter‘s name on? she wondered. Perhaps with his name spelt incorrectly?

It might make him laugh, she supposed, but was it worth the effort? Besides, the train was pul ing in now, the waiting crowd edging towards the gate in anticipation. A long hiatus before the doors hissed open, then the passengers spil ed out onto the platform and Emma pressed forward with the friends and families, lovers and chauffeurs, al craning to see the arriving faces.

She set her own face into the appropriate smile. The last time she saw him, things had been said. The last time she saw him, something had happened.

Dexter sat in his seat in the very last carriage of the stationary train and waited for the other passengers to leave. He had no suitcase, just a smal overnight bag on the seat next to him. On the table in front of him lay a brightly coloured paperback, on the cover a scratchy cartoon of a girl‘s face beneath the title Big Julie Criscoll Versus the Whole Wide World.

Whole Wide World.

He had finished the book just as the train entered the Paris suburbs. It was the first novel he had finished in some months, his sense of mental prowess mitigated by the fact that the book was aimed at elevento fourteen-year-olds and contained pictures. Waiting for the carriage to clear, he turned once more to the inside of the back cover and the black and white photograph of the author and looked at it intently, as if committing her face to memory. In an expensivelooking crisp white shirt she sat a little awkwardly on the edge of a bentwood chair, her hand covering her mouth at just the moment that she burst into laughter. He recognised the expression and the gesture too, smiled, and placed the book in his bag, picked it up and joined the last few passengers as they waited to step down onto the platform.

The last time he had seen her, things had been said.

Something had happened. What would he tel her? What would she say? Yes or no?

While she waited she played with her hair, wil ing it to grow longer. Shortly after arriving in Paris, dictionary in hand, she had plucked up the courage to go to a hairdresser – un coiffeur – to have her hair cropped. Though embarrassed to say it out loud, she had wanted to look like Jean Seberg in A Bout de Souffle, because after al if you‘re going to be a novelist in Paris you might as wel do it properly. Now three weeks later, she no longer wanted to cry when she saw her reflection, but even so her hands kept going to her head as if adjusting a wig.

With a conscious effort she turned her attention to the buttons on her brand new dove grey shirt, bought that morning from a shop, no, a boutique, on Rue de Grenel e. Two buttons undone looked too prim, three undone showed cleavage. She unfastened the third button, clicked her tongue and turned her attention back to the passengers. The crowd was thinning out now and she was starting to wonder if he had missed the train when she final y saw him.

He looked broken. Gaunt and tired, his face was shaded with scrappy stubble that didn‘t suit him, a prison beard, and she was reminded of the potential for disaster that this visit carried with it. But when he saw her he started to smile and quicken his pace, and she smiled too, then started to feel self-conscious as she waited at the gate wondering what to do with her hands, her eyes. The distance between them seemed immense; smile and stare, smile and stare for fifty metres? Forty-five metres. She looked at the floor, up into the rafters. Forty metres, she looked back at Dexter, back at the floor. Thirty-five metres . . .

While covering this vast distance, he was surprised to notice how much she had changed in the eight weeks since he had last seen her, the two months since everything had happened. Her hair had been cut very short, a fringe brushed across her forehead, and she had more colour in her face; the summer face that he remembered. Better dressed too: high shoes, a smart dark skirt, a pale grey shirt unbuttoned a touch too far, showing brown skin and a triangle of dark freckles below her neck. She stil didn‘t seem to know what to do with her hands or where to look, and he was starting to feel self-conscious too. Ten metres.

What would he say, and how would he say it? Was it a yes or no?

He quickened his pace towards her, and then final y they were embracing.

‗You didn‘t have to meet me.‘

‗Of course I had to meet you. Tourist.‘

‗I like this.‘ He brushed his thumb across her short fringe.

‗There‘s a word for it, isn‘t there?‘

‗Butch?‘

‗Gamine. You look gamine.‘

‗Not butch?‘

‗Not in the least.‘

‗You should have seen it two weeks ago. I looked like a col aborator!‘ His face didn‘t move. ‗I went to a Parisian hairdresser for the first time. Terrifying! I sat in the chair, thinking Arrêtez-vous, Arrêtez-vous! The funny thing is even in

Paris they ask you about your holidays. You think they‘re going to talk about contemporary dance or can-man-ever-truly-be-free? but it‘s ―Que faites-vous de beau pour les vacances? Vous sortez ce soir? ‖‘ Stil his face was fixed.

She was talking too much, trying too hard. Calm down. Don‘t riff. Arrêtez-vous.

His hand touched the short hair at the back of her neck.

‗Wel I think it suits you.‘

‗Not sure I‘ve got the features for it.‘

‗Real y, you‘ve got the features for it.‘ He held her at the top of her arms, taking her al in. ‗It‘s like there‘s a fancy-dress party and you‘ve come as Sophisticated Parisienne.‘

‗Or a Cal Girl.‘

‗But a High-Class Cal Girl.‘

‗Wel even better.‘ She touched his chin with her knuckle, the stubble there. ‗So what have you come as then?‘

‗I‘ve come as Fucked-up Suicidal Divorcee.‘ The remark was glib and he regretted it immediately. Barely off the platform, and he was spoiling things.

‗Wel at least you‘re not bitter,‘ she said, reaching for the nearest off-the-shelf remark.

‗Do you want me to get back on the train?‘

‗Not just yet.‘ She took him by the hand. ‗Come on, let‘s go, shal we?‘

They stepped outside the Gare du Nord into the stifling fume-fil ed air; a typical Parisian summer day, muggy, with thick grey clouds threatening rain. ‗I thought we‘d go for a coffee first, near the canal. It‘s a fifteen-minute walk, is that alright? Then another fifteen minutes to my flat. I have to warn you though, it‘s nothing special. In case you‘re imagining parquet floors and big windows with fluttering curtains or something. It‘s just two rooms over a courtyard.‘

‗A garret.‘

‗Exactly. A garret.‘

‗A writer‘s garret.‘

In anticipation of this journey, Emma had memorised a scenic walk, or as scenic as possible in the dust and traffic of the north-east. I’m moving to Paris for the summer, to write. Back in April, the idea had seemed almost embarrassingly precious and fey, but she was so bored with married couples tel ing her that she could go to Paris at any time that she had decided actual y to do it. London had turned into one enormous crèche, so why not get away from other people‘s children for a while, have an adventure? The city of Sartre and De Beauvoir, Beckett and Proust, and here she was too, writing teenage fiction, albeit with considerable commercial success. The only way she could make the idea seem less hokey was to settle as far away as she could from tourist Paris, in the working-class 19th arrondissement

on

the

border

of

Bel evil e

and

Ménilmontant. No tourist attractions, few landmarks . . .

‗—but it‘s real y lively, and cheap, and multi-cultural and . . . God, I was about to say it‘s very ―real‖.‘

‗Meaning what, violent?‘

‗No, just, I don‘t know, real Paris. I sound like a student, don‘t I? Thirty-five years old, living in a little two-room flat like I‘m on a gap year.‘

‗I think Paris suits you.‘

‗It does.‘

‗You look fantastic.‘

‗Do I?‘

‗You‘ve changed.‘

‗I haven‘t. Not real y.‘

‗No, real y. You look beautiful.‘

Emma frowned and kept her eyes ahead, and they walked a little further, trotting down stone steps to the Canal St Martin, and a little bar by the water‘s edge.

‗Looks like Amsterdam,‘ he said blandly, pul ing out a chair.

‗Actual y it‘s the old industrial link to the Seine.‘ Good God, I sound like some tour guide. ‗Flows under the Place de la République, under the Bastil e, then out into the river.‘

Just calm down. He’s an old friend, remember? Just an old friend. They sat for a moment and stared at the water and she immediately regretted the selfconsciously scenic choice of venue. This was terrible, like a blind date. She fumbled for something to say.

‗So, shal we have wine, or—?‘

‗Better not. I‘m sort of off it.‘

‗Oh. Real y? For how long?‘

‗Month or so. It‘s not an AA thing. Just trying to avoid it.‘

He shrugged. ‗Nothing good ever came of it, that‘s al . Not a big deal.‘

‗Oh. O-kay. Coffee then?‘

‗Just a coffee.‘

The waitress arrived, dark, pretty and long-legged, but Dexter didn‘t even look up. There must be something seriously wrong, Emma thought, if he‘s not even ogling the waitress. She ordered in ostentatiously col oquial French, then smiled awkwardly at Dexter‘s raised eyebrow. ‗I‘ve been taking lessons.‘

‗So I hear.‘

‗Course she didn‘t understand a word. She‘l probably bring us out a roast chicken!‘

Nothing. Instead he sat grinding grains of sugar against the metal table with his thumbnail. She tried again, something innocuous.

‗When were you last in Paris?‘

‗About three years ago. My wife and I came here on one of our famous minibreaks. Four nights in the George Cinq.‘

He flicked a sugar-cube into the canal. ‗So that was a waste of fucking money.‘

Emma opened her mouth and closed it again. There was nothing to say. She had already made her ‗at least you‘re not bitter‘ remark.

But Dexter blinked hard, shook his head then nudged her hand with his. ‗So what I thought we‘d do for the next couple of days is, you can show me the sights, and I‘l just mope about and make stupid remarks.‘

She smiled and nudged his hand back. ‗It‘s hardly surprising, what you‘ve been through, are going through,‘

and she covered his hand with her own. After a moment he covered her hand with his, she fol owed, covering his with hers, faster and faster, a children‘s game. But it was a piece of actors‘ business too, strained and self-conscious, and in her embarrassment she decided to pretend to need the bathroom.

In the smal , stale room she glowered in the mirror and tugged at her fringe as if trying to pul more from her head.

She sighed and told herself to calm down. The thing that happened, the event, it was just a one-off, not a big deal, he‘s just an old, old friend . She flushed the toilet for veracity‘s sake and stepped back out into the warm grey afternoon. On the table in front of Dexter was a copy of her novel. Warily, she sat back down, and poked it with her finger.

‗Where did this come from then?‘

‗I bought it at the train station. Great piles of it, there were. It‘s everywhere, Em.‘

‗Have you read it yet?‘

‗Can‘t get past page three.‘

‗Not funny, Dex.‘

‗Emma, I thought it was wonderful.‘

‗Wel it‘s just a sil y kid‘s book.‘

‗No, real y, I‘m so proud of you. I mean I‘m not a teenage girl or anything, but it real y made me laugh. I read it straight through in one go. And I speak as someone who‘s been reading Howard’s Way for the last fifteen years.‘

‗You mean Howards End. Howard’s Way is something different.‘

‗Whatever. I‘ve never read anything straight through before.‘

‗Wel , the type is pretty large.‘

‗And that was my favourite thing about it real y, the big type. And the pictures.

The il ustrations are real y funny, Em. I had no idea.‘

‗Wel thank you . . .‘

‗Plus the fact that it‘s exciting and funny, and I‘m so proud of you, Em. In fact—‘ He pul ed a pen from his pocket.

‗I want you to sign it.‘

‗Don‘t be ridiculous.‘

‗No, you‘ve got to. You‘re . . .‘ He read from the back of the book ‗ . . . the ―most exciting children‘s author since Roald Dahl‖.‘

‗Says the publisher‘s nine-year-old niece.‘ He poked her with the pen. ‗I‘m stil not signing it, Dex.‘

‗Go on. I insist.‘ He stood, pretending to need the toilet.

‗I‘m going to leave it there, and you‘ve got to write something. Something personal, with today‘s date, in case you get real y famous and I need the cash.‘

In the smal rank cubicle, Dexter stood and wondered how long he could keep this up. At some point they would need to talk, insane to tip-toe round the subject like this. He flushed the toilet for effect, washed his hands and dried them on his hair, then stepped back out onto the pavement, where Emma was just closing the book. He went to read the dedication, but she placed her hand on the cover.

‗When I‘m not around, please.‘

He sat down and placed it in his bag, and she leant across the table, as if returning to business. ‗So. I‘ve got to ask. How are things?‘

‗Oh, fantastic. The divorce goes through in September, just before our anniversary. Almost two whole years of wedded bliss.‘

‗Have you spoken to her much?‘

‗Not if I can help it. I mean we‘ve stopped screaming abuse and throwing things, now it‘s just yes, no, hel o, goodbye. Which is more or less al we said when we

were married anyway. Did you hear, they‘ve moved in with Cal um now? Into his ridiculous mansion in Muswel Hil where we used to go to dinner parties—‘

‗Yes, I heard.‘

He looked at her sharply. ‗Who from? Cal um?‘

‗Of course not! Just, you know – people.‘

‗People feeling sorry for me.‘

‗Not sorry, just . . . concerned.‘ He wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‗It‘s not a bad thing, Dex, people caring about you.

Have you spoken to Cal um?‘

‗No. He‘s tried. Keeps leaving messages, like nothing‘s happened. ―Alright mate! Give us a cal .‖ He thinks we should go out for a beer, and ―talk things through‖. Maybe I should go. Technical y he stil owes me three weeks‘

wages.‘

‗Are you working yet?‘

‗Not as such. We‘re renting out that bloody house in Richmond, and the flat, so I‘m living off that.‘ He drank the dregs of his coffee and stared into the canal. ‗I don‘t know, Em. Eighteen months ago I had a family, a career – not much of a career, but I had opportunities, I stil got offers.

People carrier, nice little house in Surrey—‘

‗Which you hated.‘

‗I didn‘t hate it.‘

‗You hated the people carrier.‘

‗Wel , yes, I did hate that, but it was mine. And now al of a sudden I‘m living in a bedsit in Kilburn with my half of the wedding list and I have . . . nothing. Just me and a shitload of Le Creuset. My life is effectively over.‘

‗You know what I think you should do?‘

‗What?‘

‗Maybe . . .‘ She took a deep breath, and held the fingers of his hand. ‗Maybe you should beg Cal um for your job back.‘ He glared and jerked his hand away. ‗Joking! I‘m joking!‘ she said and started to laugh.