0568188_DCD32_david_nicholls_one_day

it now?’

Dexter nodded towards the Cigarette Girl’s bottom. ‘You could look like that if you wanted to.’

‘No-one misses a point quite like you, Dex.’

‘What I mean is, it’s about choice. It’s empowering.’ ‘Mind like a laser—’

‘If she chooses to wear the outfit, she can wear the outfit!’

‘But if she refused she would be sacked.’

‘And so would the waiters! And anyway, maybe she likes wearing it, maybe it’s fun, maybe she feels sexy in it. That is feminism, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it’s not the dictionary definition . . .’

‘Don’t make me out to be some kind of chauvinist, I’m a feminist too!’ Emma tutted and rolled her eyes and he was reminded just how annoying and preachy she could be. ‘I am! I am a feminist!’

‘ . . . and I will fight to the death, to the death, mind, for the right of a woman to display her breasts for tips.’

And now it was his turn to roll his eyes, and give a patronising laugh. ‘It’s not 1988, Em.’

‘What does that mean? You keep saying it and I still don’t know what it means.’

‘It means don’t keep fighting battles that are already lost. The feminist movement should be about equal pay and equal opportunities and civil rights, not deciding what a woman can or can’t wear of her own free will on a Saturday night!’

Her mouth fell open in indignation. ‘That’s not what I—’ ‘And anyway, I’m buying you dinner! Don’t give me a

hard time!’

And it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago. They stood on the edge of a long pointless argument that she felt she would win, but which would leave the evening in tatters. Instead, she hid her face in her drink, her teeth biting the glass, and counted slowly before saying: ‘Let’s change the subject.’

But he wasn’t listening, gazing over her shoulder instead as the maître d’ beckoned them over. ‘Come on – I’ve managed to get us a banquette.’

They settled into the purple velvet booth and scrutinised the menus in silence. Emma had been expecting something fancy and French, but this was basically expensive canteen food: fishcakes, shepherd’s pie, burgers, and she recognised Poseidon as the kind of restaurant where the ketchup comes on a silver salver. ‘It’s Modern British,’ explained Dexter patiently, as if paying all that money for sausage and mash was very Modern, very British.

‘I’m going to have oysters,’ said Dexter. ‘The natives, I think.’

‘Are they friendly?’ said Emma weakly. ‘What?’

‘The natives – are they friendly?’ she persevered and thought My God, I’m turning into Ian.

Uncomprehending, Dexter frowned and returned to the menu. ‘No, they’re just sweeter, pearly and sweet and finer than rock oysters, more delicate. I’ll get twelve.’

‘You’re very knowledgeable all of a sudden.’

‘I love food. I’ve always loved food and wine.’

‘I remember that tuna stir-fry you cooked me that time. I can still taste it in the back of my throat. Ammonia—’

‘Not cooking, restaurants. I eat out most days now. As a matter of fact I’ve been asked if I want to review for one of the Sundays.’

‘Restaurants?’

‘Cocktail bars. Weekly column called “Barfly”, sort of man-about-town thing.’

‘And you’d write it yourself?’

‘Of course I’d write it myself!’ he said, though he had been assured that the column would be heavily ghosted.

‘What is there to say about cocktails?’

‘You’d be surprised. Cocktails are very cool now. Sort of a retro glamour thing. In fact—’ He put his mouth to the empty martini glass ‘—I’m something of a mixologist myself.’

‘Misogynist?’ ‘Mixologist.’

‘I’m sorry, I thought you said “misogynist”.’

‘Ask me how to make a cocktail, any cocktail you like.’ She pressed her chin with her finger. ‘Okay, um . . .

lager top!’

‘I’m serious, Em. It’s a real skill.’ ‘What is?’

‘Mixology. People go on special courses.’ ‘Maybe you should have done it for your degree.’ ‘It would certainly have been more fucking useful.’

The remark was so belligerent 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’ll 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 really, not that much, so why did she sound so priggish and judgemental? She resolved to relax and enjoy herself. This was Dexter after all, 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, especially not in a setting like this, a place specifically 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 finally being allowed to have some fun, and was it really 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. All that stuff about things being ‘posh’ and my-fat-bum and

orthopaedic high-heels, the endless, endless selfdeprecation. Well God save me from comediennes, 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 all 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 self-regard in that working-class-hero act that sent him crazy. Why is she still 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, all 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 wallet. ‘Actually, I’m going to this party later with my old mate from college over there—’ Old mate, he thought, was a nice touch. ‘—and I

don’t want to run out of cigarettes.’ He handed her a fivepound 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 really doesn’t mind at all. Finally she saw him weaving across the restaurant a little unsteadily. He bundled into the booth.

‘I thought you’d fallen 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 swallowed the thing, still 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.

‘Holland Park. Massive great house.’ ‘Oh. Okay.’

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

‘You’re very welcome to come along,’ he said finally, 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 all.’

Clearly she was not invited. ‘I’ll know you,’ she said weakly.

‘Yes, I suppose so. And Suki! Suki will be there.’ ‘Isn’t she filming in Scarborough?’

‘They’re driving her back tonight.’ ‘She’s doing very well, isn’t she?’

‘Well, 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 really 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 all the time . . .’

‘Tell 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. Really. You know the best thing about the relationship?’

‘Go on.’

‘She knows what it’s like. Being on the telly. She understands.’

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

And there she goes again, he thought, the snippy little comments. ‘Well it’s true,’ he shrugged and decided that as soon as he could pay the bill, 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 all.’

‘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’ll arrive and then you’ll have to go. Unless I give you money for the cab—’

‘I do have money, they do pay me.’ ‘Holland 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, shall 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 rolling 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? Carefully, 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 belligerent 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 swallowed raw potato.

‘Ian’s great,’ she said emphatically. ‘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, eventually. Dexter seemed to have lost his appetite, dissecting the bloody red meat without actually 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 deep-frozen. It hasn’t been defrosted.’

‘Is it?’ He prodded angrily inside the sleeve of batter with his finger. ‘Well, we’ll send it back!’

‘It’s fine. I’ll just eat the chips.’

‘No, fuck it! Send it back! I’m not paying for fucking frozen fish! What is this, Bejams? We’ll 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 bill 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