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the menu all over again, while the waiter and Dexter glared at her and all the time his own steak sat there, mauled but uneaten, until finally 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.

‘Well. This is going well,’ 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 levelly. ‘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, well, you know the expression. “Those who can . . .”’

Emma’s mouth fell open. Stay calm—

‘No, I’m not familiar with it, Dexter. Tell me. What

expression?’ ‘You know . . .’

‘No, seriously, Dexter, tell 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. All 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 following 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 falling 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 fell 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 will 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 tell 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 all—’

‘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 literally 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 all 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! Well bollocks to it. You’re a TV presenter, Dex. You’ve not invented penicillin, it’s TV, and crap TV at that. Well 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, will you?’

‘You’re being hysterical. Come here.’ He took her arm once again and, idiotically, 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 finally, allowing herself to be pulled 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.

Finally, she spoke, in a quiet voice, her face to the wall. ‘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 full 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 all. If you weren’t so . . . judgemental all 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, really I have, with your mum and all, 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 all.’

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, well, 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.

‘Well 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 really, really 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 alley 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 all away for dross. He followed a little way behind her. ‘Come on, Em, we’re still 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 pulled 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.

‘Dexter, I love you so much. So, so much, and I probably always will.’ Her lips touched his cheek. ‘I just don’t like you anymore. I’m sorry.’

And then she was gone, and he found himself on the street, standing alone in this back alley trying to imagine what he would possibly do next.

Ian returns at just before midnight to find Emma curled up on the sofa, watching some old movie. ‘You’re back early. How was Golden Boy?’

‘Awful,’ she murmurs.

If Ian feels any glee at this, he doesn’t let it into his voice. ‘Why, what happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. Not tonight.’

‘Why not? Emma, tell me! What did he say? Did you argue? . . .’

‘Ian, please? Not tonight. Just come here, will you?’ She shuffles up so that he can join her on the sofa, and

he notices the dress that she is wearing, the kind of thing she never wears for him. ‘Is that what you wore?’

She holds the hem of the dress between finger and thumb. ‘It was a mistake.’

‘I think you look beautiful.’

She curls up against him, her head on his shoulder. ‘How was the gig?’

‘Not great.’

‘Did you do the cats and dogs stuff?’ ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Was there heckling?’ ‘Little bit of heckling.’

‘Maybe it’s not your best material.’ ‘Bit of booing.’

‘That’s part of it, though, isn’t it? Everyone gets heckled sometimes.’

‘I suppose so. I suppose sometimes I just worry . . .’ ‘What?’

‘That I might just be . . . not very funny.’ She speaks into his chest. ‘Ian?’ ‘What?

‘You are a very, very funny man.’ ‘Thanks, Em.’

He rests his head against her and thinks about the small crimson box lined with crumpled silk that contains the engagement ring. For the last two weeks it has been tucked inside a balled-up pair of walking socks, waiting for its moment. Not right now though. In three weeks’ time they’ll be on the beach in Corfu. He imagines a restaurant overlooking the sea, a full moon, Emma in her summer

dress, freshly tanned and smiling, perhaps a bowl of calamari between them. He imagines presenting the ring to her in an amusing way. For some weeks he has been devising different romantic-comedy scenarios in his head

– perhaps dropping it into her wine glass while she’s in the loo, or finding it in the mouth of his grilled fish, and complaining to the waiter. Getting it muddled up with the calamari rings, that might work. He might even just give it to her. He tries out the words in his head. Marry Me, Emma Morley. Marry Me.

‘Love you lots, Em,’ he says.

‘Love you too,’ says Emma. ‘Love you too.’

The Cigarette Girl sits at the bar on her twenty-minute break, her costume on beneath her jacket, sipping whisky and listening to this man as he talks on and on about his friend, that poor pretty girl who fell down the staircase. They’ve had some kind of row apparently. The Cigarette Girl tunes in and out of the man’s monologue, nodding every now and then and glancing surreptitiously at her watch. It is five minutes to midnight, and she should really get back to work. The hour between twelve and one is the best for tips, the high-water mark of lust and stupidity on the part of the male customers. Five more minutes and she’ll go. Poor guy can barely stand up anyway.

She recognises him from that stupid TV programme – and doesn’t he go out with Suki Meadows? – but can’t recall his name. Does anyone watch that show anyway? The man’s suit is stained, the pockets bulging with packets of unsmoked cigarettes, there’s a sheen of oil on

his nose, his breath is bad. What’s more, he still hasn’t even bothered to ask her real name.

The Cigarette Girl is called Cheryl Thomson. She works most days as a nurse, which is exhausting, but does an occasional shift here too because she went to school with the manager and the tips are incredible if you’re prepared to flirt a little. At home in her flat in Kilburn her fiancé is waiting for her. Milo, Italian, 6' 2", once a footballer, now also a nurse. Very good-looking, they’re getting married in September.

She would tell all this to the man if he asked, but he doesn’t, so at two minutes to midnight on St Swithin’s Day, she excuses herself – got to get back to work, no I can’t go to the party, yes I’ve got your number, hope you and your friend work things out – and leaves the man alone at the bar, ordering another drink.