0568188_DCD32_david_nicholls_one_day

prevent his voice cracking. Abruptly he stopped speaking, pressed his hands either side of his nose and opened his eyes wide, as if trying to suppress a sneeze.

‘You okay?’ she said, her hand on his knee.

He nodded. ‘I’m not going to be like this all weekend, I promise.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Well I mind. It’s . . . demeaning.’ He stood abruptly, and picked up his bag. ‘Please, Em. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me something. Tell me about you.’

They walked the length of the canal, skirting the edge of the Place de la République then turning east along rue du Faubourg St-Denis as she talked about her work. ‘The second one’s a sequel. That’s how imaginative I am. I’m about three-quarters of the way through. Julie Criscoll goes on this school trip to Paris and falls for this French boy and has all sorts of adventures, surprise suprise. That’s my excuse for being here. “Research purposes”.’

‘And the first one’s doing well?’

‘So I’m told. Well enough for them to pay for two more.’ ‘Really? Two more sequels?’

‘’fraid so. Julie Criscoll’s what they call a franchise. That’s where the money’s at apparently. Got to have a franchise! And we’re talking to TV people. For a show. An animated kid’s show, based on my illustrations.’

‘You’re kidding me!’

‘I know. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m working in “the media”! I’m the Associate Producer!’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing at all. I mean I don’t mind. I love it. But I’d like

to write a grown-up book one day. That’s what I always wanted to write, this great, angry state-of-the-nation novel, something wild and timeless that reveals the human soul, not a lot of silly stuff about snogging French boys at discos.’

‘It’s not just about that though, is it?’

‘Maybe not. And maybe that’s just what happens; you start out wanting to change the world through language, and end up thinking it’s enough to tell a few good jokes. God, listen to me. My life in art!’

He nudged her. ‘What?’

‘I’m pleased for you, that’s all.’ His arm curled round her shoulders and squeezed. ‘An author. A proper author. You’re finally doing what you always wanted to do.’ They walked like this, a little self-consciously and awkwardly, the bag in the other hand banging against his leg, until the discomfort became too much and he took his arm away.

They walked on, and gradually their mood lifted. The blanket of cloud had broken and Faubourg St-Denis was taking on a new lease of life as the evening began. Scrappy, gaudy and full of noise and life, parts of it almost souk-like, Emma kept stealing glances at Dexter, an anxious tour guide. They crossed the wide bustling Boulevard de Belleville and continued east along the border of the 19th and 20th. Climbing the hill, Emma pointed out the bars she liked, talked about the local history, Piaf and the Paris Commune of 1871, the local Chinese and North African communities, and Dexter halflistened, half-wondered what would happen when they

finally arrived at her flat. Listen, Emma, about what happened . . .

‘ . . . it’s sort of like the Hackney of Paris,’ she was saying.

Dexter smiled that maddening smile. She nudged him. ‘What?!’

‘Only you would go to Paris and find the bit that’s most like Hackney.’

‘It’s interesting. I think so, anyway.’

Eventually they turned down a quiet side street and came to what looked like a garage door where Emma punched a code into a panel and pressed against the heavy gate with her shoulder. They entered into an enclosed courtyard, cluttered and rundown and overlooked by apartments on all sides. Washing hung from rusting balconies, shabby pot plants wilted in the evening sun. The courtyard echoed with the noise of competing TVs and children playing soccer with a tennis ball, and Dexter fought down a little shiver of irritation. Rehearsing this occasion, he had pictured a tree-shaded square, louvred windows, a view of Notre-Dame perhaps. This was all fine enough, chic even in an urban, industrial way, but something more romantic would have made this all a little easier.

‘Like I said, it’s nothing grand. Fifth floor, I’m afraid.’ She pressed the light switch, which was on a timer,

and they began the steep ascent of the wrought-iron stairs, tightly curled and seemingly sheering away from the wall in places. Emma was suddenly conscious of the fact that Dexter’s eyes were exactly level with her backside

and she began nervously reaching back to her skirt to smooth down creases that weren’t there. As they reached the landing of the third floor the timer of the light clicked off, and they found themselves in darkness for a moment, Emma fumbling behind her to find his hand, and leading him up the stairs until they stood outside a door. In the dim light from the transom, they smiled at each other.

‘Here we go. Chez Moi!’

From her bag, she produced an immense bunch of keys, and began work on a complex sequence of locks. After some time the door opened onto a small but pleasant flat with scuffed grey-painted floorboards, a large baggy sofa and a small neat desk overlooking the courtyard, its walls lined with austere-looking books in French, the spines a uniform pale yellow. Fresh roses and fruit stood on the table in a small adjoining kitchen, and through another door Dexter could glimpse the bedroom. They had yet to discuss the sleeping arrangements, but he could see the apartment’s only bed, a large cast-iron affair, quaint and cumbersome like something from a farmhouse. One bedroom, one bed. Evening sunlight shone through the windows, drawing attention to the fact of it. He glanced at the sofa to check that it didn’t fold out into anything. Nope. One bed. He could feel the blood pumping in his chest, though perhaps this was just from the long climb.

She closed the door and there was a silence. ‘So. Here we are!’

‘It’s great.’

‘It’s okay. Kitchen’s through here.’ The climb and

nerves had made Emma thirsty and she crossed to the fridge, opened it and took out a bottle of sparkling water. She had begun to drink, taking great gulps, when suddenly Dexter’s hand was on her shoulder, then he was in front of her somehow, and kissing her. Her mouth still full of the effervescing water, she pursed her lips tight to prevent it squirting in his face like a soda siphon. Leaning away, she pointed at her cheeks, absurdly ballooned like a puffer fish, flapped her hands and made a noise that approximated to ‘hold on a moment’.

Chivalrously, Dexter stepped back to allow her to swallow. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘S’okay. You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘Okay now?’

‘Fine, but Dexter, I have to tell you . . .’

And he was kissing her again, clumsily pressing too hard as she leant backwards over the kitchen table, which suddenly juddered noisily across the floor, so that she had to twist away at the waist to stop the vase of roses falling.

‘Oops.’

‘The thing is, Dex—’ ‘Sorry about that, I just—’ ‘But the thing is—’

‘Bit self-conscious—’ ‘I’ve sort of met someone.’

He actually took a step backwards. ‘You’ve met someone.’

‘A man. A guy. I’m seeing this guy.’ ‘A guy. Right. Okay. So. Who?’

‘He’s called Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre Dusollier.’ ‘He’s French?’

‘No, Dex, he’s Welsh.’

‘No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.’

‘Surprised he’s French, or surprised that I should actually have a boyfriend?’

‘No, just that – well it’s pretty quick, isn’t it? I mean you’ve only been here a couple of weeks. Did you unpack first, or . . .’

‘Two months! I’ve been here two months, and I met Jean-Pierre a month ago.’

‘And where did you meet him?’ ‘In a little bistro near here.’

‘A little bistro. Right. How?’ ‘How?’

‘—did you meet him?’

‘Well, um, I was having dinner by myself, reading a book, and this guy was with some friends and he asked me what I was reading . . .’ Dexter groaned and shook his head, a craftsman deriding another’s handiwork. Emma ignored him and walked through to the living room. ‘And anyway, we got talking—’

Dexter followed. ‘What, in French?’

‘Yes, in French, and we hit it off, and now we’re . . .

seeing each other!’ She flopped onto the sofa. ‘So. Now you know!’

‘Right. I see.’ His eyebrows rose then lowered again, his features contorting as he explored ways to sulk and smile at the same time. ‘Well. Good for you, Em, that’s really great.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Dexter. Like I’m some lonely old lady—’

‘I’m not!’ With feigned nonchalance, he turned to look out the window into the courtyard below. ‘So what’s he like then, this Jean . . .’

‘Jean-Pierre. He’s nice. Very handsome, very charming. An amazing cook, he knows all about food, and wine, and art, and architecture. You know, just very, very . . .

French.’

‘What, you mean rude?’ ‘No—’

‘Dirty?’

‘Dexter!’

‘Wears a string of onions, rides a bike—’ ‘God, you can be unbearable sometimes—’

‘Well what the hell is that supposed to mean, “very French”?’

‘I don’t know, just very cool and laidback and—’ ‘Sexy?—’

‘I didn’t say “sexy”.’

‘No but you’ve gone all sexy, playing with your hair, your shirt unbuttoned—’

‘Such a stupid word, “sexy”—’

‘But you’re having a lot of sex, right?’ ‘Dexter, why are you being so—?’

‘Look at you, you’re glowing, you’ve got a little sweaty glow—’

‘There’s no reason for you to be – why are you anyway?’

‘What?’

‘Being so . . . mean, like I’ve done something wrong!’ ‘I’m not being mean, I just thought . . .’ He stopped, and

turned to look out of the window, his forehead on the glass. ‘I wish you’d told me before I came. I’d have booked a hotel.’

‘You can still stay here! I’ll just sleep with Jean-Pierre tonight.’ Even with his back to her she could tell that he had flinched. ‘Sleep at Jean-Pierre’s tonight.’ She leant forward on the sofa, her face cupped in both hands. ‘What did you think was going to happen, Dexter?’

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled at the windowpane. ‘Not this.’

‘Well, I’m sorry.’

‘Why do you think I came to see you, Em?’

‘For a break. To get away from things. See the sights!’ ‘I came to talk about what happened. You and me, finally getting together.’ He picked at the putty on the windows with his fingernail. ‘I just thought it would have

been a bigger deal for you. That’s all.’ ‘We’ve slept together once, Dexter.’ ‘Three times!’

‘I don’t mean how many acts of intercourse, Dex, I mean the occasion, the night, we spent one night together.

’

‘And I just thought it might have been something worth remarking on! Next thing I know you’ve run off to Paris and thrown yourself under the nearest Frenchman—’

‘I didn’t “run off”, the ticket was already booked! Why do you think that everything that happens happens because of you?’

‘And you couldn’t phone me up maybe, before you . . . ?’

‘What, to ask your permission?’ ‘No, to see how I felt about it!’

‘Hang on a minute – you’re annoyed because we haven’t examined our feelings? You’re annoyed because you think I should have waited for you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘Maybe!’

‘My God, Dexter, are you . . . are you actually jealous?’ ‘Of course I’m not!’

‘So why are you sulking?’ ‘I’m not sulking.’

‘Look at me then!’

He did so, petulant, his arms crossed high on his chest, and Emma couldn’t help but laugh.

‘What? What?’ he asked, indignant.

‘Well you do realise there’s a certain amount of irony in this, Dex.’

‘How is this ironic?’

‘You getting all conventional and . . . monogamous all of a sudden.’

He said nothing for a moment, then turned back to the window.

More conciliatory, she said, ‘Look – we were both a little drunk.’

‘I wasn’t that drunk . . .’

‘You took your trousers off over your shoes, Dex!’ Still he wouldn’t turn around. ‘Don’t stand over by the window. Come and sit here, will you?’ She lifted her bare feet up onto the sofa and curled her legs beneath her. He bumped

the pane of glass with his forehead once, twice, then without meeting her eye, crossed the room and slumped next to her, a child sent home from school. She rested her feet against his thighs.

‘Alright, you want to talk about that night? Let’s talk about it.’

He said nothing. She poked him with her toes, and when he finally looked at her, she spoke. ‘Okay. I’ll go first.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think that you were very upset and a little bit drunk and you came to see me that night and it just . . . happened. I think with all the misery of breaking up with Sylvie, and moving out and not seeing Jasmine, you were feeling a little lonely and you just needed a shoulder to cry on. Or to sleep with. And that’s what I was. A shoulder to sleep with.’

‘So that’s what you think?’ ‘That’s what I think.’

‘. . . and you only slept with me to make me feel better?’

‘Did you feel better?’ ‘Yes, much better.’

‘Well so did I, so there you go. It worked.’

‘. . . but that’s not the point.’

‘Well there are worse reasons to sleep with someone. You should know.’

‘But pity sex?’

‘Not pity, compassion.’ ‘Don’t tease me, Em.’

‘I’m not, I just . . . it was nothing to do with pity, and you know it. But it’s . . . complicated. Us. Come here, will you?’