David Nicholls - One Day

television and chat, while the breast pump whirrs and chugs away, giving the living room the atmosphere of a milking shed. Another big night in the life of a Godmother.

There are conversations Emma no longer wants to have and they al concern babies. The first few were novel enough, and yes, there was something intriguing, funny and touching about seeing your friends‘ features blended and fused in miniature like that. And of course there is always joy in witnessing the joy of others.

But not that much joy, and this year it seems that every time she leaves the house some new infant is being jammed in her face. She feels the same dread as when someone produces a brick-sized pile of their holiday snaps: great that you had a nice time, but what‘s it got to do with me? To this end, Emma has a fascinated-face that she puts on when a friend tel s her about the miseries of labour, what drugs were used, whether they caved and went for the epidural, the agony, the joy.

But there‘s nothing transferable about the miracle of childbirth, or parenthood in general. Emma doesn‘t want to talk about the strain of broken sleep; hadn‘t they heard rumours of this in advance? Neither does she want to have to remark on the baby‘s smile, or how it started off looking like the mother but now looks like the father or started off looking like the father but now has the mother‘s mouth.

And what is this obsession with the size of the hands, the tiny little hands with the tiny, tiny fingernails, when in a way it‘s big hands that would be more remarkable. ‗Look at baby‘s massive great flapping hands!‘ Now that would be worth talking about.

‗I‘m fal ing asleep,‘ says Adam, Stephanie‘s husband, from the armchair, his head supported by his fist.

‗Maybe I should go,‘ says Emma.

‗No! Stay!‘ says Stephanie, but doesn‘t provide a reason.

Emma eats another Kettle Chip. What has happened to her friends? They used to be funny and fun-loving, gregarious and interesting, but far too many evenings have been spent like this with pasty, irritable hol ow-eyed couples in smel y rooms, expressing wonder that baby is getting bigger with time, rather than smal er. She is tired of squealing in delight when she sees a baby crawl, as if this was a completely unexpected development, this ‗crawling‘.

What were they expecting, flight? She is indifferent to the smel of a baby‘s head. She tried it once, and it smelt like the back of a watchstrap.

Her phone rings in her bag. She picks it up and glances at Dexter‘s name but doesn‘t bother answering. No, she doesn‘t want to go al the way from Whitechapel to Richmond to watch him blowing raspberries on little Jasmine‘s bel y. She is particularly bored by this, her male friends performing their New Young Dad act: harassed but good-tempered, weary but modern in their regulation jacket with jeans, paunchy in their ribbed tops with that proud, selfregarding little look they give as they toss junior in the air.

Bold pioneers, the first men in the history of the world to get a little wee on their corduroy, a little vomit in their hair.

Of course, she can‘t say any of this out loud. There‘s something unnatural about a woman finding babies or, more specifical y, conversation about babies, boring.

They‘l think she‘s bitter, jealous, lonely. But she‘s also bored of everybody tel ing her how lucky she is, what with al that sleep and al that freedom and spare time, the ability to go on dates or head off to Paris at a moment‘s notice. It sounds like they‘re consoling her, and she resents this and feels patronised by it. It‘s not like she‘s even going to Paris! In particular, she is bored of jokes about the biological clock, from her friends, her family, in films and on TV. The most idiotic, witless word in the English language is ‗singleton‘, fol owed closely by ‗chocoholic‘, and she refuses to be part of any Sunday supplement lifestyle phenomenon. Yes, she understands the debate, the practical imperatives, but it‘s a situation entirely out of her control. And yes, occasional y she tries to picture herself in a blue hospital gown, sweaty and in agony, but the face of the man holding her hand remains stubbornly blurred, and it‘s a fantasy she chooses not to dwel on.

When it happens, if it happens, she wil adore the child, remark on its tiny hands and even the smel of its scrofulous little head. She wil debate epidurals, lack of sleep, colic, whatever the hel that is. One day she might even bring herself to coo at a pair of booties. But in the meantime she‘s going to keep her distance, and stay calm and serene and above it al . Having said that, the first one to cal her Aunty Emma gets a punch in the face.

Stephanie has finished expressing and is showing her breast milk to Adam, holding it up to the light like a fine wine. It‘s a great little breast pump, they al agree.

‗My turn next!‘ says Emma, but no-one laughs and right on cue the baby wakes upstairs.

‗What someone needs to invent,‘ says Adam, ‗is a chloroformed baby wipe.‘

Stephanie sighs and trudges out, and Emma decides she wil definitely head home soon. She can stay up late, work on the manuscript. The phone buzzes

again. A message from Dexter, asking her to schlep out to Surrey to keep him company.

She turns the phone off.

‗ . . . I know it‘s a long way, it‘s just I think I might be suffering from post-natal depression. Get in a cab, I‘l pay. Sylvie‘s not here! Not that it makes any difference, I know, but . . . there‘s a spare bedroom, if you wanted to stay over. Anyway, cal me if you get this. Bye.‘ He hesitates, says another ‗Bye‘

and hangs up. A pointless message. He blinks and shakes his head, and pours more wine. Scrol ing through the phone‘s address book, he comes to S for Suki

Mobile.

Initial y there is no reply, and he finds himself relieved, because after al what good can come of it, the phone-cal to an old girlfriend? He‘s about to hang up, when suddenly he hears the distinctive bel ow.

‗HELLO!‘

‗Hey there!‘ He dusts off his presenter‘s smile.

‗WHO IS THIS?‘ She‘s shouting over the sound of a party, a restaurant perhaps.

‗Make some noise!‘

‗WHAT? WHO IS THIS?‘

‗You have to guess!‘

‗WHAT? I CAN‘T HEAR YOU . . .‘

‗I said ―guess who?‖ . . .‘

‗I CAN‘T HEAR YOU, WHO IS THIS?‘

‗You have to guess!‘

‗WHO?‘

‗I SAID YOU HAVE TO . . .‘ The game has become exhausting, so he just says ‗It‘s Dexter!‘

There‘s a moment‘s pause.

‗Dexter? Dexter Mayhew? ‘

‗How many Dexters do you know, Suki?‘

‗No, I know which Dexter, I‘m just, like . . . WAHEY, DEXTER! Hel o, Dexter! Hold on . . .‘ He hears the scrape of a chair and imagines eyes fol owing her, intrigued, as she leaves the restaurant table and walks into a corridor. ‗So how are you, Dexter?‘

‗I‘m fine, I‘m fine, I‘m just, you know, phoning to say I saw you tonight on the tel y, and it got me thinking about old times, and I thought I‘d phone and say Hi. You looked great by the way. On TV. And I like the show. Great format.‘ Great format? You clown. ‗So. How are you, Suki?‘

‗Oh, I‘m fine, I‘m fine.‘

‗You‘re everywhere! You‘re doing real y wel ! Real y!‘

‗Thank you. Thanks.‘

There‘s a silence. Dexter‘s thumb caresses the off button. Hang up. Pretend the line‘s gone down. Hang up, hang up, hang up . . .

‗It‘s been, what, five years, Dex!‘

‗I know, I was thinking about you just now, because I saw you on TV. And you looked great by the way. And how are you?‘ Don’t say that, you’ve said that already. Concentrate!

‗I mean, where are you? It‘s very noisy . . .‘

‗A restaurant. I‘m having dinner, with some mates.‘

‗Anyone I know?‘

‗Don‘t think so. They‘re kind of new friends.‘

New friends. Could that be hostility? ‗Right. Okay.‘

‗So. Where are you, Dexter?‘

‗Oh, I‘m at home.‘

‗Home? On a Saturday night? That‘s not like you!‘

‗Wel , you know . . .‘ and he‘s about to tel her that he‘s married, has a kid, lives in the suburbs, but feels that this might serve to underline the sheer futility of the phone-cal , so instead stays silent. The pause goes on for some time.

He notices that there‘s an epaulette of snot on the cotton sweater he once wore to Pacha, and he has become aware of the new scent on his fingertips, an unholy cocktail of nappy sacks and prawn crackers.

Suki speaks. ‗So, main course has just arrived . . .‘

‗Okay, wel , anyway, I was just thinking about old times, and thinking it would be nice to see you! You know for lunch or a drink or something . . .‘

The background music fades as if Suki has stepped into some private corner. In a hardened voice she says, ‗You know what, Dexter? I don‘t think that‘s such a good idea.‘

‗Oh, right.‘

‗I mean I haven‘t seen you for five years now, and I think when that happens there‘s usual y a reason, don‘t you?‘

‗I just thought—‘

‗I mean it‘s not as if you were ever that nice to me, never that interested, you were off your face most of the time—‘

‗Oh, that‘s not true!‘

‗You weren‘t even faithful to me, for fuck‘s sake, you were usual y off fucking some runner or waitress or whatever so I don‘t know where you get off now, phoning up like we‘re old pals and getting nostalgic about ―old times‖, our golden six months that were, quite frankly, pretty shitty for me.‘

‗Alright, Suki, you‘ve made your point.‘

‗And anyway I‘m with another guy, a real y, real y nice guy, and I‘m very happy. In fact he‘s waiting for me right now.‘

‗Fine! So go! GO!‘ Upstairs, Jasmine starts to cry, with embarrassment perhaps.

‗You can‘t just get pissed-up and phone out of the blue and expect me—‘

‗I‘m not, I only, Jesus, okay, fine, forget it!‘ Jasmine‘s howl is echoing down the bare wooden stairs.

‗What‘s that noise?‘

‗It‘s a baby.‘

‗Whose baby?‘

‗My baby. I have a daughter. A baby daughter. Seven months old.‘

There‘s a silence, just long enough for Dexter to visibly wither, then Suki says:

‗Then why the hel are you asking me out?‘

‗Just. You know. A friendly drink.‘

‗ I have friends,‘ says Suki, very quietly. ‗I think you‘d better go and see to your daughter, don‘t you Dex?‘ and she hangs up.

For a while he just sits and listens to the dead line.

Eventual y he lowers the phone, stares at it, then shakes his head vigorously as if he has just been slapped. He has been slapped.

‗Wel , that went wel ,‘ he murmurs.

Address Book, Edit Contact, Delete Contact. ‗Are you sure you want to delete Suki Mobile?‘ asks the phone. Fuck me, yes, yes, delete her, yes! He jabs at the buttons.

Contact Deleted says the phone, but it‘s not enough; Contact Eradicated, Contact Vaporised, that‘s what he needs. Jasmine‘s crying is reaching the peak of its first cycle, so he stands suddenly and hurls the phone against the wal where it leaves a black scratch mark on the Farrow and Bal . He throws it again to leave a second.

Cursing Suki, cursing himself for being so stupid, he makes up a smal bottle of milk, screws the lid on tight, puts it in his pocket, grabs the wine then runs up the stairs towards Jasmine‘s cry, an awful hoarse rasping sound now that seems to tear at the back of her throat. He bursts into the room.

‗For fuck‘s sake, Jasmine, just shut up, wil you?!‘ he shouts, instantly clapping his hand to his mouth with shame as he sees her sitting up in the cot, eyes wide in distress.

Scooping her up, he sits with his back against the wal , absorbing her cries into his chest, then lays her in his lap, strokes her forehead with great tenderness, and when this doesn‘t work he starts to gently stroke the back of her head.

Isn‘t there meant to be some secret pressure spot that you rub with your thumb?

He circles the palm of her hand as it clenches and unclenches angrily. Nothing helps, his big fat fingers trying this, fumbling with that, nothing working.

Perhaps she‘s not wel , he thinks, or perhaps he is just not her mother. Useless father, useless husband, useless boyfriend, useless son.

But what if she is unwel ? Could be colic, he thinks. Or teething, is she teething? Anxiety is starting to grip. Should she go to hospital? Perhaps, except of course he‘s too drunk to drive now. Useless, useless, useless man. ‗Come on, concentrate,‘ he says aloud. There‘s some medicine on the shelf, on it the words ‗may cause drowsiness‘ – the most beautiful words in the English language.

Once it was ‗do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?‘ Now it‘s ‗may cause drowsiness‘.

He bounces Jasmine on his knee until she‘s a little quieter, then puts the loaded spoon to her lips until he judges that 5ml has been swal owed. The next twenty minutes are spent putting on a demented cabaret, manical y waggling talking animals at her. He runs through his limited repertoire of funny voices, pleading in high and low pitches and various regional accents for her to shush now, there there, go to sleep. He holds picture books in front of her face, lifting flaps, pul ing tabs, jabbing at pages saying

‗Duck! Cow! Choo-choo train! See the funny tiger, see it!‘

He puts on deranged puppet shows. A plastic chimpanzee sings the first verse of

‗Wheels on the Bus‘ over and over again, Tinky Winky performs ‗Old MacDonald‘, a stuffed pig gives her ‗Into the Groove‘ for no reason. Together they squeeze beneath the arches of the baby gym and work out together. He stuffs his mobile phone into her little hands, lets her press the buttons, dribble into the keypad, listen to the speaking clock until final y, merciful y, she‘s quieter, just whimpering now, stil wide awake but content.

There‘s a CD player in the room, a chunky Fisher Price in the shape of a steam train, and he kicks through discarded books and toys and presses play. Relaxing Classics for Tots, part of Sylvie‘s total baby-mind-control project. The ‗Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy‘ sounds from tinny speakers. ‗Tuuuuuune!‘ he shouts, turns up the volume by way of the steam train‘s funnel and starts to waltz woozily around the room, Jasmine close to his chest. She stretches now, her tapered fingers bal ing into fists then flexing, and for the first time looks at her father with something other than a scowl. He catches a momentary glimpse of his own face smiling back up at him. She smacks her lips, eyes wide.

She is laughing. ‗That‘s my girl!‘ he says, ‗that‘s my beauty.‘

His spirits lift and he has an idea.

Draping Jasmine over his shoulder, banging against door jambs on the way, he runs down to the kitchen where three large cardboard boxes temporarily hold al his CDs until the shelves are up. There are thousands of them, freebies mainly, the legacy of when he was held to be influential and the sight of them sends him back in time to his DJ days when he used to wander round Soho wearing those

ridiculous headphones. He kneels and fishes through the box with one hand. The trick is not to make Jasmine sleep, the trick is to try and keep her awake, and to this end they‘re going to have a party, just the two of them, better by far than any night-club Hoxton can offer. Screw Suki Meadows, he‘s going to DJ for his daughter.

Energised now, he quarries deeper through the geological layers of the CDs that represent ten years of fashion, picking out the occasional disc, stacking them up in a pile on the floor, warming to his plan. Acid Jazz and break-beats, 70s funk and acid house, give way to deep and progressive house, electronica and big beat and Balearic and compilations with the word ‗chil ‘ in and even a smal , unconvincing selection of drum and bass. Looking through old music should be a pleasure, but he‘s surprised to find that even the sight of the artwork makes him feel anxious and jittery, tied up as it is with memories of sleepless, paranoid nights with strangers in his flat, idiotic conversations with friends he no longer knows. Dance music makes him anxious now. This must be it then, he thinks, this is getting old.

Then he sees the spine of a CD; Emma‘s writing. It‘s a compilation CD she made on her flashy new computer for his 35th birthday last August, just before his wedding. The compilation is cal ed ‗Eleven Years‘ and on the homemade inlay slip is a photograph, smudgy from Emma‘s cheap home printer, but nevertheless it is stil possible to make out the two of them sitting on a mountainside, the peak of Arthur‘s Seat, the extinct volcano that looms over Edinburgh.

It must have been that morning after graduation, what, twelve years ago? In the photo, Dexter in a white shirt leans against a boulder with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Emma sits a little distance away with her knees brought up to her chest, her chin on her knees. She wears 501s cinched tight at the waist, is a little plumper then than now, gawky and awkward with a ragged fringe of hennaed hair shading her eyes. It‘s the expression that she has used in photos ever since, smiling one-sidedly with her mouth closed. Dexter peers at her face and laughs. He shows it to Jasmine.

‗Look at that! It‘s your godmother, Emma! Look how thin your dad was. Look – cheekbones. Daddy once had cheekbones.‘ Jasmine laughs soundlessly.

Back in Jasmine‘s bedroom he sets her in the corner and takes the CD out of the case. Tucked inside is a tightly written postcard, his birthday card from last year.

1st August 1999. Here it is – a homemade present. Keep telling yourself – it’s the thought that counts it’s the thought that counts. This is a loving CD reproduction of a cassette compilation I made for you ages ago. None of your chill-out rubbish; proper songs. Hope you enjoy this. Happy Birthday, Dexter,

and congratulations on all your great news – A husband! A father! You will be great at both.

It’s good to have you back. Remember, I love you very much. Your old friend

Emma x

He smiles, and puts the disc in the player that is shaped like a steam train.

It starts with Massive Attack, ‗Unfinished Sympathy‘ and he picks up Jasmine and bounces at the knees with his feet planted, mumbling the words into his daughter‘s ear. Old pop music, two bottles of wine and no sleep are combining to make him feel light-headed and sentimental now. He cranks up the Fisher Price train as loud as it wil go.

And then it‘s The Smiths, ‗There is a Light That Never Goes Out‘, and though he never particularly cared for The Smiths he continues to bob around, head down, twenty again, drunk at a student disco. He is singing quite loudly, it‘s embarrassing, but he doesn‘t care. In the smal bedroom of a terraced house, dancing with his daughter to music from a toy train, he suddenly has an intense feeling of contentment. More than contentment – elation. He spins, and steps on a pul -along wooden dog, and stumbles like a street drunk, steadying himself with one hand against the wall. Whoa there, steady boy, he says aloud, then looks down at Jasmine to see she‘s okay and she‘s fine, she‘s laughing, his own beautiful, beautiful daughter. There is a light that never goes out.

And now it‘s ‗Walk On By‘, a song his mother used to play when he was a kid.

He remembers Alison dancing to it in the living room, a cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other. He settles Jasmine on his shoulder, feeling her breath on his neck, and takes her other hand in his, kicking through the debris in an oldfashioned slow-dance. Through the middle of exhaustion and red wine he has a sudden desire to talk to Emma, to tel her what he‘s listening to, and as if on cue his phone rings just as the song fades. He forages amongst the discarded toys and books; perhaps it‘s Emma, cal ing back. The display says ‗Sylvie‘ and he swears; he must answer. Sober, sober, sober, he tel s himself. He leans against the cot, settles Jasmine in his lap and takes the cal .

‗Hel o, Sylvie!‘

At that moment Public Enemy‘s ‗Fight the Power‘

suddenly kicks out from the Fisher Price, and he scrambles to jab at the stumpy buttons.

‗What was that?‘

‗Just some music. Jasmine and I are having a little party, aren‘t we, Jas? I mean Jasmine.‘

‗She‘s stil awake?‘

‗‘fraid so.‘

Sylvie sighs. ‗What have you been up to?‘

I have smoked cigarettes, got drunk, doped our baby, phoned old girlfriends, trashed the house, danced around mumbling to myself. I have fallen over like a drunk in the street.

‗Oh, just hanging out, watching tel y. How about you?

Having fun?‘

‗It‘s okay. Everyone‘s off their face of course—‘

‗Except you.‘

‗I‘m too exhausted to get drunk.‘

‗It‘s very quiet. Where are you?‘

‗In my hotel room. I‘m just going to have a lie-down, then go back for the next wave.‘ As she speaks, Dexter takes in the wreck of Jasmine‘s room – the milksodden sheets, the scattered toys and books, the empty wine bottle and greasy glass.

‗How‘s Jasmine?‘

‗She‘s smiling, aren‘t you, sweetheart? It‘s Mummy on the phone.‘ Dutiful y he presses the phone to Jasmine‘s ear, but she remains silent. It‘s no fun for anyone, so he takes it away. ‗Me again.‘

‗But you‘ve managed.‘

‗Of course. Did you ever doubt me?‘ There was a moment‘s pause. ‗You should get back to your party.‘

‗Perhaps I should. I‘l see you tomorrow. About lunch time. I‘l be back at, I don‘t know, eleven-ish.‘

‗Fine. Goodnight then.‘

‗Goodnight, Dexter.‘