David Nicholls - One Day

be. He has a partner whom he loves and desires and who is also his best friend. He has a beautiful, intel igent daughter. He does alright. Everything wil be fine, just as long as nothing ever changes.

Two miles away, just off the Hornsey Road, Emma climbs the flights of stairs, unlocks the front door and feels the cool, stale air of a flat that has been unoccupied for four days.

She makes tea, sits at her desk, turns on her computer, and stares at it for the best part of an hour. There‘s a lot to do –

scripts for the second series of ‗Julie Criscol ‘ to read and approve, five hundred words of the third volume to write, il ustrations to work on. There are letters and emails from young readers, earnest and often disconcertingly personal notes that she must give some attention to, about loneliness and being bul ied and this boy I real y, real y like.

But her mind keeps slipping back to Dexter‘s proposal.

During the long, strange summer in Paris last year they had made certain resolutions about their future together – if in fact they did have a future together

– and central to the scheme was that they would not live together: separate lives, separate flats, separate friends. They would endeavour to be together, and faithful of course, but not in any conventional way. No traipsing around estate agents at the weekend, no joint dinner parties, no Valentine‘s Day flowers, none of the paraphernalia of coupledom or domesticity. Both of them had tried it, neither had succeeded.

She had imagined this arrangement to be sophisticated, modern, a new design for living. But so much effort is required to pretend that they don‘t want to be together that it has recently seemed inevitable that one of them wil crack.

She just hadn‘t expected it to be Dexter. One subject has remained largely unspoken, and now there seems to be no way to avoid it. She wil have to take a deep breath and just say the word. Children. No, not ‗children‘, best not scare him, better use the singular. She wants a child.

They have spoken about it before, in a roundabout facetious way, and he has made noises about maybe, in the future, when things are a little bit more settled. But how much more settled can things be? The subject sits there in the middle of the room and they keep walking into it. It‘s there every time her parents telephone, it‘s there every time she and Dexter make love (less frequently now than in the debauch of the flat in Paris, but stil often enough). It keeps her awake at night. Sometimes it seems that she can chart her life by what she worries about at three a.m. Once it was boys, then for too long it was money, then

career, then her relationship with Ian, then her infidelity. Now it is this. She is thirty-six years old, a child is what she wants, and if he doesn‘t want it too, then perhaps they had better . . .

What? Cal it a day? It seems melodramatic and degrading to issue that kind of ultimatum, and the thought of carrying out the threat seems inconceivable, for the moment at least. But she resolves that she wil raise the subject tonight. No, not tonight, not with Jasmine staying, but soon.

Soon.

After a distracted morning of time-wasting, Emma goes for a lunch-time swim, ploughing up and down the lanes yet stil unable to clear her head. Then with her hair stil wet she cycles back to Dexter‘s flat and arrives to find an immense, vaguely sinister black 4x4 waiting outside the house. It‘s a gangsters‘ car, two silhouettes visible against the windscreen, one broad and short, the other tal and slim; Sylvie and Cal um, both gesticu lating wildly in the middle of another argument. Even from across the road Emma can hear them, and as she wheels her bike closer she can see Cal um‘s snarled face, and Jasmine in the back seat, eyes fixed on a picture book in an attempt to filter out the noise.

Emma taps the window nearest Jasmine and sees her look up and grin, tiny white teeth in a wide mouth, straining forwards against her seatbelt to get out.

Through the car window, Emma and Cal um nod. There‘s something of the playground about the etiquette of infidelity, separation and divorce, but al egiances have been declared, enmities sworn, and despite having known him for nearly twenty years Emma must no longer talk directly to Cal um. As for the exwife, Sylvie and Emma have settled on a tone, self-consciously bright and grudge-free, but even so dislike shimmers between them like a heat haze.

‗Sorry about that!‘ says Sylvie, unfolding her long legs from the car. ‗Just a little disagreement about how much luggage we‘re taking!‘

‗Holidays can be stressful,‘ says Emma, meaninglessly.

Jasmine is unbuckled from her car seat, and clambers up into Emma‘s arms, her face pressed into her neck, skinny legs wrapped around Emma‘s hips. Emma smiles, a little embarrassed, as if to say ‗what can I do?‘ and Sylvie smiles back, a smile so stiff and unnatural that it‘s surprising she doesn‘t have to use her fingers.

‗Where‘s Daddy?‘ says Jasmine into Emma‘s neck.

‗He‘s at work, he‘l be back very soon.‘

Emma and Sylvie smile some more.

‗How is that going then?‘ Sylvie manages. ‗The café?‘

‗Real y wel , real y wel .‘

‗Wel I‘m sorry not to see him. Send him my love.‘

More silence. Cal um gives her a nudge by starting the engine.

‗Do you want to come in?‘ asks Emma, knowing the answer.

‗No, we should head off.‘

‗Where is it again?‘

‗Mexico.‘

‗Mexico. Lovely.‘

‗You‘ve been?‘

‗No, though I worked in a Mexican restaurant once.‘

Sylvie actual y tuts, and Cal um‘s voice booms from the front seat. ‗Come on! I want to avoid the traffic!‘

Jasmine is passed back into the car for goodbyes and be-goods and not-too- much-TV and Emma discreetly takes Jasmine‘s luggage inside, a candy-pink vinyl suitcase on wheels and a rucksack in the form of a panda. When she comes back Jasmine is waiting rather formal y on the pavement, a pile of picture books held against her chest.

She is pretty, chic, immaculate, a little mournful, every inch her mother‘s child, very much not Emma‘s.

‗We must go. Check-in‘s a nightmare these days.‘ Sylvie tucks her long legs back into the car like some sort of folding knife. Cal um stares forwards.

‗So. Enjoy Mexico. Enjoy your snorkel ing.‘

‗Not snorkel ing, scuba-diving. Snorkel ing is what children do,‘ says Sylvie, unintentional y harsh.

Emma bridles. ‗I‘m sorry. Scuba-diving! Don‘t drown!‘

Sylvie raises her eyebrows, her mouth forming a little ‗o‘ and what can Emma say? I meant it, Sylvie, please don’t drown, I don’t want you to drown? Too late,

the damage is done, the il usion of sorority shattered. Sylvie stamps a kiss on the top of Jasmine‘s head, slams the door and is gone.

Emma and Jasmine stand and wave.

‗So, Min, your dad‘s not back until six. What do you want to do?‘

‗Don‘t know.‘

‗It‘s early. We could go to the zoo?‘

Jasmine nods vigorously. Emma holds a family pass to the zoo, and she goes inside to get ready for another afternoon spent with someone else‘s daughter.

In the big black car the former Mrs Mayhew sits with her arms folded, her head resting against the smoky glass, her feet tucked up beneath her on the seat while Cal um swears at the traffic on the Euston Road. They rarely speak these days, just shout and hiss, and this holiday, like the others, is an attempt to patch things up.

The last year of her life has not been a success. Cal um has revealed himself to be boorish and mean. What she took to be drive and ambition have proved to be an unwil ingness to come home at nights. She suspects him of affairs. He seems to resent Sylvie‘s presence in his home, and Jasmine‘s presence too; he shouts at her for merely behaving like a child, or avoids her company altogether. He barks absurd slogans at her: ‗Quid pro quo, Jasmine, quid pro quo.‘ She‘s two and a half, for goodness‘ sake. For al his ineptness and irresponsibility at least Dexter was keen, too keen sometimes. Cal um on the other hand treats Jasmine like a member of staff who just isn‘t working out.

And if her family were wary of Dexter, they actively despise Cal um.

Now, whenever she sees her ex-husband he is smiling, smiling away advertising his happiness like the member of some cult. He throws Jasmine in the air, gives her piggybacks, displays at every opportunity what a wonderful dad he has become. And this Emma person too, al Jasmine talks about is Emma-this and Emma-that and how Emma is her daughter‘s best, best friend. She brings home pieces of pasta glued to coloured card and when Sylvie asks what it is, she says it‘s Emma, then chatters on and on about how they went to the zoo together. They have a family pass, apparently. God, the insufferable smugness of the pair of them, Dex and Em, Em and Dex, him with his chintzy little corner shop – Cal um has forty-eight branches of Natural Stuff now, by the way – and her with her push-bike and thickening waist, her studenty demeanour and wry bloody outlook. To Sylvie‘s mind there‘s also something sinister and calculating in the

fact that Emma has been promoted from godmother to stepmother, as if she was always lurking there, circling, waiting to make her move. Don’t drown!

Cheeky cow.

Beside her, Cal um swears at the traffic on the Marylebone Road and Sylvie feels intense resentment at the happiness of others, combined with misery at finding herself on the wrong team for once. Sadness too, at how ugly and ungracious and spiteful al of these thoughts are. After al , it was she who left Dexter and who broke his heart.

Now Cal um is swearing at the traffic on the Westway.

She wants to have another child sometime soon, but how?

Ahead of her lies a week‘s scuba-diving at a luxury hotel in Mexico, and she knows already that this is not going to be enough.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

bigdayspeech.doc

TUESDAY 15 JULY 2003

North Yorkshire

The holiday cottage was not at al like in the photographs.

Smal and dark, it had that holiday cottage smel , air-freshener and stale cupboards, and seemed to have retained the winter‘s chil in its thick stone wal s, so that even on a blazing July day it felt chil y and damp.

Stil , it didn‘t seem to matter. It was functional, isolated and the view of the

North Yorkshire Moors was startling, even through the tiny windows. Most days they were out walking or driving along the coast, visiting antiquated seaside resorts that Emma remembered from childhood excursions, dusty little towns that seemed stuck in 1976.

Today, the fourth day of the trip, they were in Filey, walking along the broad promenade that overlooks the great expanse of beach, stil fairly empty on a Tuesday during term-time.

‗See over there? That‘s where my sister got bitten by a dog.‘

‗That‘s interesting. What kind of dog?‘

‗Oh I‘m sorry, am I boring you?‘

‗Only a little.‘

‗Wel tough, I‘m afraid. Four more days to go.‘

In the afternoon, they were meant to go on some ambitious hike to a waterfal that Emma had planned the night before, but after an hour they found themselves on the moors staring uncomprehendingly at the Ordnance Survey map before giving up, lying down on the parched heather and dozing in the sun. Emma had brought along a bird guide and an immense pair of ex-army binoculars, the size and weight of a diesel engine, which she now raised with some effort to her eyes.

‗Look, up there. I think it‘s a hen harrier.‘

‗Hmmm.‘

‗Have a look. Go on – up there.‘

‗I‘m not interested. I‘m sleeping.‘

‗How can you not be interested? It‘s beautiful.‘

‗I‘m too young to birdwatch.‘

Emma laughed. ‗You‘re being ridiculous, you know that.‘

‗It‘s bad enough that we‘re rambling. It‘l be classical music next.‘

‗Too cool to birdwatch—‘

‗Then it‘l be gardening, then you‘l be buying jeans in Marks and Spencer‘s, you‘l want to move to the country.

We‘l cal each other ―darling‖. I‘ve seen it happen, Em. It‘s a slippery slope.‘

She raised herself on one arm, leant across and kissed him. ‗Remind me again, why am I marrying you?‘

‗It‘s not too late to cancel.‘

‗Would we stil get our deposit back?‘

‗Don‘t think so.‘

‗Okay.‘ She kissed him again. ‗Let me think about it.‘

They were getting married in November, a smal , discreet winter wedding at a registry office, fol owed by a smal , restrained reception for close friends and family at a favoured local restaurant. It was, they insisted, not real y a wedding, more an excuse for a party. The vows would be secular and not too sentimental and had yet to be written; almost too embarrassing, they imagined, actual y to sit face-to-face and compose those promises to each other.

‗Can‘t we just use the vows you made to your ex-wife?‘

‗But you are stil going to promise to obey me, right?‘

‗Only if you vow that you‘l never, ever get into golf.‘

‗And you‘re going to take my surname?‘

‗―Emma Mayhew‖. Could be worse, I suppose.‘

‗You could hyphenate.‘

‗Morley-Mayhew. Sounds like a vil age in the Cotswolds.

―We‘ve got a little place just outside Morley-Mayhew‖.‘

And this was how they approached the big day: flippant, but privately, discreetly elated too.

This week in Yorkshire was their last chance of a holiday before their modest, discreet big day. Emma had a deadline and Dexter was anxious about leaving the business for a whole week, but at least the trip al owed them to stop off at

Emma‘s parents, an event that her mother had treated like an overnight visit by royalty. Serviettes were on the table, rather than the usual kitchen rol , there was trifle and a bottle of Perrier in the fridge. After the end of Emma‘s relationship with Ian it had seemed that Sue Morley would never love again and yet, if anything, she was even more fixated on Dexter, flirting in a bizarre, overenunciated voice, like a coquettish speaking clock. Dutiful y, Dexter flirted back, while the rest of the Morley family could do nothing but stare silently at the floor tiles and try not to laugh. Sue didn‘t care; to her it seemed as if a longheld fantasy was final y coming true: her daughter was actual y marrying Prince Andrew.

Watching him through her family‘s eyes, Emma had felt proud of Dexter; he twinkled at Sue, was boyish and funny with her cousins, seemed sincerely interested in her father‘s koi carp and United‘s chances in the league. Only Emma‘s younger sister seemed sceptical of his appeal and sincerity.

Divorced with two boys now, resentful and perpetual y exhausted, Marianne was not in the mood for another wedding. They spoke that night while washing up.

‗Why‘s Mum talking in that daft voice, that‘s what I want to know.‘

‗She likes him.‘ Emma nudged her sister‘s arm. ‗You like him too, don‘t you?‘

‗He‘s nice. I like him. Just I thought he was meant to be some famous shagger or summat.‘

‗A long time ago, maybe. Not now.‘

And Marianne had sniffed and visibly resisted saying something about leopards and their spots.

They abandoned the search for the waterfal , and instead drove back to the local pub, eating crisps and playing closely matched games of pool through the late afternoon.

‗I don‘t think your sister likes me very much,‘ said Dexter, racking up the bal s for the deciding game.

‗Course she does.‘

‗She barely spoke a word to me.‘

‗She‘s just shy and a bit grumpy. She‘s like that, our sis.‘

Dexter smiled. ‗Your accent.‘

‗What about it?‘

‗You‘ve got dead Northern since we‘ve been up here.‘

‗Have I?‘

‗Soon as we hit the M1.‘

‗Don‘t mind, do you?‘

‗Don‘t mind at al . Whose turn to break?‘

Emma won the game, and they walked back to the cottage in the evening light, woozy and affectionate from beer on an empty stomach. A working holiday, the plan had been to spend the day together and for Emma to work at night, but the trip had coincided with the most fertile days of Emma‘s cycle, and they were

obliged to take ful advantage of these opportunities now. ‗What, again?‘ mumbled Dexter as Emma closed the door and kissed him.

‗Only if you want to.‘

‗No, I do. It‘s just I feel a bit like I‘m on a . . . stud farm or something.‘

‗Oh, you are. You are.‘

By nine o‘clock, Emma was asleep in the large, uncomfortable bed. It was stil light outside, and for a while Dexter lay listening to her breathing, looking out at the smal patch of purple moor that could be seen through the bedroom window. Stil restless, he slid from the bed, pul ed on some clothes and stepped quietly downstairs to the kitchen, where he rewarded himself with a glass of wine and wondered what they were supposed to do now. Dexter, who was used to the wilds of Oxfordshire, found this kind of isolation unnerving. It was too much to hope for a broadband connection, but in the brochure the cottage had also proudly boasted its lack of a television, and the silence made him anxious. On his iPod he selected some Thelonious Monk –

he found himself listening to more jazz these days – then flopped back onto the sofa, releasing a cloud of dust, and picked up his book. Half-jokingly, Emma had bought him a copy of Wuthering Heights to read on the trip, but he found the book almost entirely unreadable so instead he reached for his laptop, opened it and stared at the screen.

In a folder cal ed ‗Personal Documents‘ lay another folder cal ed ‗Random‘ within which lay a file of just 40KB

cal ed bigdayspeech.doc: the text of his groom‘s speech.

The horror of his witless, incoherent, semi-improvised performance at his previous wedding stil remained vivid, and he was determined to get this one right, and to start work on it early.

So far, the text in its entirety ran as fol ows.

My Groom’s speach

After a whirlwind romance! etc.

How we met. At same Uni but never knew her. Seen her around.

Always angry about something terrible hair. Show photographs?

Thought I was toff. Dungarees, or did I imagine. Finally got to know her. Called Dad fascist.

Great friends on and off. Me being idiot. Sometimes don‘t see thing in front of face.(corny)

How to describe Em. Her many qualities. Funny. Intelligence. Good dancer when she does but terrible cook. Taste in music. We argue.

But can always talk laugh. Beautiful but doesn‘t always know it etc etc. Great with Jas, even gets on with my ex-wife! Ho ho ha. Everyone loves her.

We lost touch. Bit about Paris.

Finally together, whirlwind romance nearly 15 years, finally makes sense. All friends said told you so. Happier than ever been.

Pause wile guests vom in unison.

Acknowledge second wedding. Get right this time. Thank caterers.

Thank Sue Jim making me welcome. Feel like honorary northerner gags here etc. Telegrams? Absent friends. Sorry Mum‘s not here.

Would have approved. At last!

Toast to my beautiful wife blah-di-blah-di-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.

It was a start, and the structure was there. He set to work in earnest, switching the font from Courier to Arial to Times New Roman and back again, changing it al to italics, counting the words, adjusting the paragraphs and margins so that it looked more substantial.

Final y, he started to speak it out loud, using the text as notes, trying to recal the fluency he had once had on TV.

‗I‘d just like to thank everyone for coming here today . . .‘

But he could hear the creak of floorboards above his head and quickly he closed the lid of the laptop, slid it furtively beneath the sofa and reached for Wuthering Heights.

Naked and sleepy-eyed, Emma padded down the stairs, stopping halfway and sitting with her arms wrapped round her knees. She yawned. ‗What time is it?‘

‗Quarter to ten. Wild times, Em.‘

She yawned once more. ‗You‘ve tired me out.‘ She laughed. ‗Stud.‘

‗Go and put some clothes on, wil you?‘