Текст книги "One Day"

Автор книги: David Nicholls

Соавторы: David Nicholls
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Presenting car-crash television was fine for a while, but you could only crash the car so many times. At some point in the future he would have to do something good as opposed to so-bad-it’s-good, and in an attempt to acquire some credibility he had set up his own production company, Mayhem TV plc. At the moment Mayhem only existed as a stylish logo on some heavy stationery, but that would surely change. It would have to; as his agent Aaron had said, ‘You’re a great Youth Presenter, Dexy. Trouble is, you’re not a Youth.’ What else might he be capable of, given the breaks? Acting? He knew a lot of actors, both professionally and socially, played poker with a few of them, and frankly if theycould do it. .

Yes, professionally and socially, the last couple of years had been a time of opportunity, of great new mates, canapés and premieres, helicopter rides and a lot of yammering about football. There had been low points of course: a sense of anxiety and crippling dread, one or two instances of public vomiting. There was something about his presence in a bar or club that made other men want to shout abuse or even hit him, and recently he had been bottled off-stage while introducing a Kula Shaker concert – that was no fun. In a recent what’s hot and what’s not column, he had been listed as not-hot. This not-hotness had weighed heavily on his mind, but he tried to dismiss it as envy. Envy was just the tax you paid on success.

There had been other sacrifices on his part. Regretfully he had been obliged to shuffle off some old friends from University, because after all it wasn’t 1988 anymore. His old flatmate Callum, the one he was meant to start a business with, continued to leave increasingly sarcastic messages, but Dexter hoped he’d get the idea soon. What were you meant to do, all live in a big house together for the rest of your lives? No, friends were like clothes: fine while they lasted but eventually they wore thin or you grew out of them. With this in mind, he had adopted a three-in, one-out policy. In place of the old friends he had let go, he had taken on thirty, forty, fifty more successful, better-looking friends. It was impossible to argue with the sheer volume of friends, even if he wasn’t sure he actually liked all of them. He was famous, no, notorious for his cocktails, his reckless generosity, his DJ-ing and his after-after-show parties back at his flat, and many were the mornings that he had woken in the smoky wreckage to find that his wallet had been stolen.

Never mind. There had never been a better time to be young, male, successful and British. London was buzzing and he felt as if this was somehow down to him. A VAT-registered man in possession of a modem and a mini-disk player, a famous girlfriend and many, many cufflinks, he owned a fridge full of premium cider and a bathroom full of multi-bladed razors, and though he disliked cider and the razors gave him a rash, life was pretty good here, with the blinds down in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the year, in the middle of the decade, close to the centre of the most exciting city on earth.

The afternoon stretched before him. Soon it would be time to call his dealer. There was a party tonight in a huge house off Ladbroke Grove. He had to see Emma for dinner first, but could probably get rid of her by eleven.

∗ ∗ ∗

Emma lay in the avocado bathtub and heard the front door close as Ian set off on the long journey to the House of Ha Ha in Putney to perform his stand-up act: fifteen unhappy minutes on some differences between cats and dogs. She reached for her glass of wine on the bathroom floor, held it in both hands and frowned at the mixer taps. It was remarkable how quickly the glee of home ownership had faded, how insubstantial and tatty their combined possessions seemed in the small flat with its thin walls and someone else’s carpets. It wasn’t that the place was dirty – every single surface had been scrubbed with a wire-brush – but it retained an unnerving stickiness and a smell of old cardboard that seemed impossible to shift. On their first night, after the front door had closed and the champagne had been opened, she had felt like bursting into tears. It’s bound to take time before it feels like our home, Ian had said as he held her in bed that night, and at least they had their foot on the ladder. But the idea of scaling that ladder together, rung by rung over the years, filled her with a terrible gloom. And what was at the top?

Enough of this. Tonight was meant to be a special occasion, a celebration, and she hauled herself from the bathtub, brushed and flossed her teeth until her gums were sore, sprayed herself liberally with an invigorating floral woodiness, then searched her sparse wardrobe for an outfit that didn’t make her look like Miss Morley the English teacher on a night out with her famous friend. She decided on some painful shoes and a small black cocktail dress that she had bought while drunk in Karen Millen.

She looked at her watch and, with time to kill, flicked on the television. On a nationwide quest to find Britain’s Most Talented Pet, Suki Meadows was standing on Scarborough sea-front, introducing the viewers to a dog who could play the drums, the dog waving his limbs in the direction of a tiny snare, drumsticks gaffer-taped to his paws. Instead of finding this image justly disturbing, Suki Meadows was laughing, bubbling and fizzing away, and for a moment Emma contemplated phoning Dexter, making up an excuse and going back to bed. Because, really, what was the point?

It wasn’t just the effervescing girlfriend. The fact was Em and Dex didn’t get on that well these days. More often than not he would cancel their meetings at the last minute, and when they did see each other he seemed distracted, uncomfortable. They spoke to each other in strange, strangulated voices, and had lost the knack of making each other laugh, jeering at each other instead in a spiteful, mocking tone. Their friendship was like a wilted bunch of flowers that she insisted on topping up with water. Why not let it die instead? It was unrealistic to expect a friendship to last forever, and she had lots of other friends: the old college crowd, her friends from school, and Ian of course. But to whom could she confide about Ian? Not Dexter, not anymore. The dog played the drums and Suki Meadows laughed and laughed and Emma snapped the TV off.

In the hallway she examined herself in the mirror. She had been hoping for understated sophistication, but she felt like a make-over, abandoned halfway through. Recently she had been eating more pepperoni than she had ever thought possible, and there was the result; a little pot belly. Had he been there, Ian would have said that she looked beautiful, but all she saw was the swell of her belly through black satin. She placed her hand on it, closed the front door, and began the long journey from an ex-council flat in E17 to WC2.

‘WAHEY!’

A hot summer night on Frith Street, and he was on the phone to Suki.

‘DID YOU SEE IT?’

‘What?’

‘THE DOG! PLAYING THE DRUMS! IT WAS AMAZING!’

Dexter stood outside Bar Italia, sleek and matt black in shirt and suit, a little trilby-style hat pushed back on his head, the mobile phone held four inches from his ear. He had the sensation that if he hung up he would still be able to hear her.

‘. . LITTLE DRUMSTICKS ON HIS LITTLE PAWS!’

‘It was hysterical,’ he said, though in truth he couldn’t bring himself to watch. Envy was not a comfortable emotion for Dexter, but he knew the whispers – that Suki was the real talent, that she had been carrying him – and comforted himself with the notion that Suki’s current high profile, large salary and popular appeal were a kind of artistic compromise. Britain’s Most Talented Pet? He would never sell out like that. Even if someone asked him to.

‘NINE MILLION VIEWERS THEY RECKON THIS WEEK. TEN, MAYBE. .’

‘Suki, can I just explain something about the telephone? You don’t have to shout into it? The phone does that bit for you. .’

She huffed and hung up on him, and from across the road, Emma took a moment to stand and watch as Dexter swore at the phone in his hand. He still looked great in a suit. It was a shame about the hat but at least he wasn’t wearing those ridiculous headphones. She watched his face brighten as he saw her and she felt a swell of affection and hope for the evening.

‘You really should get rid of that,’ she said, nodding towards the phone.

He slipped it into his pocket and kissed her cheek. ‘So you’ve got a choice, you can either phone me, actually me personally, or you can phone a building in which I might just happen to be at the time—’

‘Phone the building.’

‘And if I miss the call?’

‘Well God forbid you should miss a call.’

‘It’s not 1988 anymore, Em—’

‘Yes, I know that—’

‘Six months, I give you six months before you cave—’

‘Never—’

‘A bet—’

‘Okay a bet. If I ever, ever buy a mobile phone I’ll buy you dinner.’

‘Well, that’ll make a change.’

‘Besides, they give you brain damage—’

‘They do notdamage your brain—’

‘How can you tell?’

And they stood for a moment in silence, both with a vague sense that the evening had not started well.

‘Can’t believe you’re getting at me already,’ he said sulkily.

‘Well that’s my job.’ She smiled and embraced him, pressing her cheek against his. ‘I’m not getting at you. Sorry, sorry.’

His hand was on her bare neck. ‘It’s been ages.’

‘Far too long.’

He stepped back. ‘You look beautiful by the way.’

‘Thank you. So do you.’

‘Well, not beautiful. .’

‘Handsome then.’

‘Thank you.’ He took her hands and held them out to the side. ‘You should wear dresses more often, you look almost feminine.’

‘I like your hat now take it off.’

‘And the shoes!’

She twisted an ankle towards him. ‘It’s the world’s first orthopaedic high-heel.’

They began to walk through the crowds towards Wardour Street, Emma taking his arm then holding the material of his suit between finger and thumb, rubbing at the strange nap of the fabric. ‘What is this, by the way? Velvet? Velour?’

‘Moleskin.’

‘I had a track-suit in that material once.’

‘We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Dex and Em—’

‘Em and Dex. Like Rogers and Astaire—’

‘Burton and Taylor—’

‘Mary and Joseph—’

Dexter laughed and took her hand and soon they were at the restaurant.

Poseidon was a huge bunker excavated from the remains of an underground car park. Entrance was by way of a vast, theatrical staircase that seemed miraculously suspended above the main room and formed a permanent distraction to the diners below, who spent much of the evening assessing the beauty or fame of the new arrivals. Feeling neither beautiful nor famous, Emma sloped down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other cupping her belly until Dexter took this arm and stopped, surveying the room as proudly as if he were the architect.

‘So. What do you think?’

‘Club Tropicana,’ she said.

The interior had been styled to suggest the romance of a luxury liner from the 20s: velvet booths, liveried waiters bearing cocktails, decorative portholes that opened onto a view of nothing, and this lack of natural light gave the place a submarine aspect, as if it had already hit the iceberg and was on its way down. The intended air of inter-war elegance was further undermined by the clamour and ostentation of the room, the pervading atmosphere of youth and sex, money and deep-fat-frying. All the burgundy velvet and pressed peach linen in the world couldn’t stifle the tumultuous noise from the open-plan kitchen, a blur of stainless steel and white. So here it is at last, thought Emma: The Eighties.

‘Are you sure this is okay? It looks quite expensive.’

‘I told you. My treat.’ He tucked the label into the back of her dress, having glanced at it first, then took her hand and led her down the rest of the stairs with a little Astaire trot, into the heart of all that money, sex and youth.

A sleek handsome man in absurd naval epaulettes told them their table would be ten minutes so they pushed their way to the cocktail lounge where another faux naval man was busy juggling bottles.

‘What do you want, Em?’

‘Gin and tonic?’

Dexter tutted. ‘You’re not in the Mandela Bar now. You’ve got to have a proper drink. Two martinis, Bombay Sapphire, very dry, with a twist.’ Emma made to speak, but Dexter held up an autocratic finger. ‘Trust me. Best martinis in London.’

Obediently she ummed and awwed at the bartender’s performance, Dexter commentating throughout. ‘The trick is to get everything really, really cold before you start. Iced water in the glass, gin in the freezer.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘My mum taught me when I was, what, nine?’ They touched glasses, silently toasting Alison, and both felt hope again, for the evening and for their friendship. Emma raised the martini to her lips. ‘I’ve never had one of these before.’ The first taste was delicious, icy and immediately intoxicating, and she tried not to spill it as she shuddered. She was about to thank him when Dexter placed his glass in Emma’s hand, a good half of it already gone.

‘Off to the loo. They’re incredible here. The best in London.’

‘Can’t wait!’ she said, but he had already gone, and Emma stood alone with two drinks in her hand, attempting to exude an aura of confidence and glamour so as not to look like a waitress.

Suddenly a tall woman stood over her in a leopard-skin corset, stockings and suspenders, her appearance so sudden and startling that Emma gave a little yelp as her martini sloshed over her wrist.

‘Cigarettes?’ The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, voluptuous and barely dressed, like a figure from the fuselage of a B-52, her breasts seeming to recline on a cantilevered tray of cigars and cigarettes. ‘Would you like anything?’ she repeated, smiling through powdery foundation and adjusting with one finger the black velvet choker around her neck.

‘Oh, no, I don’t smoke,’ said Emma, as if this were a personal failing she intended to address, but the woman had already redirected her smile over Emma’s shoulder, fluttering the sticky black lace of her eyelashes.

‘Cigarettes, sir?’

Dexter smiled, sliding his wallet from the inside of his jacket as he scanned the wares on display below her bosom. With a connoisseur’s flourish, he settled on twenty Marlboro Lights, and the Cigarette Girl nodded as if sir had made an excellent choice.

Dexter handed her a five-pound note folded lengthwise. ‘Keep the change,’ he smiled. Was there ever a more empowering phrase than ‘Keep the change’? He used to feel self-conscious saying it, but not anymore. She gave an extraordinary aphrodisiac smile, and for one callous moment Dexter wished it were the Cigarette Girl, not Emma, who would be joining him for dinner.

Look at him, the little dear, thought Emma, noticing this little flicker of self-satisfaction. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the boys all wanted to be Che Guevara. Now they all wanted to be Hugh Hefner. With a games console. As the Cigarette Girl wiggled into the crowd, Dexter really looked as if he might try and pat her bottom.

‘You’ve got drool on your moleskin.’

‘Pardon?’

‘What was that all about?’

‘Cigarette Girl,’ he shrugged, sliding the unopened packet into his pocket. ‘This place is famous for it. It’s glamour, a bit of theatre.’

‘So why’s she dressed as a prostitute?’

‘I don’t know, Em, maybe her woolly black tights are in the wash.’ He took his martini and drained it. ‘Post-feminism, isn’t it?’

Emma looked sceptical. ‘Oh, is that what we’re calling 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 dictionarydefinition. .’

‘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?’

‘Mix ologist.’

‘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 self-deprecation. Well God save me from comedi ennes, 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 five-pound 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 themost 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 shouldbe cooked, so it just turns opaque.’

‘Dexter—’ Her voice was hard and sharp. ‘—it’s opaquebecause 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 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.