One Day

the sky, she could feel him looking at her.

‘So. What about you?’ he said, in what she thought of as his psychiatrist voice. ‘Any news? Any action? Love- life-wise.’

‘Oh you know me. I have no emotions. I’m a robot. Or a nun. A robot nun.’

‘No you’re not. You pretend to be, but you’re not.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind. I quite like it, getting old alone—’

‘You’re twenty-five, Em—’

‘—turning into this bluestocking.’

Dexter wasn’t sure what a bluestocking was, but nevertheless still felt a Pavlovian twinge of arousal at the word ‘stocking’. As she talked, he pictured her wearing blue stockings before deciding blue stockings wouldn’t suit her, or anyone in fact, and that stockings should really only ever be black or possibly red like those ones Naomi had worn once, before deciding that maybe he was missing the point about the phrase ‘blue stocking’. This kind of erotic reverie occupied great swathes of Dexter’s mental energy, and he wondered if perhaps Emma was right, perhaps he was a little too distracted by the sexual side of things. Hourly he was rendered idiotic by billboards, magazine covers, an inch of crimson bra-strap on a passing stranger, and it was even worse in summer. Surely it wasn’t natural to feel as if he’d just got out of prison all the time? Concentrate. Someone he cared for dearly was engaged in some kind of nervous collapse, and he should concentrate on that, rather than the three girls behind her who had just started a water-fight. .

Concentrate! Concentrate. He steered his thoughts away from the subject of sex, his brain as nimble as an aircraft carrier.

‘How about that guy?’ he said.

‘What guy?’

‘At work, the waiter. Looks like captain of the computer club.’

‘Ian? What about him?’

‘Why don’t you go out with Ian?’

‘Shut up, Dexter. Ian’s just a friend. Now pass the bottle, will you?’

He watched as she sat and drank the wine, which had become warm and syrupy now. While not sentimental, there were times when Dexter could sit quietly and watch Emma Morley laughing or telling a story and feel absolutely sure that she was the finest person he knew. Sometimes he almost wanted to say this out loud, interrupt her and just tell her. But this was not one of those times and instead he thought how tired she looked, sad and pale, and when she looked at the floor her chin had started to pouch. Why didn’t she get contact lenses, instead of those big ugly spectacles? She wasn’t a student anymore. And the velour scrunchies, she wasn’t doing herself any favour with the scrunchies. What she really needed, he thought, ablaze with compassion, was someone to take her in hand and unlock her potential. He imagined a sort of montage, looking on patrician and kindly as Emma tried on a series of incredible new outfits. Yes, he really should pay Emma more attention, and he would do it too if he didn’t have so much happening at present.

But in the short term, wasn’t there something he could do to make her feel better about herself, lift her spirits, give her self-confidence a boost? He had an idea, and reached for her hand before announcing solemnly: ‘You know, Em, if you’re still single when you’re forty I’ll marry you.’

She looked at him with frank disgust. ‘Was that a proposal, Dex?’

‘Not now, just at some point if we both get desperate.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘And what makes you think I’d want to marry you?’

‘Well, I’m sort of taking that as a given.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘Well you’ll have to join the queue, I’m afraid. My friend Ian said exactly the same thing to me while we were disinfecting the meat fridge. Except he only gave me until I was thirty-five.’

‘Well no offence to Ian, but I think you should definitely hold out for the extra five years.’

‘I’m not holding out for either of you! I’m never getting married anyway.’

‘How do you know that?’

She shrugged. ‘Wise old gypsy told me.’

‘I suppose you disagree on political grounds or something.’

‘Just. . not for me, that’s all.’

‘I can see you now. Big white dress, bridesmaids, little page boys, blue garter. .’ Garter. His mind snagged on the word like a fish on a hook.

‘As a matter of fact, I think there are more important things in life than “relationships”.’

‘What, like your career, you mean?’ She shot him a look. ‘Sorry.’

They turned back to the sky, shading into night now and after a moment she said, ‘Actually my career took a bit an upturn today if you must know.’

‘You got fired?’

‘Promotion.’ She started to laugh. ‘I’ve been offered the job of manager.’

Dexter sat up quickly. ‘In that place? You’ve got to turn it down.’

‘Why do I have to turn it down? Nothing wrong with restaurant work.’

‘Em, you could be mining uranium with your teeth and that would be fine as long as you were happy. But you hate that job, you hate every single moment.’

‘So? Most people hate their jobs. That’s why they’re called jobs.’

‘I love my job.’

‘Yeah, well, we can’t all work in the media, can we?’ She hated the tone of her voice now, sneering and sour. Worse still, she could feel hot, irrational tears starting to form in the back of her eyes.

‘Hey, maybe I could get you a job!’

She laughed. ‘What job?’

‘With me, at Redlight Productions!’ He was warming to the idea now. ‘As a researcher. You’d have to start as a runner, which is unpaid, but you’d be brilliant—’

‘Dexter, thank you, but I don’t want to work in the media. I know we’re all meant to be desperate to work in the media these days, like the media’s the best job in the world—’ You sound hysterical, she thought, jealous and hysterical. ‘In fact I don’t even know what the media is—’ Stop talking, stay calm. ‘I mean what do you people do all day except stand around drinking bottled water and taking drugs and photocopying your bits—’

‘Hey, it’s hard work, Em—’

‘I mean if people treated, I don’t know, nursing or social work or teaching with the same respect as they do the bloody media—’

‘So be a teacher then! You’d be a fantastic teacher—’

‘I want you to write on the board, “I will not give my friend careers advice!”’ She was talking too loud now, shouting almost, and a long silence followed. Why was she being like this? He was only trying to help. In what way did he benefit from this friendship? He should get up and walk away, that’s what he should do. They turned to look at each other at the same time.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘What are you sorry for?’

‘Rattling on like a. . mad old cow. I’m sorry, I’m tired, bad day, and I’m sorry for being so. . boring.’

‘You’re not that boring.’

‘I am, Dex. God, I swear, I bore myself.’

‘Well you don’t bore me.’ He took her hand in his. ‘You could never bore me. You’re one in a million, Em.’

‘I’m not even one in three.’

He kicked her foot with his. ‘Em?’

‘What?’

‘Just take it, will you? Just shut up and take it.’

They regarded each other for a moment. He lay down once more, and after a moment she followed and