One Day

‘Go on.’

‘Well if we’re going to stay here for eight days we’re going to run out of things to talk about, right?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘But to be on the safe side.’ She leant forward, put her hand on his wrist. ‘I think we should tell each other something that the other person doesn’t know.’

‘What, like a secret?’

‘Exactly, a secret, something surprising, one a night every night for the rest of the holiday.’

‘Sort of like spin-the-bottle?’ His eyes widened. Dexter considered himself a world-class spin-the-bottle player. ‘Okay. You first.’

‘No, you first.’

‘Why me first?’

‘You’ve got more to choose from.’

And it was true, he had an almost bottomless supply of secrets. He could tell her that he’d watched her getting dressed that night, or that he’d left the bathroom door open on purpose when he showered. He could tell her that he’d smoked heroin with Naomi, or that just before Christmas he’d had fast, unhappy sex with Emma’s flatmate Tilly Killick; a foot massage that had spun horribly out of control while Emma was at Woolworths buying fairy lights for the tree. But perhaps it would be better to go for something that didn’t reveal him as shallow or seedy, duplicitous or conceited.

He thought for some time.

‘Okay, here goes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘A couple of weeks ago at this club, I got off with this guy.’

Her mouth fell open. ‘A guy?’ and she started to laugh. ‘Well I take my hat off to you, Dex, you’re really full of surprises—’

‘No big deal, just a snog, and I was off my face—’

‘That’s what they all say. So tell me — what happened?’

‘Well it was this hardcore gay night, Sexface, at this club called Strap in Vauxhall—’

‘“Sexface at Strap”! Whatever happed to discos called “Roxys” or “Manhattans”?’

‘It’s not a “disco”, it’s a gay club.’

‘And what were you doing in a gay club?’

‘We always go. The music’s better. More hardcore, less of that happy house shit—’

‘You mentalist—’

‘Anyway, I was there with Ingrid and her mates and I was dancing and this guy just came up to me and started kissing me and I suppose I just sort of, you know, kissed him back.’

‘And did you. .?’

‘What?’

‘Like it?’

‘It was alright. Just a kiss. A mouth is just a mouth, isn’t it?’

Emma laughed once, loudly. ‘Dexter, you’ve the soul of a poet. “A mouth is just a mouth”. Oh, that’s nice, that’s lovely. Isn’t that from “As Time Goes By”?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘A mouth is just a mouth. They should put that on your tombstone. What did Ingrid say?’

‘She just laughed. She doesn’t mind, she quite liked it.’ He gave a blase shrug. ‘Ingrid’s bisexual anyway, so —’

Emma rolled her eyes. ‘Of course she’s bisexual,’ and Dexter smiled as if Ingrid’s bisexuality had been his idea.

‘Hey, it’s not a big deal, is it? We’re meant to be experimenting with sexuality at our age.’

‘We are? No-one tells me anything.’

‘You must get up to stuff.’

‘I left the lights on once, but I wouldn’t do it again.’

‘Well you better get on with it, Em. Shed those inhibitions.’

‘Oh Dex, you’re such a sexpert. What was he wearing then, your friend at The Strap?’

‘Not The Strap, just Strap. A harness and leather chaps. A British Telecom engineer called Stewart.’

‘And do you think you’ll be seeing Stewart again?’

‘Only if my phone breaks down. He wasn’t my type.’

‘Seems to me like everyone’s your type.’

‘It was just a colourful episode, that’s all. What’s funny?’

‘Just you look soooo pleased with yourself.’

‘No, I don’t! Homophobe.’ He started to peer over her shoulder.

‘Hey are you making a pass at the waiter?’

‘I’m trying to get us another drink. Your turn now. Your secret.’

‘Oh I give in. I can’t compete with that kind of thing.’

‘No girl/girl?’

She shook her head, resigned. ‘You know one day you’re going to say something like that to a real-life lesbian and they’re going to break your jaw.’

‘So you’ve never been attracted to a—?’

‘Don’t be pathetic, Dexter. Now do you want to hear my secret or what?’

The waiter arrived with complimentary Greek brandies, the kind of drink that can only be given away. Emma took a sip and winced then carefully rested her cheek on her hand in a way that she knew suggested a tipsy intimacy. ‘A secret. Let me see.’ She tapped her chin with her finger. She could tell him that she had watched him in the shower, or that she knew all about Tilly Killick at Christmas, the foot massage that had spun horribly out of control. She could even tell him that in 1983 she had kissed Polly Dawson in her bedroom, but knew that she would never hear the end of it. Besides, she had known all evening what she intended to say. As the zither played ‘Like a Prayer’, she licked her lips and made her eyes sultry along with other tiny readjustments, until she had constructed what she believed to be her best, most attractive face, the one she used in photographs.

‘When we first met, at University, before we became, you know, pals, well, I had a bit of a crush on you. Not a bit of a crush, a massive crush actually. For ages. Wrote dopey poems and everything.’

‘Poems? Really?’

‘I’m not proud of myself.’

‘I see. I see.’ He folded his arms, put them on the edge of the table and looked down. ‘Well I’m sorry, Em, but that doesn’t count.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you said it had to be something that I didn’t know.’ He was grinning, and she was reminded once more of his almost limitless capacity to disappoint.

‘God, you’re annoying!’ She slapped the reddest part of his sunburn with the back of her hand.

‘Ow!’

‘How did you know?’

‘Tilly told me.’

‘Nice one, Tilly.’

‘So what happened?’

She looked into the bottom of her glass. ‘I suppose it was something you get over in time. Like shingles.’

‘No, really, what happened.’

‘I got to know you. You cured me of you.’

‘Well I want to read these poems. What rhymes with “Dexter”?’

‘“Bastard”. It’s a half-rhyme.’

‘Seriously, what happened to them?’

‘They’ve been destroyed. I built a bonfire, years ago.’ Feeling foolish and let down, she drank once more from