One Day

been the Revels and the violence to distract him, but here, face to face, there was nothing but a compulsion to riff. Emma got this a lot. The boys on her PGCE course were all pro-am gagsters, especially in the pub after a few pints, and while it drove her crazy she knew that she encouraged it too, the girls sitting and grinning while the boys did tricks with matchsticks and jammed on Children’s TV or Forgotten Confectionery of the Seventies. Spangles Disease, the maddening non-stop cabaret of boys in pubs.

She gulped down her vodka. Ian had the wine list now, and was doing his schtick about how snooty wine is: a voluptuous mouthful of forest fire with a back note of exploding toffee apple etc. The C-major scale of the amateur stand-up, this routine had the potential to be infinite, and Emma found herself trying to imagine a notional man, a fantastical figure who didn’t make a big deal about it, just looked at the wine list and ordered, unpretentiously but with authority.

‘. . flavours of smoky bacon Wotsits with a succulent back note of giraffe. .’

He’s laughing me into a stupor, she thought. I could heckle, I suppose, I could throw a bread roll at him, but he’s eaten them all. She glanced at the other diners, all of them going into their act, and thought is this what it all boils down to? Romantic love, is this all it is, a talent show? Eat a meal, go to bed, fall in love with me and I promise you years and years of top notch material like this?

‘. . imagine if they sold lager this way?’ A Glaswegian accent. ‘Our Special Brew sits heavy on the palate, with a strong hint of council estate, old shopping trolley and urban decay. Goes particularly well with domestic violence!. .’

She wondered where the fallacy had come from, that there was something irresistible about funny men; Cathy doesn’t long for Heathcliff because he’s a really great laugh, and what was all the more galling about this barrage was that she actually quite liked Ian, had set out with high hopes and even some excitement about seeing him again, but instead he was saying. .

‘. . our orange juice is orange with a heavy bass note of oranges. .’

Right, that’s enough now.

‘. . squeezed, no, seduced from the teets of cows, the 1989 vintage milk has a distinctive milkiness. .’

‘Ian?’

‘What?’

‘Shut up, will you?’

A silence followed, with Ian looking hurt and Emma feeling embarrassed. It must have been that double vodka. To cover it up, she said loudly, ‘How about we just get Valpolicella?’

He consulted the menu. ‘Blackberries and vanilla, it says here.’

‘Perhaps they write that because the wine tastes a bit of blackberries and vanilla?’

‘Do you like blackberries and vanilla?’

‘I love them.’

His eyes flicked to the price. ‘Then let’s get it then!’

And after that, thank God, things began to get a little better.

Hi, Em. Me again. I know you’re out on the town with Laughing Boy, but I just wanted to say that when you get in, assuming you’re alone, I’ve decided not to go the premiere after all. I’m home all night, if you want to come round. I mean, I’d like that. I’ll pay for your taxi, you could stay over. So. Anytime you come in, just give me a call, then get in a cab. That’s all. Hope to see you later. Love and all that. Bye, Em. Bye.

They reminisced about the old times, all of three years ago. While Emma had the soup then fish, Ian had gone for a medley of carbohydrates, starting with an immense bowl of meaty pasta which he buried between snow banks of parmesan. This and the red wine had sedated him a little, and Emma had relaxed too, was in fact well on her way to drunkenness. And why not? Didn’t she deserve it? The last ten months had been spent working hard at something she believed in, and though some of the teaching placements had been frankly terrifying, she was clear- sighted enough to realise she was good at it. At her interview this afternoon they had obviously felt the same way, the headmaster nodding and smiling in approval, and though she didn’t dare say it out loud, she knew that she had the job.

So why not celebrate with Ian? As he talked, she scrutinised his face and decided that he was definitely more attractive than he used to be; looking at him, she no longer thought of tractors. There was nothing refined or delicate about him; if you were casting a war film, he’d be the plucky Tommy maybe, writing letters to his mum, while Dexter would be — what? An effete Nazi. Even so, she liked the way he looked at her. Fond, that was the word. Fond and drunk, and she too felt heavy-limbed and sultry and fond of him in return.

He poured the last of the wine into her glass. ‘So do you see any of the old gang?’

‘Not really. I bumped into Scott once, in Hail Caesar’s, that awful Italian. He was fine, still angry. Apart from that, I try to avoid it. It’s a bit like prison — best not to associate with the old lags. Except you of course.’

‘It wasn’t that bad, was it? Working there?’

‘Well it’s two years of my life I’ll never get back.’ Spoken aloud, the observation shocked her but she shrugged it away. ‘I don’t know, I suppose it wasn’t a very happy time, that’s all.’

He smiled ruefully and nudged her knuckles with his. ‘That why you didn’t answer my phone-calls?’

‘Didn’t I? I don’t know, maybe.’ She raised the glass to her lips. ‘We’re here now. Let’s change the subject. How’s the stand-up career going?’

‘Oh, alright. I’ve got this improv gig which is real seat-of-the-pants stuff, really unpredictable. Sometimes I’m just not funny at all! But I suppose that’s the joy of improv, isn’t it?’ Emma wasn’t sure that this was true, but nodded just the same. ‘And I do this Tuesday night gig at Mr Chuckles in Kennington. It’s a bit more hard-edged, more topical. Like I do this kind of Bill Hicks thing about advertising? Like the stupid adverts on TV?. .’

He slipped into his routine and Emma freeze-framed her smile. It would kill him to say it but in all the time she had known Ian he had caused her to laugh perhaps twice, and one of those was when he fell down the cellar stairs. He was a man with a great sense of humour while at the same time being in no way funny. Unlike Dexter: Dexter had no interest at all in jokes, probably thought that a sense of humour, like a political conscience, was a little embarrassing and un-cool, and yet with Dexter she laughed all the time, hysterically, sometimes, frankly, until she peed a little. On holiday in Greece, they had laughed for ten days straight, once they’d settled that little misunderstanding. Where was Dexter right now? she wondered.

‘Have you been watching him on telly then?’ said Ian.

Emma flinched, as if she’d been caught out. ‘Who?’

‘Your friend Dexter, on that stupid programme.’

‘Sometimes. You know, if it’s on.’

‘And how is he?’

‘Oh fine, the usual. Well, a bit nutty to be honest, a bit off the rails. His mother’s sick and, well, he’s not taking it very well.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Ian frowned with concern and tried to work out a way of changing the subject. Not callously; he just didn’t want a stranger’s illness to get in the way of his evening. ‘Do you speak a lot?’

‘Me and Dex? Most days. I don’t see him much though, with his TV commitments, and his girlfriends.’

‘Who’s he seeing now then?’

‘No idea. They’re like funfair goldfish; no point giving them names, they never last that long.’ She had used the line before and hoped that Ian might like it, but he was still frowning. ‘What’s that face?’

‘Just never liked him, I suppose.’

‘No, I remember.’

‘I tried.’

‘Well you mustn’t take it personally. He’s not that good with other men, he doesn’t see the point of them.’

‘As a matter of fact, I always thought—’

‘What?’

‘That he took you a bit for granted. That’s all.’

Me again! Just checking in. Bit drunk now actually. Bit sentimental. You’re a great thing, Emma Morley. Be nice to see you. Call when you get in. What else did I want to say? Nothing, except that you are a great,