One Day

‘You get used to it. Also I’ve got these—’ and he pointed towards two fat maggots of grey wax on the window ledge. ‘Mouldable wax ear-plugs.’

‘Oh that’s nice.’

‘’Cept I forgot to take them out the other day. Thought I had a brain tumour. All got a bit Children-of-a- Lesser-God, if you know what I mean.’

Emma laughed, then groaned as another bubble of nausea was released. He took her hand.

‘Feeling any better?’

‘I’m fine as long as I keep my eyes open.’ She turned to look at him, pushing down the folds of the duvet to see his face and noting a little queasily that the duvet had no cover and was the colour of mushroom soup. The room smelt like a charity shop, the odour of men who live alone. ‘I think it was the second brandy that did it.’ He smiled, but the white light from a passing bus swept the room, and she could see that he looked troubled. ‘Are you angry with me?’

‘Course not. It’s just, you know, you’re kissing a girl and she breaks off because she’s nauseous. .’

‘I told you, only because of the booze. I’m having a lovely time, really I am. I just need to catch my breath. Come here—’ She sat to kiss him, but her best bra had rucked up so that the underwiring was digging into her armpit. ‘Ow, ow, ow!’ She hauled it back into place, then slumped forwards with her head between her knees. His hand was rubbing her back now, like a nurse and she felt embarrassed for spoiling everything. ‘I’d better head off, I think.’

‘Oh. Okay. If that’s what you want.’

They listened to the sound of tyres on the wet street, white light scanning the room.

‘That one?’

‘Number 30.’

She hauled at her tights, then stood unsteadily and twisted her skirt round. ‘I’ve had a lovely time!’

‘Me too—’

‘Just too much booze—’

‘Me too—’

‘I’ll go home and sober up—’

‘I understand. Still. It’s a shame.’

She looked at her watch. 11.52 p.m. Beneath her feet a tube train rumbled by, reminding her that she stood in the dead centre of a remarkable transport hub. Five minutes walk to King’s Cross, Piccadilly Westbound, home by 12.30 easy. There was rain on the windowpane, but not much.

But she imagined the walk at the other end, the silence of the empty flat as she fumbled with the keys, her wet clothes sticking to her back. She imagined herself alone in bed, the ceiling spinning, the Tahiti bucking beneath her, nauseous, regretful. Would it really be the worst thing to stay here, to have some warmth, affection, intimacy for a change? Or did she really want to be one of those girls she saw sometimes on the tube: hungover, pale and fretful in last night’s party dress? Rain blew against the windows, a little harder this time.

‘Want me to walk you to the station?’ said Ian, tucking in his t-shirt. ‘Or maybe—’

‘What?’

‘You could stay over, sleep it off here? Just, you know, cuddles.’

‘“Cuddles”.’

‘Cuddles, hugs. Or not even that. We could just lie rigid with embarrassment all night if you like.’

She smiled, and he smiled back, hopefully.

‘Contact lens solution,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any.’

‘I do.’

‘I didn’t know you wore contact lenses.’

‘There you go then — something else we’ve got in common.’ He smiled and she smiled back. ‘Might even have a spare pair of wax ear-plugs if you’re lucky.’

‘Ian Whitehead. You old smoothie, you.’

‘. . pick up, pick up, pick up. Nearly midnight now. At the stroke of midnight I will turn into a, what, I don’t know, an idiot probably. So anyway, if you get this. .’

‘Hello? Hello?’

‘You’re there!’

‘Hello, Dexter.’

‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’

‘Just got in. Are you alright, Dexter?’

‘Oh, I’m fine.’

‘Because you sound pretty wasted.’

‘Oh I’m just having a party. Just me. A little private party.’

‘Turn the music down, will you?’

‘Actually I just wondered. . hold on, I’ll turn the music down. . if you wanted to come round. There’s champagne, there’s music, there might even be some drugs. Hello? Hello, are you there?’

‘I thought we decided this wasn’t a good idea.’

‘Did we? Because I think it’s a great idea.’

‘You can’t just phone up out of the blue and expect me to—’

‘Oh come on, Naomi, please? I need you.’

‘No!’

‘You could be here in half an hour.’

‘No! It’s pouring with rain.’

‘I didn’t mean walk. Get a cab, I’ll pay.’

‘I said no!’

‘I really need to see someone, Naomi.’

‘So call Emma!’

‘Emma’s out. And not that kind of company. You know what I mean. The fact is, if I don’t touch another human being tonight I think I actually might die.’

‘—’

‘I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour. Stop drinking. Wait for me.’

‘Naomi? Naomi, do you realise?’

‘What?’

‘Do you realise that you are saving my life?’

CHAPTER EIGHT. Showbusiness

FRIDAY 15 JULY 1994

Leytonstone and the Isle of Dogs Emma Morley eats well and drinks only in moderation. She gets eight good hours sleep, then wakes promptly and of her own accord at just before six-thirty and drinks a large glass of water — the first 250ml of a daily 1.5 litres, which she pours from the matching glass and carafe set that stands in a shaft of morning sunlight by her double bed.

The clock radio clicks on and she allows herself to lie in bed and listen to the news headlines. The Labour leader John Smith has died, and there’s a report on his memorial service at Westminster Abbey; respectful cross- party tributes, ‘the greatest Prime Minister we never had’, discreet speculation on who will replace him. Once again she reminds herself to look into the possibility of joining the Labour Party, now that her CND membership has long since lapsed.