One Day

More of the endless World Cup news forces her out of bed, throwing off the summer duvet, putting on her old thick-rimmed spectacles and sliding into the tiny corridor of space between the bed and the walls. She heads towards the tiny bathroom and opens the door.

‘One minute!!’ She pulls the door closed again, but not fast enough to prevent herself from seeing Ian Whitehead doubled over on the toilet.

‘Why don’t you lock it, Ian?’ she shouts at the door.

‘Sorry!’

Emma turns, pads back to bed and lies there listening grumpily to the farming forecast and, in the background, the flush of a toilet, then another flush, then a honking sound as Ian blows his nose, then another flush. Eventually he appears in the doorway, red-faced and martyred. He is wearing no underwear and a black t- shirt that stops a little above his hips. There isn’t a man in the world that can carry off this look, but even so Emma makes a conscious effort to keep her eyes focussed on his face, as he slowly blows air out through his mouth.

‘Well. That was quite an experience.’

‘Not feeling any better then?’ She removes her spectacles, just to be on the safe side.

‘Not really,’ he pouts, his hands rubbing his stomach. ‘I’ve got an upset tummy now.’ He talks in a low, martyr’s voice and even though Emma thinks Ian is terrific there’s something about the word ‘tummy’ that makes her want to close the door sharply on his face.

‘I told you that bacon was off, but you wouldn’t listen to me—’

‘It’s not that—’

‘Oh no, bacon doesn’t go off you say. Bacon’s cured.’

‘I think it’s a virus—’

‘Well maybe it’s that bug that’s going round. They’ve all got it at school, maybe I gave it to you.’

He doesn’t contradict her. ‘Been up all night. Feel rotten.’

‘I know you do, sweetheart.’

‘Diarrhoea on top of catarrh—’

‘It’s a winning combination. Like moonlight and music.’

‘And I hate having summer colds.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ says Emma, sitting up.

‘I reckon it’s gastric flu,’ he says, relishing the pairing of words.

‘Sounds like gastric flu.’

‘I feel so. .’ Fists clenched, he searches for the word that sums up the injustice of it all. ‘So — bunged up! I can’t go to work like this.’

‘So don’t.’

‘But I’ve got to go.’

‘So go.’

‘I can’t, can I? It feels like I’ve got two pints of mucus right here.’ He spreads his hand across the width of his forehead. ‘Two pints of thick phlegm.’

‘Well there’s an image to carry me through the day.’

‘Sorry, but that’s how I feel.’ He squeezes round the edge of the bed to his side, and with another martyred sigh, climbs beneath the duvet.

She gathers herself before standing. Today is a big day for Emma Morley, a monumental day, and she can do without this. Tonight is the premiere of Cromwell Road Comprehensive School’s production of Oliver! and the potential for disaster is almost infinite.

It’s a big day for Dexter Mayhew too. He lies in a tangle of damp sheets, eyes wide, and imagines all of the things that might go wrong. Tonight he is appearing on live national television in his very own TV show. A vehicle. It’s a vehicle for his talents, and he is suddenly not sure that he possesses any.

The previous evening he went to bed early like a small boy, alone and sober while it was still light outside in the hope of being fresh-faced and quick-witted this morning. But he has been awake for seven of the nine hours now, and is exhausted and nauseous with anxiety. The phone rings and he sits up sharply and listens to his own voice on the answering machine. ‘So — talk to me!’ the voice says, urbane and confident, and he thinks Idiot. Must change message.

The machine beeps. ‘Oh. Okay then. Hi there. It’s me.’ He feels the familiar relief at the sound of Emma’s voice, and is about to pick it up when he remembers that they’ve argued and he is meant to be sulking. ‘Sorry to call so early and all that, but some of us have proper jobs to go to. Just wanted to say, big night tonight so really, really good luck. Seriously, good luck. You’ll be fine, more than fine, you’ll be great. Just wear something nice and don’t talk in that weird voice. And I know you’re annoyed with me for not coming but I’ll be watching and cheering at the TV like some idiot—’

He is out of bed now, naked, staring at the machine. He contemplates picking up.

‘I don’t know what time I’ll get back, you know how wild these school plays can get. This crazy business we call show. I’ll call later. Good luck, Dex. Loads of love. And by the way, you’ve got to change that answering machine message.’

And she’s gone. He contemplates calling straight back, but feels that tactically he ought to sulk a little longer. They have argued again. She thinks that he doesn’t like her boyfriend, and despite his passionate denials there’s no getting over the fact that he doesn’t like her boyfriend.

He has tried, really he has. The three of them have sat together in cinemas and cheap restaurants and dingy old boozers, Dexter meeting Emma’s eyes and smiling his approval as Ian snuffles at her neck; love’s young dream with a pair of pints. He has sat at the tiny kitchen table of her tiny Earls Court flat and played a game of Trivial Pursuit so savagely competitive that it was like bare-knuckle boxing. He has even joined the blokes from Sonicotronics at The Laughter Lab in Mortlake to watch Ian’s observational stand-up, Emma grinning nervously at his side and nudging him so that he knows when to laugh.

But even on his best behaviour the hostility is tangible, and mutual too. Ian takes every opportunity to imply that Dexter is a fake because he happens to be in the public eye, a snob, a fop just because he prefers taxis to night buses, members’ clubs to saloon bars, good restaurants to take-away. And the worst of it is that Emma joins in with the constant belittling, the reminders of his failings. Don’t they appreciate how hard it is, staying decent, keeping your head on straight when so much is happening to you and your life is so full and eventful? If Dexter picks up the bill at dinner, or offers to pay for a taxi instead of the bus, the two of them mumble and mope as if he has insulted them in some way. Why can’t people be pleased that he’s doing so well, grateful for his generosity? That last excruciating evening — a ‘vid night’ on a decrepit sofa, watching Star Trek: Wrath of Khan and drinking ‘tinnies’ while a curry leaked fluorescent ghee onto his Dries van Noten trousers — that was the last straw. From now on if he’s going to see Emma, then he’s going to see her alone.

Irrationally, unreasonably, he has become — what? Jealous? No, not jealous, but resentful perhaps. He has always expected Emma to be there, a resource he can call upon at any time like the emergency services. Since the cataclysm of his mother’s death last Christmas he has found himself more and more reliant on her at exactly the point that she has become less available to him. She used to return phone-calls immediately, now days go by without a word. She’s been ‘away with Ian’ she says, but where do they go? What do they do? Buy furniture together? Watch ‘vids’? Go to pub quizzes? Ian has even met Emma’s parents, Jim and Sue. They love him, she says. Why has Dexter never met Jim and Sue? Wouldn’t they love him more?

Most annoyingly of all, Emma seems to be relishing this newfound independence from Dexter. He feels as if he’s being taught a lesson, as if he’s being slapped round the face with her newfound contentment. ‘You can’t expect people to build their lives around you, Dexter,’ she has told him, gloatingly, and now they’ve argued once again, and all because she won’t be there in the studio for the live broadcast of his show.

‘What do you want me to do, cancel Oliver! because you’re on telly?’

‘Can’t you come along afterwards?’

‘No! It’s miles!’

‘I’ll send a car!’

‘I need to talk to the kids afterwards, the parents—’

‘Why do you?’

‘Dexter, be reasonable, it’s my job!’