One Day

drink it all, but it’s there, in his hand, to help him out and get him through. The deceit makes him feel excited and confident again, ready to show the viewing public, and Emma, and his father at home just what he can do. He is not just some presenter. He is a broadcaster.

The door opens. ‘WAHEY!’ says Suki Meadows, his co-presenter. Suki is the nation’s ideal girlfriend, a woman for whom bubbliness is a way of life, verging on a disorder. Suki would probably start a letter of condolence with the word ‘Wahey!’ and Dexter might find this relentless perkiness a bit wearing if she weren’t so attractive and popular and crazy about him.

‘HOW ARE YOU, SWEETHEART? SHITTING BRICKS, I EXPECT!’ and this is Suki’s other great talent as a TV presenter, to hold every conversation as if she’s addressing the Bank Holiday crowd on the sea-front at Weston- super-Mare.

‘I am a little nervous, yes.’

‘AWWWW! COME HERE YOU!’ She wraps her arm around his head and holds it like a football. Suki Meadows is pretty and what used to be called petite, and fizzes and bubbles like a fan-heater dropped into a bath. There has been some flirtation between them recently, if you can call this flirtation, Suki pushing his face into her breast like this. Like a head-boy and head-girl, there has been some pressure for the two stars to get together, and it does sort of make sense from a professional, if not emotional point of view. She squeezes his head beneath her arm — ‘YOU’RE GOING TO BE GREAT’ — then suddenly holds onto his ears and jerks his face towards her. ‘LISTEN TO ME. YOU’RE GORGEOUS, YOU KNOW THAT, AND WE ARE GOING TO BE SUCH A GREAT TEAM, YOU AND ME. MY MUM’S HERE TONIGHT AND SHE WANTS TO MEET YOU AFTERWARDS. BETWEEN ME AND YOU I THINK SHE FANCIES YOU. I FANCY YOU, SO SHE MUST FANCY YOU TOO. SHE WANTS YOUR AUTOGRAPH BUT YOU HAVE TO PROMISE NOT TO GET OFF WITH HER!’

‘I’ll do my best, Suki.’

‘YOU GOT FAMILY IN?’

‘No—’

‘FRIENDS?

‘No—’

‘WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS OUTFIT?’ She’s wearing a clubby top and a tiny skirt, and carries the obligatory bottle of water. ‘CAN YOU SEE MY NIPPLES?’

Is she flirting? ‘Only if you look for them,’ he flirts back mechanically, smiling weakly, and Suki senses something. She holds out his hands to the side and intimately bellows, ‘WHAT’S UP WITH YOU, SWEETHEART?’

He shrugs. ‘Toby’s been in here, winding me up. .’ and before he can finish she has pulled him to his feet and her arms are round his waist, her hands twanging the waistband of his underpants in sympathy. ‘YOU IGNORE HIM, HE’S JUST JEALOUS ’CAUSE YOU’RE BETTER AT THIS THAN HE IS.’ She looks up at him, her chin poking his chest. ‘YOU’RE A NATURAL, YOU KNOW YOU ARE.’

The floor manager is at the door. ‘Ready for you now, guys.’

‘WE’RE GREAT TOGETHER, AREN’T WE, ME AND YOU. SUKI AND DEX, DEX AND SUKI? WE’RE GOING TO KNOCK EM DEAD.’ Suddenly she kisses him once, very hard, as if rubber-stamping a document. ‘MORE OF THAT LATER, GOLDEN BOY,’ she says in his ear, then picks up her bottle of water and bounds out onto the studio floor.

Dexter takes a moment to look at his reflection in the mirror. Golden Boy. He sighs and presses all ten fingers hard into his skull and tries not to think about his mother. Hold it together, don’t foul this up. Be good. Do something good. He smiles the smile that he keeps especially for use on television, picks up his spiked water bottle, and heads out onto the studio floor.

Suki waits for him at the edge of the immense set, taking his hand and squeezing it. The crew are running round, patting his shoulder and punching his arm matily as they pass, and high above their heads ironic go-go dancers in bikinis and cowboy boots stretch out their calves in their ironic cages. Toby Moray is doing the warm-up, and getting big laughs too, until suddenly he’s introducing them, a big hand please for your hosts tonight, Suki Meadows and Dexter Mayhew!

He doesn’t want to go. Music thumps from the speakers: ‘Start the Dance’ by The Prodigy, and he wants to stay here in the wings, but Suki is tugging on his hand, and suddenly she is bounding out into the bright studio lights, bawling: ‘ALLLLLLLLLLRIGGGGGGHHHHHT!’

Dexter follows on, the suave and urbane half of the presenting duo. As always the set involves a lot of scaffolding, and they climb the ramps until they’re looking down at the audience below them, Suki chattering all the way: ‘LOOK AT YOU, YOU’RE ALL GORGEOUS, ARE YOU READY TO HAVE A GREAT TIME? MAKE SOME NOISE!’ Dexter stands mute on the gantry next to her, the microphone dead in his hand as he realises that he is drunk. His big break on live national television and he is sodden with vodka, dizzy with it. The gantry seems impossibly high, far higher than in rehearsals, and he wants to lie down but if he does this there’s a chance that two million people will notice, so he assumes the manner and offers: ‘Elloyoulothowareyouallfeelingalright?’

A single clear male voice sails up to the gantry. ‘Wanker!’

Dexter seeks out the heckler, a skinny, grinning twerp with Wonder Stuff hair, but it gets a laugh, a big laugh. Even the cameramen are laughing. ‘My agent, ladies and gentlemen,’ replies Dexter, and there’s a ripple of amusement, but that’s all. They must have read the papers. Is this the most odious man on television? Good God, it’s true, he thinks. They hate me.

‘One minute everyone,’ shouts the floor manager, and Dexter suddenly feels like he’s standing on a scaffold. He searches the crowd for a friendly face, but there are none and once again he wishes Emma were here. He could show-off for Emma, be at his best if Emma or his mother were here, but they’re not, just this leering, jeering crowd of people much, much younger than himself. He has got to find a bit of spirit from somewhere, a bit of attitude and with the laser logic of the drunk he decides that alcohol might help, because why not? The damage is already done. The go-go dancers stand poised in their cages, the cameras glide into place, and he unscrews the lid of his illicit bottle, raises it, swallows and winces. Water. The water bottle contains water. Someone has replaced the vodka in his water bottle with — Suki has his bottle.

Thirty seconds to air. She has picked up the wrong bottle. She is holding it in her hand now, a clubby little accessory.

Twenty seconds to air. She is unscrewing the lid.

‘Are you keeping hold of that?’ he squeaks.

‘THAT’S ALRIGHT, ISN’T IT?’ She bounces on her toes like a prizefighter.

‘I’ve got your bottle by mistake.’

‘SO? WIPE THE TOP!’

Ten seconds to air and the audience starts to cheer and roar, the dancers hold onto the bars of their cages and start to gyrate as Suki raises the bottle to her lips.

Seven, six, five. .

He reaches for the bottle, but she knocks his hand away laughing.

‘GET OFF, DEXTER, YOU’VE GOT YOUR OWN!’

Four, three, two. .

‘But it isn’t water,’ he says.

She gulps it down.

Roll titles.

And now Suki is coughing, red-faced and spluttering as guitars crash over the speakers, drums pound, go-go dancers writhe and a camera on wires swoops down from the high ceiling like a bird of prey, soaring over the audience’s heads towards the presenters, so that it seems to the viewers at home as if three hundred young people are cheering an attractive woman as she stands on scaffolding and retches.

The music fades, and all you can hear is Suki coughing. Dexter has frozen, dried, dead on air and drunkenly crashing his own vehicle. The plane is going down, the ground looming up to meet him. ‘Say something Dexter,’ says a voice in his earpiece. ‘Hello? Dexter? Say something?’ but his brain won’t work and his mouth won’t work, and he stands there, dumb in every way. The seconds stretch.

But thank God for Suki, a true professional, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘WELL PROOF THERE THAT WE’RE GOING OUT LIVE!’ and there’s a relieved little flurry of laughter from the audience. ‘IT’S ALL GOING VERY WELL SO FAR, ISN’T IT, DEX?’ She jabs him in the ribs with a finger, and he springs to life.