One Day

‘Oxfordshire. That’s where my parents live. Most of the time anyway.’

‘Oxfordshire. Very nice,’ she said, privately mortified at the speed with which intimacy evaporates, to be replaced by small talk. Last night they had said and done all those things, and now they were like strangers in a bus queue. The mistake she had made was to fall asleep and break the spell. If they had stayed awake, they might still have been kissing now, but instead it was all over and she found herself saying; ‘How long will that take then? To Oxfordshire?’

‘’Bout seven, eight hours. My dad’s an excellent driver.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re not going back to. .?’

‘Leeds. No I’m staying here for the summer. I told you, remember?’

‘Sorry, I was really pretty drunk last night.’

‘And that, m’lud, is the case for the defence. .’

‘It’s not an excuse, it’s. .’ He turned to look at her. ‘Are you annoyed with me, Em?’

‘Em? Who’s Em?’

‘Emma, then.’

‘I’m not annoyed, I just. . wish you’d woken me up, instead of being all furtive and sneaking off. .’

‘I was going to write you a note!’

‘And what was it going to say, this precious note?’

‘It was going to say “I’ve taken your purse”.’

She laughed, a low morning growl that caught the back of her throat, and there was something so gratifying about her smile, the two deep parentheses in the corners of her mouth, the way she kept her lips tightly closed as if holding something back, that he almost regretted telling his lie. He had no intention of leaving at lunch time. His parents were going to stay over and take him out to dinner that night, then leave tomorrow morning. The lie had been instinctive in order to facilitate a quick, clean escape, but now as he leant across to kiss her he wondered if there was a way to withdraw the deceit somehow. Her mouth was soft, and she allowed herself to fall back on the bed, which still smelt of wine, her warm body and fabric conditioner, and he decided that he really must try to be more honest in future.

She rolled away from the kiss. ‘Just going to the loo,’ she said, lifting his arm to pass beneath it. She stood, hooking two fingers in the elastic of her underpants and tugging the material down over her bottom.

‘Is there a phone I can use?’ he asked, watching her pad across the room.

‘In the hallway. It’s a novelty phone, I’m afraid. Very zany. Tilly finds it hilarious. Help yourself. Don’t forget to leave ten p,’ and she was out in the hall and heading towards the bathroom.

The bath was already running for one of her flatmate’s epic all-day summer hot soaks. Tilly Killick waited for Emma in her dressing-gown, eyes goggling through the steam behind big red spectacle frames, mouth hanging open in a scandalised ‘O’.

‘Emma Morley, you dark horse!’

‘What?’

‘Have you got someone in your room?’

‘Maybe!’

‘It’s not who I think it is. .’

‘Just Dexter Mayhew!’ said Emma, nonchalantly, and the two girls laughed and laughed and laughed.

Dexter found the phone in the hallway, shaped like a startlingly realistic burger. He stood with the sesame seed bun flipped open in his hand, listening to the whispers from the bathroom and experiencing the satisfaction he always felt when he knew people were talking about him. Odd words and phrases were audible through the plasterboard: So did you? No! So what happened? We just talked, and stuff. Stuff? What does that mean, stuff? Nothing! And is he staying for breakfast? I don’t know. Well make sure he stays for breakfast.

Dexter watched the door patiently, waiting until Emma reappeared. He dialled 123, the speaking clock, pressed the bap to his ear and spoke into the beef patty.

‘. . the time sponsored by Accurist will be nine thirty-two and twenty seconds.’

At the third stroke he went into his act. ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me. . yeah, a bit worse for wear!’ He ruffled his hair in a way that he believed to be endearing ‘. . No, I stayed over at a friend’s house. .’ and here he glanced over at Emma, who loitered nearby in t-shirt and underpants, pretending to go through the mail.

‘. . the time sponsored by Accurist will be nine thirty-three precisely. .’

‘So listen, something’s come up and I wondered if we could postpone going home until first thing tomorrow, instead of today?. . I just thought the drive might be easier for Dad. . I don’t mind if you don’t. . Is Dad with you? Ask Dad now then.’

Taking his cue from the speaking clock, he allowed himself thirty seconds and gave Emma his most amiable smile. She smiled back and thought: nice guy, altering his plans just for me. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Yes, he is an idiot, but he needn’t be. Not always.

‘Sorry!’ he mouthed.

‘I don’t want you to change your plans for me—’ she said, apologetically.

‘No, I’d like to—’

‘Really, if you’ve got to go home—’

‘It’s fine, it’s better this way—’

‘At the third stroke the time sponsored by Accurist will be nine thirty-four precisely.’

‘I don’t mind, I’m not offended or anything—’

He held up his hand for quiet. ‘Hi, Mum?. .’ A pause; build anticipation, but don’t overdo it. ‘Really? Okay, that’s great! Alright, I’ll see you at the flat later! Okay, see you. Bye.’ He snapped the bun closed like a castanet and they stood and grinned at each other.

‘Great phone.’

‘Depressing, isn’t it? Every time I use it, makes me want to cry.’

‘You still want that ten p?’

‘Nah. You’re alright. My treat.’

‘So!’ he said.

‘So,’ said Emma. ‘What are we going to do with the day?’

CHAPTER TWENTY.The First Anniversary

A Celebration

FRIDAY 15 JULY 2005

London and Oxfordshire

Fun, fun, fun — fun is the answer. Keep moving and don’t allow yourself a moment to stop or look around or think because the trick is to not get morbid, to have fun and see this day, this first anniversary as — what? A celebration! Of her life and all the good times, the memories. The laughs, all the laughs.

With this in mind he has ignored his manager Maddy’s protests, taken two hundred pounds from the cafe’s cash register and invited three of the staff — Maddy, Jack, and Pete who works on Saturdays — out on the town to welcome the special day in style. After all, it’s what she would have wanted.

And so the first moments of this St Swithin’s Day find him in a basement bar in Camden with his fifth martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other because why not? Why not have some fun and celebrate her life? He says this, slurs this to his friends who smile at him a little weakly and sip at their drinks so slowly that he begins to regret bringing them along. They’re so stuffy and boring, accompanying him from bar to bar less like good mates, more like hospital orderlies, humouring him and making sure he doesn’t bump into people or crack his head as he falls from the taxi. Well, he’s had enough of it. He wants some release, wants to let