One Day

It wasn’t just the effervescing girlfriend. The fact was Em and Dex didn’t get on that well these days. More often than not he would cancel their meetings at the last minute, and when they did see each other he seemed distracted, uncomfortable. They spoke to each other in strange, strangulated voices, and had lost the knack of making each other laugh, jeering at each other instead in a spiteful, mocking tone. Their friendship was like a wilted bunch of flowers that she insisted on topping up with water. Why not let it die instead? It was unrealistic to expect a friendship to last forever, and she had lots of other friends: the old college crowd, her friends from school, and Ian of course. But to whom could she confide about Ian? Not Dexter, not anymore. The dog played the drums and Suki Meadows laughed and laughed and Emma snapped the TV off.

In the hallway she examined herself in the mirror. She had been hoping for understated sophistication, but she felt like a make-over, abandoned halfway through. Recently she had been eating more pepperoni than she had ever thought possible, and there was the result; a little pot belly. Had he been there, Ian would have said that she looked beautiful, but all she saw was the swell of her belly through black satin. She placed her hand on it, closed the front door, and began the long journey from an ex-council flat in E17 to WC2.

‘WAHEY!’

A hot summer night on Frith Street, and he was on the phone to Suki.

‘DID YOU SEE IT?’

‘What?’

‘THE DOG! PLAYING THE DRUMS! IT WAS AMAZING!’

Dexter stood outside Bar Italia, sleek and matt black in shirt and suit, a little trilby-style hat pushed back on his head, the mobile phone held four inches from his ear. He had the sensation that if he hung up he would still be able to hear her.

‘. . LITTLE DRUMSTICKS ON HIS LITTLE PAWS!’

‘It was hysterical,’ he said, though in truth he couldn’t bring himself to watch. Envy was not a comfortable emotion for Dexter, but he knew the whispers — that Suki was the real talent, that she had been carrying him — and comforted himself with the notion that Suki’s current high profile, large salary and popular appeal were a kind of artistic compromise. Britain’s Most Talented Pet? He would never sell out like that. Even if someone asked him to.

‘NINE MILLION VIEWERS THEY RECKON THIS WEEK. TEN, MAYBE. .’

‘Suki, can I just explain something about the telephone? You don’t have to shout into it? The phone does that bit for you. .’

She huffed and hung up on him, and from across the road, Emma took a moment to stand and watch as Dexter swore at the phone in his hand. He still looked great in a suit. It was a shame about the hat but at least he wasn’t wearing those ridiculous headphones. She watched his face brighten as he saw her and she felt a swell of affection and hope for the evening.

‘You really should get rid of that,’ she said, nodding towards the phone.

He slipped it into his pocket and kissed her cheek. ‘So you’ve got a choice, you can either phone me, actually me personally, or you can phone a building in which I might just happen to be at the time—’

‘Phone the building.’

‘And if I miss the call?’

‘Well God forbid you should miss a call.’

‘It’s not 1988 anymore, Em—’

‘Yes, I know that—’

‘Six months, I give you six months before you cave—’

‘Never—’

‘A bet—’

‘Okay a bet. If I ever, ever buy a mobile phone I’ll buy you dinner.’

‘Well, that’ll make a change.’

‘Besides, they give you brain damage—’

‘They do notdamage your brain—’

‘How can you tell?’

And they stood for a moment in silence, both with a vague sense that the evening had not started well.

‘Can’t believe you’re getting at me already,’ he said sulkily.

‘Well that’s my job.’ She smiled and embraced him, pressing her cheek against his. ‘I’m not getting at you. Sorry, sorry.’

His hand was on her bare neck. ‘It’s been ages.’

‘Far too long.’

He stepped back. ‘You look beautiful by the way.’

‘Thank you. So do you.’

‘Well, not beautiful. .’

‘Handsome then.’

‘Thank you.’ He took her hands and held them out to the side. ‘You should wear dresses more often, you look almost feminine.’

‘I like your hat now take it off.’

‘And the shoes!’

She twisted an ankle towards him. ‘It’s the world’s first orthopaedic high-heel.’

They began to walk through the crowds towards Wardour Street, Emma taking his arm then holding the material of his suit between finger and thumb, rubbing at the strange nap of the fabric. ‘What is this, by the way? Velvet? Velour?’

‘Moleskin.’

‘I had a track-suit in that material once.’

‘We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Dex and Em—’

‘Em and Dex. Like Rogers and Astaire—’

‘Burton and Taylor—’

‘Mary and Joseph—’

Dexter laughed and took her hand and soon they were at the restaurant.

Poseidon was a huge bunker excavated from the remains of an underground car park. Entrance was by way of a vast, theatrical staircase that seemed miraculously suspended above the main room and formed a permanent distraction to the diners below, who spent much of the evening assessing the beauty or fame of the new arrivals. Feeling neither beautiful nor famous, Emma sloped down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other cupping her belly until Dexter took this arm and stopped, surveying the room as proudly as if he were the architect.

‘So. What do you think?’

‘Club Tropicana,’ she said.

The interior had been styled to suggest the romance of a luxury liner from the 20s: velvet booths, liveried waiters bearing cocktails, decorative portholes that opened onto a view of nothing, and this lack of natural light gave the place a submarine aspect, as if it had already hit the iceberg and was on its way down. The intended air of inter-war elegance was further undermined by the clamour and ostentation of the room, the pervading atmosphere of youth and sex, money and deep-fat-frying. All the burgundy velvet and pressed peach linen in the world couldn’t stifle the tumultuous noise from the open-plan kitchen, a blur of stainless steel and white. So here it is at last, thought Emma: The Eighties.

‘Are you sure this is okay? It looks quite expensive.’

‘I told you. My treat.’ He tucked the label into the back of her dress, having glanced at it first, then took her hand and led her down the rest of the stairs with a little Astaire trot, into the heart of all that money, sex and youth.

A sleek handsome man in absurd naval epaulettes told them their table would be ten minutes so they pushed their way to the cocktail lounge where another faux naval man was busy juggling bottles.