One Day

by David Nicholls

  ‘I have my limits.’

  ‘Okay, how about dinner. Apparently they have this thing called Greek Salad.’

  The restaurants in the small town were remarkable for being all identical. The air hung smoky with burning lamb, and they sat in a quiet place at the end of the harbour where the crescent of the beach began and drank wine that tasted of pine.

  ‘Christmas trees,’ said Dexter.

  ‘Disinfectant,’ said Emma.

  Music played from speakers concealed in the plastic vines, Madonna’s ‘Get into the Groove’ performed on the zither. They ate stale bread rolls, burnt lamb, salad soused in acetic acid, all of which tasted just fine. After a while even the wine became delicious, like some interesting mouthwash, and soon Emma felt ready to break Rule Two. No flirting.

  She had never been a proficient flirt. Her spasms of kittenish behaviour were graceless and inept, like normal conversation on roller skates. But the combination of the retsina and sun made Emma feel sentimental and light-headed. She reached for her roller skates.

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well if we’re going to stay here for eight days we’re going to run out of things to talk about, right?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘But to be on the safe side.’ She leant forward, put her hand on his wrist. ‘I think we should tell each other something that the other person doesn’t know.’

  ‘What, like a secret?’

  ‘Exactly, a secret, something surprising, one a night every night for the rest of the holiday.’

  ‘Sort of like spin-the-bottle?’ His eyes widened. Dexter considered himself a world-class spin-the-bottle player. ‘Okay. You first.’

  ‘No, you first.’

  ‘Why me first?’

  ‘You’ve got more to choose from.’

  And it was true, he had an almost bottomless supply of secrets. He could tell her that he’d watched her getting dressed that night, or that he’d left the bathroom door open on purpose when he showered. He could tell her that he’d smoked heroin with Naomi, or that just before Christmas he’d had fast, unhappy sex with Emma’s flatmate Tilly Killick; a foot massage that had spun horribly out of control while Emma was at Woolworths buying fairy lights for the tree. But perhaps it would be better to go for something that didn’t reveal him as shallow or seedy, duplicitous or conceited.

  He thought for some time.

  ‘Okay, here goes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘A couple of weeks ago at this club, I got off with this guy.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘A guy?’ and she started to laugh. ‘Well I take my hat off to you, Dex, you’re really full of surprises—’

  ‘No big deal, just a snog, and I was off my face—’

  ‘That’s what they all say. So tell me – what happened?’

  ‘Well it was this hardcore gay night, Sexface, at this club called Strap in Vauxhall—’

  ‘“Sexface at Strap”! Whatever happed to discos called “Roxys” or “Manhattans”?’

  ‘It’s not a “disco”, it’s a gay club.’

  ‘And what were you doing in a gay club?’

  ‘We always go. The music’s better. More hardcore, less of that happy house shit—’

  ‘You mentalist—’

  ‘Anyway, I was there with Ingrid and her mates and I was dancing and this guy just came up to me and started kissing me and I suppose I just sort of, you know, kissed him back.’

  ‘And did you . . . ?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘It was alright. Just a kiss. A mouth is just a mouth, isn’t it?’

  Emma laughed once, loudly. ‘Dexter, you’ve the soul of a poet. “A mouth is just a mouth”. Oh, that’s nice, that’s lovely. Isn’t that from “As Time Goes By”?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘A mouth is just a mouth. They should put that on your tombstone. What did Ingrid say?’

  ‘She just laughed. She doesn’t mind, she quite liked it.’ He gave a blasé shrug. ‘Ingrid’s bisexual anyway, so—’

  Emma rolled her eyes. ‘Of course she’s bisexual,’ and Dexter smiled as if Ingrid’s bisexuality had been his idea.

  ‘Hey, it’s not a big deal, is it? We’re meant to be experimenting with sexuality at our age.’

  ‘We are? No-one tells me anything.’

  ‘You must get up to stuff.’

  ‘I left the lights on once, but I wouldn’t do it again.’

  ‘Well you better get on with it, Em. Shed those inhibitions.’

  ‘Oh Dex, you’re such a sexpert. What was he wearing then, your friend at The Strap?’

  ‘Not The Strap, just Strap. A harness and leather chaps. A British Telecom engineer called Stewart.’

  ‘And do you think you’ll be seeing Stewart again?’

  ‘Only if my phone breaks down. He wasn’t my type.’

  ‘Seems to me like everyone’s your type.’

  ‘It was just a colourful episode, that’s all. What’s funny?’

  ‘Just you look soooo pleased with yourself.’

  ‘No, I don’t! Homophobe.’ He started to peer over her shoulder.

  ‘Hey are you making a pass at the waiter?’

  ‘I’m trying to get us another drink. Your turn now. Your secret.’

  ‘Oh I give in. I can’t compete with that kind of thing.’

  ‘No girl/girl?’

  She shook her head, resigned. ‘You know one day you’re going to say something like that to a real-life lesbian and they’re going to break your jaw.’

  ‘So you’ve never been attracted to a—?’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic, Dexter. Now do you want to hear my secret or what?’

  The waiter arrived with complimentary Greek brandies, the kind of drink that can only be given away. Emma took a sip and winced then carefully rested her cheek on her hand in a way that she knew suggested a tipsy intimacy. ‘A secret. Let me see.’ She tapped her chin with her finger. She could tell him that she had watched him in the shower, or that she knew all about Tilly Killick at Christmas, the foot massage that had spun horribly out of control. She could even tell him that in 1983 she had kissed Polly Dawson in her bedroom, but knew that she would never hear the end of it. Besides, she had known all evening what she intended to say. As the zither played ‘Like a Prayer’, she licked her lips and made her eyes sultry along with other tiny readjustments, until she had constructed what she believed to be her best, most attractive face, the one she used in photographs.

  ‘When we first met, at University, before we became, you know, pals, well, I had a bit of a crush on you. Not a bit of a crush, a massive crush actually. For ages. Wrote dopey poems and everything.’

  ‘Poems? Really?’

  ‘I’m not proud of myself.’

  ‘I see. I see.’ He folded his arms, put them on the edge of the table and looked down. ‘Well I’m sorry, Em, but that doesn’t count.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you said it had to be something that I didn’t know.’ He was grinning, and she was reminded once more of his almost limitless capacity to disappoint.

  ‘God, you’re annoying!’ She slapped the reddest part of his sunburn with the back of her hand.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Tilly told me.’

  ‘Nice one, Tilly.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  She looked into the bottom of her glass. ‘I suppose it was something you get over in time. Like shingles.’

  ‘No, really, what happened.’

  ‘I got to know you. You cured me of you.’

  ‘Well I want to read these poems. What rhymes with “Dexter”?’

  ‘“Bastard”. It’s a half-rhyme.’

  ‘Seriously, what happened to them?’

  ‘They’ve been destroyed. I built a bonfire, years ago.’ Feeling foolish and let down, she drank once more from the empty glass. ‘Too much bran
dy. We should go.’ She began to look distractedly for the waiter, and Dexter began to feel foolish too. So many things he might have said, so why be smug, glib, un generous? Keen to find a way to make amends, he nudged her hand. ‘So shall we go for a walk?’

  She hesitated. ‘Okay. Let’s go for a walk.’

  They headed out along the bay past the half-built houses of the town as it spread itself along the coast, a new tourist development that they deplored in a conventional way, and while they talked Emma silently resolved to be more sensible in future. Recklessness, spontaneity didn’t really suit her, she couldn’t carry it off, the results were never what she hoped for. Her confession to Dexter had felt like swinging wildly at a ball, watching it sail high into the air then moments later hearing the sound of breaking glass. For the remainder of their time together she resolved to stay level-headed, sober and remember The Rules. Remember Ingrid, beautiful uninhibited bisexual Ingrid, waiting for him back in London. No more inappropriate revelations. In the meantime she would just have to drag the stupid conversation round with her, like toilet paper on the heel of her shoe.

  They had left the town behind now, and Dexter took her hand to support her as they stumbled woozily over the dry dunes, still warm from the day’s sun. They walked towards the sea to where the sand was wet and firm and Emma noticed that he was still holding her hand.

  ‘Where are we going anyway?’ she asked, noting the slur in her voice.

  ‘I’m going for a swim. You coming?’

  ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘Come on!’

  ‘I’ll drown.’

  ‘You won’t. Look, it’s beautiful.’ The sea was very calm and clear like some wonderful aquarium, jade with a phosphorescent gleam; if you scooped it up it would glow in your hands. Dexter was already pulling his shirt off over his head. ‘Come on. It’ll sober us up.’

  ‘But I haven’t got my swimming cost—’ A realisation dawned. ‘Oh, I get it,’ she laughed. ‘I see what’s going on here—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve walked right into it haven’t I?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The old skinny-dip routine. Get a girl drunk and look for the nearest large body of water—’

  ‘Emma, you are such a prude. Why are you such a prude?’

  ‘You go on, I’ll wait here.’

  ‘Fine, but you’ll regret it.’ His back was to her now, taking down his trousers then his underwear.

  ‘Leave your underpants on!’ she shouted after him, watching his long brown back and white buttocks as he strode down to the sea. ‘You’re not at Sexface now you know!’ He fell forward into the surf and she stood, swaying woozily, feeling solitary and absurd. Wasn’t this exactly one of the experiences she craved? Why couldn’t she be more spontaneous and reckless? If she was too scared to swim without a costume how could she ever be expected to tell a man that she wanted to kiss him? Before the thought was finished she had reached down, grabbed the hem of her dress and in a single movement peeled it over her head. She removed her underwear, kicking it off her foot high into the air, letting it lie where it fell, and ran, laughing and swearing to herself, towards the water’s edge.

  Standing on tip-toe as far out as he dared to go, Dexter wiped the water from his eyes, looked out to sea and wondered what would happen next. Qualms; he felt the onset of qualms. A Situation loomed, and hadn’t he resolved to try and avoid Situations for a while, to be less reckless and spontaneous? This was Emma Morley after all, and Em was precious, his best friend probably. And what about Ingrid, privately known as Scary Ingrid? He heard a garbled shout of exhilaration from the beach and turned just too late to see Emma stumble naked into the water as if pushed from behind. Honesty and frankness, those would be his watchwords. She splashed towards him with a messy crawl, and he decided to be frank and honest for a change and see where that got him.

  Emma arrived, gasping. Suddenly aware of the sea’s translucency, she was struggling to find a way to tread water with one arm folded across her chest. ‘So this is it then!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Skinny-dipping!’

  ‘It is. What d’you think?’

  ‘S’alright I suppose. Very larky. What am I meant to do now, just goof around or splash you or what?’ She cupped her hand, threw water lightly at his face. ‘Am I doing it right?’ Before he could splash her back the current caught her and pulled her towards Dexter, who stood with his feet braced against the seabed. He caught her, their legs interlacing like clasped fingers, bodies touching then held apart again, like dancers.

  ‘That’s a very soulful face,’ she said, to break the silence. ‘Hey, you’re not having a wee in the water, are you?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So anyway what I meant to say was sorry. For what I said—’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Back in the restaurant, for being a bit glib or whatever.’

  ‘S’alright. I’m used to it.’

  ‘And also to say I thought the same thing too. At the time. What I mean is I liked you too, “romantically”, I mean. I mean I didn’t write poems or anything, but I thought about you, think about you, you and me. I mean I fancy you.’

  ‘Really? Oh. Really? Right. Oh. Right.’ It’s going to happen after all, she thought, right here and now, standing naked in the Aegean Sea.

  ‘My problem is—’ and he sighed and smiled with one side of his mouth. ‘Well I suppose I fancy pretty much everybody!’

  ‘I see,’ was all she could say.

  ‘—anyone really, just walking down the street, it’s like you said, everyone’s my type. It’s a nightmare!’

  ‘Poor you,’ she said flatly.

  ‘What I mean is that I don’t think I was – am – ready for, you know, Boyfriend Girlfriend. I think we’d want different things. From a relationship.’

  ‘Because . . . you’re a gay man?’

  ‘I’m being serious here, Em?’

  ‘Are you? I can never tell.’

  ‘Are you angry with me?’

  ‘No! I don’t care! I told you, it was a long, long time ago—’

  ‘However!’ Under the water, his hands found her waist and held on. ‘However, if you wanted a bit of fun—’

  ‘Fun?’

  ‘Break the Rules—’

  ‘Play Scrabble?’

  ‘You know what I mean. A fling. Just while we’re away, no strings, no obligations, not a word to Ingrid. Our little secret. Because I’d be up for it. That’s all.’

  She made a noise in her throat somewhere between laughter and a growl. Up for it. He was grinning expectantly like a salesman offering great deals on finance. Our little secret, to add to all the others presumably. A phrase entered her mind: a mouth is just a mouth. There was only one thing she could do, and oblivious to her own nakedness she bounced up out of the water and with all her weight pushed his head under the water and held it there. She began a slow count. One, two, three—

  You arrogant, self-satisfied little—

  Four, five, six—

  And you stupid, stupid woman, stupid for caring, stupid for thinking that he cared—

  Seven, eight, nine—

  He’s flailing now, better let him up I suppose, and make a joke, make a joke of it—

  Ten, and she took her hands from the top of his head and let him bounce up. He was laughing, shaking the water from his hair and eyes and she laughed too, a rigid ha ha ha.

  ‘I take it that’s a no then,’ he said eventually, pinching the sea-water from his nose.

  ‘I think so. I think our moment passed some time ago.’

  ‘Oh. Really. Are you sure? Because I think we’d feel much better if we got it out of the way.’

  ‘Got it out of the way?’

  ‘I just think we’d feel closer. As friends.’

  ‘You’re worried that not sleeping together could spoil our friendship?’

  ‘I’m not expressing myself very well—’


  ‘Dexter, I understand you perfectly, that’s the problem—’

  ‘If you’re scared of Ingrid—’

  ‘I’m not scared of her, I’m just not going to do it so that we can say that we’ve done it. And I’m not going to do it if the first thing you say afterwards is “please don’t tell anyone” or “let’s forget it ever happened”. If you have to keep something secret it’s because you shouldn’t be doing it in the first place!’

  But he was peering past her, eyes narrowed, towards the beach, and she turned towards the shore just in time to see a small, slim figure hurtling at great speed along the sand, carrying something over his head in triumph like a captured flag: a shirt, a pair of trousers.

  ‘OIIIIIIIIIII!’ shouted Dexter, barrelling towards the shore now, yelling through mouthfuls of water, then taking startling high-kneed strides up the beach, pounding after the thief who had stolen all his clothes.

  By the time he made it back to Emma, breathless and fuming, she was sitting on the beach fully dressed and sober once again.

  ‘Any sign of them?’

  ‘Nope! Gone!’ he said tragically. ‘Just completely fucked off and gone’ and it took a light breeze to remind him that he was naked, and he angrily cupped one hand between his legs.

  ‘Did he take your wallet?’ she asked, her face fixed in an earnest rictus.

  ‘No, just some cash, I don’t know, ten, fifteen quids’ worth, little bastard.’

  ‘Well I suppose that’s just one of the perils of skinny-dipping,’ she mumbled, the corners of her mouth twitching.

  ‘It’s the trousers that wind me up. They were Helmut Lang! The underpants were Prada. Thirty bloody quid a go, those underpants. What’s up with you?’ But Emma couldn’t speak for laughter, ‘It’s not funny Em! I’ve been robbed!’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry—’

  ‘They were Helmut Lang, Em!’

  ‘I know! It’s just you . . . so angry, and . . . no clothes . . .’ She crouched over, her fists and forehead pressed into the sand before keeling over sideways.

  ‘Pack it in, Em. It’s not funny. Emma? Emma! That’s enough!’

  When she could stand again they spent a while walking up the beach in silence, Dexter suddenly very cold and coy, Emma walking discreetly ahead, looking at the sand and trying to contain herself. ‘What kind of little bastard steals someone’s underpants?’ muttered Dexter. ‘Know how I’m going to find the little sod? I’m going to look for the only well-dressed bastard on the whole bloody island!’ and Emma collapsed onto the sand once more, head between her knees.