One Day

by David Nicholls

  ‘My car keys.’

  ‘I’ve hidden them,’ says his father, reading the paper.

  Dexter can’t help but laugh. ‘You can’t hide my keys!’

  ‘Well clearly I can because I have. Do you want to play looking for them?’

  ‘May I ask why?’ he says, indignant.

  His father lifts his head from the paper, as if sniffing the air. ‘Because you are drunk.’

  In the living room, Cassie gets up from the sofa, crosses to the door and pushes it closed.

  Dexter laughs, but without conviction. ‘No, I’m not!’

  His father glances over his shoulder. ‘Dexter, I know when someone is drunk. You in particular. I’ve been seeing you drunk for twelve years now, remember?’

  ‘But I’m not drunk, I’m hungover, that’s all.’

  ‘Well either way, you are not driving home.’

  Again, Dexter gives a scoffing laugh, and rolls his eyes in protest, but no words will come out, except for a feeble, high-pitched ‘Dad, I am twenty-eight years old!’

  On cue his father says, ‘Could have fooled me,’ then reaches into his pocket for his own car keys, tossing them in the air and catching them in feigned joviality. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a lift to the station.’

  Dexter does not say goodbye to his sister.

  Sometimes I worry that you’re not very nice. His father drives in silence, Dexter steeping in shame in the big old Jaguar. When the silence can no longer be borne, his father speaks, quietly and soberly, eyes fixed on the road. ‘You can come and get your car on Saturday. When you’re sober.’

  ‘I’m sober now,’ says Dexter, hearing his own voice, still whining and petulant, the voice of his sixteen-year-old self. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he adds, redundantly.

  ‘I’m not going to argue with you, Dexter.’

  He huffs and slides down in his seat, his forehead and nose pressed against the window as the country lanes and smart houses flash by. His father, who has always abhorred all confrontation and is clearly in agony here, punches on the radio to cover the silence and they listen to classical music: a march, banal and bombastic. They approach the train station. The car pulls into the car park, emptied now of commuters. Dexter opens the car door, places one foot on the gravel, but his father makes no gesture of goodbye, just sits and waits with the engine running, as neutral as a chauffeur, his eyes fixed on the dashboard, fingers tapping to that lunatic march.

  Dexter knows he should accept his chastisement and go, but pride won’t let him. ‘Okay, I’m going now, but can I just say, I think you’re completely over-reacting to this . . .’

  And suddenly there is real rage in his father’s face, his teeth bared and clenched tight, his voice cracking: ‘Do not dare to insult my intelligence or your mother’s, you are a grown man now, you are not a child.’ Just as quickly the rage is gone, and instead he thinks his father might be about to cry. His bottom lip is trembling, one hand is gripping the wheel, the long fingers of the other hand wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold. Dexter hurriedly backs out of the car and is about to stand and close the door, when his father turns off the radio and speaks again. ‘Dexter—’

  Dexter stoops, and looks in at his father. His eyes are wet, but his voice is steady as he says—

  ‘Dexter, your mother loves you very, very much. And I do too. We always have and we always will. I think you know that. But in whatever time your mother has left to her—’ He falters, glances down as if looking for the words, then up. ‘Dexter, if you ever come and see your mother in this state again, I swear, I will not let you into the house. I will not let you through our door. I will close the door in your face. I mean this.’

  Dexter’s mouth is open, though there are no words.

  ‘Now. Please go home.’

  Dexter closes the car door, but it doesn’t lock. He closes it again just as his father, flustered too, jolts forwards, then into reverse, leaving the car park at speed. Dexter stands and watches him go.

  The rural train station is empty. He looks along the length of the platform for the payphone, the old familiar payphone that he used as a teenager to make his plans of escape. It’s 6.59 p.m. The London connection will be here in six minutes, but he has to make this call.

  At 7 p.m., Emma takes one last look in the mirror to ensure that it doesn’t seem as if she has made any kind of effort. The mirror leans precariously against the wall and she knows that it has a foreshortening, hall-of-mirrors effect, but even so she clicks her tongue at her hips, the short legs below her denim skirt. It’s too warm for tights but she can’t bear the sight of her scuffed red knees so is wearing them anyway. Her hair, newly washed and smelling of something called forest fruits, has fallen into a ‘do’, flicked and fragrant, and she scrubs at it with her fingertips to muss it up, then uses her little finger to wipe smears of lipstick from the corner of her mouth. Her lips are very red, and she wonders if she’s overdoing it. After all, nothing’s likely to happen, she’ll be home by 10.30. She drains the last of a large vodka and tonic, winces as it reacts metallically with the toothpaste, picks up her keys, drops them in her best handbag, and closes the door.

  The phone rings.

  She is halfway down the institutional hallway when she hears it. For one moment she contemplates running back to answer it but she is late already, and it’s probably just her mum or sister to find out how the interview went. At the end of the hall she can hear the lift door opening. She runs to catch it, and the doors of the lift close just as the answering machine picks up.

  ‘ . . . leave your message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Hi there, Emma, it’s Dexter here. What was I going to say? Well I was going to say I’m at this train station near home and I’ve just come from Mum’s and . . . and I wondered what you were doing tonight. I have tickets for the Jurassic Park premiere! Actually we’ve missed that I think, but maybe the party afterwards? Me and you? Princess Di will be there. Sorry, I’m waffling, in case you’re there. Pick up the phone, Emma. Pick up pick up pick up pick up. No? Okay, well I’ve just remembered, you have your date tonight, don’t you? Your hot date. Well – have fun, call me when you get in, if you get in. Let me know what happens. Seriously, call me, soon as you can.’

  He stumbles, catches his breath, then says:

  ‘Just an unbelievably shitty day, Em,’ and falters again. ‘I’ve just done something so, so bad.’ He should hang up, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to see Emma Morley so that he might confess his sins, but she’s on a date. He pulls his mouth into a grin and says ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I want to know everything! Heartbreaker you.’ He hangs up. Heartbreaker you.

  The rails are clicking now, and he can hear the hum of the train approaching, but he can’t get on board, not in this state. He’ll just have to wait for the next one. The London train arrives and seems to be waiting for him, ticking politely, but Dexter stands shielded by the plastic carapace of the payphone booth, feels his face crumple inwards and his breath become broken and jagged, and as he starts to cry he tells himself that it’s just chemical, chemical, chemical.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  G.S.O.H.

  THURSDAY 15 JULY 1993,

  Part Two – Emma’s Story

  Covent Garden and King’s Cross

  Ian Whitehead sat alone at a table for two in the Covent Garden branch of Forelli’s, and checked his watch: fifteen minutes late, but he imagined that this was part of the exquisite game of cat-and-mouse that is dating. Well, let the games commence. He dunked his ciabatta in the little dish of olive oil as if loading a paintbrush, opened the menu and worked out what he could afford to eat.

  Life as a stand-up comedian had yet to bring the wealth and TV exposure that it had once promised. The Sunday papers weekly proclaimed that comedy was the new rock and roll, so why was he still hustling for open-mike spots at Sir Laffalots on Tuesday nights? He had adapted his material to fit with current fashions, pulling back on the political and
observational material and trying out character-comedy, surrealism, comic songs and sketches. Nothing seemed to raise a laugh. A detour into a more confrontational style had led to him being punched and kicked, and his residency with a Sunday night improv comedy team had proved only that he could be unfunny in an entirely unplanned, spontaneous way. Yet still he soldiered on, up and down the Northern Line, round and round the Circle, in search of the big laughs.

  Perhaps there was something about the name ‘Ian Whitehead’ that made it resistant to being spelt out in lightbulbs. He had even considered changing it to something punchy, boysy and monosyllabic – Ben or Jack or Matt – but until he found his comic persona he had taken a job in Sonicotronics, an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road where unhealthy young men in t-shirts sold ROM and graphics cards to unhealthy young men in t-shirts. The money wasn’t great, but his evenings were free for gigs, and he frequently cracked up his co-workers with new material.

  But the best, the very best thing about Sonicotronics was that during his lunch break he had bumped into Emma Morley. He had been standing outside the offices of the Church of Scientology, debating whether or not to take the personality test, when he saw her, almost obscured by a huge wicker laundry basket, and as he threw his arms around her Tottenham Court Road was lit by glory and transformed into a street of dreams.

  Date number two, and here he was in a sleek modern Italian near Covent Garden. Ian’s personal tastes tended towards the hot and spicy, salty and crispy, and he would have preferred a curry. But he was wise enough in the vagaries of womankind to know that she would be expecting fresh vegetables. He checked his watch again – twenty minutes late – and felt a pang of longing in his stomach that was partly hunger, partly love. For years now his heart and stomach had been heavy with love for Emma Morley, and not just sentimental platonic love, but a carnal desire too. All these years later he still carried with him, would carry for life, the image of her standing in mismatched underwear in the staffroom of Loco Caliente, illuminated by a shaft of afternoon sun like the light in a cathedral, as she yelled at him to get out and shut the bloody door.

  Unaware that he was thinking of her underwear, Emma Morley stood watching Ian from the maître d’s station and noted that he was definitely better looking these days. The crown of tight fair curls had gone, trimmed short now and slicked slightly with a little wax, he had lost that new-boy-in-the-city look. In fact, if it weren’t for the terrible clothes and the way his mouth hung open, he would actually be attractive.

  Although the situation was unusual for her, she recognised this as a classic date restaurant – just expensive enough, not too bright, not pretentious but not cheap either, the kind of place where they put rocket on the pizzas. The place was corny but not ridiculous and at least it was not a curry or, God forbid, a fish burrito. There were palm trees and candles and in the next room an elderly man played Gershwin favourites on a grand piano: ‘I hope that he/turns out to be/someone to watch over me.’

  ‘Are you with someone?’ asked the maître d’.

  ‘That man over there.’

  On their first date he had taken her to see Evil Dead III, The Medieval Dead at the Odeon on the Holloway Road. Neither squeamish nor a snob, Emma enjoyed a horror film more than most women, but even so she had thought this a strange, curiously confident choice. Three Colours Blue was playing at the Everyman, but here she was, watching a man with a chainsaw for an arm, and finding it strangely refreshing. Conventionally, she had expected to be taken to a restaurant afterwards but for Ian it seemed a trip to the cinema wasn’t complete without a three-course meal thrown in. He contemplated the concession stand as if were an à la carte menu, choosing nachos to begin with, a hot-dog for the entrée, Revels for dessert, his palette cleansed with a pail of iced Lilt the size of a human torso, so that the Evil Dead III’s few meditative scenes were accompanied by the warm tropical hiss of Ian belching into his fist.

  And yet despite all this – the love of ultra-violence and salty foods, the mustard on his chin – Emma had enjoyed herself more than she had expected. On the way to the pub he had changed sides on the pavement so that she wouldn’t get hit by a runaway bus – a weirdly old-fashioned gesture that she’d never been subject to before – and they discussed the special effects, the beheadings and eviscerations, Ian declaring, after some analysis, that it was the best of the ‘Dead’ trilogy. Trilogies and box-sets, comedy and horror loomed large in Ian’s cultural life, and in the pub they’d had an interesting debate about whether a graphic novel could ever have as much depth and meaning as, say, Middlemarch. Protective, attentive, he was like an older brother who knew about lots of really cool stuff, the difference being that he clearly wanted to sleep with her. So intent, so doting was his gaze that she frequently found herself feeling for something on her face.

  That was how he grinned at her now, in the restaurant, standing with such enthusiasm that he knocked the table with his thighs, spilling tap water onto the complimentary olives.

  ‘Shall I get a cloth?’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s alright, I’ll use my jacket.’

  ‘Don’t use your jacket, here – here’s my napkin.’

  ‘Well I’ve fucked the olives. Not literally I might hasten to add!’

  ‘Oh. Right. Okay.’

  ‘Joke!’ he bellowed, as if shouting ‘Fire!’ He hadn’t been this nervous since the last disastrous night at the improv, and he firmly told himself to calm down as he blotted at the tablecloth, glancing upwards to see Emma wriggling out of her summer jacket, pushing her shoulders back and her chest forward in that way that women do without realising the ache they cause. There it was, the evening’s second great bubble of love and desire for Emma Morley. ‘You look so lovely,’ he blurted, unable to contain himself.

  ‘Thank you! You too,’ she said reflexively. He wore the stand-up comic’s uniform of a crumpled linen jacket over a plain black t-shirt. In honour of Emma, there were no band names or ironic remarks: dressy then. ‘I like this,’ she said, indicating the jacket. ‘Pretty sharp!’ and Ian rubbed his lapel between finger and thumb as if saying ‘what, this old thing?’

  ‘Can I take your jacket?’ said the waiter, sleek and handsome.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Emma handed it over, and Ian imagined he’d have to tip for it later. Never mind. She was worth it.

  ‘Any drinks?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘You know, I think I’d like a vodka and tonic.’

  ‘A double?’ said the waiter, tempting her into further expense.

  She looked to Ian and saw a flicker of panic cross his face. ‘Is that reckless?’

  ‘No, you go on.’

  ‘Okay, a double!’

  ‘You, sir?’

  ‘I’ll wait for the wine, thank you.’

  ‘Mineral water?’

  ‘TAP WATER!’ he yelled, then, calmer, ‘Tap water’s fine, unless you . . .’

  ‘Tap water’s fine,’ Emma smiled reassuringly. The waiter left. ‘And by the way, this goes without saying, but we are going dutch tonight, okay? No arguments. It’s 1993 for crying out loud,’ and Ian found himself loving her even more. For form’s sake, he thought he had better put on a show.

  ‘But you’re a student, Em!’

  ‘Not anymore. I am now a fully qualified teacher! I had my first job interview today.’

  ‘And how did it go?’

  ‘Really, really well!’

  ‘Congratulations, Em, that’s fantastic,’ and he threw himself across the table to kiss her on the cheek, no, both cheeks, no, hang on, just the one cheek, no, okay both cheeks.

  The menu had been prepped in advance for humour, and while Emma tried to concentrate, Ian went into his act and ran through some of the choicer puns: penne for your thoughts, etc. The presence of grilled sea bass allowed him to do the one about how you wait ages for one bass, then three come along at the same time, and was this a minute steak or a mine-ute, like a really, really small steak? and what was it with ‘ragu�
�� these days, when did good old spag bol become ‘ragu’? What, he speculated, would they, like, call ‘alphabetti spaghetti?’ Moist alphabetical forms in a sauce rouge? Or what?

  As line followed line, Emma felt her hopes for the evening fade. He is trying to laugh me into bed, she thought, when in fact what he is really doing is laughing me onto the tube home. In the cinema there had at least been the Revels and the violence to distract him, but here, face to face, there was nothing but a compulsion to riff. Emma got this a lot. The boys on her PGCE course were all pro-am gagsters, especially in the pub after a few pints, and while it drove her crazy she knew that she encouraged it too, the girls sitting and grinning while the boys did tricks with matchsticks and jammed on Children’s TV or Forgotten Confectionery of the Seventies. Spangles Disease, the maddening non-stop cabaret of boys in pubs.

  She gulped down her vodka. Ian had the wine list now, and was doing his schtick about how snooty wine is: a voluptuous mouthful of forest fire with a back note of exploding toffee apple etc. The C-major scale of the amateur stand-up, this routine had the potential to be infinite, and Emma found herself trying to imagine a notional man, a fantastical figure who didn’t make a big deal about it, just looked at the wine list and ordered, unpretentiously but with authority.

  ‘ . . . flavours of smoky bacon Wotsits with a succulent back note of giraffe . . .’

  He’s laughing me into a stupor, she thought. I could heckle, I suppose, I could throw a bread roll at him, but he’s eaten them all. She glanced at the other diners, all of them going into their act, and thought is this what it all boils down to? Romantic love, is this all it is, a talent show? Eat a meal, go to bed, fall in love with me and I promise you years and years of top notch material like this?

  ‘ . . . imagine if they sold lager this way?’ A Glaswegian accent. ‘Our Special Brew sits heavy on the palate, with a strong hint of council estate, old shopping trolley and urban decay. Goes particularly well with domestic violence! . . .’