One Day

by David Nicholls

  ‘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 not damage 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.

  ‘What do you want, Em?’

  ‘Gin and tonic?’

  Dexter tutted. ‘You’re not in the Mandela Bar now. You’ve got to have a proper drink. Two martinis, Bombay Sapphire, very dry, with a twist.’ Emma made to speak, but Dexter held up an autocratic finger. ‘Trust me. Best martinis in London.’

  Obediently she ummed and awwed at the bartender’s performance, Dexter commentating throughout. ‘The trick is to get everything really, really cold before you start. Iced water in the glass, gin in the freezer.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘My mum taught me when I was, what, nine?’ They touched glasses, silently toasting Alison, and both felt hope again, for the evening and for their friendship. Emma raised the martini to her lips. ‘I’ve never had one of these before.’ The first taste was delicious, icy and immediately intoxicating, and she tried not to spill it as she shuddered. She was about to thank him when Dexter placed his glass in Emma’s hand, a good half of it already gone.

  ‘Off to the loo. They’re incredible here. The best in London.’

  ‘Can’t wait!’ she said, but he had already gone, and Emma stood alone with two drinks in her hand, attempting to exude an aura of confidence and glamour so as not to look like a waitress.

  Suddenly a tall woman stood over her in a leopard-skin corset, stockings and suspenders, her appearance so sudden and startling that Emma gave a little yelp as her martini sloshed over her wrist.

  ‘Cigarettes?’ The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, voluptuous and barely dressed, like a figure from the fuselage of a B-52, her breasts seeming to recline on a cantilevered tray of cigars and cigarettes. ‘Would you like anything?’ she repeated, smiling through powdery foundation and adjusting with one finger the black velvet choker around her neck.

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t smoke,’ said Emma, as if this were a personal failing she intended to address, but the woman had already redirected her smile over Emma’s shoulder, fluttering the sticky black lace of her eyelashes.

  ‘Cigarettes, sir?’

  Dexter smiled, sliding his wallet from the inside of his jacket as he scanned the wares on display below her bosom. With a connoisseur’s flourish, he settled on twenty Marlboro Lights, and the Cigarette Girl nodded as if sir had made an excellent choice.

  Dexter handed her a five-pound note folded lengthwise. ‘Keep the change,’ he smiled. Was there ever a more empowering phrase than ‘Keep the change’? He used to feel self-conscious saying it, but not anymore. She gave an extraordinary aphrodisiac smile, and for one callous moment Dexter wished it were the Cigarette Girl, not Emma, who would be joining him for dinner.

  Look at him, the little dear, thought Emma, noticing this little flicker of self-satisfaction. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the boys all wanted to be Che Guevara. Now they all wanted to be Hugh Hefner. With a games console. As the Cigarette Girl wiggled into the crowd, Dexter really looked as if he might try and pat her bottom.

  ‘You’ve got drool on your moleskin.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Cigarette Girl,’ he shrugged, sliding the unopened packet into his pocket. ‘This place is famous for it. It’s glamour, a bit of theatre.’

  ‘So why’s she dressed as a prostitute?’

  ‘I don’t know, Em, maybe her woolly black tights are in the wash.’ He took his martini and drained it. ‘Post-feminism, isn’t it?’

  Emma looked sceptical. ‘Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?’

  Dexter nodded towards the Cigarette Girl’s bottom. ‘You could look like that if you wanted to.’

  ‘No-one misses a point quite like you, Dex.’

  ‘What I mean is, it’s about choice. It’s empowering.’

  ‘Mind like a laser—’

  ‘If she chooses to wear the outfit, she can wear the outfit!’

  ‘But if she refused she would be sacked.’

  ‘And so would the waiters! And anyway, maybe she likes wearing it, maybe it’s fun, maybe she feels sexy in it. That is feminism, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it’s not the dictionary definition . . .’

  ‘Don’t make me out to be some kind of chauvinist, I’m a fe
minist too!’ Emma tutted and rolled her eyes and he was reminded just how annoying and preachy she could be. ‘I am! I am a feminist!’

  ‘ . . . and I will fight to the death, to the death, mind, for the right of a woman to display her breasts for tips.’

  And now it was his turn to roll his eyes, and give a patronising laugh. ‘It’s not 1988, Em.’

  ‘What does that mean? You keep saying it and I still don’t know what it means.’

  ‘It means don’t keep fighting battles that are already lost. The feminist movement should be about equal pay and equal opportunities and civil rights, not deciding what a woman can or can’t wear of her own free will on a Saturday night!’

  Her mouth fell open in indignation. ‘That’s not what I—’

  ‘And anyway, I’m buying you dinner! Don’t give me a hard time!’

  And it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago. They stood on the edge of a long pointless argument that she felt she would win, but which would leave the evening in tatters. Instead, she hid her face in her drink, her teeth biting the glass, and counted slowly before saying: ‘Let’s change the subject.’

  But he wasn’t listening, gazing over her shoulder instead as the maître d’ beckoned them over. ‘Come on – I’ve managed to get us a banquette.’

  They settled into the purple velvet booth and scrutinised the menus in silence. Emma had been expecting something fancy and French, but this was basically expensive canteen food: fishcakes, shepherd’s pie, burgers, and she recognised Poseidon as the kind of restaurant where the ketchup comes on a silver salver. ‘It’s Modern British,’ explained Dexter patiently, as if paying all that money for sausage and mash was very Modern, very British.

  ‘I’m going to have oysters,’ said Dexter. ‘The natives, I think.’

  ‘Are they friendly?’ said Emma weakly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The natives – are they friendly?’ she persevered and thought My God, I’m turning into Ian.

  Uncomprehending, Dexter frowned and returned to the menu. ‘No, they’re just sweeter, pearly and sweet and finer than rock oysters, more delicate. I’ll get twelve.’

  ‘You’re very knowledgeable all of a sudden.’

  ‘I love food. I’ve always loved food and wine.’

  ‘I remember that tuna stir-fry you cooked me that time. I can still taste it in the back of my throat. Ammonia—’

  ‘Not cooking, restaurants. I eat out most days now. As a matter of fact I’ve been asked if I want to review for one of the Sundays.’

  ‘Restaurants?’

  ‘Cocktail bars. Weekly column called “Barfly”, sort of man-about-town thing.’

  ‘And you’d write it yourself?’

  ‘Of course I’d write it myself!’ he said, though he had been assured that the column would be heavily ghosted.

  ‘What is there to say about cocktails?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Cocktails are very cool now. Sort of a retro glamour thing. In fact—’ He put his mouth to the empty martini glass ‘—I’m something of a mixologist myself.’

  ‘Misogynist?’

  ‘Mixologist.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you said “misogynist”.’

  ‘Ask me how to make a cocktail, any cocktail you like.’

  She pressed her chin with her finger. ‘Okay, um . . . lager top!’

  ‘I’m serious, Em. It’s a real skill.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Mixology. People go on special courses.’

  ‘Maybe you should have done it for your degree.’

  ‘It would certainly have been more fucking useful.’

  The remark was so belligerent and sour that Emma visibly winced, and Dexter seemed a little taken aback too, hiding his face in the wine list. ‘What do you want: red or white? I’m going to get another martini, then we’ll start with a nice biscuity Muscadet for the oysters then go onto something like a Margaux. What d’you think?’

  He ordered and then was off to the loo again, taking his second martini with him, which Emma found unusual and vaguely unsettling. The minutes stretched. She read the wine label then read it again then stared into space and wondered at what point he had become such a, such a . . . mixologist? And why was she sounding so spiky, mean and joyless? She didn’t care what the Cigarette Girl wore, not really, not that much, so why did she sound so priggish and judgemental? She resolved to relax and enjoy herself. This was Dexter after all, her best friend whom she loved. Didn’t she?

  In London’s most amazing toilets, Dexter hunched over the cistern and thought much the same thing. He loved Emma Morley, supposed he did, but more and more resented that air of self-righteousness, of the community centre, the theatre co-op, of 1988. She was so, so . . . subsidised. It wasn’t appropriate, especially not in a setting like this, a place specifically designed to make a man feel like a secret agent. After the grim ideological gulag of a mid-Eighties education, its guilt and bolshy politics, he was finally being allowed to have some fun, and was it really such a bad thing to like a cocktail, a cigarette, a flirtation with a pretty girl?

  And the jokes; why was she always getting at him, reminding him of his failings? He hadn’t forgotten them. All that stuff about things being ‘posh’ and my-fat-bum and orthopaedic high-heels, the endless, endless self-deprecation. Well God save me from comediennes, he thought, with their put-downs and their smart asides, their insecurities and self-loathing. Why couldn’t a woman have a bit of grace and elegance and self-confidence, instead of behaving all the time like some chippy stand-up?

  And class! Don’t even mention class. He takes her to a great restaurant at his own expense, and on goes the cloth cap! There was a kind of vanity and self-regard in that working-class-hero act that sent him crazy. Why is she still harping on about how she went to a comp, never went abroad on holiday, has never eaten an oyster? She’s nearly thirty years old, all that was a long, long time ago, and it’s time she took responsibility for her own life. He gave a pound to the Nigerian man who passed him his hand towel, stepped out into the restaurant, saw Emma across the room fiddling with her cutlery in her High Street funeral dress, and he felt a new wave of irritation. In the bar, to his right, he could see the Cigarette Girl, standing alone. She saw him, and smiled, and he decided to make a detour.

  ‘Twenty Marlboro Lights, please.’

  ‘What, again?’ she laughed, her hand touching his wrist.

  ‘What can I say? I’m like one of those beagles.’

  She laughed again, and he pictured her in the banquette next to him, his hand under the table on her stockinged thigh. He reached for his wallet. ‘Actually, I’m going to this party later with my old mate from college over there—’ Old mate, he thought, was a nice touch. ‘—and I don’t want to run out of cigarettes.’ He handed her a five-pound note, folded crisply lengthwise in two, held between first and second finger. ‘Keep the change.’

  She smiled, and he noticed a tiny speck of ruby lipstick on her white front teeth. He wanted very much to hold her chin and wipe it off with his thumb.

  ‘You have lipstick . . .’

  ‘Where?’

  He extended his arm until his finger was two inches from her mouth. ‘Just. There.’

  ‘Can’t take me anywhere!’ She ran the point of her pink tongue back and forth across her teeth. ‘Better?’ she grinned.

  ‘Much.’ He smiled and stepped away, then turned back to her.

  ‘Just out of interest,’ he said, ‘what time do you finish here tonight?’

  The oysters had arrived, lying glossy and alien on their bed of melting ice. Emma had been passing the time by drinking heavily, with the fixed smile of someone who’s been left alone and really doesn’t mind at all. Finally she saw him weaving across the restaurant a little unsteadily. He bundled into the booth.

  ‘I thought you’d fallen in!’ This was something that her granny used
to say. She was using her grandmother’s material.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, but nothing more. They began on the oysters. ‘So listen, there’s a party later tonight. My mate Oliver, who I play poker with. I’ve told you about him.’ He tipped the oyster into his mouth. ‘He’s a baronet.’

  Emma felt sea-water dribble down her wrist. ‘And what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Him being a baronet.’

  ‘I’m just saying, he’s a nice bloke. Lemon on that?’

  ‘No thank you.’ She swallowed the thing, still trying to work out if she had been invited to the party or just informed that a party was taking place. ‘So where is this party then?’ she said.

  ‘Holland Park. Massive great house.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  Still not sure. Was he inviting her, or excusing himself early? She ate another oyster.

  ‘You’re very welcome to come along,’ he said finally, reaching for the Tabasco sauce.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. She watched as he unblocked the sticky neck of the Tabasco bottle with the tine of his fork. ‘It’s just you won’t know anyone there, that’s all.’

  Clearly she was not invited. ‘I’ll know you,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. And Suki! Suki will be there.’

  ‘Isn’t she filming in Scarborough?’

  ‘They’re driving her back tonight.’

  ‘She’s doing very well, isn’t she?’

  ‘Well, we both are,’ he said, quickly and a little too loud.

  She decided to let it pass. ‘Yes. That’s that what I meant. You both are.’ She picked up an oyster, then put it back. ‘I really like Suki,’ she said, though she had met her only once, at an intimidating Studio 54-themed party in a private club in Hoxton. And Emma had liked her, though she couldn’t escape the feeling that Suki treated her as rather quaint, one of Dexter’s homely, old-style friends, as if she were only at the party because she’d won the phone-in competition.

  He necked another oyster. ‘She’s great, isn’t she? Suki.’

  ‘Yes, she is. How’s it going with you two?’

  ‘Oh alright. Bit tricky, you know, being in the public eye all the time . . .’

  ‘Tell me about it!’ said Emma, but he didn’t seem to hear.