One Day

by David Nicholls

  ‘Feeling better then?’ His father stands behind him.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He nods towards Dexter’s pint glass. ‘Gin, is it?’

  ‘Just water.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I thought we’d have soup tonight, seeing as how it’s a special occasion. Could you manage a tin of soup?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He holds two tins in the air. ‘Mulligatawny or Cream of Chicken?’

  So the two men shuffle around the large musty kitchen, a pair of widowers making more mess than is really necessary in warming two cans of soup. Since living alone, his father’s diet has reverted to that of an ambitious boy-scout: baked beans, sausages, fish-fingers; he has even been known to make himself a saucepan of jelly.

  The phone rings in the hall. ‘Get that will you?’ says his father, mashing butter onto sliced white bread. Dexter hesitates. ‘It won’t bite you, Dexter.’

  He goes into the hall and picks up. It’s Sylvie. Dexter settles on the stairs. His ex-wife lives alone now, the relationship with Callum having finally combusted just before Christmas time. Their mutual unhappiness, and a desire to protect Jasmine from this, has made them strangely close and for the first time since they got married they are almost friends.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Bit embarrassed. Sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s alright.’

  ‘I seem to remember you and Dad putting me in the bath.’

  Sylvie laughs. ‘He was very unfazed by it all. “He’s got nothing I’ve not seen before!”’

  Dexter smiles and winces at the same time. ‘Is Jasmine okay?’

  ‘I think so. She’s fine. She will be fine. I told her you had food poisoning.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to her. Like I said, I’m sorry.’

  ‘These things happen. Just don’t ever, ever do it again, will you?’

  Dexter makes a noise that sounds like ‘No, well, we’ll see . . .’ There is a silence. ‘I should go, Sylvie. Soup’s burning.’

  ‘See you Saturday night, yes?’

  ‘See you then. Love to Jasmine. And I’m sorry.’

  He hears her adjust the receiver. ‘We do all love you, Dexter.’

  ‘No reason why you should,’ he mumbles, embarrassed.

  ‘No, maybe not. But we do.’

  After a moment, he replaces the phone then joins his father in front of the television, drinking lemon barley water that has been diluted in homeopathic proportions. The soup is eaten off trays with specially padded undersides for comfortable laptop eating – a recent innovation that Dexter finds vaguely depressing, perhaps because it’s the kind of thing his mother would have never let in the house. The soup itself is as hot as lava, stinging his cut lip as he sips it, and the sliced white bread his father buys is imperfectly buttered, torn and mashed into a puttycoloured pulp. But it is, bizarrely, delicious, the thick butter melting into the sticky soup, and they eat it while watching EastEnders, another recent compulsion of his father’s. As the credits roll, he places the padded tray on the floor, presses the mute button on the remote control and turns to look at Dexter.

  ‘So is this to become an annual festival, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ Some time passes, and his father turns back to the muted TV. ‘I’m sorry,’ says Dexter.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Well, you had to put me in the bath, so . . .’

  ‘Yes I’d rather not do that again if you don’t mind.’ With the TV still muted, he starts to flick through the TV channels. ‘Anyway, you’ll be doing it for me soon enough.’

  ‘God, I hope not,’ says Dexter. ‘Can’t Cassie do it?’

  His father smiles and glances back at him. ‘I really don’t want to have a heart-to-heart. Do you?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Well let’s not then. Let’s just say that I think the best thing you could do is try and live your life as if Emma were still here. Don’t you think that would be best?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Well you’ll have to try.’ He reaches for the remote control. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing for the last ten years?’ On the TV, his father finds what he has been looking for, and sinks further into his chair. ‘Ah, The Bill.’

  They sit and watch the TV in the light of the summer evening, in the room full of family photographs and to his embarrassment Dexter finds that he is crying once again, very quietly. Discreetly, he puts his hand to his eyes, but his father can hear the catching of his breath and glances over.

  ‘Everything alright there?’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Dexter.

  ‘Not my cooking, is it?’

  Dexter laughs and sniffs. ‘Still a bit drunk, I think.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ says his father, turning back to the TV. ‘Silent Witness is on at nine.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Arthur’s Seat

  SATURDAY 15 JULY 1988

  Rankeillor Street, Edinburgh

  Dexter showered in the shabby mildewed bathroom, then put on last night’s shirt. It smelt of sweat and cigarettes so he put the suit jacket on too, to hold the odour in, then squeezed toothpaste onto his index finger and polished his teeth.

  He joined Emma Morley and Tilly Killick in the kitchen, beneath a greasy wall-sized poster of Truffaut’s Jules et Jim. Jeanne Moreau stood over them laughing as they ate an awkward, bowel-tweaking breakfast: brown toast with soya spread, some kind of aggregate muesli. Because this was a special occasion, Emma had washed out the continental-style espresso maker, the kind that always seemed to be mouldy inside, and after the first cup of oily black liquid Dexter began to feel a little bit better. He sat quietly, listening to the flatmates’ self-consciously larky banter, their big spectacles worn as a badge of honour, and had the vague feeling that he had been taken hostage by a rogue fringe theatre company. Perhaps it had been a mistake to stay on after all. Certainly it had been a mistake to leave the bedroom. How was he supposed to kiss her with Tilly Killick sitting there, babbling on?

  For her part, Emma found herself increasingly maddened by Tilly’s presence. Did she have no discretion at all? Sat there with her chin cupped in her hand, playing with her hair and sucking her teaspoon. Emma had made the mistake of showering with an untested bottle of Body Shop strawberry gel and was painfully aware of smelling like a fruit yoghurt. She badly wanted to go and rinse it off, but didn’t dare leave Dexter alone with Tilly, her dressing-gown gaping open on her best underwear, a red plaid all-in-one body from Knickerbox; she could be so obvious sometimes.

  To go back to bed, that’s what Emma really wanted, and to be partially dressed once again, but it was too late for that now, they were all too sober. Keen to get away, she wondered aloud what they should do today, the first day of their graduate lives.

  ‘We could go to the pub?’ suggested Dexter, weakly. Emma groaned with nausea.

  ‘Go for lunch?’ said Tilly.

  ‘No money.’

  ‘The movies then?’ offered Dexter. ‘I’ll pay . . .’

  ‘Not today. It’s lovely out, we should be outside.’

  ‘Okay, the beach, North Berwick.’

  Emma shrank from the idea. It would mean wearing a swimming costume in front of him, and she wasn’t strong enough for that kind of agony. ‘I’m useless on the beach.’

  ‘Okay then, what?’

  ‘We could climb up Arthur’s Seat?’ said Tilly.

  ‘Never done it,’ said Dexter casually. Both girls looked at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘You’ve never climbed Arthur’s Seat?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You’ve been in Edinburgh four years, and you’ve never? . . .’

  ‘I’ve been busy!’

  ‘Doing what?’ said Tilly.

  ‘Studying anthropology,’ said Emma and the two girls cackled unkindly.

  ‘Well we must go!’ said Tilly, and a brief silence followed as Em
ma’s eyes blazed a warning.

  ‘I haven’t got proper shoes,’ said Dexter.

  ‘It’s not K2, it’s just a big hill.’

  ‘I can’t climb it in brogues!’

  ‘You’ll be fine, it’s not hard.’

  ‘In my suit?’

  ‘Yes! We could take a picnic!’ But Emma could feel the enthusiasm starting to slip away, until Tilly finally spoke:

  ‘Actually, you two should probably go without me. I’ve got . . . stuff to do.’

  Emma’s eyes flicked towards her, catching the end of a wink, and Emma thought she might very easily lean across and kiss her.

  ‘Alright then. Let’s do it!’ said Dexter, brightening too, and fifteen minutes later they were stepping outside into the hazy July morning, the Salisbury Crags looming over them at the end of Rankeillor Street.

  ‘We’re really climbing up there?’

  ‘A child could do it. Trust me.’

  In the supermarket on Nicolson Street they shopped for a picnic, both a little uncomfortable in the strangely domestic rite of sharing a shopping basket, both self-conscious about their choices; were olives too fancy? Was it funny to take Irn Bru, ostentatious to buy champagne? They loaded Emma’s army surplus rucksack with supplies – Emma’s joky, Dexter’s would-be sophisticated – then doubled back towards Holyrood Park and began the ascent along the base of the escarpment.

  Dexter tagged along behind, sweaty in his suit and slippery shoes, a cigarette held between his lips, his head thumping with red wine and the morning’s coffee. He was vaguely aware that he should be taking in the splendour of the view, but instead his eyes were fixed on Emma’s bottom in faded blue 501s, cinched in tight at the waist, above black high-top Converse All-Stars.

  ‘You’re very nimble.’

  ‘Like a mountain goat, me. I used to go hiking a lot at home, when I was in my Cathy phase. Out on the wild and windy moors. Dead soulful I was. “I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”’

  Half-listening, Dexter assumed that she was quoting something, but was distracted by a strip of dark sweat forming between her shoulder blades, a glimpse of a bra-strap at the slipped neck of her t-shirt. He had another momentary image of last night in bed, but she looked round at him as if warning him off the thought.

  ‘How you doing there, Sherpa Tenzing?’

  ‘I’m fine. I wish there was some grip on these shoes, that’s all.’ She was laughing now. ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Just I’ve never seen anyone smoke and hike at the same time.’

  ‘What else am I meant to be doing?’

  ‘Looking at the view!’

  ‘A view’s a view’s a view.’

  ‘Is that Shelley or Wordsworth?’

  He sighed and stopped, his hands on his knees. ‘Okay. Fine. I’ll look at the view.’ Turning, he saw the council estates, the spires and crenellations of the Old City beneath the great grey hulk of the castle, then beyond that in the haze of the warm day, the Firth of Forth. Dexter had a general policy of not appearing impressed by anything, but it really was a magnificent view, the one he recognised from picture postcards. He wondered why he had never seen it before.

  ‘Very nice,’ he allowed himself and they kept climbing towards the summit, wondering what would happen when they got there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Second Anniversary

  Unpacking

  SATURDAY 15 JULY 2006

  North London and Edinburgh

  At six-fifteen that evening he pulls down the metal shutters of the Belleville Café and snaps the heavy padlock into place. Nearby Maddy waits for him, and he takes her hand as they walk together towards the tube station.

  Finally, finally he has moved house, recently taking possession of a pleasant but unshowy three-bedroomed maisonette in Gospel Oak. Maddy lives in Stockwell, some distance away at the other end of the Northern Line, and sometimes it makes sense for her to stay over. But not tonight; there has been no melodrama or portentousness about it, but tonight he would like to have some time by himself. He has set himself a task tonight, and he can only do it alone.

  They say goodbye outside Tufnell Park tube. Maddy is a little taller than him, with long straight black hair, and she has to stoop a little to kiss him goodbye. ‘Call me later, if you want.’

  ‘I might do.’

  ‘And if you change your mind, and you want me to come up—’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Alright then. See you tomorrow maybe?’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  They kiss goodnight again, briefly but fondly, and he carries on walking down the hill towards his new home.

  He has been seeing Maddy, the café’s manager, for two months now. They have yet to tell the other staff officially, but suspect they probably know already. It has not been a passionate affair, more a gradual acceptance over the last year of an inevitable situation. To Dexter, it has all been a little too practical and matter-of-fact, and he is privately a little uncomfortable about the transition that Maddy has made from confidante to lover; it casts a shadow over the relationship, that it should have originated in such gloom.

  But it’s true they get on very well, everyone says so, and Maddy is kind and sensible and attractive, long and slim, and a little awkward. She has ambitions to be a painter, and Dexter thinks she is good; small canvases hang in the café, and are sold occasionally. She is also ten years younger than he is – he imagines Emma rolling her eyes at this – but she is wise and smart and has been through her own share of unhappiness: an early divorce, various unhappy relationships. She is quiet, self-contained and thoughtful and has a melancholy air about her, which suits him at present. She is also compassionate and fiercely loyal; it was Maddy who saved the business during the time when he was drinking the profits and not turning up, and he is grateful to her for this. Jasmine likes her. They get on well enough, for the moment at least.

  It’s a pleasant Saturday evening and he walks on alone through residential back streets until he reaches the flat, the basement and ground floor of a red-brick mansion block not too far from Hampstead Heath. The flat retains the smell and the wallpaper of the elderly couple who lived there before, and he has only unpacked a few essentials: the TV and DVD, the stereo. It’s a frumpy kind of place, at the moment anyway, with its dado rails and appalling bathroom and its many other small rooms, but Sylvie insists that it has great potential, once they’ve knocked the walls through and sanded the floors. There’s a great room for when Jasmine comes to stay, and a garden too. A garden. For a while he joked about paving it over, but has now decided that he is going to learn to garden, and has bought a book on the subject. Somewhere deep in his consciousness he has become aware of the concept of the shed. Soon, it will be golf and pyjamas in bed.

  Once inside and past the boxes that clutter the hall, he takes a shower then goes into the kitchen and orders Thai food to be delivered. In the living room he lies on the sofa and begins to compile a mental list of the things he must do before he can begin his task.

  For a small, diverse circle of people, a previously innocuous date has taken on a melancholy weight, and there are certain calls that must now be made. He starts with Sue and Jim, Emma’s parents in Leeds. The conversation is pleasant and straightforward enough and he tells them about the business, how Jasmine is getting on at school, repeating the conversation twice for both the mother and the father. ‘Well, that’s all the news really,’ he tells Sue. ‘Just to say, you know, thinking of you today, and hope you’re alright.’

  ‘You too, Dexter. Look after yourself, won’t you?’ she says, her voice unsteady, then hangs up. Dexter continues to work through the list, speaking to his sister, his father, his ex-wife, his daughter. The conversations are brief, ostentatiously lighthearted and don’t mention the significance of the day, but the subtext is always the same: ‘I’m fine.’ He phones Tilly Killick, but she is mawkish and over-emotional: ‘But how are you really sweetheart? I
mean, really? Are you by yourself? Are you okay by yourself? Do you want us to come over?’ Irritated, he reassures her, then ends the call as quickly and politely as he can. He calls Ian Whitehead in Taunton, but he’s putting the kids to bed, the little sods, and it’s not a good time. Ian promises he’ll call back in the week and maybe even come down and see him sometime, and Dexter says that it’s a great idea in full know ledge that it will never happen. There’s a general sense, as in all the calls, that the worst of the storm has passed. Dexter will probably never speak to Ian Whitehead again and this is fine too, for both of them.

  He eats supper with the television on, hopping channels and restricting himself to the solitary beer that came free with the delivery. But there’s something saddening about eating alone, hunched over on the sofa in this strange house and for the first time that day he feels a rush of despair and loneliness. These days grief seems like walking on a frozen river; most of the time he feels safe enough, but there is always that danger that he will plunge through. Now he hears the ice creak beneath him, and so intense and panicking is the sensation that he has to stand for a moment, press his hands to his face and catch his breath. He exhales slowly through his fingers, then rushes into the kitchen and throws dirty plates into the sink with a clatter. He has a sudden overwhelming need to drink, and to keep on drinking. He finds his phone.

  ‘What’s up?’ says Maddy, concern in her voice.

  ‘Just a little panic that’s all.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come up?’

  ‘I’m fine now.’

  ‘I can get a taxi? I can be with you in—’

  ‘No, really. I’d rather be alone.’ He finds that the sound of her voice is enough to calm him, and he reassures her once more then says goodnight. When he is sure that there is no conceivable reason for anyone to call him back, he turns the phone off, draws the blinds, goes upstairs and begins.