One Day (45 page)

Now, whenever she sees her ex-husband he is smiling, smiling away advertising his happiness like the member of some cult.
He throws Jasmine in the air, gives her piggybacks, displays at every opportunity what a wonderful dad he has become. And this Emma person too, all Jasmine talks about is Emma-this and Emma-that and how Emma is her daughter’s best, best friend. She brings home pieces of pasta glued to coloured card and when Sylvie asks what it is, she says it’s Emma, then chatters on and on about how they went to the zoo together. They have a family pass, apparently. God, the insufferable smugness of the pair of them, Dex and Em, Em and Dex, him with his chintzy little corner shop – Callum has forty-eight branches of Natural Stuff now, by the way – and her with her push-bike and thickening waist, her studenty demeanour and wry bloody outlook. To Sylvie’s mind there’s also something sinister and calculating in the fact that Emma has been promoted from godmother to stepmother, as if she was always lurking there, circling, waiting to make her move.
Don’t drown!
Cheeky cow.

Beside her, Callum swears at the traffic on the Marylebone Road and Sylvie feels intense resentment at the happiness of others, combined with misery at finding herself on the wrong team for once. Sadness too, at how ugly and ungracious and spiteful all of these thoughts are. After all, it was she who left Dexter and who broke his heart.

Now Callum is swearing at the traffic on the Westway. She wants to have another child sometime soon, but how? Ahead of her lies a week’s scuba-diving at a luxury hotel in Mexico, and she knows already that this is not going to be enough.

North Yorkshire

The holiday cottage was not at all like in the photographs. Small and dark, it had that holiday cottage smell, air-freshener and stale cupboards, and seemed to have retained the winter’s chill in its thick stone walls, so that even on a blazing July day it felt chilly and damp.

Still, it didn’t seem to matter. It was functional, isolated and the view of the North Yorkshire Moors was startling, even through the tiny windows. Most days they were out walking or driving along the coast, visiting antiquated seaside resorts that Emma remembered from childhood excursions, dusty little towns that seemed stuck in 1976. Today, the fourth day of the trip, they were in Filey, walking along the broad promenade that overlooks the great expanse of beach, still fairly empty on a Tuesday during term-time.

‘See over there? That’s where my sister got bitten by a dog.’

‘That’s interesting. What kind of dog?’

‘Oh I’m sorry, am I boring you?’

‘Only a little.’

‘Well tough, I’m afraid. Four more days to go.’

In the afternoon, they were meant to go on some ambitious hike to a waterfall that Emma had planned the night before, but after an hour they found themselves on the moors staring uncomprehendingly at the Ordnance Survey map before giving up, lying down on the parched heather and dozing in the sun. Emma had
brought along a bird guide and an immense pair of ex-army binoculars, the size and weight of a diesel engine, which she now raised with some effort to her eyes.

‘Look, up there. I think it’s a hen harrier.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Have a look. Go on – up there.’

‘I’m not interested. I’m sleeping.’

‘How can you not be interested? It’s beautiful.’

‘I’m too young to birdwatch.’

Emma laughed. ‘You’re being ridiculous, you know that.’

‘It’s bad enough that we’re rambling. It’ll be classical music next.’

‘Too
cool
to birdwatch—’

‘Then it’ll be gardening, then you’ll be buying jeans in Marks and Spencer’s, you’ll want to move to the country. We’ll call each other “darling”. I’ve seen it happen, Em. It’s a slippery slope.’

She raised herself on one arm, leant across and kissed him. ‘Remind me again, why am I marrying you?’

‘It’s not too late to cancel.’

‘Would we still get our deposit back?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Okay.’ She kissed him again. ‘Let me think about it.’

They were getting married in November, a small, discreet winter wedding at a registry office, followed by a small, restrained reception for close friends and family at a favoured local restaurant. It was, they insisted, not really a wedding, more an excuse for a party. The vows would be secular and not too sentimental and had yet to be written; almost too embarrassing, they imagined, actually to sit face-to-face and compose those promises to each other.

‘Can’t we just use the vows you made to your ex-wife?’

‘But you are still going to promise to obey me, right?’

‘Only if you vow that you’ll never, ever get into golf.’

‘And you’re going to take my surname?’

‘“Emma Mayhew”. Could be worse, I suppose.’

‘You could hyphenate.’

‘Morley-Mayhew. Sounds like a village in the Cotswolds. “We’ve got a little place just outside Morley-Mayhew”.’

And this was how they approached the big day: flippant, but privately, discreetly elated too.

This week in Yorkshire was their last chance of a holiday before their modest, discreet big day. Emma had a deadline and Dexter was anxious about leaving the business for a whole week, but at least the trip allowed them to stop off at Emma’s parents, an event that her mother had treated like an overnight visit by royalty. Serviettes were on the table, rather than the usual kitchen roll, there was trifle and a bottle of Perrier in the fridge. After the end of Emma’s relationship with Ian it had seemed that Sue Morley would never love again and yet, if anything, she was even more fixated on Dexter, flirting in a bizarre, over-enunciated voice, like a coquettish speaking clock. Dutifully, Dexter flirted back, while the rest of the Morley family could do nothing but stare silently at the floor tiles and try not to laugh. Sue didn’t care; to her it seemed as if a long-held fantasy was finally coming true: her daughter was actually marrying Prince Andrew.

Watching him through her family’s eyes, Emma had felt proud of Dexter; he twinkled at Sue, was boyish and funny with her cousins, seemed sincerely interested in her father’s koi carp and United’s chances in the league. Only Emma’s younger sister seemed sceptical of his appeal and sincerity. Divorced with two boys now, resentful and perpetually exhausted, Marianne was not in the mood for another wedding. They spoke that night while washing up.

‘Why’s Mum talking in that daft voice, that’s what I want to know.’

‘She likes him.’ Emma nudged her sister’s arm. ‘You like him too, don’t you?’

‘He’s nice. I like him. Just I thought he was meant to be some famous shagger or summat.’

‘A long time ago, maybe. Not now.’

And Marianne had sniffed and visibly resisted saying something about leopards and their spots.

They abandoned the search for the waterfall, and instead drove back to the local pub, eating crisps and playing closely matched games of pool through the late afternoon.

‘I don’t think your sister likes me very much,’ said Dexter, racking up the balls for the deciding game.

‘Course she does.’

‘She barely spoke a word to me.’

‘She’s just shy and a bit grumpy. She’s like that, our sis.’

Dexter smiled. ‘Your accent.’

‘What about it?’

‘You’ve got dead Northern since we’ve been up here.’

‘Have I?’

‘Soon as we hit the M1.’

‘Don’t mind, do you?’

‘Don’t mind at all. Whose turn to break?’

Emma won the game, and they walked back to the cottage in the evening light, woozy and affectionate from beer on an empty stomach. A working holiday, the plan had been to spend the day together and for Emma to work at night, but the trip had coincided with the most fertile days of Emma’s cycle, and they were obliged to take full advantage of these opportunities now. ‘What, again?’ mumbled Dexter as Emma closed the door and kissed him.

‘Only if you want to.’

‘No, I do. It’s just I feel a bit like I’m on a … stud farm or something.’

‘Oh, you are. You are.’

By nine o’clock, Emma was asleep in the large, uncomfortable bed. It was still light outside, and for a while Dexter lay listening to her breathing, looking out at the small patch of purple moor that could be seen through the bedroom window. Still restless,
he slid from the bed, pulled on some clothes and stepped quietly downstairs to the kitchen, where he rewarded himself with a glass of wine and wondered what they were supposed to do now. Dexter, who was used to the wilds of Oxfordshire, found this kind of isolation unnerving. It was too much to hope for a broadband connection, but in the brochure the cottage had also proudly boasted its lack of a television, and the silence made him anxious. On his iPod he selected some Thelonious Monk – he found himself listening to more jazz these days – then flopped back onto the sofa, releasing a cloud of dust, and picked up his book. Half-jokingly, Emma had bought him a copy of
Wuthering Heights
to read on the trip, but he found the book almost entirely unreadable so instead he reached for his laptop, opened it and stared at the screen.

In a folder called ‘Personal Documents’ lay another folder called ‘Random’ within which lay a file of just 40KB called bigdayspeech.doc: the text of his groom’s speech. The horror of his witless, incoherent, semi-improvised performance at his previous wedding still remained vivid, and he was determined to get this one right, and to start work on it early.

So far, the text in its entirety ran as follows.

It was a start, and the structure was there. He set to work in earnest, switching the font from Courier to Arial to Times New Roman and back again, changing it all to italics, counting the words, adjusting the paragraphs and margins so that it looked more substantial.

Finally, he started to speak it out loud, using the text as notes, trying to recall the fluency he had once had on TV.

‘I’d just like to thank everyone for coming here today …’

But he could hear the creak of floorboards above his head and quickly he closed the lid of the laptop, slid it furtively beneath the sofa and reached for
Wuthering Heights
.

Naked and sleepy-eyed, Emma padded down the stairs, stopping halfway and sitting with her arms wrapped round her knees. She yawned. ‘What time is it?’

‘Quarter to ten. Wild times, Em.’

She yawned once more. ‘You’ve tired me out.’ She laughed. Stud.’

‘Go and put some clothes on, will you?’

‘What are you doing anyway?’ He held up
Wuthering Heights
and Emma smiled. ‘“I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul”! Or is it “love without my life”. Or “live without my love”? Can’t remember.’

‘Haven’t got to that bit yet. It’s still some woman called Nelly banging on.’

‘It gets better, I promise you.’

‘Tell me again, why is there no television here?’

‘We’re meant to make our own entertainment. Come back to bed and talk to me.’

He stood and crossed the room, leaning over the banister and kissing her. ‘Promise you won’t force me to have sex again.’

‘What shall we do instead then?’

‘I know it sounds weird,’ he said, looking a little sheepish. ‘But I wouldn’t mind a game of Scrabble.’

Belsize Park

Something strange was happening to Dexter’s face.

Coarse, black hairs had begun to appear high up on his cheeks, joining the occasional long grey solitary hairs that crept from his eyebrows. As if that wasn’t enough, a fine, pale fur was appearing around the opening of his ears and at the bottom of his earlobes; hair that seemed to sprout overnight like cress, and which served no purpose except to draw attention to the fact that he was approaching middle age. Was now middle-aged.

Then there was the widow’s peak, particularly noticeable now after a shower; two parallel byways gradually widening and making their way to the crown of his head, where the two paths would one day meet and it would all be over. He dried his hair with the towel, then scrubbed it this way and that with his fingertips until the path was covered over.

Something strange was happening to Dexter’s neck. He had developed this sag, this fleshy pouch under his chin, his bag of shame, like some flesh-toned roll-neck jumper. He stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror and put one hand on his neck as if trying to mould it all back into place. It was like living in a subsiding house – every morning he woke and inspected the site for fresh cracks, new slippage in the night. It was as if the flesh were somehow cleaving from the skeleton, the characteristic physique of someone whose gym membership had long since lapsed. He had the beginnings of a paunch and, most
grotesquely, something strange was happening to his nipples. There were items of clothing that he could barely bring himself to wear now, fitted shirts and ribbed woollen tops, because you could see them there, like limpets, girlish and repulsive. He also looked absurd in any garment with a hood, and only last week he had caught himself standing in a trance, listening to
Gardeners’ Question Time
. In two weeks’ time he would be forty years old.