One Day

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  ‘You’re there!’

  ‘Hello, Dexter.’

  ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’

  ‘Just got in. Are you alright, Dexter?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine.’

  ‘Because you sound pretty wasted.’

  ‘Oh I’m just having a party. Just me. A little private party.’

  ‘Turn the music down, will you?’

  ‘Actually I just wondered . . . hold on, I’ll turn the music down . . . if you wanted to come round. There’s champagne, there’s music, there might even be some drugs. Hello? Hello, are you there?’

  ‘I thought we decided this wasn’t a good idea.’

  ‘Did we? Because I think it’s a great idea.’

  ‘You can’t just phone up out of the blue and expect me to—’

  ‘Oh come on, Naomi, please? I need you.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You could be here in half an hour.’

  ‘No! It’s pouring with rain.’

  ‘I didn’t mean walk. Get a cab, I’ll pay.’

  ‘I said no!’

  ‘I really need to see someone, Naomi.’

  ‘So call Emma!’

  ‘Emma’s out. And not that kind of company. You know what I mean. The fact is, if I don’t touch another human being tonight I think I actually might die.’

  ‘—’

  ‘I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour. Stop drinking. Wait for me.’

  ‘Naomi? Naomi, do you realise?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you realise that you are saving my life?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Showbusiness

  FRIDAY 15 JULY 1994

  Leytonstone and the Isle of Dogs

  Emma Morley eats well and drinks only in moderation. She gets eight good hours sleep, then wakes promptly and of her own accord at just before six-thirty and drinks a large glass of water – the first 250ml of a daily 1.5 litres, which she pours from the matching glass and carafe set that stands in a shaft of morning sunlight by her double bed.

  The clock radio clicks on and she allows herself to lie in bed and listen to the news headlines. The Labour leader John Smith has died, and there’s a report on his memorial service at Westminster Abbey; respectful cross-party tributes, ‘the greatest Prime Minister we never had’, discreet speculation on who will replace him. Once again she reminds herself to look into the possibility of joining the Labour Party, now that her CND membership has long since lapsed.

  More of the endless World Cup news forces her out of bed, throwing off the summer duvet, putting on her old thick-rimmed spectacles and sliding into the tiny corridor of space between the bed and the walls. She heads towards the tiny bathroom and opens the door.

  ‘One minute!!’ She pulls the door closed again, but not fast enough to prevent herself from seeing Ian Whitehead doubled over on the toilet.

  ‘Why don’t you lock it, Ian?’ she shouts at the door.

  ‘Sorry!’

  Emma turns, pads back to bed and lies there listening grumpily to the farming forecast and, in the background, the flush of a toilet, then another flush, then a honking sound as Ian blows his nose, then another flush. Eventually he appears in the doorway, red-faced and martyred. He is wearing no underwear and a black t-shirt that stops a little above his hips. There isn’t a man in the world that can carry off this look, but even so Emma makes a conscious effort to keep her eyes focussed on his face, as he slowly blows air out through his mouth.

  ‘Well. That was quite an experience.’

  ‘Not feeling any better then?’ She removes her spectacles, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Not really,’ he pouts, his hands rubbing his stomach. ‘I’ve got an upset tummy now.’ He talks in a low, martyr’s voice and even though Emma thinks Ian is terrific there’s something about the word ‘tummy’ that makes her want to close the door sharply on his face.

  ‘I told you that bacon was off, but you wouldn’t listen to me—’

  ‘It’s not that—’

  ‘Oh no, bacon doesn’t go off you say. Bacon’s cured.’

  ‘I think it’s a virus—’

  ‘Well maybe it’s that bug that’s going round. They’ve all got it at school, maybe I gave it to you.’

  He doesn’t contradict her. ‘Been up all night. Feel rotten.’

  ‘I know you do, sweetheart.’

  ‘Diarrhoea on top of catarrh—’

  ‘It’s a winning combination. Like moonlight and music.’

  ‘And I hate having summer colds.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ says Emma, sitting up.

  ‘I reckon it’s gastric flu,’ he says, relishing the pairing of words.

  ‘Sounds like gastric flu.’

  ‘I feel so . . .’ Fists clenched, he searches for the word that sums up the injustice of it all. ‘So – bunged up! I can’t go to work like this.’

  ‘So don’t.’

  ‘But I’ve got to go.’

  ‘So go.’

  ‘I can’t, can I? It feels like I’ve got two pints of mucus right here.’ He spreads his hand across the width of his forehead. ‘Two pints of thick phlegm.’

  ‘Well there’s an image to carry me through the day.’

  ‘Sorry, but that’s how I feel.’ He squeezes round the edge of the bed to his side, and with another martyred sigh, climbs beneath the duvet.

  She gathers herself before standing. Today is a big day for Emma Morley, a monumental day, and she can do without this. Tonight is the premiere of Cromwell Road Comprehensive School’s production of Oliver! and the potential for disaster is almost infinite.

  It’s a big day for Dexter Mayhew too. He lies in a tangle of damp sheets, eyes wide, and imagines all of the things that might go wrong. Tonight he is appearing on live national television in his very own TV show. A vehicle. It’s a vehicle for his talents, and he is suddenly not sure that he possesses any.

  The previous evening he went to bed early like a small boy, alone and sober while it was still light outside in the hope of being fresh-faced and quick-witted this morning. But he has been awake for seven of the nine hours now, and is exhausted and nauseous with anxiety. The phone rings and he sits up sharply and listens to his own voice on the answering machine. ‘So – talk to me!’ the voice says, urbane and confident, and he thinks Idiot. Must change message.

  The machine beeps. ‘Oh. Okay then. Hi there. It’s me.’ He feels the familiar relief at the sound of Emma’s voice, and is about to pick it up when he remembers that they’ve argued and he is meant to be sulking. ‘Sorry to call so early and all that, but some of us have proper jobs to go to. Just wanted to say, big night tonight so really, really good luck. Seriously, good luck. You’ll be fine, more than fine, you’ll be great. Just wear something nice and don’t talk in that weird voice. And I know you’re annoyed with me for not coming but I’ll be watching and cheering at the TV like some idiot—’

  He is out of bed now, naked, staring at the machine. He contemplates picking up.

  ‘I don’t know what time I’ll get back, you know how wild these school plays can get. This crazy business we call show. I’ll call later. Good luck, Dex. Loads of love. And by the way, you’ve got to change that answering machine message.’

  And she’s gone. He contemplates calling straight back, but feels that tactically he ought to sulk a little longer. They have argued again. She thinks that he doesn’t like her boyfriend, and despite his passionate denials there’s no getting over the fact that he doesn’t like her boyfriend.

  He has tried, really he has. The three of them have sat together in cinemas and cheap restaurants and dingy old boozers, Dexter meeting Emma’s eyes and smiling his approval as Ian snuffles at her neck; love’s young dream with a pair of pints. He has sat at the tiny kitchen table of her tiny Earls Court flat and played a game
of Trivial Pursuit so savagely competitive that it was like bare-knuckle boxing. He has even joined the blokes from Sonicotronics at The Laughter Lab in Mortlake to watch Ian’s observational stand-up, Emma grinning nervously at his side and nudging him so that he knows when to laugh.

  But even on his best behaviour the hostility is tangible, and mutual too. Ian takes every opportunity to imply that Dexter is a fake because he happens to be in the public eye, a snob, a fop just because he prefers taxis to night buses, members’ clubs to saloon bars, good restaurants to take-away. And the worst of it is that Emma joins in with the constant belittling, the reminders of his failings. Don’t they appreciate how hard it is, staying decent, keeping your head on straight when so much is happening to you and your life is so full and eventful? If Dexter picks up the bill at dinner, or offers to pay for a taxi instead of the bus, the two of them mumble and mope as if he has insulted them in some way. Why can’t people be pleased that he’s doing so well, grateful for his generosity? That last excruciating evening – a ‘vid night’ on a decrepit sofa, watching Star Trek: Wrath of Khan and drinking ‘tinnies’ while a curry leaked fluorescent ghee onto his Dries van Noten trousers – that was the last straw. From now on if he’s going to see Emma, then he’s going to see her alone.

  Irrationally, unreasonably, he has become – what? Jealous? No, not jealous, but resentful perhaps. He has always expected Emma to be there, a resource he can call upon at any time like the emergency services. Since the cataclysm of his mother’s death last Christmas he has found himself more and more reliant on her at exactly the point that she has become less available to him. She used to return phone-calls immediately, now days go by without a word. She’s been ‘away with Ian’ she says, but where do they go? What do they do? Buy furniture together? Watch ‘vids’? Go to pub quizzes? Ian has even met Emma’s parents, Jim and Sue. They love him, she says. Why has Dexter never met Jim and Sue? Wouldn’t they love him more?

  Most annoyingly of all, Emma seems to be relishing this newfound independence from Dexter. He feels as if he’s being taught a lesson, as if he’s being slapped round the face with her newfound contentment. ‘You can’t expect people to build their lives around you, Dexter,’ she has told him, gloatingly, and now they’ve argued once again, and all because she won’t be there in the studio for the live broadcast of his show.

  ‘What do you want me to do, cancel Oliver! because you’re on telly?’

  ‘Can’t you come along afterwards?’

  ‘No! It’s miles!’

  ‘I’ll send a car!’

  ‘I need to talk to the kids afterwards, the parents—’

  ‘Why do you?’

  ‘Dexter, be reasonable, it’s my job!’

  And he knows he’s being churlish, but it would help to see Emma in the audience. He’s a better person when she’s around, and isn’t that what friends are for, to raise you up and keep you at your best? Emma is his talisman, his lucky charm, and now she won’t be there and his mother won’t be there and he will wonder why he’s doing it at all.

  After a long shower he feels a little better and pulls on a light v-neck cashmere sweater worn with no shirt, some pale linen drawstring trousers worn with no underpants, steps into a pair of Birkenstocks and bounds down to the paper-shop to read the TV previews and check that Press and Publicity have been doing their job. The newsagent smiles at his celebrity customer with a due sense of occasion, and Dexter trots home with his arms full of newspapers. He feels better now, full of trepidation but exhilarated too, and while the espresso machine is warming up, the phone rings once again.

  Even before the machine picks up something tells him that it will be his father and that he will screen the call. Since his mother’s death the calls have become more frequent and more excruciating: stuttering, circular and distracted. His father, the self-made man, now seems defeated by the simplest of tasks. Bereavement has unmanned him and on Dexter’s rare visits home he has seen him staring helplessly at the kettle as if it were some alien technology.

  ‘So – talk to me!’ says the idiot on the machine.

  ‘Hello, Dexter, it’s your father here.’ He uses his ponderous phone voice. ‘I am just phoning to say good luck for your television show tonight. I will be watching. It’s all very exciting. Alison would have been very proud.’ There’s a momentary pause as they both realise that this probably isn’t true. ‘That’s all I wanted to say. Except. Also, don’t pay any attention to the newspapers. Just have fun. Goodbye. Goodbye—’

  Don’t pay any attention to the what? Dexter grabs at the phone.

  ‘—Goodbye!’

  His father has gone. He has set the timer on the explosives then hung up, and Dexter looks across at the pile of news papers, now full of menace. He tightens the drawstring on his linen trousers and turns to the TV pages.

  When Emma steps from the bathroom, Ian is on the phone and she can tell from the flirty, larky tone of his voice that he is talking to her mother. Her boyfriend and Sue have been conducting a borderline affair ever since they met in Leeds at Christmas: ‘Lovely sprouts, Mrs M’ and ‘Isn’t this turkey moist?’ It’s electric, the mutual longing between them and all Emma and her dad can do is tut and roll their eyes.

  She waits patiently for Ian to tear himself away. ‘Bye, Mrs M. Yeah I hope so too. It’s just a summer cold, I’ll pull through. Bye, Mrs M. Bye.’ Emma takes the receiver as Ian, mortally ill once more, shuffles back to bed.

  Her mother is flushed and giddy. ‘Such a lovely lad. Isn’t he a lovely lad?’

  ‘He is, Mum.’

  ‘I hope you’re looking after him.’

  ‘I’ve got to go to work now, Mum.’

  ‘Now, why was I calling? I’ve completely forgotten why I was calling.’

  She was calling to talk to Ian. ‘Was it to wish me good luck?’

  ‘Good luck for what?’

  ‘The school production.’

  ‘Oh yes, good luck for that. Sorry we can’t come down to see it. It’s just London’s so expensive . . .’

  Emma ends the phone-call by pretending that the toaster is on fire then goes to see the patient, sweltering beneath the duvet in an attempt to ‘sweat it out’. Part of her is vaguely aware of failing as a girlfriend. It’s a new role for her, and she sometimes finds herself plagiarising ‘girlfriend behaviour’: holding hands, cuddling up in front of the television, that kind of thing. Ian loves her, he tells her so, if anything a little too often, and she thinks she may be able to love him back, but it will take some practice. Certainly she intends to try and now, in a self-conscious gesture of sympathy, she curls herself around him on the bed.

  ‘If you don’t think you can come to the show tonight—’

  He sits up, alarmed. ‘No! No, no, no, I’m definitely coming—’

  ‘I’ll understand—’

  ‘—if I have to come by ambulance.’

  ‘It’s only a silly school play, it’s going to be so embarrassing.’

  ‘Emma!’ She lifts her head to look at him. ‘It’s your big night! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  She smiles. ‘Good. I’m pleased.’ She leans and kisses him antiseptically with closed lips, then picks up her bag and pads out of the flat, ready for her big day.

  The headline reads:

  IS THIS THE MOST ODIOUS

  MAN ON TELEVISION?

  – and for a while Dexter thinks there must be a mistake, because beneath the headline they have accidentally printed his picture, and beneath that the single word ‘Smug’ as if Smug were his surname. Dexter Smug.

  With the tiny espresso cup pinched tight between finger and thumb, he reads on.

  Tonight’s TV

  Is there a more smug, self-satisfied smart-arse than Dexter Mayhew on TV today? A subliminal burst of his cocky, pretty-boy face makes us want to kick the screen in. At school we had a phrase for it: here’s a man who clearly thinks he’s IT. Weirdly, someone out there in MediaLand must love him as much as he loves hi
mself because after three years of largin’ it (dontcha hate that lower case? So 1990) he’s now presenting his own late-night music show, the Late-Night Lock-In. So

  He should stop reading here, just close the paper and move on, but his peripheral vision has already glimpsed a word or two. ‘Inept’ was one. He reads on –

  So if you really want to see a public schoolboy trying to be a new lad, dropping his aitches and flirting with the ladeez, trying to stay hip with the kidz unaware that the kidz are laughing at him, then this one is for you. It’s live, so there might be some pleasure in watching his famously inept interviewing technique, or alternatively you could brand your face with a steam iron set to ‘linen’. Co-presenter is ‘bubbly’ Suki Meadows, music from Shed Seven, Echobelly and the Lemonheads. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

  Dexter has a clippings file, a Patrick Cox shoebox in the bottom of a wardrobe, but he decides to let this one go. With a great deal of clatter and mess he makes himself another espresso.

  Tall poppy syndrome that’s what it is, the British Disease, he thinks. A little bit of success and they want to knock you down well I don’t care I like my job and I’m bloody good at it and it’s much much harder than people think balls of steel that’s what you need to be a TV presenter and a mind like a like a well quick-thinking anyway and besides you mustn’t take it personally critics who needs critics no-one ever woke up and decided they wanted to be a critic well I’d rather be out there doing it putting myself on the line rather than be some some eunuch being spiteful for twelve grand a year well no-one ever built a statue to a critic and I’ll show them I’ll show them all.

  Variations of this monologue run through Dexter’s head throughout his big day; on his trip to the production office, during his chauffeured drive in the saloon car to the studio on the Isle of Dogs, throughout the afternoon’s dress rehearsal, the production meeting, the hair and make-up sessions, right up until the moment when he is alone in his dressing room and is finally able to open his bag, take out the bottle he placed there that morning, pour himself a large glass of vodka, top it up with warm orange juice and proceed to drink.