One Day, Page 33

‘Or a Call Girl.’

  ‘But a High-Class Call Girl.’

  ‘Well even better.’ She touched his chin with her knuckle, the stubble there. ‘So what have you come as then?’

  ‘I’ve come as Fucked-up Suicidal Divorcee.’ The remark was glib and he regretted it immediately. Barely off the platform, and he was spoiling things.

  ‘Well at least you’re not bitter,’ she said, reaching for the nearest off-the-shelf remark.

  ‘Do you want me to get back on the train?’

  ‘Not just yet.’ She took him by the hand. ‘Come on, let’s go, shall we?’

  They stepped outside the Gare du Nord into the stifling fume-filled air; a typical Parisian summer day, muggy, with thick grey clouds threatening rain. ‘I thought we’d go for a coffee first, near the canal. It’s a fifteen-minute walk, is that alright? Then another fifteen minutes to my flat. I have to warn you though, it’s nothing special. In case you’re imagining parquet floors and big windows with fluttering curtains or something. It’s just two rooms over a courtyard.’

  ‘A garret.’

  ‘Exactly. A garret.’

  ‘A writer’s garret.’

  In anticipation of this journey, Emma had memorised a scenic walk, or as scenic as possible in the dust and traffic of the north-east. I’m moving to Paris for the summer, to write. Back in April, the idea had seemed almost embarrassingly precious and fey, but she was so bored with married couples telling her that she could go to Paris at any time that she had decided actually to do it. London had turned into one enormous crèche, so why not get away from other people’s children for a while, have an adventure? The city of Sartre and De Beauvoir, Beckett and Proust, and here she was too, writing teenage fiction, albeit with considerable commercial success. The only way she could make the idea seem less hokey was to settle as far away as she could from tourist Paris, in the working-class 19th arrondissement on the border of Belleville and Ménilmontant. No tourist attractions, few landmarks . . .

  ‘—but it’s really lively, and cheap, and multi-cultural and . . . God, I was about to say it’s very “real”.’

  ‘Meaning what, violent?’

  ‘No, just, I don’t know, real Paris. I sound like a student, don’t I? Thirty-five years old, living in a little two-room flat like I’m on a gap year.’

  ‘I think Paris suits you.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘You look fantastic.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘I haven’t. Not really.’

  ‘No, really. You look beautiful.’

  Emma frowned and kept her eyes ahead, and they walked a little further, trotting down stone steps to the Canal St Martin, and a little bar by the water’s edge.

  ‘Looks like Amsterdam,’ he said blandly, pulling out a chair.

  ‘Actually it’s the old industrial link to the Seine.’ Good God, I sound like some tour guide. ‘Flows under the Place de la République, under the Bastille, then out into the river.’ Just calm down. He’s an old friend, remember? Just an old friend. They sat for a moment and stared at the water and she immediately regretted the self-consciously scenic choice of venue. This was terrible, like a blind date. She fumbled for something to say.

  ‘So, shall we have wine, or—?’

  ‘Better not. I’m sort of off it.’

  ‘Oh. Really? For how long?’

  ‘Month or so. It’s not an AA thing. Just trying to avoid it.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing good ever came of it, that’s all. Not a big deal.’

  ‘Oh. O-kay. Coffee then?’

  ‘Just a coffee.’

  The waitress arrived, dark, pretty and long-legged, but Dexter didn’t even look up. There must be something seriously wrong, Emma thought, if he’s not even ogling the waitress. She ordered in ostentatiously colloquial French, then smiled awkwardly at Dexter’s raised eyebrow. ‘I’ve been taking lessons.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘Course she didn’t understand a word. She’ll probably bring us out a roast chicken!’

  Nothing. Instead he sat grinding grains of sugar against the metal table with his thumbnail. She tried again, something innocuous.

  ‘When were you last in Paris?’

  ‘About three years ago. My wife and I came here on one of our famous mini-breaks. Four nights in the George Cinq.’ He flicked a sugar-cube into the canal. ‘So that was a waste of fucking money.’

  Emma opened her mouth and closed it again. There was nothing to say. She had already made her ‘at least you’re not bitter’ remark.

  But Dexter blinked hard, shook his head then nudged her hand with his. ‘So what I thought we’d do for the next couple of days is, you can show me the sights, and I’ll just mope about and make stupid remarks.’

  She smiled and nudged his hand back. ‘It’s hardly surprising, what you’ve been through, are going through,’ and she covered his hand with her own. After a moment he covered her hand with his, she followed, covering his with hers, faster and faster, a children’s game. But it was a piece of actors’ business too, strained and self-conscious, and in her embarrassment she decided to pretend to need the bathroom.

  In the small, stale room she glowered in the mirror and tugged at her fringe as if trying to pull more from her head. She sighed and told herself to calm down. The thing that happened, the event, it was just a one-off, not a big deal, he’s just an old, old friend. She flushed the toilet for veracity’s sake and stepped back out into the warm grey afternoon. On the table in front of Dexter was a copy of her novel. Warily, she sat back down, and poked it with her finger.

  ‘Where did this come from then?’

  ‘I bought it at the train station. Great piles of it, there were. It’s everywhere, Em.’

  ‘Have you read it yet?’

  ‘Can’t get past page three.’

  ‘Not funny, Dex.’

  ‘Emma, I thought it was wonderful.’

  ‘Well it’s just a silly kid’s book.’

  ‘No, really, I’m so proud of you. I mean I’m not a teenage girl or anything, but it really made me laugh. I read it straight through in one go. And I speak as someone who’s been reading Howard’s Way for the last fifteen years.’

  ‘You mean Howards End. Howard’s Way is something different.’

  ‘Whatever. I’ve never read anything straight through before.’

  ‘Well, the type is pretty large.’

  ‘And that was my favourite thing about it really, the big type. And the pictures. The illustrations are really funny, Em. I had no idea.’

  ‘Well thank you . . .’

  ‘Plus the fact that it’s exciting and funny, and I’m so proud of you, Em. In fact—’ He pulled a pen from his pocket. ‘I want you to sign it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘No, you’ve got to. You’re . . .’ He read from the back of the book ‘ . . . the “most exciting children’s author since Roald Dahl”.’

  ‘Says the publisher’s nine-year-old niece.’ He poked her with the pen. ‘I’m still not signing it, Dex.’

  ‘Go on. I insist.’ He stood, pretending to need the toilet. ‘I’m going to leave it there, and you’ve got to write something. Something personal, with today’s date, in case you get really famous and I need the cash.’

  In the small rank cubicle, Dexter stood and wondered how long he could keep this up. At some point they would need to talk, insane to tip-toe round the subject like this. He flushed the toilet for effect, washed his hands and dried them on his hair, then stepped back out onto the pavement, where Emma was just closing the book. He went to read the dedication, but she placed her hand on the cover.

  ‘When I’m not around, please.’

  He sat down and placed it in his bag, and she leant across the table, as if returning to business. ‘So. I’ve got to ask. How are things?’

  ‘Oh, fantastic. The divorce goes through in September, just before our anniversary. Almost two whole years of wedded bli
ss.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her much?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. I mean we’ve stopped screaming abuse and throwing things, now it’s just yes, no, hello, goodbye. Which is more or less all we said when we were married anyway. Did you hear, they’ve moved in with Callum now? Into his ridiculous mansion in Muswell Hill where we used to go to dinner parties—’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘Who from? Callum?’

  ‘Of course not! Just, you know – people.’

  ‘People feeling sorry for me.’

  ‘Not sorry, just . . . concerned.’ He wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘It’s not a bad thing, Dex, people caring about you. Have you spoken to Callum?’

  ‘No. He’s tried. Keeps leaving messages, like nothing’s happened. “Alright mate! Give us a call.” He thinks we should go out for a beer, and “talk things through”. Maybe I should go. Technically he still owes me three weeks’ wages.’

  ‘Are you working yet?’

  ‘Not as such. We’re renting out that bloody house in Richmond, and the flat, so I’m living off that.’ He drank the dregs of his coffee and stared into the canal. ‘I don’t know, Em. Eighteen months ago I had a family, a career – not much of a career, but I had opportunities, I still got offers. People carrier, nice little house in Surrey—’

  ‘Which you hated.’

  ‘I didn’t hate it.’

  ‘You hated the people carrier.’

  ‘Well, yes, I did hate that, but it was mine. And now all of a sudden I’m living in a bedsit in Kilburn with my half of the wedding list and I have . . . nothing. Just me and a shitload of Le Creuset. My life is effectively over.’

  ‘You know what I think you should do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ She took a deep breath, and held the fingers of his hand. ‘Maybe you should beg Callum for your job back.’ He glared and jerked his hand away. ‘Joking! I’m joking!’ she said and started to laugh.

  ‘Well I’m glad you find the carnage of my marriage funny, Em.’

  ‘I don’t find it funny, I just think self-pity’s probably not the answer.’

  ‘It’s not self-pity, it’s the facts.’

  ‘“My life is effectively over”?’

  ‘I just mean. I don’t know. Just . . .’ He looked into the canal and gave a theatrical sigh. ‘When I was younger everything seemed possible. Now nothing does.’

  Emma, for whom the opposite was now true, simply said. ‘It’s not as bad as all that.’

  ‘So there’s a bright side, is there? To your wife running off with your best mate—’

  ‘And he wasn’t your “best mate”, you hadn’t spoken in years, that’s just, I’m just saying . . . Okay, well for a start it’s not a bedsit in Kilburn, it’s a perfectly good two-bedroom flat in West Hampstead. I’d have killed to have a flat like that. And you’re only there until you get your old flat back.’

  ‘But I’m thirty-seven in two weeks! I’m practically middle-aged!’

  ‘Thirty-seven is still mid-thirties! Just about. And no, you don’t have a job at this exact moment, but you’re not exactly living on benefits. You’ve an income from rent, which is unbelievably lucky if you ask me. And lots of people change track late in life. It’s fine to be miserable for a while, but you weren’t that happy when you were married, Dex. I know, I had to listen to it all the time. “We never talk, we never have fun, we never go out . . .” I know it’s tough, but at some point you might be able to think of this as a new start! A new beginning. There are loads of things you could do, you just have to make a decision . . .’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know – the media? You could try for some presenting jobs again?’ Dexter groaned. ‘Okay, something behind the scenes? Producer or director or something.’ Dexter winced. ‘Or, or photography! You used to talk about photography all the time. Or food, you could, I don’t know, do something with food. And if none of that works, you’ve always got that low two-two in Anthropology to fall back on.’ She patted the back of his hand for emphasis: ‘People will always need anthropologists.’ He smiled, then remembered he shouldn’t be smiling. ‘You’re a healthy, capable, financially stable moderately attractive father in your mid-to-late-thirties. You’re . . . alright, Dex. You just need to get your confidence back, that’s all.’

  He sighed and looked out at the canal. ‘So was that your pep-talk then?’

  ‘That was it. What did you think?’

  ‘I still want to jump in the canal.’

  ‘Maybe we should move on then.’ She laid money on the table. ‘My flat’s about twenty minutes away in that direction. We can walk, or get a taxi . . .’ She went to stand, but Dexter didn’t move.

  ‘The worst of it is I really miss Jasmine.’ Emma sat again. ‘I mean it’s sending me insane and it’s not even like I was a good dad or anything.’

  ‘Oh come on—’

  ‘I wasn’t, Em, I was useless, completely. I resented it, I didn’t want to be there. All the time we were pretending we were this perfect family, I always thought this is a mistake, this isn’t for me. I used to think wouldn’t it be great to sleep again, to go away for the weekend, or just go out, stay up late, have fun. To be free, to have no responsibilities. And now I’ve got all of that back, and all I do is sit with my stuff still in cardboard boxes and miss my daughter.’

  ‘But you still see her.’

  ‘Once a fortnight, one lousy overnight stay.’

  ‘But you could see her more, you could ask for more time—’

  ‘And I would! But even now you can see the fear in her eyes when her mum drives off; don’t leave me here with this weird sad freak! I buy her all these presents, it’s pathetic, there’s a great pile of them every time she arrives, it’s like Christmas morning every time, because if we’re not opening presents I don’t know what to do with her. If we’re not opening presents she’ll just start crying and asking for Mummy, by which she means Mummy and that bastard Callum, and I don’t even know what to buy her, because every time I see her she’s different. You turn your back for one week, ten days and everything’s changed! I mean, she started walking for Christ’s sake and I didn’t see that happen! How can that be? How can I be missing that? I mean, isn’t that my job? I haven’t even done anything wrong, and all of a sudden . . .’ His voice quavered for a moment, and quickly he changed tone, grabbing onto anger: ‘ . . . and meanwhile of course that fucker Callum’s there with them, in his big mansion in Muswell fucking Hill . . .’

  But the momentum of his rage wasn’t enough to prevent his voice cracking. Abruptly he stopped speaking, pressed his hands either side of his nose and opened his eyes wide, as if trying to suppress a sneeze.

  ‘You okay?’ she said, her hand on his knee.

  He nodded. ‘I’m not going to be like this all weekend, I promise.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Well I mind. It’s . . . demeaning.’ He stood abruptly, and picked up his bag. ‘Please, Em. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me something. Tell me about you.’

  They walked the length of the canal, skirting the edge of the Place de la République then turning east along rue du Faubourg St-Denis as she talked about her work. ‘The second one’s a sequel. That’s how imaginative I am. I’m about three-quarters of the way through. Julie Criscoll goes on this school trip to Paris and falls for this French boy and has all sorts of adventures, surprise suprise. That’s my excuse for being here. “Research purposes”.’

  ‘And the first one’s doing well?’

  ‘So I’m told. Well enough for them to pay for two more.’

  ‘Really? Two more sequels?’

  ‘’fraid so. Julie Criscoll’s what they call a franchise. That’s where the money’s at apparently. Got to have a franchise! And we’re talking to TV people. For a show. An animated kid’s show, based on my illustrations.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’

  ‘I k
now. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m working in “the media”! I’m the Associate Producer!’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing at all. I mean I don’t mind. I love it. But I’d like to write a grown-up book one day. That’s what I always wanted to write, this great, angry state-of-the-nation novel, something wild and timeless that reveals the human soul, not a lot of silly stuff about snogging French boys at discos.’

  ‘It’s not just about that though, is it?’

  ‘Maybe not. And maybe that’s just what happens; you start out wanting to change the world through language, and end up thinking it’s enough to tell a few good jokes. God, listen to me. My life in art!’

  He nudged her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m pleased for you, that’s all.’ His arm curled round her shoulders and squeezed. ‘An author. A proper author. You’re finally doing what you always wanted to do.’ They walked like this, a little self-consciously and awkwardly, the bag in the other hand banging against his leg, until the discomfort became too much and he took his arm away.

  They walked on, and gradually their mood lifted. The blanket of cloud had broken and Faubourg St-Denis was taking on a new lease of life as the evening began. Scrappy, gaudy and full of noise and life, parts of it almost souk-like, Emma kept stealing glances at Dexter, an anxious tour guide. They crossed the wide bustling Boulevard de Belleville and continued east along the border of the 19th and 20th. Climbing the hill, Emma pointed out the bars she liked, talked about the local history, Piaf and the Paris Commune of 1871, the local Chinese and North African communities, and Dexter half-listened, half-wondered what would happen when they finally arrived at her flat. Listen, Emma, about what happened . . .

  ‘ . . . it’s sort of like the Hackney of Paris,’ she was saying.

  Dexter smiled that maddening smile.

  She nudged him. ‘What?!’

  ‘Only you would go to Paris and find the bit that’s most like Hackney.’

  ‘It’s interesting. I think so, anyway.’

  Eventually they turned down a quiet side street and came to what looked like a garage door where Emma punched a code into a panel and pressed against the heavy gate with her shoulder. They entered into an enclosed courtyard, cluttered and rundown and overlooked by apartments on all sides. Washing hung from rusting balconies, shabby pot plants wilted in the evening sun. The courtyard echoed with the noise of competing TVs and children playing soccer with a tennis ball, and Dexter fought down a little shiver of irritation. Rehearsing this occasion, he had pictured a tree-shaded square, louvred windows, a view of Notre-Dame perhaps. This was all fine enough, chic even in an urban, industrial way, but something more romantic would have made this all a little easier.