One Day

by David Nicholls

  ‘Like I said, it’s nothing grand. Fifth floor, I’m afraid.’

  She pressed the light switch, which was on a timer, and they began the steep ascent of the wrought-iron stairs, tightly curled and seemingly sheering away from the wall in places. Emma was suddenly conscious of the fact that Dexter’s eyes were exactly level with her backside and she began nervously reaching back to her skirt to smooth down creases that weren’t there. As they reached the landing of the third floor the timer of the light clicked off, and they found themselves in darkness for a moment, Emma fumbling behind her to find his hand, and leading him up the stairs until they stood outside a door. In the dim light from the transom, they smiled at each other.

  ‘Here we go. Chez Moi!’

  From her bag, she produced an immense bunch of keys, and began work on a complex sequence of locks. After some time the door opened onto a small but pleasant flat with scuffed grey-painted floorboards, a large baggy sofa and a small neat desk overlooking the courtyard, its walls lined with austere-looking books in French, the spines a uniform pale yellow. Fresh roses and fruit stood on the table in a small adjoining kitchen, and through another door Dexter could glimpse the bedroom. They had yet to discuss the sleeping arrangements, but he could see the apartment’s only bed, a large cast-iron affair, quaint and cumbersome like something from a farmhouse. One bedroom, one bed. Evening sunlight shone through the windows, drawing attention to the fact of it. He glanced at the sofa to check that it didn’t fold out into anything. Nope. One bed. He could feel the blood pumping in his chest, though perhaps this was just from the long climb.

  She closed the door and there was a silence.

  ‘So. Here we are!’

  ‘It’s great.’

  ‘It’s okay. Kitchen’s through here.’ The climb and nerves had made Emma thirsty and she crossed to the fridge, opened it and took out a bottle of sparkling water. She had begun to drink, taking great gulps, when suddenly Dexter’s hand was on her shoulder, then he was in front of her somehow, and kissing her. Her mouth still full of the effervescing water, she pursed her lips tight to prevent it squirting in his face like a soda siphon. Leaning away, she pointed at her cheeks, absurdly ballooned like a puffer fish, flapped her hands and made a noise that approximated to ‘hold on a moment’.

  Chivalrously, Dexter stepped back to allow her to swallow. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘S’okay. You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Okay now?’

  ‘Fine, but Dexter, I have to tell you . . .’

  And he was kissing her again, clumsily pressing too hard as she leant backwards over the kitchen table, which suddenly juddered noisily across the floor, so that she had to twist away at the waist to stop the vase of roses falling.

  ‘Oops.’

  ‘The thing is, Dex—’

  ‘Sorry about that, I just—’

  ‘But the thing is—’

  ‘Bit self-conscious—’

  ‘I’ve sort of met someone.’

  He actually took a step backwards.

  ‘You’ve met someone.’

  ‘A man. A guy. I’m seeing this guy.’

  ‘A guy. Right. Okay. So. Who?’

  ‘He’s called Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre Dusollier.’

  ‘He’s French?’

  ‘No, Dex, he’s Welsh.’

  ‘No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.’

  ‘Surprised he’s French, or surprised that I should actually have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No, just that – well it’s pretty quick, isn’t it? I mean you’ve only been here a couple of weeks. Did you unpack first, or . . .’

  ‘Two months! I’ve been here two months, and I met Jean-Pierre a month ago.’

  ‘And where did you meet him?’

  ‘In a little bistro near here.’

  ‘A little bistro. Right. How?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘—did you meet him?’

  ‘Well, um, I was having dinner by myself, reading a book, and this guy was with some friends and he asked me what I was reading . . .’ Dexter groaned and shook his head, a craftsman deriding another’s handiwork. Emma ignored him and walked through to the living room. ‘And anyway, we got talking—’

  Dexter followed. ‘What, in French?’

  ‘Yes, in French, and we hit it off, and now we’re . . . seeing each other!’ She flopped onto the sofa. ‘So. Now you know!’

  ‘Right. I see.’ His eyebrows rose then lowered again, his features contorting as he explored ways to sulk and smile at the same time. ‘Well. Good for you, Em, that’s really great.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Dexter. Like I’m some lonely old lady—’

  ‘I’m not!’ With feigned nonchalance, he turned to look out the window into the courtyard below. ‘So what’s he like then, this Jean . . .’

  ‘Jean-Pierre. He’s nice. Very handsome, very charming. An amazing cook, he knows all about food, and wine, and art, and architecture. You know, just very, very . . . French.’

  ‘What, you mean rude?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Dirty?’

  ‘Dexter!’

  ‘Wears a string of onions, rides a bike—’

  ‘God, you can be unbearable sometimes—’

  ‘Well what the hell is that supposed to mean, “very French”?’

  ‘I don’t know, just very cool and laidback and—’

  ‘Sexy?—’

  ‘I didn’t say “sexy”.’

  ‘No but you’ve gone all sexy, playing with your hair, your shirt unbuttoned—’

  ‘Such a stupid word, “sexy”—’

  ‘But you’re having a lot of sex, right?’

  ‘Dexter, why are you being so—?’

  ‘Look at you, you’re glowing, you’ve got a little sweaty glow—’

  ‘There’s no reason for you to be – why are you anyway?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being so . . . mean, like I’ve done something wrong!’

  ‘I’m not being mean, I just thought . . .’ He stopped, and turned to look out of the window, his forehead on the glass. ‘I wish you’d told me before I came. I’d have booked a hotel.’

  ‘You can still stay here! I’ll just sleep with Jean-Pierre tonight.’ Even with his back to her she could tell that he had flinched. ‘Sleep at Jean-Pierre’s tonight.’ She leant forward on the sofa, her face cupped in both hands. ‘What did you think was going to happen, Dexter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled at the windowpane. ‘Not this.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why do you think I came to see you, Em?’

  ‘For a break. To get away from things. See the sights!’

  ‘I came to talk about what happened. You and me, finally getting together.’ He picked at the putty on the windows with his fingernail. ‘I just thought it would have been a bigger deal for you. That’s all.’

  ‘We’ve slept together once, Dexter.’

  ‘Three times!’

  ‘I don’t mean how many acts of intercourse, Dex, I mean the occasion, the night, we spent one night together.’

  ‘And I just thought it might have been something worth remarking on! Next thing I know you’ve run off to Paris and thrown yourself under the nearest Frenchman—’

  ‘I didn’t “run off”, the ticket was already booked! Why do you think that everything that happens happens because of you?’

  ‘And you couldn’t phone me up maybe, before you . . . ?’

  ‘What, to ask your permission?’

  ‘No, to see how I felt about it!’

  ‘Hang on a minute – you’re annoyed because we haven’t examined our feelings? You’re annoyed because you think I should have waited for you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘Maybe!’

  ‘My God, Dexter, are you . . . are you actually jealous?’

  ‘Of course I’m not!’

  ‘So why are you su
lking?’

  ‘I’m not sulking.’

  ‘Look at me then!’

  He did so, petulant, his arms crossed high on his chest, and Emma couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘What? What?’ he asked, indignant.

  ‘Well you do realise there’s a certain amount of irony in this, Dex.’

  ‘How is this ironic?’

  ‘You getting all conventional and . . . monogamous all of a sudden.’

  He said nothing for a moment, then turned back to the window.

  More conciliatory, she said, ‘Look – we were both a little drunk.’

  ‘I wasn’t that drunk . . .’

  ‘You took your trousers off over your shoes, Dex!’ Still he wouldn’t turn around. ‘Don’t stand over by the window. Come and sit here, will you?’ She lifted her bare feet up onto the sofa and curled her legs beneath her. He bumped the pane of glass with his forehead once, twice, then without meeting her eye, crossed the room and slumped next to her, a child sent home from school. She rested her feet against his thighs.

  ‘Alright, you want to talk about that night? Let’s talk about it.’

  He said nothing. She poked him with her toes, and when he finally looked at her, she spoke. ‘Okay. I’ll go first.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think that you were very upset and a little bit drunk and you came to see me that night and it just . . . happened. I think with all the misery of breaking up with Sylvie, and moving out and not seeing Jasmine, you were feeling a little lonely and you just needed a shoulder to cry on. Or to sleep with. And that’s what I was. A shoulder to sleep with.’

  ‘So that’s what you think?’

  ‘That’s what I think.’

  ‘ . . . and you only slept with me to make me feel better?’

  ‘Did you feel better?’

  ‘Yes, much better.’

  ‘Well so did I, so there you go. It worked.’

  ‘ . . . but that’s not the point.’

  ‘Well there are worse reasons to sleep with someone. You should know.’

  ‘But pity sex?’

  ‘Not pity, compassion.’

  ‘Don’t tease me, Em.’

  ‘I’m not, I just . . . it was nothing to do with pity, and you know it. But it’s . . . complicated. Us. Come here, will you?’ She nudged him once more with her foot and after a moment he tipped over like a felled tree, his head coming to rest against her shoulder.

  She sighed. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Dex.’

  ‘I know. I just thought it might be a good idea. Dex and Em, Em and Dex, the two of us. Just try it for a while, see how it worked. I had thought that’s what you wanted too.’

  ‘It is. It was. Back in the late Eighties.’

  ‘So why not now?’

  ‘Because. It’s too late. We’re too late. I’m too tired.’

  ‘You’re thirty-five!’

  ‘I just feel our time has passed, that’s all,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know, unless we give it a try?’

  ‘Dexter – I have met someone else!’

  They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the children shouting in the courtyard below, the sound of distant televisions.

  ‘And you like him? This guy.’

  ‘I do. I really, really like him.’

  He reached down, and took her left foot in his hand, still dusty from the street. ‘My timing isn’t great, is it?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  He examined the foot he held in his hand. The toenails were painted red, but chipped, the smallest nail gnarled and barely there. ‘Your feet are disgusting.’

  ‘I know they are.’

  ‘Your little toe’s like this little nub of sweetcorn.’

  ‘Stop playing with it then.’

  ‘So that night—’ He pressed his thumb against the hard skin of her sole. ‘So was it really so terrible?’

  She poked him sharply in the hip with her other foot. ‘Don’t fish, Dexter.’

  ‘No really, tell me.’

  ‘No, Dexter, it was not such a terrible night, in fact it was one of the more memorable nights of my life. But I still think we should leave it at that.’ She swung her legs off the sofa and sidled up until their hips were touching, taking his hand, her head on his shoulder now. Both stared forwards at the bookshelves, until Emma finally sighed. ‘Why didn’t you say all this, I don’t know – eight years ago?’

  ‘Don’t know, too busy trying to have . . . fun, I suppose.’

  She lifted her head to look at him sideways. ‘And now you’ve stopped having fun, you think “good old Em, give her a go—”’

  ‘That’s not what I meant—’

  ‘I’m not the consolation prize, Dex. I’m not something you resort to. I happen to think I’m worth more than that.’

  ‘And I think you’re worth more than that too. That’s why I came here. You’re a wonder, Em.’

  After a moment she stood abruptly, picked up a cushion, threw it sharply at his head and walked towards the bedroom. ‘Shut up, Dex.’

  He reached for her hand as she passed, but she shook it free. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To have a shower, get changed. Can’t sit around here all night!’ she shouted from the other room, angrily pulling clothes from the wardrobe and dropping them onto the bed. ‘After all, he’ll be here in twenty minutes!’

  ‘Who’ll be here?’

  ‘Who do you think? My NEW BOYFRIEND!’

  ‘Jean-Pierre’s coming here?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Eight o’clock.’ She started unbuttoning the tiny buttons on her shirt, then gave up, pulled it impatiently over her head and whipped it at the floor. ‘We’re all going out for dinner! The three of us!’

  He let his head fall backwards and let out a long low groan. ‘Oh God. Do we have to?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. It’s all been arranged.’ She was naked now, and furious, at herself, at the situation. ‘We’re taking you to the very restaurant where we first met! The famous bistro! We’re going to sit there at the same table and hold hands and tell you all about it! It’s all going to be very, very romantic.’ She slammed the bathroom door, shouting through it. ‘And in no way awkward!’

  Dexter heard the sound of the shower running, and lay back on the sofa, looking at the ceiling, embarrassed now at this ridiculous expedition. He had thought that he had the answer, that they could rescue each other, when in truth Emma had been fine for years. If anyone needed rescuing, it was him.

  And maybe Emma was right, maybe he was just feeling a little lonely. He heard the ancient plumbing gurgle as the shower ceased, and there it was again, that terrible, shameful word. Lonely. And the worst of it was that he knew it was true. Never in his life had he imagined that he would be lonely. For his thirtieth birthday he had filled a whole night-club off Regent Street; people had been queuing on the pavement to get in. The SIM card of his mobile phone in his pocket was overflowing with telephone numbers of all the hundreds of people he had met in the last ten years, and yet the only person he had ever wanted to talk to in all that time was standing now in the very next room.

  Could this be true? He scrutinised the notion once again and finding it to be accurate he stood suddenly with the intention of telling her straightaway. He walked towards the bedroom then stopped.

  He could see her through the gap in the door. She was sitting at a small 1950s dressing table, her short hair still wet from the shower, wearing a knee-length old-fashioned black silk dress, unzipped at the back to the base of her spine, opened wide enough to see the shade beneath her shoulder blades. She sat motionless and erect and rather elegant, as if waiting for someone to come and zip the dress up, and there was something so appealing about the idea, something so intimate and satisfying about that simple gesture, both familiar and new, that he almost stepped straight into the room. He would fasten the dress, then kiss the curve between her neck and her shoulder and tell her.

  Instead he watched silently as she reached for a book on t
he dressing table, a large well-thumbed French/English dictionary. She began to leaf through the pages then stopped suddenly, her head slumping forwards, both hands spanning her brow and pushing her fringe back as she groaned angrily. Dexter laughed at her exasperation, silently he thought, but she glanced towards the door and he quickly stepped backwards. The floorboards popped beneath his feet as he pranced absurdly towards the kitchen area, running both taps and moving cups around uselessly under running water as an alibi. After a while he heard the ting of the old-fashioned phone being picked up in the bedroom, and he turned off the taps so that he might overhear the conversation with this Jean-Pierre. A low, lover’s murmur, in French. He strained to listen, failing to understand a single word.

  The bell sounded once again as she hung up. Some time passed, then she was standing in the doorway behind him. ‘Who was that on the phone?’ he asked over his shoulder, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Jean-Pierre.’

  ‘And how was Jean-Pierre?’

  ‘He’s fine. Just fine.’

  ‘Good. So. I should get changed. What time is he coming round again?’

  ‘He isn’t coming round.’

  Dexter turned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told him not to come round.’

  ‘Really? You did?’

  He wanted to laugh—

  ‘I told him I had tonsillitis.’

  —wanted to laugh so much, but he mustn’t, not yet. He dried his hands. ‘What is that? Tonsillitis. In French?’

  Her fingers went to her throat. ‘Je suis très désolé, mais mes glandes sont gonflées,’ she croaked feebly. ‘Je pense que je peux avoir l’amygdalite.’

  ‘L’amy . . . ?’

  ‘L’amygdalite.’

  ‘You have amazing vocab.’

  ‘Well, you know.’ She shrugged modestly. ‘Had to look it up.’