One Day (12 page)

‘I was drunk—’

‘That’s what they always say—’

‘They?
Who’s they?’

‘And you weren’t that drunk—’

‘Drunk enough to lower my standards. Besides, as I recall nothing happened.’

‘Well I wouldn’t call it
nothing
, not from where I was laying. “Lying”? “Laying” or “lying”?’

‘Lying. I was young, I didn’t know any better. In fact I’ve blanked it out, like a car crash.’

‘Well I haven’t. If I close my eyes I can picture you right now, silhouetted against the morning light, your discarded dungarees splayed provocatively on the Habitat dhurri—’

She tapped him sharply on the nose with her book.

‘Ow!’

‘Look I’m not taking my clothes off, alright? And I wasn’t wearing dungarees, I’ve never worn dungarees in my life.’ She retrieved her book, then started to laugh quietly to herself.

‘What’s funny?’ he asked.

‘“Habitat dhurri”.’ She laughed and looked at him fondly. ‘You make me laugh sometimes.’

‘Do I?’

‘Every now and then. You should be on television.’

Gratified, he smiled and closed his eyes. He had in fact retained a vivid mental picture of Emma from that night, lying on the single bed, naked except for the skirt around her waist, her arms thrown up above her head as they kissed. He thought about this, and eventually fell asleep.

In the late afternoon they returned to the room, tired and sticky and tingling from the sun, and there it was again: the bed. They stepped around it and walked out onto the balcony that overlooked the sea, hazy now as the sky shaded from blue into the pink of the evening.

‘So. Who wants first shower?’

‘You go ahead. I’m going to sit out here and read.’

She lay on the faded sun-lounger in the evening shade, listening to the sound of the running water and trying to concentrate on the tiny typeface of her Russian novel, which seemed to be getting smaller with each page. She stood suddenly and crossed to the small fridge that they’d filled with water and beer, took a can and noticed that the bathroom door had swung open.

There was no shower curtain, and she could see Dexter standing side on beneath the cold water, eyes closed against the spray, head back, arms raised. She noticed his shoulder blades, the long brown back, the two hollows at the base of his spine above the small white bottom. But oh God, he was turning now, and the can of beer slipped through her hand and exploded, fizzing and foaming, propelling itself noisily around the floor. She threw a towel over it as if capturing some wild rodent, then looked up to see Dexter, her platonic friend, naked except for his clothes held loosely in front of him. ‘Slipped out of my hand!’ she said, stamping the beer foam into the towel and thinking
eight more days and nights of this and I will self-combust
.

Then it was her turn to shower. She closed the door, washed the beer from her hands then contorted herself as she struggled to undress in the tiny, humid bathroom that still smelt of his aftershave.

Rule Four required that Dexter go and stand on the balcony while she dried herself and got dressed but after some experimentation he found that if he kept his sunglasses on and turned his head just so, he could see her reflection in the glass door as she struggled to rub lotion onto the low parabola of her newly tanned back. He watched the wriggle of her hips as she pulled on her underwear, the concave curve of her back and arch of shoulder blades as she fastened her bra, the raised arms and the blue summer dress coming down like a curtain.

She joined him on the balcony.

‘Maybe we should just stay here,’ he said. ‘Instead of island-hopping, hang out here for a week, then back to Rhodes then home.’

She smiled. ‘Okay. Maybe.’

‘Don’t think you’d get bored?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Happy then?’

‘Well my face feels like a grilled tomato, but apart from that—’

‘Let me see.’

Closing her eyes she turned towards him and lifted her chin, her hair still wet and combed back off her face, which was shiny and scrubbed clean. It was Emma, but all new. She glowed, and he thought of the words sun-kissed, then thought
kiss her, take hold of her face and kiss her
.

She opened her eyes suddenly. ‘What now?’ she said.

‘Whatever you want.’

‘Game of Scrabble?’

‘I have my limits.’

‘Okay, how about dinner. Apparently they have this thing called Greek Salad.’

The restaurants in the small town were remarkable for being all identical. The air hung smoky with burning lamb, and they sat in a quiet place at the end of the harbour where the crescent of the beach began and drank wine that tasted of pine.

‘Christmas trees,’ said Dexter.

‘Disinfectant,’ said Emma.

Music played from speakers concealed in the plastic vines, Madonna’s ‘Get into the Groove’ performed on the zither. They ate stale bread rolls, burnt lamb, salad soused in acetic acid, all of which tasted just fine. After a while even the wine became delicious, like some interesting mouthwash, and soon Emma felt ready to break Rule Two. No flirting.

She had never been a proficient flirt. Her spasms of kittenish behaviour were graceless and inept, like normal conversation on roller skates. But the combination of the retsina and sun made Emma feel sentimental and light-headed. She reached for her roller skates.

‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well if we’re going to stay here for eight days we’re going to run out of things to talk about, right?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘But to be on the safe side.’ She leant forward, put her hand on his wrist. ‘I think we should tell each other something that the other person doesn’t know.’

‘What, like a secret?’

‘Exactly, a secret, something surprising, one a night every night for the rest of the holiday.’

‘Sort of like spin-the-bottle?’ His eyes widened. Dexter considered himself a world-class spin-the-bottle player. ‘Okay. You first.’

‘No, you first.’

‘Why me first?’

‘You’ve got more to choose from.’

And it was true, he had an almost bottomless supply of secrets. He could tell her that he’d watched her getting dressed that night, or that he’d left the bathroom door open on purpose when he showered. He could tell her that he’d smoked heroin with Naomi, or that just before Christmas he’d had fast, unhappy sex with Emma’s flatmate Tilly Killick; a foot massage that had spun horribly out of control while Emma was at Woolworths buying fairy lights for the tree. But perhaps it would be better to go for something that didn’t reveal him as shallow or seedy, duplicitous or conceited.

He thought for some time.

‘Okay, here goes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘A couple of weeks ago at this club, I got off with this guy.’

Her mouth fell open. ‘A guy?’ and she started to laugh. ‘Well I take my hat off to you, Dex, you’re really full of surprises—’

‘No big deal, just a snog, and I was off my face—’

‘That’s what they all say. So tell me – what happened?’

‘Well it was this hardcore gay night, Sexface, at this club called Strap in Vauxhall—’

‘“Sexface at Strap”! Whatever happed to discos called “Roxys” or “Manhattans”?’

‘It’s not a “disco”, it’s a gay club.’

‘And what were you doing in a gay club?’

‘We always go. The music’s better. More hardcore, less of that happy house shit—’

‘You
mentalist—’

‘Anyway, I was there with Ingrid and her mates and I was dancing and this guy just came up to me and started kissing me and I suppose I just sort of, you know, kissed him back.’

‘And did you …?’

‘What?’

‘Like it?’

‘It was alright. Just a kiss. A mouth is just a mouth, isn’t it?’

Emma laughed once, loudly. ‘Dexter, you’ve the soul of a poet. “A mouth is just a mouth”. Oh, that’s nice, that’s lovely. Isn’t that from “As Time Goes By”?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘A mouth is just a mouth. They should put that on your tombstone. What did Ingrid say?’

‘She just laughed. She doesn’t mind, she quite liked it.’ He gave a blasé shrug. ‘Ingrid’s bisexual anyway, so—’

Emma rolled her eyes. ‘Of
course
she’s bisexual,’ and Dexter smiled as if Ingrid’s bisexuality had been his idea.

‘Hey, it’s not a big deal, is it? We’re meant to be experimenting with sexuality at our age.’

‘We are? No-one tells me anything.’

‘You must get up to stuff.’

‘I left the lights on once, but I wouldn’t do it again.’

‘Well you better get on with it, Em. Shed those inhibitions.’

‘Oh Dex, you’re such a
sexpert
. What was he wearing then, your friend at The Strap?’

‘Not
The
Strap, just Strap. A harness and leather chaps. A British Telecom engineer called Stewart.’

‘And do you think you’ll be seeing Stewart again?’

‘Only if my phone breaks down. He wasn’t my type.’

‘Seems to me like everyone’s your type.’

‘It was just a colourful episode, that’s all. What’s funny?’

‘Just you look soooo pleased with yourself.’

‘No, I don’t! Homophobe.’ He started to peer over her shoulder.

‘Hey are you making a pass at the waiter?’

‘I’m trying to get us another drink. Your turn now. Your secret.’

‘Oh I give in. I can’t compete with that kind of thing.’

‘No girl/girl?’

She shook her head, resigned. ‘You know one day you’re going to say something like that to a real-life lesbian and they’re going to break your jaw.’

‘So you’ve never been attracted to a—?’

‘Don’t be pathetic, Dexter. Now do you want to hear my secret or what?’

The waiter arrived with complimentary Greek brandies, the kind of drink that can only be given away. Emma took a sip and winced then carefully rested her cheek on her hand in a way that she knew suggested a tipsy intimacy. ‘A secret. Let me see.’ She tapped her chin with her finger. She could tell him that she had watched him in the shower, or that she knew all about Tilly Killick at Christmas, the foot massage that had spun horribly out of control. She could even tell him that in 1983 she had kissed Polly Dawson in her bedroom, but knew that she would never hear the end of it. Besides, she had known all evening what she intended to say. As the zither played ‘Like a Prayer’, she licked her lips and made her eyes sultry along with other tiny readjustments, until she had constructed what she believed to be her best, most attractive face, the one she used in photographs.

‘When we first met, at University, before we became, you know,
pals
, well, I had a bit of a crush on you. Not a bit of a crush, a massive crush actually. For ages. Wrote dopey poems and everything.’

‘Poems? Really?’

‘I’m not proud of myself.’

‘I see. I see.’ He folded his arms, put them on the edge of the
table and looked down. ‘Well I’m sorry, Em, but that doesn’t count.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you said it had to be something that I didn’t know.’ He was grinning, and she was reminded once more of his almost limitless capacity to disappoint.

‘God, you’re annoying!’ She slapped the reddest part of his sunburn with the back of her hand.

‘Ow!’

‘How did you know?’

‘Tilly told me.’

‘Nice one, Tilly.’

‘So what happened?’

She looked into the bottom of her glass. ‘I suppose it was something you get over in time. Like shingles.’

‘No, really, what happened.’

‘I got to know you. You cured me of you.’

‘Well I want to read these poems. What rhymes with “Dexter”?’

‘“Bastard”. It’s a half-rhyme.’

‘Seriously, what happened to them?’

‘They’ve been destroyed. I built a bonfire, years ago.’ Feeling foolish and let down, she drank once more from the empty glass. ‘Too much brandy. We should go.’ She began to look distractedly for the waiter, and Dexter began to feel foolish too. So many things he might have said, so why be smug, glib, ungenerous? Keen to find a way to make amends, he nudged her hand. ‘So shall we go for a walk?’

She hesitated. ‘Okay. Let’s go for a walk.’

They headed out along the bay past the half-built houses of the town as it spread itself along the coast, a new tourist development that they deplored in a conventional way, and while they talked Emma silently resolved to be more sensible in future. Recklessness, spontaneity didn’t really suit her, she couldn’t carry it off, the results were never what she hoped for. Her confession to Dexter had felt like swinging wildly at a ball, watching it sail
high into the air then moments later hearing the sound of breaking glass. For the remainder of their time together she resolved to stay level-headed, sober and remember The Rules. Remember Ingrid, beautiful uninhibited bisexual Ingrid, waiting for him back in London. No more inappropriate revelations. In the meantime she would just have to drag the stupid conversation round with her, like toilet paper on the heel of her shoe.

They had left the town behind now, and Dexter took her hand to support her as they stumbled woozily over the dry dunes, still warm from the day’s sun. They walked towards the sea to where the sand was wet and firm and Emma noticed that he was still holding her hand.

‘Where are we going anyway?’ she asked, noting the slur in her voice.

‘I’m going for a swim. You coming?’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Come on!’

‘I’ll drown.’

‘You won’t. Look, it’s beautiful.’ The sea was very calm and clear like some wonderful aquarium, jade with a phosphorescent gleam; if you scooped it up it would glow in your hands. Dexter was already pulling his shirt off over his head. ‘Come on. It’ll sober us up.’

‘But I haven’t got my swimming cost—’ A realisation dawned. ‘Oh, I get it,’ she laughed. ‘I see what’s going on here—’

‘What?’

‘I’ve walked right into it haven’t I?’

‘What?’

‘The old skinny-dip routine. Get a girl drunk and look for the nearest large body of water—’

‘Emma, you are such a prude. Why are you such a prude?’

‘You go on, I’ll wait here.’

‘Fine, but you’ll regret it.’ His back was to her now, taking down his trousers then his underwear.