‘WAHEY!’hot summer night on Frith Street, and he was on the phone to Suki.
‘DID YOU SEE IT?’
‘What?’
‘THE DOG! PLAYING THE DRUMS! IT WAS AMAZING!’stood outside Bar Italia, sleek and matt black in shirt and suit, a little trilby-style hat pushed back on his head, the mobile phone held four inches from his ear. He had the sensation that if he hung up he would still be able to hear her.
‘.. LITTLE DRUMSTICKS ON HIS LITTLE PAWS!’
‘It was hysterical,’ he said, though in truth he couldn’t bring himself to watch. Envy was not a comfortable emotion for Dexter, but he knew the whispers — that Suki was the real talent, that she had been carrying him — and comforted himself with the notion that Suki’s current high profile, large salary and popular appeal were a kind of artistic compromise. Britain’s Most Talented Pet? He would never sell out like that. Even if someone asked him to.
‘NINE MILLION VIEWERS THEY RECKON THIS WEEK. TEN, MAYBE..’
‘Suki, can I just explain something about the telephone? You don’t have to shout into it? The phone does that bit for you..’huffed and hung up on him, and from across the road, Emma took a moment to stand and watch as Dexter swore at the phone in his hand. He still looked great in a suit. It was a shame about the hat but at least he wasn’t wearing those ridiculous headphones. She watched his face brighten as he saw her and she felt a swell of affection and hope for the evening.
‘You really should get rid of that,’ she said, nodding towards the phone.slipped it into his pocket and kissed her cheek. ‘So you’ve got a choice, you can either phone me, actually me personally, or you can phone a building in which I might just happen to be at the time—’
‘Phone the building.’
‘And if I miss the call?’
‘Well God forbid you should miss a call.’
‘It’s not 1988 anymore, Em—’
‘Yes, I know that—’
‘Six months, I give you six months before you cave—’
‘Never—’
‘A bet—’
‘Okay a bet. If I ever, ever buy a mobile phone I’ll buy you dinner.’
‘Well, that’ll make a change.’
‘Besides, they give you brain damage—’
‘They do not damage your brain—’
‘How can you tell?’they stood for a moment in silence, both with a vague sense that the evening had not started well.
‘Can’t believe you’re getting at me already,’ he said sulkily.
‘Well that’s my job.’ She smiled and embraced him, pressing her cheek against his. ‘I’m not getting at you. Sorry, sorry.’hand was on her bare neck. ‘It’s been ages.’
‘Far too long.’stepped back. ‘You look beautiful by the way.’
‘Thank you. So do you.’
‘Well, not beautiful..’
‘Handsome then.’
‘Thank you.’ He took her hands and held them out to the side. ‘You should wear dresses more often, you look almost feminine.’
‘I like your hat now take it off.’
‘And the shoes!’twisted an ankle towards him. ‘It’s the world’s first orthopaedic high-heel.’began to walk through the crowds towards Wardour Street, Emma taking his arm then holding the material of his suit between finger and thumb, rubbing at the strange nap of the fabric. ‘What is this, by the way? Velvet? Velour?’
‘Moleskin.’
‘I had a track-suit in that material once.’
‘We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Dex and Em—’
‘Em and Dex. Like Rogers and Astaire—’
‘Burton and Taylor—’
‘Mary and Joseph—’laughed and took her hand and soon they were at the restaurant.was a huge bunker excavated from the remains of an underground car park. Entrance was by way of a vast, theatrical staircase that seemed miraculously suspended above the main room and formed a permanent distraction to the diners below, who spent much of the evening assessing the beauty or fame of the new arrivals. Feeling neither beautiful nor famous, Emma sloped down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other cupping her belly until Dexter took this arm and stopped, surveying the room as proudly as if he were the architect.
‘So. What do you think?’
‘Club Tropicana,’ she said.interior had been styled to suggest the romance of a luxury liner from the 20s: velvet booths, liveried waiters bearing cocktails, decorative portholes that opened onto a view of nothing, and this lack of natural light gave the place a submarine aspect, as if it had already hit the iceberg and was on its way down. The intended air of inter-war elegance was further undermined by the clamour and ostentation of the room, the pervading atmosphere of youth and sex, money and deep-fat-frying. All the burgundy velvet and pressed peach linen in the world couldn’t stifle the tumultuous noise from the open-plan kitchen, a blur of stainless steel and white. So here it is at last, thought Emma: The Eighties.
‘Are you sure this is okay? It looks quite expensive.’
‘I told you. My treat.’ He tucked the label into the back of her dress, having glanced at it first, then took her hand and led her down the rest of the stairs with a little Astaire trot, into the heart of all that money, sex and youth.sleek handsome man in absurd naval epaulettes told them their table would be ten minutes so they pushed their way to the cocktail lounge where another faux naval man was busy juggling bottles.
‘What do you want, Em?’
‘Gin and tonic?’tutted. ‘You’re not in the Mandela Bar now. You’ve got to have a proper drink. Two martinis, Bombay Sapphire, very dry, with a twist.’ Emma made to speak, but Dexter held up an autocratic finger. ‘Trust me. Best martinis in London.’she ummed and awwed at the bartender’s performance, Dexter commentating throughout. ‘The trick is to get everything really, really cold before you start. Iced water in the glass, gin in the freezer.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘My mum taught me when I was, what, nine?’ They touched glasses, silently toasting Alison, and both felt hope again, for the evening and for their friendship. Emma raised the martini to her lips. ‘I’ve never had one of these before.’ The first taste was delicious, icy and immediately intoxicating, and she tried not to spill it as she shuddered. She was about to thank him when Dexter placed his glass in Emma’s hand, a good half of it already gone.
‘Off to the loo. They’re incredible here. The best in London.’
‘Can’t wait!’ she said, but he had already gone, and Emma stood alone with two drinks in her hand, attempting to exude an aura of confidence and glamour so as not to look like a waitress.a tall woman stood over her in a leopard-skin corset, stockings and suspenders, her appearance so sudden and startling that Emma gave a little yelp as her martini sloshed over her wrist.
‘Cigarettes?’ The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, voluptuous and barely dressed, like a figure from the fuselage of a B-52, her breasts seeming to recline on a cantilevered tray of cigars and cigarettes. ‘Would you like anything?’ she repeated, smiling through powdery foundation and adjusting with one finger the black velvet choker around her neck.
‘Oh, no, I don’t smoke,’ said Emma, as if this were a personal failing she intended to address, but the woman had already redirected her smile over Emma’s shoulder, fluttering the sticky black lace of her eyelashes.
‘Cigarettes, sir?’smiled, sliding his wallet from the inside of his jacket as he scanned the wares on display below her bosom. With a connoisseur’s flourish, he settled on twenty Marlboro Lights, and the Cigarette Girl nodded as if sir had made an excellent choice.handed her a five-pound note folded lengthwise. ‘Keep the change,’ he smiled. Was there ever a more empowering phrase than ‘Keep the change’? He used to feel self-conscious saying it, but not anymore. She gave an extraordinary aphrodisiac smile, and for one callous moment Dexter wished it were the Cigarette Girl, not Emma, who would be joining him for dinner.at him, the little dear, thought Emma, noticing this little flicker of self-satisfaction. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the boys all wanted to be Che Guevara. Now they all wanted to be Hugh Hefner. With a games console. As the Cigarette Girl wiggled into the crowd, Dexter really looked as if he might try and pat her bottom.
‘You’ve got drool on your moleskin.’
‘Pardon?’
‘What was that all about?’
‘Cigarette Girl,’ he shrugged, sliding the unopened packet into his pocket. ‘This place is famous for it. It’s glamour, a bit of theatre.’
‘So why’s she dressed as a prostitute?’
‘I don’t know, Em, maybe her woolly black tights are in the wash.’ He took his martini and drained it. ‘Post-feminism, isn’t it?’looked sceptical. ‘Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?’nodded towards the Cigarette Girl’s bottom. ‘You could look like that if you wanted to.’
‘No-one misses a point quite like you, Dex.’
‘What I mean is, it’s about choice. It’s empowering.’
‘Mind like a laser—’
‘If she chooses to wear the outfit, she can wear the outfit!’
‘But if she refused she would be sacked.’
‘And so would the waiters! And anyway, maybe she likes wearing it, maybe it’s fun, maybe she feels sexy in it. That is feminism, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s not the dictionary definition..’
‘Don’t make me out to be some kind of chauvinist, I’m a feminist too!’ Emma tutted and rolled her eyes and he was reminded just how annoying and preachy she could be. ‘I am! I am a feminist!’
‘.. and I will fight to the death, to the death, mind, for the right of a woman to display her breasts for tips.’now it was his turn to roll his eyes, and give a patronising laugh. ‘It’s not 1988, Em.’
‘What does that mean? You keep saying it and I still don’t know what it means.’
‘It means don’t keep fighting battles that are already lost. The feminist movement should be about equal pay and equal opportunities and civil rights, not deciding what a woman can or can’t wear of her own free will on a Saturday night!’mouth fell open in indignation. ‘That’s not what I—’
‘And anyway, I’m buying you dinner! Don’t give me a hard time!’it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago. They stood on the edge of a long pointless argument that she felt she would win, but which would leave the evening in tatters. Instead, she hid her face in her drink, her teeth biting the glass, and counted slowly before saying: ‘Let’s change the subject.’he wasn’t listening, gazing over her shoulder instead as the maître d’ beckoned them over. ‘Come on — I’ve managed to get us a banquette.’settled into the purple velvet booth and scrutinised the menus in silence. Emma had been expecting something fancy and French, but this was basically expensive canteen food: fishcakes, shepherd’s pie, burgers, and she recognised Poseidon as the kind of restaurant where the ketchup comes on a silver salver. ‘It’s Modern British,’ explained Dexter patiently, as if paying all that money for sausage and mash was very Modern, very British.
‘I’m going to have oysters,’ said Dexter. ‘The natives, I think.’
‘Are they friendly?’ said Emma weakly.
‘What?’
‘The natives — are they friendly?’ she persevered and thought My God, I’m turning into Ian., Dexter frowned and returned to the menu. ‘No, they’re just sweeter, pearly and sweet and finer than rock oysters, more delicate. I’ll get twelve.’
‘You’re very knowledgeable all of a sudden.’
‘I love food. I’ve always loved food and wine.’
‘I remember that tuna stir-fry you cooked me that time. I can still taste it in the back of my throat. Ammonia—’
‘Not cooking, restaurants. I eat out most days now. As a matter of fact I’ve been asked if I want to review for one of the Sundays.’
‘Restaurants?’
‘Cocktail bars. Weekly column called “Barfly”, sort of man-about-town thing.’
‘And you’d write it yourself?’
‘Of course I’d write it myself!’ he said, though he had been assured that the column would be heavily ghosted.
‘What is there to say about cocktails?’
‘You’d be surprised. Cocktails are very cool now. Sort of a retro glamour thing. In fact—’ He put his mouth to the empty martini glass ‘—I’m something of a mixologist myself.’
‘Misogynist?’
‘Mixologist.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought you said “misogynist”.’
‘Ask me how to make a cocktail, any cocktail you like.’pressed her chin with her finger. ‘Okay, um.. lager top!’
‘I’m serious, Em. It’s a real skill.’
‘What is?’
‘Mixology. People go on special courses.’
‘Maybe you should have done it for your degree.’
‘It would certainly have been more fucking useful.’remark was so belligerent and sour that Emma visibly winced, and Dexter seemed a little taken aback too, hiding his face in the wine list. ‘What do you want: red or white? I’m going to get another martini, then we’ll start with a nice biscuity Muscadet for the oysters then go onto something like a Margaux. What d’you think?’ordered and then was off to the loo again, taking his second martini with him, which Emma found unusual and vaguely unsettling. The minutes stretched. She read the wine label then read it again then stared into space and wondered at what point he had become such a, such a.. mixologist? And why was she sounding so spiky, mean and joyless? She didn’t care what the Cigarette Girl wore, not really, not that much, so why did she sound so priggish and judgemental? She resolved to relax and enjoy herself. This was Dexter after all, her best friend whom she loved. Didn’t she?London’s most amazing toilets, Dexter hunched over the cistern and thought much the same thing. He loved Emma Morley, supposed he did, but more and more resented that air of self-righteousness, of the community centre, the theatre co-op, of 1988. She was so, so.. subsidised. It wasn’t appropriate, especially not in a setting like this, a place specifically designed to make a man feel like a secret agent. After the grim ideological gulag of a mid-Eighties education, its guilt and bolshy politics, he was finally being allowed to have some fun, and was it really such a bad thing to like a cocktail, a cigarette, a flirtation with a pretty girl?the jokes; why was she always getting at him, reminding him of his failings? He hadn’t forgotten them. All that stuff about things being ‘posh’ and my-fat-bum and orthopaedic high-heels, the endless, endless self-deprecation. Well God save me from comediennes, he thought, with their put-downs and their smart asides, their insecurities and self-loathing. Why couldn’t a woman have a bit of grace and elegance and self-confidence, instead of behaving all the time like some chippy stand-up?class! Don’t even mention class. He takes her to a great restaurant at his own expense, and on goes the cloth cap! There was a kind of vanity and self-regard in that working-class-hero act that sent him crazy. Why is she still harping on about how she went to a comp, never went abroad on holiday, has never eaten an oyster? She’s nearly thirty years old, all that was a long, long time ago, and it’s time she took responsibility for her own life. He gave a pound to the Nigerian man who passed him his hand towel, stepped out into the restaurant, saw Emma across the room fiddling with her cutlery in her High Street funeral dress, and he felt a new wave of irritation. In the bar, to his right, he could see the Cigarette Girl, standing alone. She saw him, and smiled, and he decided to make a detour.
‘Twenty Marlboro Lights, please.’
‘What, again?’ she laughed, her hand touching his wrist.
‘What can I say? I’m like one of those beagles.’laughed again, and he pictured her in the banquette next to him, his hand under the table on her stockinged thigh. He reached for his wallet. ‘Actually, I’m going to this party later with my old mate from college over there—’ Old mate, he thought, was a nice touch. ‘—and I don’t want to run out of cigarettes.’ He handed her a five-pound note, folded crisply lengthwise in two, held between first and second finger. ‘Keep the change.’smiled, and he noticed a tiny speck of ruby lipstick on her white front teeth. He wanted very much to hold her chin and wipe it off with his thumb.
‘You have lipstick..’
‘Where?’extended his arm until his finger was two inches from her mouth. ‘Just. There.’
‘Can’t take me anywhere!’ She ran the point of her pink tongue back and forth across her teeth. ‘Better?’ she grinned.
‘Much.’ He smiled and stepped away, then turned back to her.
‘Just out of interest,’ he said, ‘what time do you finish here tonight?’oysters had arrived, lying glossy and alien on their bed of melting ice. Emma had been passing the time by drinking heavily, with the fixed smile of someone who’s been left alone and really doesn’t mind at all. Finally she saw him weaving across the restaurant a little unsteadily. He bundled into the booth.
‘I thought you’d fallen in!’ This was something that her granny used to say. She was using her grandmother’s material.
‘Sorry,’ he said, but nothing more. They began on the oysters. ‘So listen, there’s a party later tonight. My mate Oliver, who I play poker with. I’ve told you about him.’ He tipped the oyster into his mouth. ‘He’s a baronet.’felt sea-water dribble down her wrist. ‘And what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Him being a baronet.’
‘I’m just saying, he’s a nice bloke. Lemon on that?’
‘No thank you.’ She swallowed the thing, still trying to work out if she had been invited to the party or just informed that a party was taking place. ‘So where is this party then?’ she said.
‘Holland Park. Massive great house.’
‘Oh. Okay.’not sure. Was he inviting her, or excusing himself early? She ate another oyster.
‘You’re very welcome to come along,’ he said finally, reaching for the Tabasco sauce.
‘Am I?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. She watched as he unblocked the sticky neck of the Tabasco bottle with the tine of his fork. ‘It’s just you won’t know anyone there, that’s all.’she was not invited. ‘I’ll know you,’ she said weakly.
‘Yes, I suppose so. And Suki! Suki will be there.’
‘Isn’t she filming in Scarborough?’
‘They’re driving her back tonight.’
‘She’s doing very well, isn’t she?’
‘Well, we both are,’ he said, quickly and a little too loud.decided to let it pass. ‘Yes. That’s that what I meant. You both are.’ She picked up an oyster, then put it back. ‘I really like Suki,’ she said, though she had met her only once, at an intimidating Studio 54-themed party in a private club in Hoxton. And Emma had liked her, though she couldn’t escape the feeling that Suki treated her as rather quaint, one of Dexter’s homely, old-style friends, as if she were only at the party because she’d won the phone-in competition.necked another oyster. ‘She’s great, isn’t she? Suki.’
‘Yes, she is. How’s it going with you two?’
‘Oh alright. Bit tricky, you know, being in the public eye all the time..’
‘Tell me about it!’ said Emma, but he didn’t seem to hear.
‘And I sometimes feel like I’m going out with this public address system, but it’s great. Really. You know the best thing about the relationship?’
‘Go on.’
‘She knows what it’s like. Being on the telly. She understands.’
‘Dexter — that is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.’there she goes again, he thought, the snippy little comments. ‘Well it’s true,’ he shrugged and decided that as soon as he could pay the bill, their evening would be over. As if as an afterthought, he added, ‘So, this party. I’m just worried about you getting home, that’s all.’
‘Walthamstow’s not Mars, Dex, it’s just North East London. It supports human life.’
‘I know!’
‘It’s on the Victoria Line!’
‘But it’s just a long way on public transport, and the party won’t get going ’til midnight. You’ll arrive and then you’ll have to go. Unless I give you money for the cab—’
‘I do have money, they do pay me.’
‘Holland Park to Walthamstow though?’
‘If it’s awkward for me to come—’
‘It’s not! It’s not awkward. I want you to come. Let’s decide later, shall we?’ and without excusing himself he went to the toilet again, taking his glass with him as if he had another table in there. Emma sat and drank glass after glass of wine and continued to simmer, building to a steady rolling boil.so the pleasure wore on. He returned just as the main courses arrived. Emma examined her beer-battered haddock with minted pea puree. The thick pale chips had been machine-cut into perfect oblongs and were stacked up like building blocks with the battered fish teetering precariously on top, six inches off the plate, as if it might hurl itself into the pool of thick green gloop below. What was that game? The stacked wooden blocks? Carefully, she extracted a chip from the top of the pile. Hard and cold inside.
‘How’s the King of Comedy?’ Since returning from the toilet, Dexter’s tone had become even more belligerent and provoking.felt traitorous. This might have been her cue to confide in someone about the mess of her relationship and her confusion as to what to do next. But she couldn’t talk to Dexter, not now. She swallowed raw potato.
‘Ian’s great,’ she said emphatically.
‘Co-habiting okay? Flat coming along, is it?’
‘Fantastic. You haven’t seen it yet, have you? You should come round!’ The invite was half-hearted and the reply a non-committal ‘Hm,’ as if Dexter was doubtful of the existence of pleasure beyond Underground Zone 2. There was a silence, and they returned to their plates.
‘How’s your steak?’ she asked, eventually. Dexter seemed to have lost his appetite, dissecting the bloody red meat without actually eating it.
‘Sensational. How’s the fish?’
‘Cold.’
‘Is it?’ He peered at her plate then shook his head sagely. ‘It’s opaque, Em. That’s how fish should be cooked, so it just turns opaque.’
‘Dexter—’ Her voice was hard and sharp. ‘—it’s opaque because it’s deep-frozen. It hasn’t been defrosted.’
‘Is it?’ He prodded angrily inside the sleeve of batter with his finger. ‘Well, we’ll send it back!’
‘It’s fine. I’ll just eat the chips.’
‘No, fuck it! Send it back! I’m not paying for fucking frozen fish! What is this, Bejams? We’ll get you something else.’ He waved a waiter over and Emma watched Dexter assert himself, insisting that it wasn’t good enough, it said fresh fish on the menu, he wanted it taken off the bill and a replacement main course provided free of charge. She tried to insist she wasn’t hungry anymore while Dexter in turn insisted that she had to have a proper main course because it was free. There was no choice but to stare at the menu all over again, while the waiter and Dexter glared at her and all the time his own steak sat there, mauled but uneaten, until finally it was settled, she got her free green salad, and they were alone again.sat in silence in the wreckage of the evening in front of two plates of unwanted food and she thought that she might cry.
‘Well. This is going well,’ he said, and tossed down his napkin.wanted to go home. She would skip dessert, forget the party — he clearly didn’t want her there anyway — and go home. Maybe Ian would be back, kind and considerate and in love with her, and they could sit and talk, or just cuddle up and watch TV.
‘So.’ His eyes were scanning the room as he spoke. ‘How’s the teaching?’
‘It’s fine, Dexter,’ she scowled.
‘What? What have I done?’ he replied indignantly, eyes snapping back to her.spoke levelly. ‘If you’re not interested, don’t ask.’
‘I am interested! It’s just..’ He poured himself more wine. ‘I thought you were meant to be writing some book or something?’
‘I am writing some-book-or-something, but I also have to earn a living. And also more to the point I enjoy it, Dexter, and I’m a bloody good teacher!’
‘I’m sure you are! It’s just, well, you know the expression. “Those who can..”’’s mouth fell open. Stay calm—
‘No, I’m not familiar with it, Dexter. Tell me. What expression?’
‘You know..’
‘No, seriously, Dexter, tell me.’
‘It’s not important.’ He was starting to look sheepish.
‘I’d like to know. Finish the sentence. “Those who can..”’sighed, a glass of wine in his hand, then spoke flatly. ‘Those who can, do, those who can’t, teach..’spat the words. ‘And those who teach say go fuck yourself.’now his glass of wine was in his lap as Emma shoved the table away and jumped to her feet, grabbing her bag, knocking over bottles, clattering plates as she clambered out of the booth, storming through that hateful, hateful place. All around her people were staring now but she didn’t care, she just wanted to be out. Do not cry, you will not cry, she commanded herself and, glancing behind her, saw Dexter mopping furiously at his lap, placating the waiter then following on in pursuit. She turned, broke into a run, and now here was the Cigarette Girl striding down the stairs towards her on long legs and high heels, a grin splitting her scarlet mouth. Despite her vow, Emma felt hot tears of humiliation prick her eyes, and now she was falling onto the stairs, stumbling on those stupid, stupid high shoes, and there was an audible gasp from the audience of diners behind her as she fell to her knees. The Cigarette Girl was beside her, holding onto her elbow, with a look of maddening, genuine concern.
‘Are you alright there?’
‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine—’now Dexter had caught up with her, was helping her up. Firmly she shook herself free from his grip.
‘Get off me, Dexter!’
‘Don’t shout, calm down—’
‘I will not calm down—’
‘Alright, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Whatever it is you’re angry about, I’m sorry!’turned to him on the stairs, eyes blazing. ‘What, you don’t know?’
‘No! Come back to the table, and you can tell me!’ But she was tumbling on, through the swing doors now, pushing them closed behind her so that the metal edge cracked him sharply on the knee. He limped after her. ‘This is stupid, we’re both a bit drunk, that’s all—’
‘No, you’re drunk! You’re always drunk or off your face on something or other, every time I see you. D’you realise I literally haven’t seen you sober for, what, three years? I’ve forgotten what you’re like sober, you’re too busy boring on about yourself or your new pals or running to the loo every ten minutes — I don’t know if it’s dysentery or too much coke, but either way it’s fucking rude and most of all it’s boring. Even when you talk to me you’re always looking over my shoulder in case there’s some better option..’
‘That’s not true!’
‘It is true, Dexter! Well bollocks to it. You’re a TV presenter, Dex. You’ve not invented penicillin, it’s TV, and crap TV at that. Well sod it, I’ve had enough.’were out amongst the crowds on Wardour Street in the fading summer light.
‘Let’s go somewhere and talk about this.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, I just want to go home..’
‘Emma, please?’
‘Dexter, just leave me alone, will you?’
‘You’re being hysterical. Come here.’ He took her arm once again and, idiotically, tried to hug her. She pushed him away, but he held onto her. People were staring at them now, another couple fighting in Soho on a Saturday night, and she relented finally, allowing herself to be pulled into a side street.were silent now, Dexter stepping away from her so that he could take her in. She was standing with her back to him, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, and he suddenly felt a hot pang of shame., she spoke, in a quiet voice, her face to the wall.
‘Why are you being like this, Dexter?’
‘Like what?’
‘You know what.’
‘I’m just being myself!’spun to face him. ‘No, you’re not. I know what you’re like and this isn’t you. You’re horrible like this. You’re obnoxious, Dexter. I mean you always were a bit obnoxious, every now and then, a bit full of yourself, but you were funny too, and kind sometimes, and interested in people other than yourself. But now you’re just out of control, with the booze, the drugs—’
‘I’m just having fun!’sniffed, once, and looked up at him, through smudged black eyes.
‘And sometimes I get carried away, that’s all. If you weren’t so.. judgemental all the time—’
‘Am I? I don’t think I am. I try not to be. I just don’t..’ She stopped herself speaking, shook her head. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot, in the last few years, and I’ve tried to understand that, really I have, with your mum and all, but..’
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I just don’t think you’re the person I used to know. You’re not my friend anymore. That’s all.’could think of nothing to say to this, so they stood in silence, until Emma put her hand out, took two fingers of his hand, squeezed them in her palm.
‘Maybe.. maybe this is it, then,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s just over.’
‘Over? What’s over?’
‘Us. You and me. Friendship. There are things I needed to talk to you about, Dex. About Ian and me. If you’re my friend I should be able to talk to you but I can’t, and if I can’t talk to you, well, what is the point of you? Of us?’
‘“What’s the point?”’
‘You said yourself, people change, no use getting sentimental about it. Move on, find someone else.’
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