ONE DAY(109)

‘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 f*cking 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?’