ONE DAY(111)

‘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 f*cker Callum’s there with them, in his big mansion in Muswell f*cking 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 know. 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-thenation 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.