ONE DAY(112)

‘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?’