ONE DAY(120)

This week in Yorkshire was their last chance of a holiday before their modest, discreet big day. Emma had a deadline and Dexter was anxious about leaving the business for a whole week, but at least the trip allowed them to stop off at Emma’s parents, an event that her mother had treated like an overnight visit by royalty. Serviettes were on the table, rather than the usual kitchen roll, there was trifle and a bottle of Perrier in the fridge. After the end of Emma’s relationship with Ian it had seemed that Sue Morley would never love again and yet, if anything, she was even more fixated on Dexter, flirting in a bizarre, over-enunciated voice, like a coquettish speaking clock. Dutifully, Dexter flirted back, while the rest of the Morley family could do nothing but stare silently at the floor tiles and try not to laugh. Sue didn’t care; to her it seemed as if a long-held fantasy was finally coming true: her daughter was actually marrying Prince Andrew.

Watching him through her family’s eyes, Emma had felt proud of Dexter; he twinkled at Sue, was boyish and funny with her cousins, seemed sincerely interested in her father’s koi carp and United’s chances in the league. Only Emma’s younger sister seemed sceptical of his appeal and sincerity. Divorced with two boys now, resentful and perpetually exhausted, Marianne was not in the mood for another wedding. They spoke that night while washing up.

‘Why’s Mum talking in that daft voice, that’s what I want to know.’

‘She likes him.’ Emma nudged her sister’s arm. ‘You like him too, don’t you?’

‘He’s nice. I like him. Just I thought he was meant to be some famous shagger or summat.’

‘A long time ago, maybe. Not now.’

And Marianne had sniffed and visibly resisted saying something about leopards and their spots.

They abandoned the search for the waterfall, and instead drove back to the local pub, eating crisps and playing closely matched games of pool through the late afternoon.

‘I don’t think your sister likes me very much,’ said Dexter, racking up the balls for the deciding game.

‘Course she does.’

‘She barely spoke a word to me.’

‘She’s just shy and a bit grumpy. She’s like that, our sis.’

Dexter smiled. ‘Your accent.’

‘What about it?’

‘You’ve got dead Northern since we’ve been up here.’

‘Have I?’

‘Soon as we hit the M1.’

‘Don’t mind, do you?’

‘Don’t mind at all. Whose turn to break?’

Emma won the game, and they walked back to the cottage in the evening light, woozy and affectionate from beer on an empty stomach. A working holiday, the plan had been to spend the day together and for Emma to work at night, but the trip had coincided with the most fertile days of Emma’s cycle, and they were obliged to take full advantage of these opportunities now. ‘What, again?’ mumbled Dexter as Emma closed the door and kissed him.

‘Only if you want to.’

‘No, I do. It’s just I feel a bit like I’m on a . . . stud farm or something.’

‘Oh, you are. You are.’

By nine o’clock, Emma was asleep in the large, uncomfortable bed. It was still light outside, and for a while Dexter lay listening to her breathing, looking out at the small patch of purple moor that could be seen through the bedroom window. Still restless, he slid from the bed, pulled on some clothes and stepped quietly downstairs to the kitchen, where he rewarded himself with a glass of wine and wondered what they were supposed to do now. Dexter, who was used to the wilds of Oxfordshire, found this kind of isolation unnerving. It was too much to hope for a broadband connection, but in the brochure the cottage had also proudly boasted its lack of a television, and the silence made him anxious. On his iPod he selected some Thelonious Monk – he found himself listening to more jazz these days – then flopped back onto the sofa, releasing a cloud of dust, and picked up his book. Half-jokingly, Emma had bought him a copy of Wuthering Heights to read on the trip, but he found the book almost entirely unreadable so instead he reached for his laptop, opened it and stared at the screen.

In a folder called ‘Personal Documents’ lay another folder called ‘Random’ within which lay a file of just 40KB called bigdayspeech.doc: the text of his groom’s speech. The horror of his witless, incoherent, semi-improvised performance at his previous wedding still remained vivid, and he was determined to get this one right, and to start work on it early.

So far, the text in its entirety ran as follows.



My Groom’s speach





After a whirlwind romance! etc.



How we met. At same Uni but never knew her. Seen her around. Always angry about something terrible hair. Show photographs? Thought I was toff. Dungarees, or did I imagine. Finally got to know her. Called Dad fascist.



Great friends on and off. Me being idiot. Sometimes don’t see thing in front of face.(corny)



How to describe Em. Her many qualities. Funny. Intelligence. Good dancer when she does but terrible cook. Taste in music. We argue. But can always talk laugh. Beautiful but doesn’t always know it etc etc. Great with Jas, even gets on with my ex-wife! Ho ho ha. Everyone loves her.



We lost touch. Bit about Paris.