ONE DAY(129)

He takes his bottle of champagne – a Polish brand that comes in a pail of tepid water – and two plastic glasses, carrying them to a black velvet booth where he lights a cigarette and starts to drink in earnest. The ‘champagne’ is as sugary as a boiled sweet, apple-flavoured and barely sparkling, but it doesn’t matter. His friends have gone now and there is no-one to take the glass from his hand or distract him with conversation, and after the third glass the time itself begins to take on that strange elastic quality, speeding up and slowing down, moments disappearing altogether as his vision fades to black and back up again. He is about to slip into sleep, or unconsciousness, when he feels a hand on his arm and finds himself facing a skinny girl in a very short, sheer red dress with long blonde hair, shading into black an inch from her scalp. ‘Mind if I have a glass of champagne?’ she says, sliding into the booth. She has very bad skin beneath the thick foundation and speaks with a South African accent, which he compliments her on. ‘You’ve got a lovely voice!’ he shouts against the music. She sniffs and wrinkles her nose and introduces herself as Barbara in a way that suggests that ‘Barbara’ was the first name that came to hand. She is slight with bony arms and small breasts which he stares at baldly, though she doesn’t seem to mind. A ballet dancer’s physique. ‘Are you a ballet dancer?’ he says, and she sniffs and shrugs. He has decided that he really, really likes Barbara.

‘What brings you here then?’ she asks mechanically.

‘It’s my anniversary!’ he says.

‘Congratulations,’ she says, absently, pouring herself some champagne and raising her plastic glass in the air.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me what it’s the anniversary of?’ he says, though he must be slurring his speech pretty badly because she asks him to repeat it three times. Best try something more straightforward. ‘My wife had an accident exactly one year ago today,’ he says. Barbara gives a nervous smile and starts to look around as if regretting sitting down. Dealing with drunks is part of the job but this one is plainly weird, out celebrating some accident, then whining on incoherently and at great length about some driver not looking where he was going, a court case that she can’t understand and can’t be bothered to understand.

‘Do you want me to dance for you?’ she says, if only to change the subject.

‘What?’ He falls towards her. ‘What did you say?’ His breath is rank and his spit flecks her skin.

‘I said do you want me to dance for you, cheer you up a bit? You look like you might need cheering up.’

‘Not now. Later maybe,’ he says, slapping his hand on her knee now, which is as hard and unyielding as a banister. He is speaking again, not normal speech but a tangle of unconnected mawkish, sour remarks that he has made before – only thirty-eight years old we were trying for a baby the driver walked away scot-free wonder what that bastard’s doing right this minute taking away my best friend hope he suffers only thirty-eight where’s the justice what about me what am I meant to do now Barbara tell me what am I supposed to do now? He comes to a sudden halt.

Barbara’s head is lowered and she’s staring at her hands, which she holds devoutly in her lap as if in prayer and for a moment he thinks he has moved her with his story, this beautiful stranger, touched her deeply in some way. Perhaps she’s praying for him, perhaps she’s even crying – he has made this poor girl cry and he feels a deep affection for this Barbara. He puts his hand over hers in gratitude, and realises that she is texting. While he has been talking about Emma, she has had her mobile phone in her lap and is writing a text. He feels a sudden flush of rage and revulsion.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, voice trembling.

‘What?’

He is shouting now. ‘I said what the f*ck are you doing?’ He swipes wildly at her hands, sending the phone skittering across the floor. ‘I was talking to you!’ he shouts, but she is shouting back now, calling him a nutter, a loony, then beckoning to the bouncer. It’s the same immense goateed man who had been so friendly at the door, but now he just puts his massive arm around Dexter’s shoulders, the other round his waist, scooping him up like a child and carrying him across the room. Heads turn, amused, as Dexter bawls over his shoulder, you stupid, stupid cow, you don’t understand, and he catches one last glance of Barbara, both middle fingers raised and jabbing upwards, laughing at him. The fire exit is kicked open and he is out once again on the street.

‘My credit card! You’ve got my f*cking credit card!’ he shouts, but like everyone else the bouncer just laughs at him, and pulls the fire exit closed.

Enraged now, Dexter steps straight off the pavement and waves his arms at the many black cabs that head westward, but none of them will stop for him, not while he’s staggering in the road like this. He takes a deep breath, steps back onto the pavement, leans against a wall and checks his pockets. His wallet has gone, and so have his keys, to his flat and his car. Whoever’s got the keys and wallet will have his address too, it’s on his driving licence, he’ll have to have the locks changed, and Sylvie’s meant to be coming round at lunch time. She’s bringing Jasmine. He kicks at the wall, rests his head against the bricks, checks his pockets again, finds a balled-up twenty-pound note in his trouser pocket, damp from his own urine. Twenty quid is enough to get him safely home. He can wake up the neighbours, get the spare key, sleep it off.