ONE DAY(22)

‘So wax ’em then. Hairy Mary.’

‘Dexter!’

‘And anyway, you’ve got great legs.’ He leant across and pinched her calves. ‘You’re gorgeous.’

She knocked his elbow away so that he fell back onto the grass. ‘Can’t believe you called me Hairy Mary.’ Beyond him the couple were still kissing. ‘Look at these two here – don’t stare.’ Dexter peered over his shoulder. ‘I can actually hear them. Over this distance, I can hear the suction. Like someone unblocking a sink. I said don’t stare!’

‘Why not? It’s a public place.’

‘Why would you go to a public place to behave like that? It’s like a nature documentary.’

‘Maybe they’re in love.’

‘And is that what love looks like – all wet mouths and your skirt rucked up?’

‘Sometimes it is.’

‘Looks like she’s trying to fit his entire head into her mouth. She’ll dislocate her jaw if she’s not careful.’

‘She’s alright though.’

‘Dexter!’

‘Well she is, I’m just saying.’

‘You know some people might think it’s a bit weird, this obsession you’ve got with being in a constant state of intercourse, some people might think it’s a bit desperate and sad . . .’

‘Funny, I don’t feel sad. Or desperate.’

Emma, who did feel these things, said nothing. Dexter nudged her with his elbow. ‘You know what we should do? Me and you?’

‘What?’

He grinned. ‘Take E together.’

‘E? What’s E?’ she deadpanned. ‘Oh, yes, I believe I read an article about that. Don’t think I’m cut out for mind-bending chemicals. I left the lid off the Tipp-Ex once and I thought my shoes were trying to eat me.’ He laughed gratifyingly and she hid her own smile in her plastic cup. ‘Anyway I prefer the pure, natural high of booze.’

‘It’s very disinhibiting, E.’

‘Is that why you’re hugging everybody all the time?’

‘I just think you might have fun, that’s all.’

‘I am having fun. You have no idea how much fun.’ Lying on her back and staring at the sky, she could feel him looking at her.

‘So. What about you?’ he said, in what she thought of as his psychiatrist voice. ‘Any news? Any action? Love-life-wise.’

‘Oh you know me. I have no emotions. I’m a robot. Or a nun. A robot nun.’

‘No you’re not. You pretend to be, but you’re not.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind. I quite like it, getting old alone—’

‘You’re twenty-five, Em—’

‘—turning into this bluestocking.’

Dexter wasn’t sure what a bluestocking was, but nevertheless still felt a Pavlovian twinge of arousal at the word ‘stocking’. As she talked, he pictured her wearing blue stockings before deciding blue stockings wouldn’t suit her, or anyone in fact, and that stockings should really only ever be black or possibly red like those ones Naomi had worn once, before deciding that maybe he was missing the point about the phrase ‘blue stocking’. This kind of erotic reverie occupied great swathes of Dexter’s mental energy, and he wondered if perhaps Emma was right, perhaps he was a little too distracted by the sexual side of things. Hourly he was rendered idiotic by billboards, magazine covers, an inch of crimson bra-strap on a passing stranger, and it was even worse in summer. Surely it wasn’t natural to feel as if he’d just got out of prison all the time? Concentrate. Someone he cared for dearly was engaged in some kind of nervous collapse, and he should concentrate on that, rather than the three girls behind her who had just started a water-fight . . .

Concentrate! Concentrate. He steered his thoughts away from the subject of sex, his brain as nimble as an aircraft carrier.

‘How about that guy?’ he said.

‘What guy?’

‘At work, the waiter. Looks like captain of the computer club.’

‘Ian? What about him?’

‘Why don’t you go out with Ian?’

‘Shut up, Dexter. Ian’s just a friend. Now pass the bottle, will you?’

He watched as she sat and drank the wine, which had become warm and syrupy now. While not sentimental, there were times when Dexter could sit quietly and watch Emma Morley laughing or telling a story and feel absolutely sure that she was the finest person he knew. Sometimes he almost wanted to say this out loud, interrupt her and just tell her. But this was not one of those times and instead he thought how tired she looked, sad and pale, and when she looked at the floor her chin had started to pouch. Why didn’t she get contact lenses, instead of those big ugly spectacles? She wasn’t a student anymore. And the velour scrunchies, she wasn’t doing herself any favour with the scrunchies. What she really needed, he thought, ablaze with compassion, was someone to take her in hand and unlock her potential. He imagined a sort of montage, looking on patrician and kindly as Emma tried on a series of incredible new outfits. Yes, he really should pay Emma more attention, and he would do it too if he didn’t have so much happening at present.

But in the short term, wasn’t there something he could do to make her feel better about herself, lift her spirits, give her self-confidence a boost? He had an idea, and reached for her hand before announcing solemnly: ‘You know, Em, if you’re still single when you’re forty I’ll marry you.’