ONE DAY(41)

‘No-one’s humiliated, not really, it’s fun—’

‘You have competitions to find Britain’s ugliest girlfriend. You don’t think that’s humiliating?’

‘Not really, no—’

‘Asking men to send in photos of their ugly girlfriends . . .’

‘It’s fun, the whole point is the guys love them even though they’re . . . not conventionally attractive, that’s the whole point, it’s fun!’

‘You keep saying it’s fun, are you trying to convince me, or yourself?’

‘Let’s just not talk about it, shall we?’

‘And do you think they find it fun, the girlfriends, the “mingers”—’

‘Mum, I just introduce the bands, that’s all. I just ask pop stars about their exciting new video, that’s my job. It’s a means to an end.’

‘But to what end, Dexter? We always raised you to believe that you can do anything you wanted. I just didn’t think you’d want to do this.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I don’t know; something good.’ Abruptly she places her left hand on her chest, and sits back in her chair.

After a moment, he speaks. ‘It is good. In its own terms.’ She sniffs. ‘It’s a silly programme, just entertainment, and of course I don’t like all of it, but it’s an experience, it’ll lead to other things. And actually I think I’m good at it, for what it’s worth. Plus I’m enjoying myself.’

She waits a moment, then says, ‘Well you must do it then, I suppose. You must do what you enjoy. And I know you’ll do other things in time, it’s just . . .’ and she takes his hand, without finishing the thought. Then she laughs, breathlessly, ‘I still don’t see why it’s necessary for you to pretend to be a cockney.’

‘It’s my man of the people voice,’ he says, and she smiles, a very slight smile, but one which he latches onto.

‘We shouldn’t argue,’ she says.

‘We’re not arguing, we’re discussing,’ he says, though he knows that they are arguing.

Her hand goes to her head. ‘I’m taking this morphine. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying.’

‘You haven’t said anything. I’m a little tired myself.’ The sun is bouncing off the paving slabs and he can actually feel the skin on his face and forearms burning, sizzling, like a vampire. He feels another wave of perspiration and nausea coming on. Stay calm, he tells himself. It’s just chemical.

‘Late night?’

‘Quite late.’

‘Larging it, were you?’

‘A little.’ He rubs his temples to indicate soreness, says, without thinking, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any of that morphine going spare, have you?’

She doesn’t even bother to look at him. Time passes. Recently he has noticed idiocy creeping up on him. His resolve to keep his head on straight, his feet on the ground, is failing and he has observed, quite objectively, that he is becoming more thoughtless, selfish, making more and more stupid remarks. He has tried to do something about this but it almost feels out of his control now, like pattern baldness. Why not just give in and be an idiot? Stop caring. Time passes and he notices that grass and weeds have started to push their way through the surface of the tennis court. The place is falling apart already.

Eventually she speaks.

‘I’m telling you now, your father’s cooking lunch. Tinned stew. Be warned. At least Cassie should be back in time for dinner. You are staying the night, I suppose?’

He could stay the night, he thinks. Here is an opportunity to make amends. ‘Actually, no,’ he says.

She half turns her head.

‘I’ve got tickets for Jurassic Park tonight. The premiere actually. Lady Di is going! Not with me, I hasten to add,’ and as he speaks the voice he hears is of someone he despises. ‘I can’t skip it, it’s a work thing, it was arranged ages ago.’ His mother’s eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly, and in mitigation he quickly tells a lie. ‘I’m taking Emma, you see. I’d skip it, but she really wants to go.’

‘Oh. Well.’ And there’s a silence.

‘The life you lead,’ she says levelly.

Silence once more.

‘Dexter, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m afraid the morning has taken it out of me. I’m going to need to go to sleep upstairs for a while.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m going to need some help.’

Anxiously, he looks around for his sister, or father, as if they had some kind of qualification that he doesn’t possess, but they’re nowhere to be seen. His mother’s hands are on the arms of the chair now, straining uselessly, and he realises that he must do this. Lightly, without conviction, he loops his arm under hers and helps her up. ‘Do you want me to . . . ?’

‘No, I’m fine getting indoors, I just need help with the stairs.’

They walk across the patio, his hand just touching the fabric of the blue summer dress that hangs loosely off her like a hospital gown. Her slowness is maddening, an affront to him. ‘How is Cassie?’ he asks, to fill the time.

‘Oh fine. I think she enjoys bossing me around a little too much, but she’s very attentive. Eat this, take these, sleep now. Strict but fair, that’s your sister. It’s revenge for not buying her that pony.’