ONE DAY(44)

‘Well, if you’ve got to go . . .’ The sentence peters out. He can see Cassie in the living room, also pretending to read, her face flush with condemnation and self-righteousness. Get out of here now, just go, because this is all about to break. He places one hand on the hall table for his keys, but it comes up empty.

‘My car keys.’

‘I’ve hidden them,’ says his father, reading the paper.

Dexter can’t help but laugh. ‘You can’t hide my keys!’

‘Well clearly I can because I have. Do you want to play looking for them?’

‘May I ask why?’ he says, indignant.

His father lifts his head from the paper, as if sniffing the air. ‘Because you are drunk.’

In the living room, Cassie gets up from the sofa, crosses to the door and pushes it closed.

Dexter laughs, but without conviction. ‘No, I’m not!’

His father glances over his shoulder. ‘Dexter, I know when someone is drunk. You in particular. I’ve been seeing you drunk for twelve years now, remember?’

‘But I’m not drunk, I’m hungover, that’s all.’

‘Well either way, you are not driving home.’

Again, Dexter gives a scoffing laugh, and rolls his eyes in protest, but no words will come out, except for a feeble, high-pitched ‘Dad, I am twenty-eight years old!’

On cue his father says, ‘Could have fooled me,’ then reaches into his pocket for his own car keys, tossing them in the air and catching them in feigned joviality. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a lift to the station.’

Dexter does not say goodbye to his sister.

Sometimes I worry that you’re not very nice. His father drives in silence, Dexter steeping in shame in the big old Jaguar. When the silence can no longer be borne, his father speaks, quietly and soberly, eyes fixed on the road. ‘You can come and get your car on Saturday. When you’re sober.’

‘I’m sober now,’ says Dexter, hearing his own voice, still whining and petulant, the voice of his sixteen-year-old self. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he adds, redundantly.

‘I’m not going to argue with you, Dexter.’

He huffs and slides down in his seat, his forehead and nose pressed against the window as the country lanes and smart houses flash by. His father, who has always abhorred all confrontation and is clearly in agony here, punches on the radio to cover the silence and they listen to classical music: a march, banal and bombastic. They approach the train station. The car pulls into the car park, emptied now of commuters. Dexter opens the car door, places one foot on the gravel, but his father makes no gesture of goodbye, just sits and waits with the engine running, as neutral as a chauffeur, his eyes fixed on the dashboard, fingers tapping to that lunatic march.

Dexter knows he should accept his chastisement and go, but pride won’t let him. ‘Okay, I’m going now, but can I just say, I think you’re completely over-reacting to this . . .’

And suddenly there is real rage in his father’s face, his teeth bared and clenched tight, his voice cracking: ‘Do not dare to insult my intelligence or your mother’s, you are a grown man now, you are not a child.’ Just as quickly the rage is gone, and instead he thinks his father might be about to cry. His bottom lip is trembling, one hand is gripping the wheel, the long fingers of the other hand wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold. Dexter hurriedly backs out of the car and is about to stand and close the door, when his father turns off the radio and speaks again. ‘Dexter—’

Dexter stoops, and looks in at his father. His eyes are wet, but his voice is steady as he says—

‘Dexter, your mother loves you very, very much. And I do too. We always have and we always will. I think you know that. But in whatever time your mother has left to her—’ He falters, glances down as if looking for the words, then up. ‘Dexter, if you ever come and see your mother in this state again, I swear, I will not let you into the house. I will not let you through our door. I will close the door in your face. I mean this.’

Dexter’s mouth is open, though there are no words.

‘Now. Please go home.’

Dexter closes the car door, but it doesn’t lock. He closes it again just as his father, flustered too, jolts forwards, then into reverse, leaving the car park at speed. Dexter stands and watches him go.

The rural train station is empty. He looks along the length of the platform for the payphone, the old familiar payphone that he used as a teenager to make his plans of escape. It’s 6.59 p.m. The London connection will be here in six minutes, but he has to make this call.

At 7 p.m., Emma takes one last look in the mirror to ensure that it doesn’t seem as if she has made any kind of effort. The mirror leans precariously against the wall and she knows that it has a foreshortening, hall-of-mirrors effect, but even so she clicks her tongue at her hips, the short legs below her denim skirt. It’s too warm for tights but she can’t bear the sight of her scuffed red knees so is wearing them anyway. Her hair, newly washed and smelling of something called forest fruits, has fallen into a ‘do’, flicked and fragrant, and she scrubs at it with her fingertips to muss it up, then uses her little finger to wipe smears of lipstick from the corner of her mouth. Her lips are very red, and she wonders if she’s overdoing it. After all, nothing’s likely to happen, she’ll be home by 10.30. She drains the last of a large vodka and tonic, winces as it reacts metallically with the toothpaste, picks up her keys, drops them in her best handbag, and closes the door.