ONE DAY(45)
The phone rings.
She is halfway down the institutional hallway when she hears it. For one moment she contemplates running back to answer it but she is late already, and it’s probably just her mum or sister to find out how the interview went. At the end of the hall she can hear the lift door opening. She runs to catch it, and the doors of the lift close just as the answering machine picks up.
‘ . . . leave your message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.’
‘Hi there, Emma, it’s Dexter here. What was I going to say? Well I was going to say I’m at this train station near home and I’ve just come from Mum’s and . . . and I wondered what you were doing tonight. I have tickets for the Jurassic Park premiere! Actually we’ve missed that I think, but maybe the party afterwards? Me and you? Princess Di will be there. Sorry, I’m waffling, in case you’re there. Pick up the phone, Emma. Pick up pick up pick up pick up. No? Okay, well I’ve just remembered, you have your date tonight, don’t you? Your hot date. Well – have fun, call me when you get in, if you get in. Let me know what happens. Seriously, call me, soon as you can.’
He stumbles, catches his breath, then says:
‘Just an unbelievably shitty day, Em,’ and falters again. ‘I’ve just done something so, so bad.’ He should hang up, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to see Emma Morley so that he might confess his sins, but she’s on a date. He pulls his mouth into a grin and says ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I want to know everything! Heartbreaker you.’ He hangs up. Heartbreaker you.
The rails are clicking now, and he can hear the hum of the train approaching, but he can’t get on board, not in this state. He’ll just have to wait for the next one. The London train arrives and seems to be waiting for him, ticking politely, but Dexter stands shielded by the plastic carapace of the payphone booth, feels his face crumple inwards and his breath become broken and jagged, and as he starts to cry he tells himself that it’s just chemical, chemical, chemical.
CHAPTER SEVEN
G.S.O.H.
THURSDAY 15 JULY 1993,
Part Two – Emma’s Story
Covent Garden and King’s Cross
Ian Whitehead sat alone at a table for two in the Covent Garden branch of Forelli’s, and checked his watch: fifteen minutes late, but he imagined that this was part of the exquisite game of cat-and-mouse that is dating. Well, let the games commence. He dunked his ciabatta in the little dish of olive oil as if loading a paintbrush, opened the menu and worked out what he could afford to eat.
Life as a stand-up comedian had yet to bring the wealth and TV exposure that it had once promised. The Sunday papers weekly proclaimed that comedy was the new rock and roll, so why was he still hustling for open-mike spots at Sir Laffalots on Tuesday nights? He had adapted his material to fit with current fashions, pulling back on the political and observational material and trying out character-comedy, surrealism, comic songs and sketches. Nothing seemed to raise a laugh. A detour into a more confrontational style had led to him being punched and kicked, and his residency with a Sunday night improv comedy team had proved only that he could be unfunny in an entirely unplanned, spontaneous way. Yet still he soldiered on, up and down the Northern Line, round and round the Circle, in search of the big laughs.
Perhaps there was something about the name ‘Ian Whitehead’ that made it resistant to being spelt out in lightbulbs. He had even considered changing it to something punchy, boysy and monosyllabic – Ben or Jack or Matt – but until he found his comic persona he had taken a job in Sonicotronics, an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road where unhealthy young men in t-shirts sold ROM and graphics cards to unhealthy young men in t-shirts. The money wasn’t great, but his evenings were free for gigs, and he frequently cracked up his co-workers with new material.
But the best, the very best thing about Sonicotronics was that during his lunch break he had bumped into Emma Morley. He had been standing outside the offices of the Church of Scientology, debating whether or not to take the personality test, when he saw her, almost obscured by a huge wicker laundry basket, and as he threw his arms around her Tottenham Court Road was lit by glory and transformed into a street of dreams.
Date number two, and here he was in a sleek modern Italian near Covent Garden. Ian’s personal tastes tended towards the hot and spicy, salty and crispy, and he would have preferred a curry. But he was wise enough in the vagaries of womankind to know that she would be expecting fresh vegetables. He checked his watch again – twenty minutes late – and felt a pang of longing in his stomach that was partly hunger, partly love. For years now his heart and stomach had been heavy with love for Emma Morley, and not just sentimental platonic love, but a carnal desire too. All these years later he still carried with him, would carry for life, the image of her standing in mismatched underwear in the staffroom of Loco Caliente, illuminated by a shaft of afternoon sun like the light in a cathedral, as she yelled at him to get out and shut the bloody door.
Unaware that he was thinking of her underwear, Emma Morley stood watching Ian from the ma?tre d’s station and noted that he was definitely better looking these days. The crown of tight fair curls had gone, trimmed short now and slicked slightly with a little wax, he had lost that new-boy-in-the-city look. In fact, if it weren’t for the terrible clothes and the way his mouth hung open, he would actually be attractive.