ONE DAY(46)

Although the situation was unusual for her, she recognised this as a classic date restaurant – just expensive enough, not too bright, not pretentious but not cheap either, the kind of place where they put rocket on the pizzas. The place was corny but not ridiculous and at least it was not a curry or, God forbid, a fish burrito. There were palm trees and candles and in the next room an elderly man played Gershwin favourites on a grand piano: ‘I hope that he/turns out to be/someone to watch over me.’

‘Are you with someone?’ asked the ma?tre d’.

‘That man over there.’

On their first date he had taken her to see Evil Dead III, The Medieval Dead at the Odeon on the Holloway Road. Neither squeamish nor a snob, Emma enjoyed a horror film more than most women, but even so she had thought this a strange, curiously confident choice. Three Colours Blue was playing at the Everyman, but here she was, watching a man with a chainsaw for an arm, and finding it strangely refreshing. Conventionally, she had expected to be taken to a restaurant afterwards but for Ian it seemed a trip to the cinema wasn’t complete without a three-course meal thrown in. He contemplated the concession stand as if were an à la carte menu, choosing nachos to begin with, a hot-dog for the entrée, Revels for dessert, his palette cleansed with a pail of iced Lilt the size of a human torso, so that the Evil Dead III’s few meditative scenes were accompanied by the warm tropical hiss of Ian belching into his fist.

And yet despite all this – the love of ultra-violence and salty foods, the mustard on his chin – Emma had enjoyed herself more than she had expected. On the way to the pub he had changed sides on the pavement so that she wouldn’t get hit by a runaway bus – a weirdly old-fashioned gesture that she’d never been subject to before – and they discussed the special effects, the beheadings and eviscerations, Ian declaring, after some analysis, that it was the best of the ‘Dead’ trilogy. Trilogies and box-sets, comedy and horror loomed large in Ian’s cultural life, and in the pub they’d had an interesting debate about whether a graphic novel could ever have as much depth and meaning as, say, Middlemarch. Protective, attentive, he was like an older brother who knew about lots of really cool stuff, the difference being that he clearly wanted to sleep with her. So intent, so doting was his gaze that she frequently found herself feeling for something on her face.

That was how he grinned at her now, in the restaurant, standing with such enthusiasm that he knocked the table with his thighs, spilling tap water onto the complimentary olives.

‘Shall I get a cloth?’ she said.

‘No, it’s alright, I’ll use my jacket.’

‘Don’t use your jacket, here – here’s my napkin.’

‘Well I’ve f*cked the olives. Not literally I might hasten to add!’

‘Oh. Right. Okay.’

‘Joke!’ he bellowed, as if shouting ‘Fire!’ He hadn’t been this nervous since the last disastrous night at the improv, and he firmly told himself to calm down as he blotted at the tablecloth, glancing upwards to see Emma wriggling out of her summer jacket, pushing her shoulders back and her chest forward in that way that women do without realising the ache they cause. There it was, the evening’s second great bubble of love and desire for Emma Morley. ‘You look so lovely,’ he blurted, unable to contain himself.

‘Thank you! You too,’ she said reflexively. He wore the stand-up comic’s uniform of a crumpled linen jacket over a plain black t-shirt. In honour of Emma, there were no band names or ironic remarks: dressy then. ‘I like this,’ she said, indicating the jacket. ‘Pretty sharp!’ and Ian rubbed his lapel between finger and thumb as if saying ‘what, this old thing?’

‘Can I take your jacket?’ said the waiter, sleek and handsome.

‘Yes, thank you.’ Emma handed it over, and Ian imagined he’d have to tip for it later. Never mind. She was worth it.

‘Any drinks?’ asked the waiter.

‘You know, I think I’d like a vodka and tonic.’

‘A double?’ said the waiter, tempting her into further expense.

She looked to Ian and saw a flicker of panic cross his face. ‘Is that reckless?’

‘No, you go on.’

‘Okay, a double!’

‘You, sir?’

‘I’ll wait for the wine, thank you.’

‘Mineral water?’

‘TAP WATER!’ he yelled, then, calmer, ‘Tap water’s fine, unless you . . .’

‘Tap water’s fine,’ Emma smiled reassuringly. The waiter left. ‘And by the way, this goes without saying, but we are going dutch tonight, okay? No arguments. It’s 1993 for crying out loud,’ and Ian found himself loving her even more. For form’s sake, he thought he had better put on a show.

‘But you’re a student, Em!’

‘Not anymore. I am now a fully qualified teacher! I had my first job interview today.’

‘And how did it go?’

‘Really, really well!’

‘Congratulations, Em, that’s fantastic,’ and he threw himself across the table to kiss her on the cheek, no, both cheeks, no, hang on, just the one cheek, no, okay both cheeks.

The menu had been prepped in advance for humour, and while Emma tried to concentrate, Ian went into his act and ran through some of the choicer puns: penne for your thoughts, etc. The presence of grilled sea bass allowed him to do the one about how you wait ages for one bass, then three come along at the same time, and was this a minute steak or a mine-ute, like a really, really small steak? and what was it with ‘ragu’ these days, when did good old spag bol become ‘ragu’? What, he speculated, would they, like, call ‘alphabetti spaghetti?’ Moist alphabetical forms in a sauce rouge? Or what?