ONE DAY(51)

‘Emma’s out. And not that kind of company. You know what I mean. The fact is, if I don’t touch another human being tonight I think I actually might die.’

‘—’

‘I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour. Stop drinking. Wait for me.’

‘Naomi? Naomi, do you realise?’

‘What?’

‘Do you realise that you are saving my life?’





CHAPTER EIGHT


Showbusiness


FRIDAY 15 JULY 1994

Leytonstone and the Isle of Dogs Emma Morley eats well and drinks only in moderation. She gets eight good hours sleep, then wakes promptly and of her own accord at just before six-thirty and drinks a large glass of water – the first 250ml of a daily 1.5 litres, which she pours from the matching glass and carafe set that stands in a shaft of morning sunlight by her double bed.

The clock radio clicks on and she allows herself to lie in bed and listen to the news headlines. The Labour leader John Smith has died, and there’s a report on his memorial service at Westminster Abbey; respectful cross-party tributes, ‘the greatest Prime Minister we never had’, discreet speculation on who will replace him. Once again she reminds herself to look into the possibility of joining the Labour Party, now that her CND membership has long since lapsed.

More of the endless World Cup news forces her out of bed, throwing off the summer duvet, putting on her old thick-rimmed spectacles and sliding into the tiny corridor of space between the bed and the walls. She heads towards the tiny bathroom and opens the door.

‘One minute!!’ She pulls the door closed again, but not fast enough to prevent herself from seeing Ian Whitehead doubled over on the toilet.

‘Why don’t you lock it, Ian?’ she shouts at the door.

‘Sorry!’

Emma turns, pads back to bed and lies there listening grumpily to the farming forecast and, in the background, the flush of a toilet, then another flush, then a honking sound as Ian blows his nose, then another flush. Eventually he appears in the doorway, red-faced and martyred. He is wearing no underwear and a black t-shirt that stops a little above his hips. There isn’t a man in the world that can carry off this look, but even so Emma makes a conscious effort to keep her eyes focussed on his face, as he slowly blows air out through his mouth.

‘Well. That was quite an experience.’

‘Not feeling any better then?’ She removes her spectacles, just to be on the safe side.

‘Not really,’ he pouts, his hands rubbing his stomach. ‘I’ve got an upset tummy now.’ He talks in a low, martyr’s voice and even though Emma thinks Ian is terrific there’s something about the word ‘tummy’ that makes her want to close the door sharply on his face.

‘I told you that bacon was off, but you wouldn’t listen to me—’

‘It’s not that—’

‘Oh no, bacon doesn’t go off you say. Bacon’s cured.’

‘I think it’s a virus—’

‘Well maybe it’s that bug that’s going round. They’ve all got it at school, maybe I gave it to you.’

He doesn’t contradict her. ‘Been up all night. Feel rotten.’

‘I know you do, sweetheart.’

‘Diarrhoea on top of catarrh—’

‘It’s a winning combination. Like moonlight and music.’

‘And I hate having summer colds.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ says Emma, sitting up.

‘I reckon it’s gastric flu,’ he says, relishing the pairing of words.

‘Sounds like gastric flu.’

‘I feel so . . .’ Fists clenched, he searches for the word that sums up the injustice of it all. ‘So – bunged up! I can’t go to work like this.’

‘So don’t.’

‘But I’ve got to go.’

‘So go.’

‘I can’t, can I? It feels like I’ve got two pints of mucus right here.’ He spreads his hand across the width of his forehead. ‘Two pints of thick phlegm.’

‘Well there’s an image to carry me through the day.’

‘Sorry, but that’s how I feel.’ He squeezes round the edge of the bed to his side, and with another martyred sigh, climbs beneath the duvet.

She gathers herself before standing. Today is a big day for Emma Morley, a monumental day, and she can do without this. Tonight is the premiere of Cromwell Road Comprehensive School’s production of Oliver! and the potential for disaster is almost infinite.

It’s a big day for Dexter Mayhew too. He lies in a tangle of damp sheets, eyes wide, and imagines all of the things that might go wrong. Tonight he is appearing on live national television in his very own TV show. A vehicle. It’s a vehicle for his talents, and he is suddenly not sure that he possesses any.

The previous evening he went to bed early like a small boy, alone and sober while it was still light outside in the hope of being fresh-faced and quick-witted this morning. But he has been awake for seven of the nine hours now, and is exhausted and nauseous with anxiety. The phone rings and he sits up sharply and listens to his own voice on the answering machine. ‘So – talk to me!’ the voice says, urbane and confident, and he thinks Idiot. Must change message.