ONE DAY(59)

At the drinks afterwards, own-brand cola flows like wine, and there are also five bottles of sparkling perry to share among the adults. Ian sits in a corner of the sports hall with a plate of mini kievs and a plastic cup of Beecham’s Powders that he has brought to the party specially, and he massages his sinuses, smiles and waits patiently as Emma soaks up the praise. ‘Good enough for the West End!’ someone says, somewhat unrealistically, and she doesn’t even mind when Rodney Chance, her Fagin, boozy on spiked Panda Pops, tells her that she’s ‘pretty fit for a teacher’. Mr Godalming (‘please, call me Phil’) congratulates her while Fiona, ruddy-cheeked like a farmer’s wife, looks on, bored and bad tempered. ‘We should talk, in September, about your future here,’ says Phil, leaning in and kissing her goodbye, causing some of the kids, and some of the staff, to make a ‘whoooo’ noise.

Unlike most showbusiness parties it’s all over by nine forty-five, and instead of a stretch limo, Emma and Ian take the 55, the 19 and the Piccadilly Line home. ‘I’m so proud of you—’ says Ian, his head resting against hers ‘—but I think it’s settled on my lungs.’

As soon as she enters the flat she can smell the flowers. The vast bouquet of red roses lolls in a casserole on the kitchen table.

‘Oh my God, Ian, they’re beautiful.’

‘Not from me,’ he mumbles.

‘Oh. Who then?’

‘Golden Boy, I expect. They came this morning. Completely over the top if you ask me. I’m going to have a hot bath. See if I can shift it.’

She removes her coat and opens the small card. ‘Apologies for sulking. Hope it goes well tonight. Much love Dx’. That’s all. She reads it twice, looks at her watch, and quickly turns on the TV to watch Dexter’s big break.

Forty-five minutes later, as the final credits roll, she frowns and tries to make sense of what she has just seen. She doesn’t know much about television, but she is pretty sure that Dexter hasn’t shone. He has looked shaky, actually frightened sometimes. Fluffing lines, looking at the wrong camera, he has seemed amateurish and inept and as if sensing his unease the people he has interviewed – the rapper on tour, the four cocky young Mancunians – have responded with disdain or sarcasm. The studio audience glares too, like surly teenagers at a pantomime, arms crossed high on their chests. For the first time since she met him he appears to be making an effort. Might he be, well, drunk? She doesn’t know much about the media, but she can recognise a car crashing. By the time the last band plays out her hand has come to cover her face, and she knows enough about TV to know this is not ideal. There’s a lot of irony about these days, but surely not to the extent that booing is good.

She turns the TV off. From the bathroom comes the sound of Ian honking into a flannel. She closes the door and picks up the phone, moulding her mouth into a congratulatory smile and in an empty flat in Belsize Park the answering machine picks up. ‘So – talk to me!’ says Dexter, and Emma goes into her act. ‘Hey you! Hiya! I know you’re at the party so just wanted to say, well first of all, thank you for the flowers. So beautiful, Dex, you shouldn’t have. But mainly – Well! Done! You! You were fantastic, just really relaxed and funny, I thought it was fantastic, just a really, really, great, great show, really.’ She hesitates: don’t say ‘really’. If you say ‘really’ too often it sounds like ‘not-really’. She continues. ‘I’m still not sure about that t-shirt-under-suit-jacket-thing, and it’s always refreshing to see women dancing in cages, but Dexter, apart from that, it was just excellent. Really. I’m really so proud of you, Dex. In case you’re interested, Oliver! went alright too.’

She senses her own performance is losing conviction now, and decides to bring it to a close.

‘So. There you go. We’ve both got something to celebrate! Thanks again for the roses. Have a good night. Let’s talk tomorrow. I’m seeing you Tuesday, is that right? And well done, you. Seriously. Well done you. Bye.’

At the party afterwards Dexter stands alone at the bar, arms crossed, shoulders hunched. People cross to congratulate him but no-one lingers long and the pats on the shoulder have come to feel like consolation or, at best, well done on missing that penalty. He has continued to drink steadily but the champagne seems stale in his mouth and nothing seems to lift the sense of disappointment, anti-climax, creeping shame.

‘Wahey,’ says Suki Meadows in a contemplative mood. Once the co-star, now clearly the star, she sits next to him. ‘Look at you, all mean and moody.’

‘Hey, Suki.’

‘So! That went well, I thought!’

Dexter is unconvinced but they chink glasses just the same. ‘Sorry about that . . . booze thing. I owe you an apology.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘It was just something to loosen me up, you know.’

‘Still, we should talk about it. Some other time.’

‘Okay.’

‘Because I’m not going out there again with you off your tits, Dex.’

‘I know. You won’t. And I’ll make it up to you.’

She leans her shoulder against his, and puts her chin on his shoulder. ‘Next week?’

‘Next week?’

‘Buy me dinner. Somewhere expensive, mind. Next Tuesday.’