ONE DAY(64)

‘You really should get rid of that,’ she said, nodding towards the phone.

He slipped it into his pocket and kissed her cheek. ‘So you’ve got a choice, you can either phone me, actually me personally, or you can phone a building in which I might just happen to be at the time—’

‘Phone the building.’

‘And if I miss the call?’

‘Well God forbid you should miss a call.’

‘It’s not 1988 anymore, Em—’

‘Yes, I know that—’

‘Six months, I give you six months before you cave—’

‘Never—’

‘A bet—’

‘Okay a bet. If I ever, ever buy a mobile phone I’ll buy you dinner.’

‘Well, that’ll make a change.’

‘Besides, they give you brain damage—’

‘They do not damage your brain—’

‘How can you tell?’

And they stood for a moment in silence, both with a vague sense that the evening had not started well.

‘Can’t believe you’re getting at me already,’ he said sulkily.

‘Well that’s my job.’ She smiled and embraced him, pressing her cheek against his. ‘I’m not getting at you. Sorry, sorry.’

His hand was on her bare neck. ‘It’s been ages.’

‘Far too long.’

He stepped back. ‘You look beautiful by the way.’

‘Thank you. So do you.’

‘Well, not beautiful . . .’

‘Handsome then.’

‘Thank you.’ He took her hands and held them out to the side. ‘You should wear dresses more often, you look almost feminine.’

‘I like your hat now take it off.’

‘And the shoes!’

She twisted an ankle towards him. ‘It’s the world’s first orthopaedic high-heel.’

They began to walk through the crowds towards Wardour Street, Emma taking his arm then holding the material of his suit between finger and thumb, rubbing at the strange nap of the fabric. ‘What is this, by the way? Velvet? Velour?’

‘Moleskin.’

‘I had a track-suit in that material once.’

‘We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Dex and Em—’

‘Em and Dex. Like Rogers and Astaire—’

‘Burton and Taylor—’

‘Mary and Joseph—’

Dexter laughed and took her hand and soon they were at the restaurant.

Poseidon was a huge bunker excavated from the remains of an underground car park. Entrance was by way of a vast, theatrical staircase that seemed miraculously suspended above the main room and formed a permanent distraction to the diners below, who spent much of the evening assessing the beauty or fame of the new arrivals. Feeling neither beautiful nor famous, Emma sloped down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other cupping her belly until Dexter took this arm and stopped, surveying the room as proudly as if he were the architect.

‘So. What do you think?’

‘Club Tropicana,’ she said.

The interior had been styled to suggest the romance of a luxury liner from the 20s: velvet booths, liveried waiters bearing cocktails, decorative portholes that opened onto a view of nothing, and this lack of natural light gave the place a submarine aspect, as if it had already hit the iceberg and was on its way down. The intended air of inter-war elegance was further undermined by the clamour and ostentation of the room, the pervading atmosphere of youth and sex, money and deep-fat-frying. All the burgundy velvet and pressed peach linen in the world couldn’t stifle the tumultuous noise from the open-plan kitchen, a blur of stainless steel and white. So here it is at last, thought Emma: The Eighties.

‘Are you sure this is okay? It looks quite expensive.’

‘I told you. My treat.’ He tucked the label into the back of her dress, having glanced at it first, then took her hand and led her down the rest of the stairs with a little Astaire trot, into the heart of all that money, sex and youth.

A sleek handsome man in absurd naval epaulettes told them their table would be ten minutes so they pushed their way to the cocktail lounge where another faux naval man was busy juggling bottles.

‘What do you want, Em?’

‘Gin and tonic?’

Dexter tutted. ‘You’re not in the Mandela Bar now. You’ve got to have a proper drink. Two martinis, Bombay Sapphire, very dry, with a twist.’ Emma made to speak, but Dexter held up an autocratic finger. ‘Trust me. Best martinis in London.’

Obediently she ummed and awwed at the bartender’s performance, Dexter commentating throughout. ‘The trick is to get everything really, really cold before you start. Iced water in the glass, gin in the freezer.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘My mum taught me when I was, what, nine?’ They touched glasses, silently toasting Alison, and both felt hope again, for the evening and for their friendship. Emma raised the martini to her lips. ‘I’ve never had one of these before.’ The first taste was delicious, icy and immediately intoxicating, and she tried not to spill it as she shuddered. She was about to thank him when Dexter placed his glass in Emma’s hand, a good half of it already gone.