ONE DAY(74)

Twenty minutes later, she stands beneath the window of the long, low red-brick building that contains her flat, and notices a light on in the living room. Ian is back.

She contemplates walking off and hiding in the pub, or perhaps going round to see friends for the evening, but she knows that Ian will just sit in that armchair with the light off and wait, like an assassin. She takes a deep breath, and looks for her keys.

The flat seems much bigger since Ian moved out. Stripped of the video box-sets, the chargers and adapters and cables, the vinyl in gatefold sleeves, it feels as if it has been recently burgled, and once again Emma is reminded of how little she has to show for the last eight years. She can hear a rustling from the bedroom. She puts down her bag and walks quietly towards the door.

The contents of the chest of drawers are scattered on the floor: letters, bank statements, torn paper wallets of photographs and negatives. She stands silent and unobserved in the doorway and watches Ian for a moment, snorting with the effort of reaching deep into the back of the drawer. He wears unlaced trainers, track-suit bottoms, an un-ironed shirt. It’s an outfit that has been carefully put together to suggest maximum emotional disarray. He is dressed to upset.

‘What are you doing, Ian?’

He is startled, but only for a moment, after which he glares back indignantly, a self-righteous burglar. ‘You’re home late,’ he says, accusingly.

‘What’s that got to do with you?’

‘Just curious as to your whereabouts, that’s all.’

‘I had rehearsals. Ian, I thought we agreed you can’t just drop in like this.’

‘Why, got someone with you, have you?’

‘Ian, I am so not in the mood for this . . .’ She puts down her bag, takes off her coat. ‘If you’re looking for a diary or something, you’re wasting your time. I haven’t kept a diary for years . . .’

‘As a matter of fact I’m just getting my stuff. It is my stuff, you know, I do own it.’

‘You’ve got all your stuff.’

‘My passport. I don’t have my passport!’

‘Well I can tell you right now, it’s not in my underwear drawer.’ He is improvising of course. She knows that he has his passport, he just wanted to poke through her belongings and show her that he’s not okay. ‘Why do you need your passport? Are you going somewhere? Emigrating maybe?’

‘Oh you’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ he sneers.

‘Well I wouldn’t mind,’ she says, stepping over the mess and sitting on the bed.

He adopts a gumshoe voice. ‘Well, tough shit, sweetheart, ’cause I ain’t going nowhere.’ As a jilted lover, Ian has found a commitment and aggression that he never possessed as a stand-up comedian, and he is certainly putting on quite a show tonight. ‘Couldn’t afford to anyway.’

She feels like heckling him. ‘I take it you’re not doing a lot of stand-up comedy at the moment, then, Ian?’

‘What do you think, sweetheart?’ he says, putting his arms out to the side, indicating the stubble, the unwashed hair, the sallow skin; his look-what-you’ve-done-to-me look. Ian is making a spectacle of his self-pity, a one-man-show of loneliness and rejection that he’s been working up for the last six months and, tonight at least, Emma has no time for it.

‘Where’s this “sweetheart” thing come from, Ian? I’m not sure if I like it.’

He returns to his search and mumbles something into the drawer, ‘f*ck off, Em’ perhaps. Is he drunk, she wonders? On the dressing table, there’s an open can of strong cheap lager. Drunk – now there’s a good idea. At that moment, Emma decides to set out to get drunk as soon as possible. Why not? It seems to work for everyone else. Excited by the project, she walks to the kitchen to make a start.

He follows her through. ‘So, where were you then?’

‘I told you. At school, rehearsing.’

‘What were you rehearsing?’

‘Bugsy Malone. It’s a lot of laughs. Why, you want tickets?’

‘No thanks.’

‘There’s splurge guns.’

‘I reckon you’ve been with someone.’

‘Oh, please – here we go again.’ She opens the fridge. There’s half a bottle of wine, but this is one of those times when only spirits will do. ‘Ian, what is this obsession with me being with someone? Why can’t it just be that you and me weren’t right for each other?’ With a hard yank, she cracks the seal of the frosted-up freezer compartment. Ice scatters on the floor.

‘But we are right for each other!’

‘Well fine then, if you say so, let’s get back together!’ Behind some ancient minced beef crispy pancakes, there is a bottle of vodka. ‘Yes!’ She slides the crispy pancakes to Ian. ‘Here – these are yours. I’m granting you custody.’ Slamming the fridge, she reaches for a glass. ‘And anyway, what if I was with someone, Ian? So what? We broke up, remember?’

‘Rings a bell, rings a bell. So who is he then?’

She’s pouring the vodka, two inches. ‘Who’s who?’

‘Your new boyfriend? Go on, just tell me, I won’t mind,’ he sneers. ‘We’re still friends after all.’

Emma gulps from her glass then stoops for a moment, elbows on the counter top, the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes as she feels the icy liquid slide down her throat. A moment passes.