David Nicholls - One Day

THURSDAY 15 JULY 1993,

Part Two — Emma’s Story

Covent Garden and King’s Cross

Ian Whitehead sat alone at a table for two in the Covent Garden branch of Forelli’s, and checked his watch: fifteen minutes late, but he imagined that this was part of the exquisite game of cat-and-mouse that is dating. Well, let the games commence. He dunked his ciabatta in the little dish of olive oil as if loading a paintbrush, opened the menu and worked out what he could afford to eat.

Life as a stand-up comedian had yet to bring the wealth and TV exposure that it had once promised. The Sunday papers weekly proclaimed that comedy was the new rock and roll, so why was he still hustling for open-mike spots at Sir Laffalots on Tuesday nights? He had adapted his material to fit with current fashions, pulling back on the political and observational material and trying out character-comedy, surrealism, comic songs and sketches. Nothing seemed to raise a laugh. A detour into a more confrontational style had led to him being punched and kicked, and his residency with a Sunday night improv comedy team had proved only that he could be unfunny in an entirely unplanned, spontaneous way. Yet still he soldiered on, up and down the Northern Line, round and round the Circle, in search of the big laughs.

Perhaps there was something about the name ‘Ian Whitehead’ that made it resistant to being spelt out in lightbulbs. He had even considered changing it to something punchy, boysy and monosyllabic — Ben or Jack or Matt — but until he found his comic persona he had taken a job in Sonicotronics, an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road where unhealthy young men in t-shirts sold ROM and graphics cards to unhealthy young men in t-shirts. The money wasn’t great, but his evenings were free for gigs, and he frequently cracked up his co-workers with new material.

But the best, the very best thing about Sonicotronics was that during his lunch break he had bumped into Emma Morley. He had been standing outside the offices of the Church of Scientology, debating whether or not to take the personality test, when he saw her, almost obscured by a huge wicker laundry basket, and as he threw his arms around her Tottenham Court Road was lit by glory and transformed into a street of dreams.

Date number two, and here he was in a sleek modern Italian near Covent Garden. Ian’s personal tastes tended towards the hot and spicy, salty and crispy, and he would have preferred a curry. But he was wise enough in the vagaries of womankind to know that she would be expecting fresh vegetables. He checked his watch again — twenty minutes late — and felt a pang of longing in his stomach that was partly hunger, partly love. For years now his heart and stomach had been heavy with love for Emma Morley, and not just sentimental platonic love, but a carnal desire too. All these years later he still carried with him, would carry for life, the image of her standing in mismatched underwear in the staffroom of Loco Caliente, illuminated by a shaft of afternoon sun like the light in a cathedral, as she yelled at him to get out and shut the bloody door.

Unaware that he was thinking of her underwear, Emma Morley stood watching Ian from the maître d’s station and noted that he was definitely better looking these days. The crown of tight fair curls had gone, trimmed short now and slicked slightly with a little wax, he had lost that new-boy-in-the-city look. In fact, if it weren’t for the terrible clothes and the way his mouth hung open, he would actually be attractive.

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 maître 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 fucked 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.