David Nicholls - One Day

Sonya’s face tightens again, and Emma is startled to notice that she seems as if she might cry. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘I might have to.’

‘Miss!’

‘We can’t do the show, Sonya.’

‘We can!’

‘What, with you bitch-slapping Martin during “Who Will Buy”?’ Sonya smiles despite herself. ‘You are smart, Sonya, so so smart, but people set these traps for you and you walk right into them.’ Sonya sighs, sets her face and looks out at the small rectangle of parched grass outside the science block. ‘You could do so well, not just in the play but in class too. Your work this term’s been really intelligent and sensitive and thoughtful.’ Unsure how to deal with praise, Sonya sniffs and scowls. ‘Next term you could do even better, but you’ve got to control your temper, Sonya, you’ve got to show people you’re better than that.’ It’s another speech, and Emma sometimes thinks she expends too much energy making speeches like this. She had hoped that it might have some kind of inspirational effect, but Sonya’s gaze has drifted over Emma’s shoulder now, towards the classroom door. ‘Sonya, are you listening to me?’

‘Beard’s here.’

Emma glances round and sees a dark-haired face at the door’s glass panel, two eyes peering through like a curious bear. ‘Don’t call him Beard. He’s the headmaster,’ she tells Sonya, then beckons him in. But it’s true, the first, and second words that enter her head whenever she sees Mr Godalming are ‘beard’. It’s one of those startling full-face affairs: not straggly, cut very close and neat but very, very black, a Conquistador, his blue eyes peeping out like holes cut in carpet. So he is The Beard. As he enters Sonya starts to scratch at her chin and Emma widens her eyes in warning.

‘Evening all,’ he calls, in his jaunty out-of-hours voice. ‘How’s it going? Everything alright, Sonya?’

‘Bit hairy, sir,’ says Sonya, ‘but I think we’ll be okay.’

Emma snuffles, and Mr Godalming turns to her. ‘Everything alright, Emma?’

‘Sonya and I were just having a little pre-show pep-talk. Do you want to go and carry on getting ready, Sonya?’ With a smile of relief, she pushes herself off the desk and saunters to the door. ‘Tell Martin I’ll be two minutes.’

Emma and Mr Godalming are alone.

‘Well!’ he smiles.

‘Well.’

In a fit of informality Mr Godalming goes to sit astride a chair, showbiz-style, appearing to change his mind halfway through the action before deciding that there’s no going back. ‘Bit of a handful, that Sonya.’

‘Oh, just bravado.’

‘I heard reports of a fight.’

‘That was nothing. Pre-show nerves.’ Straddling his chair, he really does look fantastically uncomfortable.

‘I heard your protégé has been laying into our future head-boy.’

‘Youthful high spirits. And I don’t think Martin was completely innocent.’

‘Bitch-slapped was the phrase I heard.’

‘You seem very well informed.’

‘Well I am the headmaster.’ Mr Godalming smiles through his balaclava, and Emma wonders if you looked long enough, would you actually be able to see the hair grow? What’s going on under all that stuff? Might Mr Godalming actually be quite good-looking? He nods towards the door. ‘I saw Martin in the corridor. He’s very. . emotional.’

‘Well he’s been in character for the last six weeks. He’s taking a Method approach. I think if he could he’d have given himself rickets.’

‘Is he any good?’

‘God no, he’s awful. An orphanage’s the best place for him. You’re welcome to jam bits of the programme in your ears during “Where is Love?”.’ Mr Godalming laughs. ‘Sonya’s great though.’ The headmaster looks unconvinced. ‘You’ll see.’

He shifts uneasily on the chair. ‘What can I expect tonight, Emma?’

‘No idea. Could go either way.’

‘Personally I’m more of a Sweet Charity man. Remind me, why couldn’t we do Sweet Charity ?’

‘Well it’s a musical about prostitution, so. .’

Once more Mr Godalming laughs. He does this a lot with Emma, and others have noticed it too. There is gossip in the staffroom, dark murmurs about favouritism, and certainly he’s looking at her very intently tonight. A moment passes, and she glances back towards the door where Martin Dawson peeks tearfully through the glass panel. ‘I’d better have a word with Edith Piaf out there, before he goes off the rails.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Mr Godalming seems pleased to dismount the chair. ‘Good luck tonight. My wife and I have been looking forward to it all week.’

‘I don’t believe that for a second.’

‘It’s true! You must meet her afterwards. Perhaps Fiona and I can have a drink with your. . fiancé?’

‘God, no, just boyfriend. Ian—’

‘At the after-show drinks—’

‘Beaker of dilute squash—’

‘Cook’s been to the cash-and-carry—’

‘I hear rumours of mini kievs—’

‘Teaching, eh?—’

‘And people say it’s not glamorous—’

‘You look beautiful, Emma, by the way.’

Emma holds her arms out to the side. She is wearing make-up, just a little lipstick to go with a vintage floral dress which is dark pink and a little on the tight side perhaps. She looks down at her dress as if it has taken her by surprise, but really it’s the remark that has thrown her. ‘Ta very much!’ she says, but he has noticed her hesitation.

A moment passes, and he looks towards the door. ‘I’ll send Martin in, shall I?’

‘Please do.’

He heads to the door, then stops and turns. ‘I’m sorry, have I broken some sort of professional code? Can I say that to a member of my staff? That they look nice?’

‘Course you can,’ she says, but both know that ‘nice’ was not the word he had used. The word was ‘beautiful.’

‘Excuse me, but I’m looking for the most odious man on television?’ says Toby Moray from the doorway, in that whiny, pinched little voice of his. He’s wearing a tartan suit and his on-screen make-up, his hair slick and oiled into a jokey quiff and Dexter wants to throw a bottle at him.

‘I think you’ll find that that’s you who you’re looking for, not me,’ says Dexter, concise speech suddenly beyond him.

‘Nice come-back, superstar,’ says his co-presenter. ‘So you saw the previews then?’

‘Nope.’

‘Because I can run off some photocopies for you—’

‘Just one bad write-up, Toby.’

‘You didn’t read the Mirror then. Or the Express, The Times . .’

Dexter pretends to be studying his running order. ‘No-one ever built a statue of a critic.’

‘True, but no-one built a statue of a TV presenter either.’

‘Fuck off, Toby.’

‘Ah, le mot juste !’

‘Why are you here anyway?’

‘To wish you luck.’ He crosses, places his hands on Dexter’s shoulders and squeezes. Round and waspish, Toby’s role on the show is a kind of irreverent, say-anything jester figure and Dexter despises him, this jumped-up little warm-up man, and envies him too. In the pilot and in rehearsals he has run rings around Dexter, slyly mocking and deriding him, making him feel fat-tongued, slow-witted, doltish, the pretty boy who can’t think on his feet. He shrugs Toby’s hands away. This antagonism is meant to be the stuff of great TV they say, but Dexter feels paranoid, persecuted. He needs another vodka to recover some of his good spirits, but he can’t, not while Toby’s smirking at him in the mirror with his little owlish face. ‘If you don’t mind I’d like to gather my thoughts.’

‘I understand. Focus that mind of yours.’