David Nicholls: One Day

They began to walk north through the back streets that run parallel to the Via del Corso towards the Piazza del Popolo, Dexter adjusting the route as he went to make it as scenic as possible, and he began to feel better, enjoying the satisfaction of knowing a city well. She hung woozily on his arm.

‘So how long are you planning to stay here then?’

‘I don’t know. ’Til October maybe.’

‘But then you will come home and settle down to something, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t mean live with us. I wouldn’t do that to you. But you know we’d help you out with a deposit on a flat.’

‘There isn’t any rush, is there?’

‘Well it’s been a whole year, Dexter. How much holiday do you need? It’s not as if you worked yourself ragged at University—’

‘I’m not on holiday, I’m working!’

‘What about journalism? Didn’t you talk about journalism?’

He had mentioned it in passing, but only as a distraction and alibi. It seemed that as he ambled through his late teens his possibilities had slowly begun to narrow. Certain cool-sounding jobs — heart surgeon, architect — were permanently closed to him now and journalism seemed about to go the same way. He wasn’t much of a writer, knew little about politics, spoke bad restaurant-French, lacked all training and qualifications, possessed only a passport and a vivid image of himself smoking beneath a ceiling fan in tropical countries, a battered Nikon and a bottle of whisky by his bedside.

Of course what he really wanted was to be a photographer. At sixteen he had completed a photo-project called ‘Texture’, full of black and white close-ups of tree bark and sea-shells which had apparently ‘blown’ his art teacher’s mind. Nothing that he had done since had given him as much satisfaction as ‘Texture’ and those high-contrast prints of frost on windows and the gravel in the driveway. Journalism would mean grappling with difficult stuff like words and ideas, but he thought he might have the makings of a decent photographer, if only because he felt he had a strong sense of when things looked right. At this stage in his life, his main criterion for choosing a career was that it should sound good in a bar, shouted into a girl’s ear, and there was no denying that ‘I’m a professional photographer’ was a fine sentence, almost up there with ‘I report from war zones’ or ‘actually, I make documentaries.’

‘Journalism’s a possibility.’

‘Or business. Weren’t you and Callum going to start up some business?’

‘We’re giving it some thought.’

‘All sounds a bit vague, just “business”.’

‘Like I said, we’re giving it some thought.’ In truth Callum, his old flatmate, had already started the business without him, something about computer refurbishment that Dexter didn’t have the energy to understand. They’d be millionaires by the time they were twenty-five, Callum insisted, but what would it sound like in a bar? ‘Actually, I refurbish computers.’ No, professional photography was his best bet. He decided to try saying it out loud.

‘Actually, I’m thinking about photography.’

‘Photography?’ His mother gave a maddening laugh.

‘Hey, I’m a good photographer!’

‘—when you remember to take your thumb off the lens.’

‘Aren’t you meant to be encouraging me?’

‘What kind of photographer? Glamour? ’ She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Or are you going to continue your work on Texture !’ and they had to stop while she stood in the street laughing for some time, doubled over, holding onto his arm for support — ‘All those pictures of gravel !’ — until finally it was over, and she stood and straightened her face. ‘Dexter, I am so, so sorry. .’

‘I’m actually much better now.’

‘I know you are, I’m sorry. I apologise.’ They began to walk again. ‘You must do it, Dexter, if that’s what you want.’ She squeezed his arm with her elbow, but Dexter felt sulky. ‘We’ve always told you that you can be anything you want to be, if you work hard enough.’

‘It was just a thought,’ he said, petulantly. ‘I’m weighing up my options, that’s all.’

‘Well I hope so, because teaching’s a fine profession, but this isn’t really your vocation, is it? Teaching Beatles songs to moony Nordic girls.’

‘It’s hard work, Mum. Besides it gives me something to fall back on.’

‘Yes, well, sometimes I wonder if you have a little too much to fall back on.’ She was looking down as she spoke and the remark seemed to rebound off the flagstones. They walked a little further before he spoke.

‘And what does that mean?’

‘Oh, I just mean—’ She sighed, and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘I just mean that at some point you’ll have to get serious about life, that’s all. You’re young and healthy and you look nice enough, I suppose, in a low light. People seem to like you, you’re smart, or smart enough, not academically maybe, but you know what’s what. And you’ve had luck, so much luck, Dexter, and you’ve been protected from things, responsibility, money. But you’re an adult now, and one day things might not be this. .’ She looked around her, indicating the scenic little back street down which he had brought her. ‘. . this serene. It would be good if you were prepared for that. It would do you good to be better equipped.’

Dexter frowned. ‘What, a career you mean?’

‘Partly.’

‘You sound like Dad.’

‘Good God, in what way?’

‘A proper job, something to fall back on, something to get up for.’

‘Not just that, not just a job. A direction. A purpose. Some drive, some ambition. When I was your age I wanted to change the world.’

He sniffed ‘Hence the antiques shop,’ and she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

‘That’s now, this was then. And don’t get smart with me.’ She took hold of his arm and they began walking slowly again. ‘I just want you to make me proud, that’s all. I mean I’m already proud of you, and your sister, but, well, you know what I mean. I’m a little drunk. Let’s change the subject. I wanted to talk to you about something else.’

‘What else?’

‘Oh — too late.’ They were in sight of the hotel now, three stars, smart but not ostentatious. Through the smoked plate glass window he could glimpse his father hunched in a lobby armchair, one long thin leg bent up to his knee, sock bunched up in his hand as he scrutinised the sole of his foot.

‘Good God, he’s picking his corns in the hotel lobby. A little bit of Swansea on the Via del Corso. Charming, just charming.’ Alison unlooped her arm and took her son’s hand in hers. ‘Take me for lunch tomorrow, will you? While your father sits in a darkened room and picks his corns. Let’s go out, just you and me, somewhere outside on a nice square. White tablecloths. Somewhere expensive, my treat. You can bring me some of your photographs of interesting pebbles.’

‘Okay,’ he said, sulkily. His mother was smiling but frowning too, squeezing his hand a little too hard, and he felt a sudden pang of anxiety. ‘Why?’

‘Because I want to talk to my handsome son and I’m a little too drunk right now, I think.’

‘What is it? Tell me now!’

‘It’s nothing, nothing.’

‘You’re not getting divorced, are you?’

She gave a low laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course not.’ In the hotel lobby his father had seen them, and was standing and tugging on the ‘push to open’ door. ‘How could I ever leave a man who tucks his shirts into his underpants?’

‘So tell me, what is it?’

‘Nothing bad, sweetheart, nothing bad.’ Standing on the street she gave him a consoling smile and put her hand in the short hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down to her height so that their foreheads were touching. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing. Tomorrow. We’ll talk properly tomorrow.’