David Nicholls - One Day

She thinks very distinctly of two things.

The first is a photograph of herself at nine years old in a red swimsuit on a beach, she can’t remember where, Filey or Scarborough perhaps. She is with her mother and father who are swinging her towards the camera, their sunburnt faces buckled with laughter. Then she thinks of Dexter, sheltering from the rain on the steps of the new house, looking at his watch, impatient; he’ll wonder where I am, she thinks. He’ll worry.

Then Emma Mayhew dies, and everything that she thought or felt vanishes and is gone forever.

Three Anniversaries

‘She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year;. . her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it?’

Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles

SATURDAY 15 JULY 1988

Rankeillor Street, Edinburgh

When she opened her eyes again, the skinny boy was still there, his back to her now as he sat precariously on the edge of her old wooden chair, pulling on his trousers as quietly as possible. She glanced at her radio alarm clock: nine-twenty. They had slept for maybe three hours, and now he was sneaking off. She watched as he placed his hand in the trouser pocket to still the rattling of his loose change, then stood and started to pull on last night’s white shirt. One last glimpse of his long brown back. Handsome. He really was stupidly handsome. She very much wanted him to stay, almost as much perhaps as he clearly wanted to leave. She decided that she would have to speak.

‘Not going without saying goodbye, are you?’

He turned round, caught in the act. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Just you looked so nice, sleeping there.’

Both knew this was a poor effort. ‘Right. Right, I see.’ She heard herself, needy and annoyed. Don’t let him think you care, Em. Be cool. Be. . blasé.

‘I was going to leave you a note, but. .’ He pantomimed looking for a pen, oblivious to the jam jar full of them on the desk.

She lifted her head from the pillow and rested it on one hand. ‘I don’t mind. You can leave if you want to. Ships that pass in the night n’all that. Very, what d’you call it. . bittersweet.’

He sat on the chair, and continued to button his shirt. ‘Emma?’

‘Yes, Dexter?’

‘I’ve had a really nice time.’

‘I can tell by the way you’re searching for your shoes.’

‘No, seriously.’ Dexter leant forward on the chair. ‘I’m really glad we finally got to talk. And the other stuff as well. After all this time.’ He scrunched his face, looking for just the right words. ‘You’re really, really lovely, Em.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah—’

‘No, you are.’

‘Well you’re lovely too and now you can go.’ She allowed him a small, tight smile. He responded by suddenly crossing the room, and she turned her face up towards him in anticipation, only to find that he was reaching beneath the bed for a discarded sock. He noticed her raised face.

‘Sock under bed,’ he said.

‘Right.’

He perched uneasily on the bedframe, speaking in a strained, chipper tone as he pulled on his socks. ‘Big day today! Driving back!’

‘Where to, London?’

‘Oxfordshire. That’s where my parents live. Most of the time anyway.’

‘Oxfordshire. Very nice,’ she said, privately mortified at the speed with which intimacy evaporates, to be replaced by small talk. Last night they had said and done all those things, and now they were like strangers in a bus queue. The mistake she had made was to fall asleep and break the spell. If they had stayed awake, they might still have been kissing now, but instead it was all over and she found herself saying; ‘How long will that take then? To Oxfordshire?’

‘’Bout seven, eight hours. My dad’s an excellent driver.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re not going back to. .?’

‘Leeds. No I’m staying here for the summer. I told you, remember?’

‘Sorry, I was really pretty drunk last night.’

‘And that, m’lud, is the case for the defence. .’

‘It’s not an excuse, it’s. .’ He turned to look at her. ‘Are you annoyed with me, Em?’

‘Em? Who’s Em?’

‘Em ma , then.’

‘I’m not annoyed, I just. . wish you’d woken me up, instead of being all furtive and sneaking off. .’

‘I was going to write you a note!’

‘And what was it going to say, this precious note?’

‘It was going to say “I’ve taken your purse”.’

She laughed, a low morning growl that caught the back of her throat, and there was something so gratifying about her smile, the two deep parentheses in the corners of her mouth, the way she kept her lips tightly closed as if holding something back, that he almost regretted telling his lie. He had no intention of leaving at lunch time. His parents were going to stay over and take him out to dinner that night, then leave tomorrow morning. The lie had been instinctive in order to facilitate a quick, clean escape, but now as he leant across to kiss her he wondered if there was a way to withdraw the deceit somehow. Her mouth was soft, and she allowed herself to fall back on the bed, which still smelt of wine, her warm body and fabric conditioner, and he decided that he really must try to be more honest in future.

She rolled away from the kiss. ‘Just going to the loo,’ she said, lifting his arm to pass beneath it. She stood, hooking two fingers in the elastic of her underpants and tugging the material down over her bottom.

‘Is there a phone I can use?’ he asked, watching her pad across the room.

‘In the hallway. It’s a novelty phone, I’m afraid. Very zany. Tilly finds it hilarious . Help yourself. Don’t forget to leave ten p,’ and she was out in the hall and heading towards the bathroom.

The bath was already running for one of her flatmate’s epic all-day summer hot soaks. Tilly Killick waited for Emma in her dressing-gown, eyes goggling through the steam behind big red spectacle frames, mouth hanging open in a scandalised ‘O’.

‘Emma Morley, you dark horse!’

‘What?’

‘Have you got someone in your room?’

‘Maybe!’

‘It’s not who I think it is. .’

‘Just Dexter Mayhew!’ said Emma, nonchalantly, and the two girls laughed and laughed and laughed.

Dexter found the phone in the hallway, shaped like a startlingly realistic burger. He stood with the sesame seed bun flipped open in his hand, listening to the whispers from the bathroom and experiencing the satisfaction he always felt when he knew people were talking about him. Odd words and phrases were audible through the plasterboard: So did you? No! So what happened? We just talked, and stuff. Stuff? What does that mean, stuff? Nothing! And is he staying for breakfast? I don’t know. Well make sure he stays for breakfast.

Dexter watched the door patiently, waiting until Emma reappeared. He dialled 123, the speaking clock, pressed the bap to his ear and spoke into the beef patty.

‘. . the time sponsored by Accurist will be nine thirty-two and twenty seconds.’

At the third stroke he went into his act. ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me. . yeah, a bit worse for wear!’ He ruffled his hair in a way that he believed to be endearing ‘. . No, I stayed over at a friend’s house. .’ and here he glanced over at Emma, who loitered nearby in t-shirt and underpants, pretending to go through the mail.