One Day

by David Nicholls

He was meant to be having dinner with Emma on Tuesday, but knows that he can always cancel Emma, she won’t mind. ‘Okay. Next Tuesday.’

reading and writing were not the same – you couldn’t just soak it up then squeeze it out again.

With that, he left; a classic technique, compliment and run.

I love him, she thought, I’m just not in love with him and also I don’t love him. I’ve tried, I’ve strained to love him but I can’t. I am building a life with a man I don’t love, and I don’t know what to do about it.

Envy was just the tax you paid on success.

friends were like clothes: fine while they lasted but eventually they wore thin or you grew out of them.

Their friendship was like a wilted bunch of flowers that she insisted on topping up with water. Why not let it die instead? It was unrealistic to expect a friendship to last forever,

Dexter handed her a five-pound note folded lengthwise. ‘Keep the change,’ he smiled. Was there ever a more empowering phrase than ‘Keep the change’? He used to feel self-conscious saying it, but not anymore. She gave an extraordinary aphrodisiac smile, and for one callous moment Dexter wished it were the Cigarette Girl, not Emma, who would be joining him for dinner.

rusak

He took his martini and drained it. ‘Post-feminism, isn’t it?’ Emma looked sceptical. ‘Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?’ Dexter nodded towards the Cigarette Girl’s bottom. ‘You could look like that if you wanted to.’ ‘No-one misses a point quite like you, Dex.’ ‘What I mean is, it’s about choice. It’s empowering.’ ‘Mind like a laser—’ ‘If she chooses to wear the outfit, she can wear the outfit!’ ‘But if she refused she would be sacked.’ ‘And so would the waiters! And anyway, maybe she likes wearing it, maybe it’s fun, maybe she feels sexy in it. That is feminism, isn’t it?’ ‘Well, it’s not the dictionary definition …’ ‘Don’t make me out to be some kind of chauvinist, I’m a feminist too!’ Emma tutted and rolled her eyes and he was reminded just how annoying and preachy she could be. ‘I am! I am a feminist!’ ‘… and I will fight to the death, to the death, mind, for the right of a woman to display her breasts for tips.’ And now it was his turn to roll his eyes, and give a patronising laugh. ‘It’s not 1988, Em.’ ‘What does that mean? You keep saying it and I still don’t know what it means.’ ‘It means don’t keep fighting battles that are already lost. The feminist movement should be about equal pay and equal opportunities and civil rights, not deciding what a woman can or can’t wear of her own free will on a Saturday night!’

Her mouth fell open in indignation. ‘That’s not what I—’ ‘And anyway, I’m buying you dinner! Don’t give me a hard time!’ And it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago. They stood on the edge of a long pointless argument that she felt she would win, but which would leave the evening in tatters. Instead, she hid her face in her drink, her teeth biting the glass, and counted slowly before saying: ‘Let’s change the subject.’

And the jokes; why was she always getting at him, reminding him of his failings? He hadn’t forgotten them. All that stuff about things being ‘posh’ and my-fat-bum and orthopaedic high-heels, the endless, endless self-deprecation. Well God save me from comediennes, he thought, with their put-downs and their smart asides, their insecurities and self-loathing. Why couldn’t a woman have a bit of grace and elegance and self-confidence, instead of behaving all the time like some chippy stand-up? And class! Don’t even mention class. He takes her to a great restaurant at his own expense, and on goes the cloth cap! There was a kind of vanity and self-regard in that working-class-hero act that sent him crazy. Why is she still harping on about how she went to a comp, never went abroad on holiday, has never eaten an oyster? She’s nearly thirty years old, all that was a long, long time ago, and it’s time she took responsibility for her own life.

Since returning from the toilet, Dexter’s tone had become even more belligerent and provoking. Emma felt traitorous. This might have been her cue to confide in someone about the mess of her relationship and her confusion as to what to do next. But she couldn’t talk to Dexter, not now. She swallowed raw potato. ‘Ian’s great,’ she said emphatically. ‘Co-habiting okay? Flat coming along, is it?’ ‘Fantastic. You haven’t seen it yet, have you? You should come round!’ The invite was half-hearted and the reply a non-committal ‘Hm,’ as if Dexter was doubtful of the existence of pleasure beyond Underground Zone 2. There was a silence, and they returned to their plates. ‘How’s your steak?’ she asked, eventually. Dexter seemed to have lost his appetite, dissecting the bloody red meat without actually eating it. ‘Sensational. How’s the fish?’ ‘Cold.’ ‘Is it?’ He peered at her plate then shook his head sagely. ‘It’s opaque, Em. That’s how fish should be cooked, so it just turns opaque.’ ‘Dexter—’ Her voice was hard and sharp. ‘—it’s opaque because it’s deep-frozen. It hasn’t been defrosted.’ ‘Is it?’ He prodded angrily inside the sleeve of batter with his finger. ‘Well, we’ll send it back!’ ‘It’s fine. I’ll just eat the chips.’ ‘No, fuck it! Send it back! I’m not paying for fucking frozen fish! What is this, Bejams? We’ll get you something else.’ He waved a waiter over and Emma watched Dexter assert himself, insisting that it wasn’t good enough, it said fresh fish on the menu, he wante...

DAMN I WOULD KMS REALLY IF THIS EVER HAPPEN TO ME

He sighed, a glass of wine in his hand, then spoke flatly. ‘Those who can, do, those who can’t, teach …’ She spat the words. ‘And those who teach say go fuck yourself.’ And now his glass of wine was in his lap as Emma shoved the table away and jumped to her feet, grabbing her bag, knocking over bottles, clattering plates as she clambered out of the booth, storming through that hateful, hateful place. All around her people were staring now but she didn’t care, she just wanted to be out. Do not cry, you will not cry, she commanded herself

Even when you talk to me you’re always looking over my shoulder in case there’s some better option

‘Let’s go somewhere and talk about this.’ ‘I don’t want to talk about it, I just want to go home …’ ‘Emma, please?’ ‘Dexter, just leave me alone, will you?’ ‘You’re being hysterical. Come here.’ He took her arm once again and, idiotically, tried to hug her. She pushed him away, but he held onto her.

Emma shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ve grown out of each other.’ He said nothing for a moment, then spoke. ‘So, do you think I’ve grown out of you, or you’ve grown out of me?’

‘I think you think I’m … dreary. I think you think I cramp your style. I think you’ve lost interest in me.’

I think I’m fucking marvellous if you only knew it, and I think you used to think so too! But if you don’t or if you’re going to just take it for granted, then that’s fine. I’m just not prepared to be treated like this anymore.’

‘Dexter, I love you so much. So, so much, and I probably always will.’ Her lips touched his cheek. ‘I just don’t like you anymore. I’m sorry.’

‘Sometimes you are aware when your great moments are happening, and sometimes they rise from the past. Perhaps it’s the same with people.’ James Salter, Burning the Days

Her mother, who knew about the proposal, who had practically bought her own dress for the wedding, raged and moaned at Emma for weeks until she began to question her rejection of the offer. But saying yes would feel like caving in, and Emma knew from novels that you should never cave in to marriage.

‘Why can’t you just love me? Why can’t you just be in love with me? You were once, weren’t you? In the beginning.’ ‘Course I was.’ ‘Well why can’t you be in love with me again?’

damn.. my heart keeps breaking

‘What’s the point of that? You’ll have to show them to someone someday. Put yourself out there.’ ‘Okay, maybe I will. One day.’

He looks at her, and tries to smile. ‘I miss you so much, Em.’ ‘I know you do.’ He puts his hand to his stomach. ‘I feel sick with it.’ ‘It’ll pass.’ ‘Will it? Because I think I might be going a bit mad.’ ‘I know. But I can’t help you, Ian.’ ‘You could always … change your mind.’ ‘I can’t. I won’t. I’m sorry.’

Isn’t she meant to have a close circle of kooky friends to help her get through all this? Shouldn’t she be sitting on a low baggy sofa with six or seven attractive zany metropolitans, isn’t that what city life is meant to be like? But either they live two hours away or they’re with families or boyfriends,

Nevertheless she feels a great wave of affection for Dexter Mayhew. In eight years not a day has gone by when she hasn’t thought of him. She misses him and she wants him back. I want my best friend back, she thinks, because without him nothing is good and nothing is right. I will call him, she thinks, as she falls asleep. Tomorrow. First thing tomorrow, I will call him.

Emma has the overwhelming feeling that she shouldn’t be here, doesn’t belong, is wasting this redoubtable woman’s time;

When do you find the time to actually write?’ ‘At night. Weekends. Early mornings sometimes.’ Marsha narrows her eyes. ‘You must be very passionate about it.’ ‘It’s the only thing I really want to do now.’ Emma surprises herself, not just at how earnest she must sound but also with the realisation that the remark is true.

She is hungry, but there’s nowhere to eat, no-one to eat with.

Sylvie doesn’t drink alcohol. Neither does she smoke or take drugs or eat red meat or bread or refined sugar or potatoes. More significantly, she has no time for Dexter drunk. His abilities as a fabled mixologist mean nothing to her. She finds inebriation embarrassing and unmanly, and more than once he has found himself alone at the end of the evening because of that third martini. Though it has never been stated as such, he has been given a choice: clean up your act, sort out your life, or you will lose me.

about Sylvie is that he likes her so much more than she likes him.

for the first time in his life, he has had to do the chasing.

‘Does it matter what my family think of you?’ ‘Depends. Does it matter to you, what your family think of me?’ ‘A little, I suppose.’ ‘Well then it matters to me too,’ he says, with great sincerity.

Dexter is not easily intimidated by anyone, but there is something about this family, something self-sufficient and self-satisfied, that makes him feel defensive.

serem banget.... shouldn't you feel relaxed with someone you love and care?

He wonders if he still might tell her that he loves her or, more tentatively, that he ‘thinks he might be in love with her’, which is both more touching and easier to back out of.

Getting married at University was an amusing stunt, an act of benign rebellion, like a tiny tattoo that no-one ever sees or shaving your head for charity. The second wave, the mid-twenties weddings, still retained a little of that tongue-in-cheek, home-made quality. The receptions took place in community centres and parents’ gardens, vows were self-composed and rigorously secular, and someone always seemed to read that poem about the rain having such small hands. But a cold, hard edge of professionalism had started to creep in. The idea of the ‘wedding list’ had begun to rear its head.

But for the moment this year is the year of the third wave, and it is the third wave that is proving the most powerful, the most spectacular, the most devastating. These are the weddings of people in their early-to-mid-thirties, and no-one is laughing anymore. The third wave is unstoppable.

Emma had always envied those people who spoke their minds, who said what they felt without attention to social nicety. She had never been one of those people, but even so now felt an F-sound forming on her bottom lip. ‘… and you were always so angry about everything all the time.’ ‘Oh, I still get angry, Miffy …’

Dexter laughed. ‘We’ll talk afterwards, yeah?’ ‘Come and find me.’ ‘Or you can come and find me.’ ‘Or you come find me.’ ‘Or you find me.’

JANGAN MAU KALAH EM!

‘Plus the fact that she told me.’ ‘Did she?’ He shook his head, betrayed. ‘That was meant to be our secret!’ ‘Women talk about these things you know. It’s no use swearing them to secrecy, it all comes out in the end.’ ‘I’ll remember that in future.’

‘Because of true love?’ ‘Partly. Also I’m thirty-four now. At thirty-four you start to run out of excuses.’

‘Excuses?’ ‘Well, if you’re twenty-two and you’re fucking up, you can say, it’s okay I’m only twenty-two. I’m only twenty-five, I’m only twenty-eight. But “I’m only thirty-four”?’ He sipped from his glass, and leant back into the hedge. ‘It’s like everyone has a central dilemma in their life, and mine was can you be in a committed, mature, loving adult relationship and still get invited to threesomes?’

‘Of course she’s got absolutely no sense of humour.’ ‘Well that’s a relief. I think a sense of humour’s over-rated,’ said Emma. ‘Goofing it up all the time, it’s boring.

‘She told me once that she never laughs because she doesn’t like what it does to her face.’ Emma gave a low chuckle. ‘Wow’ was all she could say. ‘Wow. But you love her, right?’ ‘I adore her.’ ‘Adore. Well “adore” is even better.’

‘So true love found you in the end.’ ‘Something like that.’ He filled her glass. ‘How about you?’ ‘Oh, I’m fine. I’m fine.’ As a distraction, she stood.

I’m perfectly content, thank you. And I refuse to be defined by my boyfriend. Or lack of.’ She was starting to speak with real zeal now. ‘Once you decide not to worry about that stuff anymore, dating and relationships and love and all that, it’s like you’re free to get on with real life. And I’ve got my work, and I love that. I’ve got I reckon one more year to really make a go of it. The money’s tiny, but I’m free. I go to the movies in the afternoon.’

true

‘Anyway, if I ever get really desperate, there’s always your offer to fall back on.’ Dexter stopped walking. ‘What offer?’ ‘Do you remember you used to say if I was still single when I got to forty you’d marry me?’ ‘Did I say that?’ He winced. ‘Bit patronising.’ ‘I thought so at the time. But don’t worry, I don’t think it’s legally binding or anything, I’m not going to hold you to it. Besides, there’s still seven years to go. Plenty of time …’ She began walking again, but Dexter stood still behind her, rubbing his head like a boy who is about to reveal that he’s broken the best vase. ‘I’m afraid I’m sort of going to have to withdraw the offer anyway.’ She stopped and turned. ‘Oh really? Why’s that?’ she said, but a part of her knew already. ‘I’m engaged.’ Emma blinked once, very slowly. ‘Engaged to what?’ ‘To be married. To Sylvie.’

‘But you’re happy?’ ‘Yeah? I think I am. Are you?’ ‘Happier. Happyish.’ ‘Happyish. Well, happyish isn’t so bad.’ ‘It’s the most we can hope for.’

‘I tell you what it is. It’s … when I didn’t see you, I thought about you every day, I mean every day in some way or another—’ ‘Same here—’ ‘—even if it was just “I wish Dexter could see this” or “where’s Dexter now?” or “Christ, that Dexter, what an idiot”, you know what I mean, and seeing you today, well, I thought I’d got you back – my best friend. And now all this, the wedding, the baby – I’m so, so happy for you, Dex. But it feels like I’ve lost you again.’

Emma was about to open the heavy oak door when he took her hand. ‘Em?’ ‘Dex?’ He wanted to take hold of her hand and walk back into the maze. He would turn his phone off, and they would just stay in there until the party was over, get lost and talk about all that had happened. ‘Friends again?’ he said eventually. ‘Friends again.’ She let go of his hand. ‘Now, let’s go and find your fiancée. I want to congratulate her.’

fuck this