‘So everyone tells me.’
‘Crayfish, apparently.’
‘I know. He just offered me a job.’
‘Crayfish wrangler?’
‘Don’t know yet. He wants to talk to me about “opportunities”. Business is people he said, whatever that means.’
‘But what about Sport Xtreme?
‘Ah,’ Dexter laughed and rubbed his hair with one hand. ‘You’ve seen it then?’
‘Never missed an episode. You know me, there’s nothing I like more in the early hours of the morning than stuff about BMX. My favourite bit is when you say that things are “rad”—’
‘They make me say that stuff.’
‘“Rad” and “sweet”. “Check out these sweet, old skool moves—”’
‘I think I get away with it.’
‘Not always, pal. Left or right?’
‘Left, I think.’ They walked a little way in silence, listening to the muffled thump of the band playing ‘Superstition’. ‘How’s the writing going?’
‘Oh, it’s okay, when I do it. Most of the time I just sit around eating biscuits.’
‘Stephanie Shaw says they gave you an advance.’
‘Just a bit of money, enough to last ’til Christmas. Then we’ll see. Back to teaching full-time probably.’
‘And what’s it about? This book.’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘It’s about me, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Dexter, it’s a whole thick book entirely about you. It’s called “Dexter Dexter Dexter Dexter Dexter”. Right or left?’
‘Let’s try a left.’
‘Actually it’s just a book for kids. Teenagers. Boys, relationships, that kind of thing. It’s about a school play, that production of Oliver! I did all those years ago. A comedy.’
‘Well you look very well on it.’
‘Do I?’
‘Absolutely. Some people look better, some people look worse. You are definitely looking better.’
‘Miffy Buchanan tells me I’ve finally lost my puppy-fat.’
‘She’s just jealous. You look great.’
‘Thank you. Want me to say you look better too?’
‘If you think you can pull it off.’
‘Well you do. Left?’
‘Left.’
‘Better than during your rock and roll years anyway. When you were giving-it-large or whatever it was you were doing.’ They walked a little way in silence, until Emma spoke again. ‘I was worried about you.’
‘Were you?’
‘We all were.’
‘Just a phase. Everybody’s got to have a phase like that, haven’t they? Go a bit wild.’
‘Do they? I haven’t. Hey, I hope you’ve stopped wearing that annoying flat cap too.’
‘I haven’t worn a hat for years.’
‘Pleased to hear it. We were thinking about staging an intervention.’
‘You know how it is, you start with the soft hats, just for kicks, then before you know it, you’re into flat caps, trilbies, bowlers?.?.?.’
Another junction. ‘Right or left?’ she said.
‘No idea.’
They peered in either direction. ‘Amazing, isn’t it, how quickly this stopped being fun.’
‘Let’s sit down shall we? Over there.’
A small marble bench had been set into the hedge walls, lit from beneath by a blue fluorescent light, and they sat on the cool stone, filled their glasses, tapped them together and bumped shoulders.
‘God, I almost forgot?.?.?.’ Dexter reached into his trouser pocket, and very carefully removed a folded napkin, held it in his palm like a conjurer and unfolded it, a corner at a time. Nestling in the napkin like birds’ eggs, were two crumpled cigarettes.
‘From Cal,’ he whispered, awed. ‘Want one?’
‘No thank you. Haven’t touched one for years.’
‘Well done you. I’ve stopped too, officially. But I feel safe here?.?.?.’ He lit the contraband, his hand shaking stagily. ‘She can’t find me here?.?.?.’ Emma laughed. The champagne and the solitude had lifted their mood, and both were now feeling sentimental, nostalgic, exactly as they should feel at a wedding, and they smiled at each other through the smoke. ‘Callum says that we’re the “Marlboro-Light-Generation”.’
‘God, that’s depressing.’ Emma sniffed. ‘A whole generation defined by a brand of fag. I’d sort of hoped for more.’ She smiled, and turned to Dexter. ‘So. How are you these days?’
‘I’m fine. Bit more sensible.’
‘Sex in toilet cubicles lose its bittersweet charm?’
He laughed and examined the tip of the cigarette. ‘I just had to get something out of my system, that’s all.’
‘And is it out now?’
‘Think so, most of it.’
‘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?’
‘And what’s the answer, Dex?’ she asked, solemnly.
‘The answer is no, you can’t. Once you’ve worked that out, it all gets a bit simpler.’
‘It’s true; an orgy won’t keep you warm at night.’
‘An orgy won’t care for you when you’re old.’ He took another sip. ‘Anyway, it’s not even as if I was getting invited to any in the first place, just making a fool of myself, screwing things up. Screwed up my career, screwed up with Mum—’
‘—well that’s not true—’
‘—screwed up all my friendships.’ For emphasis, Dexter leant against her arm, and she leant back against his. ‘I just thought it was time to do things properly for once. And now I’ve met Sylvie, and she’s great, she really is, and she keeps me on the straight and narrow.’
‘Well she’s a lovely girl.’
‘She is. She is.’
‘Very beautiful. Serene.’
‘A little bit scary sometimes.’
‘She’s got a lovely, warm sort of Leni Riefenstahl quality to her.’
‘Lenny who?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘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. Like Ian. ’Cept Ian wasn’t funny. No, much better to have somebody you really fancy, someone who’ll rub your feet.’
He tried and failed to imagine Sylvie touching his feet. ‘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.’
‘She’s sensational.’
‘She is.’
‘And she’s really turned things around for me too. I’m off the drugs and booze and not smoking.’ She glanced at the bottle in his hand, the cigarette in his mouth. He smiled. ‘Special occasion.’
‘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. ‘Let’s keep walking, shall we? Left or right?’
‘Right.’ With a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet. ‘Do you still see Ian?’
‘Not for years now.’
‘Nobody else on the horizon?’
‘Don’t you start, Dexter.’
‘What?’
‘Sympathy for the spinster. 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.’ She paused momentarily. ‘Swimming! I swim a lot. I swim and I swim and I swim, mile after mile. God, I fucking hate swimming. Turn left, I think.’
‘You know, I feel the same. Not about swimming, I mean about not having to date anymore. Since I’ve been with Sylvie, it’s like I’ve freed up this vast amount of time and energy and mental space.’
‘And what do you do with it all, this mental space?’
‘Play Tomb Raider mostly.’
Emma laughed, and walked a little further in silence, worrying that she was coming across as less self-contained and empowered than she had intended. ‘And anyway, it’s not like I’m completely, you know, boring and, and loveless. I have my moments. I had this thing with a guy called Chris. Called himself a dentist but he was really just a hygienist.’
‘What happened to Chris?’
‘Just fizzled out. Just as well. I was convinced that he was always staring at my teeth. Kept nagging me to floss, Emma, floss. Going on a date was like going for a check-up. Too much pressure. And before that there was Mr Godalming.’ She shuddered. ‘Mr Godalming. What a disaster.’
‘Who was Mr Godalming?’
‘Another time. Left, right?’
‘Left.’
‘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.’
A moment passed, perhaps half a second when their faces said what they felt, and then Emma was smiling, laughing, her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Dexter. That’s amazing! Congratulations!’ and she went to kiss his cheek just as he turned his head, their mouths glancing for a moment so that they tasted the champagne on each other’s lips.
‘You’re pleased?’
‘Pleased? I’m destroyed! But really, seriously, that’s fantastic news.’
‘You think so?’
‘More than fantastic, it’s, it’s?.?.?. rad! It’s rad and sweet. It’s old skool!’
He stepped back from her and searched inside his jacket. ‘In fact, that’s why I dragged you in here. I wanted to give you this in person—’
A thick envelope of heavy lilac paper. Emma took it gingerly, and peered inside. The envelope was quilted with tissue paper and the invitation itself had hand-torn edges and seemed to be made of some sort of papyrus or parchment. ‘Now that—’ Emma balanced it like a table on her upturned fingertips ‘—that is what I call a wedding invitation.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘That is some elaborate stationery.’
‘Eight quid each.’
‘That’s more than my car.’
‘Smell it, go on?.?.?.’
‘Smell it?’ Warily, she held it to her nose. ‘It’s scented! Your wedding invitations are scented?’
‘It’s meant to be lavender.’
‘No, Dex – it’s money. It smells of money.’ Carefully, she opened the card, and he watched her as she read, remembering the way she used her fingertips to brush her fringe across her forehead. ‘“Mr and Mrs Lionel Cope invite you to the marriage of their daughter Sylvie to Mr Dexter Mayhew—” I can’t believe I’m actually seeing this in print. Saturday, September 14th. Hang on, that’s only?.?.?.’
‘Seven weeks away?.?.?.’ and he kept watching her face, that fantastic face to see how it might change when he told her.
‘Seven weeks? I thought these things were years in the making?’
‘Well they are usually, but I think this is what they call a shotgun wedding?.?.?.’
Emma frowned, not quite there yet.
‘For three hundred and fifty guests. With Ceilidh.’
‘You mean .?.?.’
‘Sylvie’s sort of pregnant. Well not sort of. She is. Pregnant. Actually pregnant. With a baby.’
‘Oh, Dexter!’ Once again, her face was against his. ‘Do you know the father? I’m kidding! Congratulations, Dex. God, aren’t you meant to space your bombshells out a bit, not just drop them all at once?’ She held his face in both hands, looked at it. ‘You’re getting married?—’
‘Yes!’
‘—and you’re going to be a father?’
‘I know! Fuck me – a father!’
‘Is that allowed? I mean will they let you?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve still got that cigarette, have you?’ He reached into his pocket for her. ‘How’s Sylvie about it?’
‘She’s delighted! I mean she’s worried that it’ll make her look fat.’
‘Well I suppose that is a possibility?.?.?.’
He lit her cigarette. ‘.?.?.?but she wants to get on with it, get married, have kids, make a start. She doesn’t want to end up mid-thirties and all alone—’
‘Like ME!!!’
‘Exactly, she doesn’t want to end up like you!’ He took her hand. ‘That’s not what I meant, of course.’
‘I know. I’m kidding. Dexter, congratulations.’
‘Thank you. Thank you.’ A momentary pause. ‘Let me have a go on that, will you?’ he said as he took the last cigarette from her mouth, placing it between his own lips. ‘Here, look at this?.?.?.’ From his wallet, he unfolded a square of smudgy paper, and held it down to the sodium light. ‘It’s the twelve-week scan. Isn’t that incredible?’
Emma took the scrap of paper and peered at it dutifully. The beauty of the ultrasound scan is something that only parents can appreciate, but Emma had seen these things before and knew what was required of her. ‘Beautiful,’ she sighed, though in truth it could have been a Polaroid of the inside of his pocket.
‘See – that’s its spine.’
‘Great spine.’
‘You can even make out the tiny little fingers.’
‘Awww. Boy or girl?’
‘Girl, I hope. Or boy. Don’t care. But you think it’s a good thing?’
‘Absolutely. I think it’s wonderful. Fucking hell, Dexter, I turn my back for one minute?.?.?.!’
She hugged him once again, her arms high round his neck. She felt drunk, full of affection and a certain sadness too, as if something was coming to an end. She wanted to say something along these lines, but thought it best to do this through a joke. ‘Of course you’ve just destroyed any chance I had of future happiness, but I’m delighted for you, really.’
He twisted his head to look at her, and suddenly something was moving between them, something alive and vibrating in his chest.
Emma placed her hand there. ‘Is that your heart?’
‘It’s my mobile.’
She stepped back and allowed him to retrieve his phone from his inside pocket. Glancing at the display, he gave his head a little sobering shake, and guiltily handed Emma the cigarette, as if it were a smoking gun. Quickly he recited, ‘Don’t sound drunk don’t sound drunk,’ assumed a tele-sales smile and answered.
‘Hello, my love!’
Emma could hear Sylvie through the receiver. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’ve sort of got lost.’
‘Lost? How can you get lost?’
‘Well, I’m in a maze, so—’
‘A maze? What are you doing in a maze?’
‘Just?.?.?. you know?.?.?. hanging out. We thought it would be fun.’
‘Well as long as you’re having fun, Dex. I’m stuck here listening to some old dear bang on about New Zealand?.?.?.’
