Dexter shrugged, as if he didn’t understand the question. ‘She says I’m complicated.’
‘Complicated. You’re like a two-piece jigsaw—’ She sat and brushed the grass from her shin. ‘—in thick ply,’ then tugged the leg of her jeans a little higher. ‘Look at these legs.’ She held a tiny twist of hair between her finger and thumb. ‘I’ve got the legs of some fifty-eight-year-old fell-walker. I look like the President of the Ramblers Association.’
‘So wax ’em then. Hairy Mary.’
‘Dexter!’
‘And anyway, you’ve got great legs.’ He leant across and pinched her calves. ‘You’re gorgeous.’
She knocked his elbow away so that he fell back onto the grass. ‘Can’t believe you called me Hairy Mary.’ Beyond him the couple were still kissing. ‘Look at these two here – don’t stare.’ Dexter peered over his shoulder. ‘I can actually hear them. Over this distance, I can hear the suction. Like someone unblocking a sink. I said don’t stare!’
‘Why not? It’s a public place.’
‘Why would you go to a public place to behave like that? It’s like a nature documentary.’
‘Maybe they’re in love.’
‘And is that what love looks like – all wet mouths and your skirt rucked up?’
‘Sometimes it is.’
‘Looks like she’s trying to fit his entire head into her mouth. She’ll dislocate her jaw if she’s not careful.’
‘She’s alright though.’
‘Dexter!’
‘Well she is, I’m just saying.’
‘You know some people might think it’s a bit weird, this obsession you’ve got with being in a constant state of intercourse, some people might think it’s a bit desperate and sad . . .’
‘Funny, I don’t feel sad. Or desperate.’
Emma, who did feel these things, said nothing. Dexter nudged her with his elbow. ‘You know what we should do? Me and you?’
‘What?’
He grinned. ‘Take E together.’
‘E? What’s E?’ she deadpanned. ‘Oh, yes, I believe I read an article about that. Don’t think I’m cut out for mind-bending chemicals. I left the lid off the Tipp-Ex once and I thought my shoes were trying to eat me.’ He laughed gratifyingly and she hid her own smile in her plastic cup. ‘Anyway I prefer the pure, natural high of booze.’
‘It’s very disinhibiting, E.’
‘Is that why you’re hugging everybody all the time?’
‘I just think you might have fun, that’s all.’
‘I am having fun. You have no idea how much fun.’ Lying on her back and staring at the sky, she could feel him looking at her.
‘So. What about you?’ he said, in what she thought of as his psychiatrist voice. ‘Any news? Any action? Love-life-wise.’
‘Oh you know me. I have no emotions. I’m a robot. Or a nun. A robot nun.’
‘No you’re not. You pretend to be, but you’re not.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. I quite like it, getting old alone—’
‘You’re twenty-five, Em—’
‘—turning into this bluestocking.’
Dexter wasn’t sure what a bluestocking was, but nevertheless still felt a Pavlovian twinge of arousal at the word ‘stocking’. As she talked, he pictured her wearing blue stockings before deciding blue stockings wouldn’t suit her, or anyone in fact, and that stockings should really only ever be black or possibly red like those ones Naomi had worn once, before deciding that maybe he was missing the point about the phrase ‘blue stocking’. This kind of erotic reverie occupied great swathes of Dexter’s mental energy, and he wondered if perhaps Emma was right, perhaps he was a little too distracted by the sexual side of things. Hourly he was rendered idiotic by billboards, magazine covers, an inch of crimson bra-strap on a passing stranger, and it was even worse in summer. Surely it wasn’t natural to feel as if he’d just got out of prison all the time? Concentrate. Someone he cared for dearly was engaged in some kind of nervous collapse, and he should concentrate on that, rather than the three girls behind her who had just started a water-fight . . .
Concentrate! Concentrate. He steered his thoughts away from the subject of sex, his brain as nimble as an aircraft carrier.
‘How about that guy?’ he said.
‘What guy?’
‘At work, the waiter. Looks like captain of the computer club.’
‘Ian? What about him?’
‘Why don’t you go out with Ian?’
‘Shut up, Dexter. Ian’s just a friend. Now pass the bottle, will you?’
He watched as she sat and drank the wine, which had become warm and syrupy now. While not sentimental, there were times when Dexter could sit quietly and watch Emma Morley laughing or telling a story and feel absolutely sure that she was the finest person he knew. Sometimes he almost wanted to say this out loud, interrupt her and just tell her. But this was not one of those times and instead he thought how tired she looked, sad and pale, and when she looked at the floor her chin had started to pouch. Why didn’t she get contact lenses, instead of those big ugly spectacles? She wasn’t a student anymore. And the velour scrunchies, she wasn’t doing herself any favour with the scrunchies. What she really needed, he thought, ablaze with compassion, was someone to take her in hand and unlock her potential. He imagined a sort of montage, looking on patrician and kindly as Emma tried on a series of incredible new outfits. Yes, he really should pay Emma more attention, and he would do it too if he didn’t have so much happening at present.
But in the short term, wasn’t there something he could do to make her feel better about herself, lift her spirits, give her self-confidence a boost? He had an idea, and reached for her hand before announcing solemnly: ‘You know, Em, if you’re still single when you’re forty I’ll marry you.’
She looked at him with frank disgust. ‘Was that a proposal, Dex?’
‘Not now, just at some point if we both get desperate.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘And what makes you think I’d want to marry you?’
‘Well, I’m sort of taking that as a given.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘Well you’ll have to join the queue, I’m afraid. My friend Ian said exactly the same thing to me while we were disinfecting the meat fridge. Except he only gave me until I was thirty-five.’
‘Well no offence to Ian, but I think you should definitely hold out for the extra five years.’
‘I’m not holding out for either of you! I’m never getting married anyway.’
‘How do you know that?’
She shrugged. ‘Wise old gypsy told me.’
‘I suppose you disagree on political grounds or something.’
‘Just . . . not for me, that’s all.’
‘I can see you now. Big white dress, bridesmaids, little page boys, blue garter . . .’ Garter. His mind snagged on the word like a fish on a hook.
‘As a matter of fact, I think there are more important things in life than “relationships”.’
‘What, like your career, you mean?’ She shot him a look. ‘Sorry.’
They turned back to the sky, shading into night now and after a moment she said, ‘Actually my career took a bit an upturn today if you must know.’
‘You got fired?’
‘Promotion.’ She started to laugh. ‘I’ve been offered the job of manager.’
Dexter sat up quickly. ‘In that place? You’ve got to turn it down.’
‘Why do I have to turn it down? Nothing wrong with restaurant work.’
‘Em, you could be mining uranium with your teeth and that would be fine as long as you were happy. But you hate that job, you hate every single moment.’
‘So? Most people hate their jobs. That’s why they’re called jobs.’
‘I love my job.’
‘Yeah, well, we can’t all work in the media, can we?’ She hated the tone of her voice now, sneering and sour. Worse still, she could feel hot, irrational tears starting to form in the back of her eyes.
‘Hey, maybe I could get you a job!’
She laughed. ‘What job?’
‘With me, at Redlight Productions!’ He was warming to the idea now. ‘As a researcher. You’d have to start as a runner, which is unpaid, but you’d be brilliant—’
‘Dexter, thank you, but I don’t want to work in the media. I know we’re all meant to be desperate to work in the media these days, like the media’s the best job in the world—’ You sound hysterical, she thought, jealous and hysterical. ‘In fact I don’t even know what the media is—’ Stop talking, stay calm. ‘I mean what do you people do all day except stand around drinking bottled water and taking drugs and photocopying your bits—’
‘Hey, it’s hard work, Em—’
‘I mean if people treated, I don’t know, nursing or social work or teaching with the same respect as they do the bloody media—’
‘So be a teacher then! You’d be a fantastic teacher—’
‘I want you to write on the board, “I will not give my friend careers advice!”’ She was talking too loud now, shouting almost, and a long silence followed. Why was she being like this? He was only trying to help. In what way did he benefit from this friendship? He should get up and walk away, that’s what he should do. They turned to look at each other at the same time.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘What are you sorry for?’