‘THE DOG! PLAYING THE DRUMS! IT WAS AMAZING!’
Dexter stood outside Bar Italia, sleek and matt black in shirt and suit, a little trilby-style hat pushed back on his head, the mobile phone held four inches from his ear. He had the sensation that if he hung up he would still be able to hear her.
‘ . . . LITTLE DRUMSTICKS ON HIS LITTLE PAWS!’
‘It was hysterical,’ he said, though in truth he couldn’t bring himself to watch. Envy was not a comfortable emotion for Dexter, but he knew the whispers – that Suki was the real talent, that she had been carrying him – and comforted himself with the notion that Suki’s current high profile, large salary and popular appeal were a kind of artistic compromise. Britain’s Most Talented Pet? He would never sell out like that. Even if someone asked him to.
‘NINE MILLION VIEWERS THEY RECKON THIS WEEK. TEN, MAYBE . . .’
‘Suki, can I just explain something about the telephone? You don’t have to shout into it? The phone does that bit for you . . .’
She huffed and hung up on him, and from across the road, Emma took a moment to stand and watch as Dexter swore at the phone in his hand. He still looked great in a suit. It was a shame about the hat but at least he wasn’t wearing those ridiculous headphones. She watched his face brighten as he saw her and she felt a swell of affection and hope for the evening.
‘You really should get rid of that,’ she said, nodding towards the phone.
He slipped it into his pocket and kissed her cheek. ‘So you’ve got a choice, you can either phone me, actually me personally, or you can phone a building in which I might just happen to be at the time—’
‘Phone the building.’
‘And if I miss the call?’
‘Well God forbid you should miss a call.’
‘It’s not 1988 anymore, Em—’
‘Yes, I know that—’
‘Six months, I give you six months before you cave—’
‘Never—’
‘A bet—’
‘Okay a bet. If I ever, ever buy a mobile phone I’ll buy you dinner.’
‘Well, that’ll make a change.’
‘Besides, they give you brain damage—’
‘They do not damage your brain—’
‘How can you tell?’
And they stood for a moment in silence, both with a vague sense that the evening had not started well.
‘Can’t believe you’re getting at me already,’ he said sulkily.
‘Well that’s my job.’ She smiled and embraced him, pressing her cheek against his. ‘I’m not getting at you. Sorry, sorry.’
His hand was on her bare neck. ‘It’s been ages.’
‘Far too long.’
He stepped back. ‘You look beautiful by the way.’
‘Thank you. So do you.’
‘Well, not beautiful . . .’
‘Handsome then.’
‘Thank you.’ He took her hands and held them out to the side. ‘You should wear dresses more often, you look almost feminine.’
‘I like your hat now take it off.’
‘And the shoes!’
She twisted an ankle towards him. ‘It’s the world’s first orthopaedic high-heel.’
They began to walk through the crowds towards Wardour Street, Emma taking his arm then holding the material of his suit between finger and thumb, rubbing at the strange nap of the fabric. ‘What is this, by the way? Velvet? Velour?’
‘Moleskin.’
‘I had a track-suit in that material once.’
‘We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Dex and Em—’
‘Em and Dex. Like Rogers and Astaire—’
‘Burton and Taylor—’
‘Mary and Joseph—’
Dexter laughed and took her hand and soon they were at the restaurant.
Poseidon was a huge bunker excavated from the remains of an underground car park. Entrance was by way of a vast, theatrical staircase that seemed miraculously suspended above the main room and formed a permanent distraction to the diners below, who spent much of the evening assessing the beauty or fame of the new arrivals. Feeling neither beautiful nor famous, Emma sloped down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other cupping her belly until Dexter took this arm and stopped, surveying the room as proudly as if he were the architect.
‘So. What do you think?’
‘Club Tropicana,’ she said.
The interior had been styled to suggest the romance of a luxury liner from the 20s: velvet booths, liveried waiters bearing cocktails, decorative portholes that opened onto a view of nothing, and this lack of natural light gave the place a submarine aspect, as if it had already hit the iceberg and was on its way down. The intended air of inter-war elegance was further undermined by the clamour and ostentation of the room, the pervading atmosphere of youth and sex, money and deep-fat-frying. All the burgundy velvet and pressed peach linen in the world couldn’t stifle the tumultuous noise from the open-plan kitchen, a blur of stainless steel and white. So here it is at last, thought Emma: The Eighties.
‘Are you sure this is okay? It looks quite expensive.’
‘I told you. My treat.’ He tucked the label into the back of her dress, having glanced at it first, then took her hand and led her down the rest of the stairs with a little Astaire trot, into the heart of all that money, sex and youth.
A sleek handsome man in absurd naval epaulettes told them their table would be ten minutes so they pushed their way to the cocktail lounge where another faux naval man was busy juggling bottles.
‘What do you want, Em?’
‘Gin and tonic?’
Dexter tutted. ‘You’re not in the Mandela Bar now. You’ve got to have a proper drink. Two martinis, Bombay Sapphire, very dry, with a twist.’ Emma made to speak, but Dexter held up an autocratic finger. ‘Trust me. Best martinis in London.’
Obediently she ummed and awwed at the bartender’s performance, Dexter commentating throughout. ‘The trick is to get everything really, really cold before you start. Iced water in the glass, gin in the freezer.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘My mum taught me when I was, what, nine?’ They touched glasses, silently toasting Alison, and both felt hope again, for the evening and for their friendship. Emma raised the martini to her lips. ‘I’ve never had one of these before.’ The first taste was delicious, icy and immediately intoxicating, and she tried not to spill it as she shuddered. She was about to thank him when Dexter placed his glass in Emma’s hand, a good half of it already gone.
‘Off to the loo. They’re incredible here. The best in London.’
‘Can’t wait!’ she said, but he had already gone, and Emma stood alone with two drinks in her hand, attempting to exude an aura of confidence and glamour so as not to look like a waitress.
Suddenly a tall woman stood over her in a leopard-skin corset, stockings and suspenders, her appearance so sudden and startling that Emma gave a little yelp as her martini sloshed over her wrist.
‘Cigarettes?’ The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, voluptuous and barely dressed, like a figure from the fuselage of a B-52, her breasts seeming to recline on a cantilevered tray of cigars and cigarettes. ‘Would you like anything?’ she repeated, smiling through powdery foundation and adjusting with one finger the black velvet choker around her neck.
‘Oh, no, I don’t smoke,’ said Emma, as if this were a personal failing she intended to address, but the woman had already redirected her smile over Emma’s shoulder, fluttering the sticky black lace of her eyelashes.
‘Cigarettes, sir?’
Dexter smiled, sliding his wallet from the inside of his jacket as he scanned the wares on display below her bosom. With a connoisseur’s flourish, he settled on twenty Marlboro Lights, and the Cigarette Girl nodded as if sir had made an excellent choice.
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.
Look at him, the little dear, thought Emma, noticing this little flicker of self-satisfaction. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the boys all wanted to be Che Guevara. Now they all wanted to be Hugh Hefner. With a games console. As the Cigarette Girl wiggled into the crowd, Dexter really looked as if he might try and pat her bottom.