‘Can’t take me anywhere!’ She ran the point of her pink tongue back and forth across her teeth. ‘Better?’ she grinned.
‘Much.’ He smiled and stepped away, then turned back to her.
‘Just out of interest,’ he said, ‘what time do you finish here tonight?’
The oysters had arrived, lying glossy and alien on their bed of melting ice. Emma had been passing the time by drinking heavily, with the fixed smile of someone who’s been left alone and really doesn’t mind at all. Finally she saw him weaving across the restaurant a little unsteadily. He bundled into the booth.
‘I thought you’d fallen in!’ This was something that her granny used to say. She was using her grandmother’s material.
‘Sorry,’ he said, but nothing more. They began on the oysters. ‘So listen, there’s a party later tonight. My mate Oliver, who I play poker with. I’ve told you about him.’ He tipped the oyster into his mouth. ‘He’s a baronet.’
Emma felt sea-water dribble down her wrist. ‘And what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Him being a baronet.’
‘I’m just saying, he’s a nice bloke. Lemon on that?’
‘No thank you.’ She swallowed the thing, still trying to work out if she had been invited to the party or just informed that a party was taking place. ‘So where is this party then?’ she said.
‘Holland Park. Massive great house.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
Still not sure. Was he inviting her, or excusing himself early? She ate another oyster.
‘You’re very welcome to come along,’ he said finally, reaching for the Tabasco sauce.
‘Am I?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. She watched as he unblocked the sticky neck of the Tabasco bottle with the tine of his fork. ‘It’s just you won’t know anyone there, that’s all.’
Clearly she was not invited. ‘I’ll know you,’ she said weakly.
‘Yes, I suppose so. And Suki! Suki will be there.’
‘Isn’t she filming in Scarborough?’
‘They’re driving her back tonight.’
‘She’s doing very well, isn’t she?’
‘Well, we both are,’ he said, quickly and a little too loud.
She decided to let it pass. ‘Yes. That’s that what I meant. You both are.’ She picked up an oyster, then put it back. ‘I really like Suki,’ she said, though she had met her only once, at an intimidating Studio 54-themed party in a private club in Hoxton. And Emma had liked her, though she couldn’t escape the feeling that Suki treated her as rather quaint, one of Dexter’s homely, old-style friends, as if she were only at the party because she’d won the phone-in competition.
He necked another oyster. ‘She’s great, isn’t she? Suki.’
‘Yes, she is. How’s it going with you two?’
‘Oh alright. Bit tricky, you know, being in the public eye all the time . . .’
‘Tell me about it!’ said Emma, but he didn’t seem to hear.
‘And I sometimes feel like I’m going out with this public address system, but it’s great. Really. You know the best thing about the relationship?’
‘Go on.’
‘She knows what it’s like. Being on the telly. She understands.’
‘Dexter – that is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.’
And there she goes again, he thought, the snippy little comments. ‘Well it’s true,’ he shrugged and decided that as soon as he could pay the bill, their evening would be over. As if as an afterthought, he added, ‘So, this party. I’m just worried about you getting home, that’s all.’
‘Walthamstow’s not Mars, Dex, it’s just North East London. It supports human life.’
‘I know!’
‘It’s on the Victoria Line!’
‘But it’s just a long way on public transport, and the party won’t get going ’til midnight. You’ll arrive and then you’ll have to go. Unless I give you money for the cab—’
‘I do have money, they do pay me.’
‘Holland Park to Walthamstow though?’
‘If it’s awkward for me to come—’
‘It’s not! It’s not awkward. I want you to come. Let’s decide later, shall we?’ and without excusing himself he went to the toilet again, taking his glass with him as if he had another table in there. Emma sat and drank glass after glass of wine and continued to simmer, building to a steady rolling boil.
And so the pleasure wore on. He returned just as the main courses arrived. Emma examined her beer-battered haddock with minted pea puree. The thick pale chips had been machine-cut into perfect oblongs and were stacked up like building blocks with the battered fish teetering precariously on top, six inches off the plate, as if it might hurl itself into the pool of thick green gloop below. What was that game? The stacked wooden blocks? Carefully, she extracted a chip from the top of the pile. Hard and cold inside.
‘How’s the King of Comedy?’ 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 wanted it taken off the bill and a replacement main course provided free of charge. She tried to insist she wasn’t hungry anymore while Dexter in turn insisted that she had to have a proper main course because it was free. There was no choice but to stare at the menu all over again, while the waiter and Dexter glared at her and all the time his own steak sat there, mauled but uneaten, until finally it was settled, she got her free green salad, and they were alone again.
They sat in silence in the wreckage of the evening in front of two plates of unwanted food and she thought that she might cry.
‘Well. This is going well,’ he said, and tossed down his napkin.
She wanted to go home. She would skip dessert, forget the party – he clearly didn’t want her there anyway – and go home. Maybe Ian would be back, kind and considerate and in love with her, and they could sit and talk, or just cuddle up and watch TV.
‘So.’ His eyes were scanning the room as he spoke. ‘How’s the teaching?’
‘It’s fine, Dexter,’ she scowled.
‘What? What have I done?’ he replied indignantly, eyes snapping back to her.
She spoke levelly. ‘If you’re not interested, don’t ask.’
‘I am interested! It’s just . . .’ He poured himself more wine. ‘I thought you were meant to be writing some book or something?’
‘I am writing some-book-or-something, but I also have to earn a living. And also more to the point I enjoy it, Dexter, and I’m a bloody good teacher!’
‘I’m sure you are! It’s just, well, you know the expression. “Those who can . . .”’
Emma’s mouth fell open. Stay calm—
‘No, I’m not familiar with it, Dexter. Tell me. What expression?’
‘You know . . .’
‘No, seriously, Dexter, tell me.’
‘It’s not important.’ He was starting to look sheepish.
‘I’d like to know. Finish the sentence. “Those who can . . .”’
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 and, glancing behind her, saw Dexter mopping furiously at his lap, placating the waiter then following on in pursuit. She turned, broke into a run, and now here was the Cigarette Girl striding down the stairs towards her on long legs and high heels, a grin splitting her scarlet mouth. Despite her vow, Emma felt hot tears of humiliation prick her eyes, and now she was falling onto the stairs, stumbling on those stupid, stupid high shoes, and there was an audible gasp from the audience of diners behind her as she fell to her knees. The Cigarette Girl was beside her, holding onto her elbow, with a look of maddening, genuine concern.
‘Are you alright there?’
‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine—’
But now Dexter had caught up with her, was helping her up. Firmly she shook herself free from his grip.
‘Get off me, Dexter!’
‘Don’t shout, calm down—’
‘I will not calm down—’
‘Alright, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Whatever it is you’re angry about, I’m sorry!’
She turned to him on the stairs, eyes blazing. ‘What, you don’t know?’
‘No! Come back to the table, and you can tell me!’ But she was tumbling on, through the swing doors now, pushing them closed behind her so that the metal edge cracked him sharply on the knee. He limped after her. ‘This is stupid, we’re both a bit drunk, that’s all—’