‘No, you’re drunk! You’re always drunk or off your face on something or other, every time I see you. D’you realise I literally haven’t seen you sober for, what, three years? I’ve forgotten what you’re like sober, you’re too busy boring on about yourself or your new pals or running to the loo every ten minutes – I don’t know if it’s dysentery or too much coke, but either way it’s fucking rude and most of all it’s boring. Even when you talk to me you’re always looking over my shoulder in case there’s some better option . . .’
‘That’s not true!’
‘It is true, Dexter! Well bollocks to it. You’re a TV presenter, Dex. You’ve not invented penicillin, it’s TV, and crap TV at that. Well sod it, I’ve had enough.’
They were out amongst the crowds on Wardour Street in the fading summer light.
‘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. People were staring at them now, another couple fighting in Soho on a Saturday night, and she relented finally, allowing herself to be pulled into a side street.
They were silent now, Dexter stepping away from her so that he could take her in. She was standing with her back to him, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, and he suddenly felt a hot pang of shame.
Finally, she spoke, in a quiet voice, her face to the wall.
‘Why are you being like this, Dexter?’
‘Like what?’
‘You know what.’
‘I’m just being myself!’
She spun to face him. ‘No, you’re not. I know what you’re like and this isn’t you. You’re horrible like this. You’re obnoxious, Dexter. I mean you always were a bit obnoxious, every now and then, a bit full of yourself, but you were funny too, and kind sometimes, and interested in people other than yourself. But now you’re just out of control, with the booze, the drugs—’
‘I’m just having fun!’
She sniffed, once, and looked up at him, through smudged black eyes.
‘And sometimes I get carried away, that’s all. If you weren’t so . . . judgemental all the time—’
‘Am I? I don’t think I am. I try not to be. I just don’t . . .’ She stopped herself speaking, shook her head. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot, in the last few years, and I’ve tried to understand that, really I have, with your mum and all, but . . .’
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I just don’t think you’re the person I used to know. You’re not my friend anymore. That’s all.’
He could think of nothing to say to this, so they stood in silence, until Emma put her hand out, took two fingers of his hand, squeezed them in her palm.
‘Maybe . . . maybe this is it, then,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s just over.’
‘Over? What’s over?’
‘Us. You and me. Friendship. There are things I needed to talk to you about, Dex. About Ian and me. If you’re my friend I should be able to talk to you but I can’t, and if I can’t talk to you, well, what is the point of you? Of us?’
‘“What’s the point?”’
‘You said yourself, people change, no use getting sentimental about it. Move on, find someone else.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t mean us . . .’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’re . . . us. We’re Dex and Em. Aren’t we?’
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?’
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I think you think I’m . . . dreary. I think you think I cramp your style. I think you’ve lost interest in me.’
‘Em, I do not think you’re dreary.’
‘And neither do I! Neither do I! 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.’
‘Treated like what?’
She sighed, and it was a moment before she spoke.
‘Like you always want to be somewhere else, with someone else.’
He would have denied this, but the Cigarette Girl was waiting in the restaurant at that very moment, the number of his mobile phone tucked into her garter. Later he would wonder if there was something else he might have said to save the situation, a joke perhaps. But nothing occurred to him and Emma let go of his hand.
‘Well off you go,’ she said. ‘Go to your party. You’re rid of me now. You’re free.’
With failing bravado, Dexter tried to laugh. ‘You sound like you’re dumping me!’
She smiled sadly. ‘I suppose I am in a way. You’re not who you used to be, Dex. I really, really liked the old one. I’d like him back, but in the meantime, I’m sorry, but I don’t think you should phone me anymore.’ She turned and, a little unsteadily, began to walk off down the side alley in the direction of Leicester Square.
For a moment, Dexter had a fleeting but perfectly clear memory of himself at his mother’s funeral, curled up on the bathroom floor while Emma held onto him and stroked his hair. Yet somehow he had managed to treat this as nothing, to throw it all away for dross. He followed a little way behind her. ‘Come on, Em, we’re still friends, aren’t we? I know I’ve been a little weird, it’s just . . .’ She stopped for a moment, but didn’t turn round, and he knew that she was crying. ‘Emma?’
Then very quickly she turned, walked up to him and pulled his face to hers, her cheek warm and wet against his, speaking quickly and quietly in his ear, and for one bright moment he thought he was to be forgiven.
‘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.’
And then she was gone, and he found himself on the street, standing alone in this back alley trying to imagine what he would possibly do next.
Ian returns at just before midnight to find Emma curled up on the sofa, watching some old movie. ‘You’re back early. How was Golden Boy?’
‘Awful,’ she murmurs.
If Ian feels any glee at this, he doesn’t let it into his voice. ‘Why, what happened?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Not tonight.’
‘Why not? Emma, tell me! What did he say? Did you argue? . . .’
‘Ian, please? Not tonight. Just come here, will you?’
She shuffles up so that he can join her on the sofa, and he notices the dress that she is wearing, the kind of thing she never wears for him. ‘Is that what you wore?’
She holds the hem of the dress between finger and thumb. ‘It was a mistake.’
‘I think you look beautiful.’