‘Sylvie’s okay, she’s being Callumed. He’s being the life and soul, the charming Oirish millionaire. I thought I’d leave them to it. I can’t compete with him anymore. Too tiring.’
‘He’s doing very well, you know.’
‘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.