‘The answer is no, you can’t. Once you’ve worked that out, it all gets a bit simpler.’
‘It’s true; an orgy won’t keep you warm at night.’
‘An orgy won’t care for you when you’re old.’ He took another sip. ‘Anyway, it’s not even as if I was getting invited to any in the first place, just making a fool of myself, screwing things up. Screwed up my career, screwed up with Mum—’
‘—well that’s not true—’
‘—screwed up all my friendships.’ For emphasis, Dexter leant against her arm, and she leant back against his. ‘I just thought it was time to do things properly for once. And now I’ve met Sylvie, and she’s great, she really is, and she keeps me on the straight and narrow.’
‘Well she’s a lovely girl.’
‘She is. She is.’
‘Very beautiful. Serene.’
‘A little bit scary sometimes.’
‘She’s got a lovely, warm sort of Leni Riefenstahl quality to her.’
‘Lenny who?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course she’s got absolutely no sense of humour.’
‘Well that’s a relief. I think a sense of humour’s over-rated,’ said Emma. ‘Goofing it up all the time, it’s boring. Like Ian. ’Cept Ian wasn’t funny. No, much better to have somebody you really fancy, someone who’ll rub your feet.’
He tried and failed to imagine Sylvie touching his feet. ‘She told me once that she never laughs because she doesn’t like what it does to her face.’
Emma gave a low chuckle. ‘Wow’ was all she could say. ‘Wow. But you love her, right?’
‘I adore her.’
‘Adore. Well “adore” is even better.’
‘She’s sensational.’
‘She is.’
‘And she’s really turned things around for me too. I’m off the drugs and booze and not smoking.’ She glanced at the bottle in his hand, the cigarette in his mouth. He smiled. ‘Special occasion.’
‘So true love found you in the end.’
‘Something like that.’ He filled her glass. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh, I’m fine. I’m fine.’ As a distraction, she stood. ‘Let’s keep walking, shall we? Left or right?’
‘Right.’ With a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet. ‘Do you still see Ian?’
‘Not for years now.’
‘Nobody else on the horizon?’
‘Don’t you start, Dexter.’
‘What?’
‘Sympathy for the spinster. I’m perfectly content, thank you. And I refuse to be defined by my boyfriend. Or lack of.’ She was starting to speak with real zeal now. ‘Once you decide not to worry about that stuff anymore, dating and relationships and love and all that, it’s like you’re free to get on with real life. And I’ve got my work, and I love that. I’ve got I reckon one more year to really make a go of it. The money’s tiny, but I’m free. I go to the movies in the afternoon.’ She paused momentarily. ‘Swimming! I swim a lot. I swim and I swim and I swim, mile after mile. God, I fucking hate swimming. Turn left, I think.’
‘You know, I feel the same. Not about swimming, I mean about not having to date anymore. Since I’ve been with Sylvie, it’s like I’ve freed up this vast amount of time and energy and mental space.’
‘And what do you do with it all, this mental space?’
‘Play Tomb Raider mostly.’
Emma laughed, and walked a little further in silence, worrying that she was coming across as less self-contained and empowered than she had intended. ‘And anyway, it’s not like I’m completely, you know, boring and, and loveless. I have my moments. I had this thing with a guy called Chris. Called himself a dentist but he was really just a hygienist.’
‘What happened to Chris?’
‘Just fizzled out. Just as well. I was convinced that he was always staring at my teeth. Kept nagging me to floss, Emma, floss. Going on a date was like going for a check-up. Too much pressure. And before that there was Mr Godalming.’ She shuddered. ‘Mr Godalming. What a disaster.’
‘Who was Mr Godalming?’
‘Another time. Left, right?’
‘Left.’
‘Anyway, if I ever get really desperate, there’s always your offer to fall back on.’
Dexter stopped walking. ‘What offer?’
‘Do you remember you used to say if I was still single when I got to forty you’d marry me?’
‘Did I say that?’ He winced. ‘Bit patronising.’
‘I thought so at the time. But don’t worry, I don’t think it’s legally binding or anything, I’m not going to hold you to it. Besides, there’s still seven years to go. Plenty of time . . .’ She began walking again, but Dexter stood still behind her, rubbing his head like a boy who is about to reveal that he’s broken the best vase.
‘I’m afraid I’m sort of going to have to withdraw the offer anyway.’
She stopped and turned.
‘Oh really? Why’s that?’ she said, but a part of her knew already.
‘I’m engaged.’
Emma blinked once, very slowly.
‘Engaged to what?’
‘To be married. To Sylvie.’
A moment passed, perhaps half a second when their faces said what they felt, and then Emma was smiling, laughing, her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Dexter. That’s amazing! Congratulations!’ and she went to kiss his cheek just as he turned his head, their mouths glancing for a moment so that they tasted the champagne on each other’s lips.
‘You’re pleased?’
‘Pleased? I’m destroyed! But really, seriously, that’s fantastic news.’
‘You think so?’
‘More than fantastic, it’s, it’s . . . rad! It’s rad and sweet. It’s old skool!’
He stepped back from her and searched inside his jacket. ‘In fact, that’s why I dragged you in here. I wanted to give you this in person—’
A thick envelope of heavy lilac paper. Emma took it gingerly, and peered inside. The envelope was quilted with tissue paper and the invitation itself had hand-torn edges and seemed to be made of some sort of papyrus or parchment. ‘Now that—’ Emma balanced it like a table on her upturned fingertips ‘—that is what I call a wedding invitation.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘That is some elaborate stationery.’
‘Eight quid each.’
‘That’s more than my car.’
‘Smell it, go on . . .’
‘Smell it?’ Warily, she held it to her nose. ‘It’s scented! Your wedding invitations are scented?’
‘It’s meant to be lavender.’
‘No, Dex – it’s money. It smells of money.’ Carefully, she opened the card, and he watched her as she read, remembering the way she used her fingertips to brush her fringe across her forehead. ‘“Mr and Mrs Lionel Cope invite you to the marriage of their daughter Sylvie to Mr Dexter Mayhew—” I can’t believe I’m actually seeing this in print. Saturday, September 14th. Hang on, that’s only . . .’
‘Seven weeks away . . .’ and he kept watching her face, that fantastic face to see how it might change when he told her.
‘Seven weeks? I thought these things were years in the making?’
‘Well they are usually, but I think this is what they call a shotgun wedding . . .’
Emma frowned, not quite there yet.
‘For three hundred and fifty guests. With Ceilidh.’
‘You mean? . . .’
‘Sylvie’s sort of pregnant. Well not sort of. She is. Pregnant. Actually pregnant. With a baby.’
‘Oh, Dexter!’ Once again, her face was against his. ‘Do you know the father? I’m kidding! Congratulations, Dex. God, aren’t you meant to space your bombshells out a bit, not just drop them all at once?’ She held his face in both hands, looked at it. ‘You’re getting married?—’
‘Yes!’