Covent Garden and King's Cross

Ian Whitehead sat alone at a table for two in the Covent Garden branch of Forelli's, and checked his watch: fifteen minutes late, but he imagined that this was part of the exquisite game of cat-and-mouse that is dating. Well, let the games commence. He dunked his ciabatta in the little dish of olive oil as if loading a paintbrush, opened the menu and worked out what he could afford to eat.

Life as a stand-up comedian had yet to bring the wealth and TV exposure that it had once promised. The Sunday papers weekly proclaimed that comedy was the new rock and roll, so why was he still hustling for open-mike spots at Sir Laffalots on Tuesday nights? He had adapted his material to fit with current fashions, pulling back on the political and observational material and trying out character-comedy, surrealism, comic songs and sketches. Nothing seemed to raise a laugh. A detour into a more confrontational style had led to him being punched and kicked, and his residency with a Sunday night improv comedy team had proved only that he could be unfunny in an entirely unplanned, spontaneous way. Yet still he soldiered on, up and down the Northern Line, round and round the Circle, in search of the big laughs.

Perhaps there was something about the name "Ian Whitehead" that made it resistant to being spelt out in lightbulbs. He had even considered changing it to something punchy, boysy and monosyllabic -- Ben or Jack or Matt -- but until he found his comic persona he had taken a job in Sonicotronics, an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road where unhealthy young men in t-shirts sold ROM and graphics cards to unhealthy young men in t-shirts. The money wasn't great, but his evenings were free for gigs, and he frequently cracked up his co-workers with new material.

Date number two, and here he was in a sleek modern Italian near Covent Garden. Ian's personal tastes tended towards the hot and spicy, salty and crispy, and he would have preferred a curry. But he was wise enough in the vagaries of womankind to know that she would be expecting fresh vegetables. He checked his watch again -- twenty minutes late -- and felt a pang of longing in his stomach that was partly hunger, partly love. For years now his heart and stomach had been heavy with love for Emma Morley, and not just sentimental platonic love, but a carnal desire too. All these years later he still carried with him, would carry for life, the image of her standing in mismatched underwear in the staffroom of Loco Caliente, illuminated by a shaft of afternoon sun like the light in a cathedral, as she yelled at him to get out and shut the bloody door.

But the best, the very best thing about Sonicotronics was that during his lunch break he had bumped into Emma Morley. He had been standing outside the offices of the Church of Scientology, debating whether or not to take the personality test, when he saw her, almost obscured by a huge wicker laundry basket, and as he threw his arms around her Tottenham Court Road was lit by glory and transformed into a street of dreams.

"Are you with someone?" asked the maîtred.

Unaware that he was thinking of her underwear, Emma Morley stood watching Ian from the maître d's station and noted that he was definitely better looking these days. The crown of tight fair curls had gone, trimmed short now and slicked slightly with a little wax, he had lost that new-boy-in-the-city look. In fact, if it weren't for the terrible clothes and the way his mouth hung open, he would actually be attractive.

Although the situation was unusual for her, she recognised this as a classic date restaurant -- just expensive enough, not too bright, not pretentious but not cheap either, the kind of place where they put rocket on the pizzas. The place was corny but not ridiculous and at least it was not a curry or, God forbid, a fish burrito. There were palm trees and candles and in the next room an elderly man played Gershwin favourites on a grand piano: "I hope that he/turns out to be/someone to watch over me."

"That man over there."

On their first date he had taken her to see Evil Dead III, The Medieval Dead at the Odeon on the Holloway Road. Neither squeamish nor a snob, Emma enjoyed a horror film more than most women, but even so she had thought this a strange, curiously confident choice. Three Colours Blue was playing at the Everyman, but here she was, watching a man with a chainsaw for an arm, and finding it strangely refreshing. Conventionally, she had expected to be taken to a restaurant afterwards but for Ian it seemed a trip to the cinema wasn't complete without a three-course meal thrown in. He contemplated the concession stand as if were an à la carte menu, choosing nachos to begin with, a hot-dog for the entrée, Revels for dessert, his palette cleansed with a pail of iced Lilt the size of a human torso, so that the Evil Dead III's few meditative scenes were accompanied by the warm tropical hiss of Ian belching into his fist.

That was how he grinned at her now, in the restaurant, standing with such enthusiasm that he knocked the table with his thighs, spilling tap water onto the complimentary olives.

And yet despite all this -- the love of ultra-violence and salty foods, the mustard on his chin -- Emma had enjoyed herself more than she had expected. On the way to the pub he had changed sides on the pavement so that she wouldn't get hit by a runaway bus -- a weirdly old-fashioned gesture that she'd never been subject to before -- and they discussed the special effects, the beheadings and eviscerations, Ian declaring, after some analysis, that it was the best of the "Dead" trilogy. Trilogies and box-sets, comedy and horror loomed large in Ian's cultural life, and in the pub they'd had an interesting debate about whether a graphic novel could ever have as much depth and meaning as, say, Middlemarch. Protective, attentive, he was like an older brother who knew about lots of really cool stuff, the difference being that he clearly wanted to sleep with her. So intent, so doting was his gaze that she frequently found herself feeling for something on her face.

"No, it's alright, I'll use my jacket."

"Well I've fucked the olives. Not literally I might hasten to add!"

"Shall I get a cloth?" she said.

"Oh. Right. Okay."

"Joke!" he bellowed, as if shouting "Fire!" He hadn't been this nervous since the last disastrous night at the improv, and he firmly told himself to calm down as he blotted at the tablecloth, glancing upwards to see Emma wriggling out of her summer jacket, pushing her shoulders back and her chest forward in that way that women do without realising the ache they cause. There it was, the evening's second great bubble of love and desire for Emma Morley. "You look so lovely," he blurted, unable to contain himself.

"Don't use your jacket, here -- here's my napkin."

"Thank you! You too," she said reflexively. He wore the stand-up comic's uniform of a crumpled linen jacket over a plain black t-shirt. In honour of Emma, there were no band names or ironic remarks: dressy then. "I like this," she said, indicating the jacket. "Pretty sharp!" and Ian rubbed his lapel between finger and thumb as if saying "what, this old thing?"

"But you're a student, Em!"

"You know, I think I'd like a vodka and tonic."

She looked to Ian and saw a flicker of panic cross his face. "Is that reckless?"

"And how did it go?"

"Okay, a double!"

"Mineral water?"

"Really, really well!"

"TAP WATER!" he yelled, then, calmer, "Tap water's fine, unless you…"

"Tap water's fine," Emma smiled reassuringly. The waiter left. "And by the way, this goes without saying, but we are going dutch tonight, okay? No arguments. It's 1993 for crying out loud," and Ian found himself loving her even more. For form's sake, he thought he had better put on a show.

"Not anymore. I am now a fully qualified teacher! I had my first job interview today."

"I'll wait for the wine, thank you."

"Can I take your jacket?" said the waiter, sleek and handsome.

"No, you go on."

"Yes, thank you." Emma handed it over, and Ian imagined he'd have to tip for it later. Never mind. She was worth it.

"A double?" said the waiter, tempting her into further expense.

"Any drinks?" asked the waiter.

"You, sir?"

"Congratulations, Em, that's fantastic," and he threw himself across the table to kiss her on the cheek, no, both cheeks, no, hang on, just the one cheek, no, okay both cheeks.

The menu had been prepped in advance for humour, and while Emma tried to concentrate, Ian went into his act and ran through some of the choicer puns: penne for your thoughts, etc. The presence of grilled sea bass allowed him to do the one about how you wait ages for one bass, then three come along at the same time, and was this a minute steak or a mine-ute, like a really, really small steak? and what was it with "ragu" these days, when did good old spag bol become "ragu"? What, he speculated, would they, like, call "alphabetti spaghetti?" Moist alphabetical forms in a sauce rouge? Or what?

As line followed line, Emma felt her hopes for the evening fade. He is trying to laugh me into bed, she thought, when in fact what he is really doing is laughing me onto the tube home. In the cinema there had at least been the Revels and the violence to distract him, but here, face to face, there was nothing but a compulsion to riff. Emma got this a lot. The boys on her PGCE course were all pro-am gagsters, especially in the pub after a few pints, and while it drove her crazy she knew that she encouraged it too, the girls sitting and grinning while the boys did tricks with matchsticks and jammed on Children's TV or Forgotten Confectionery of the Seventies. Spangles Disease, the maddening non-stop cabaret of boys in pubs.

"… flavours of smoky bacon Wotsits with a succulent back note of giraffe…"

He's laughing me into a stupor, she thought. I could heckle, I suppose, I could throw a bread roll at him, but he's eaten them all. She glanced at the other diners, all of them going into their act, and thought is this what it all boils down to? Romantic love, is this all it is, a talent show? Eat a meal, go to bed, fall in love with me and I promise you years and years of top notch material like this?

She gulped down her vodka. Ian had the wine list now, and was doing his schtick about how snooty wine is: a voluptuous mouthful of forest fire with a back note of exploding toffee apple etc. The C-major scale of the amateur stand-up, this routine had the potential to be infinite, and Emma found herself trying to imagine a notional man, a fantastical figure who didn't make a big deal about it, just looked at the wine list and ordered, unpretentiously but with authority.

"… imagine if they sold lager this way?" A Glaswegian accent. "Our Special Brew sits heavy on the palate, with a strong hint of council estate, old shopping trolley and urban decay. Goes particularly well with domestic violence!…"

"I love them."

"… squeezed, no, seduced from the teets of cows, the 1989 vintage milk has a distinctive milkiness…"

"Shut up, will you?"

"Perhaps they write that because the wine tastes a bit of blackberries and vanilla?"

A silence followed, with Ian looking hurt and Emma feeling embarrassed. It must have been that double vodka. To cover it up, she said loudly, "How about we just get Valpolicella?"

His eyes flicked to the price. "Then let's get it then!"

He consulted the menu. "Blackberries and vanilla, it says here."

"… our orange juice is orange with a heavy bass note of oranges…"

"What?"

"Ian?"

She wondered where the fallacy had come from, that there was something irresistible about funny men; Cathy doesn't long for Heathcliff because he's a really great laugh, and what was all the more galling about this barrage was that she actually quite liked Ian, had set out with high hopes and even some excitement about seeing him again, but instead he was saying…

Right, that's enough now.

"Do you like blackberries and vanilla?"

Hi, Em. Me again. I know you're out on the town with Laughing Boy, but I just wanted to say that when you get in, assuming you're alone, I've decided not to go the premiere after all. I'm home all night, if you want to come round. I mean, I'd like that. I'll pay for your taxi, you could stay over. So. Anytime you come in, just give me a call, then get in a cab. That's all. Hope to see you later. Love and all that. Bye, Em. Bye.

They reminisced about the old times, all of three years ago. While Emma had the soup then fish, Ian had gone for a medley of carbohydrates, starting with an immense bowl of meaty pasta which he buried between snow banks of parmesan. This and the red wine had sedated him a little, and Emma had relaxed too, was in fact well on her way to drunkenness. And why not? Didn't she deserve it? The last ten months had been spent working hard at something she believed in, and though some of the teaching placements had been frankly terrifying, she was clear-sighted enough to realise she was good at it. At her interview this afternoon they had obviously felt the same way, the headmaster nodding and smiling in approval, and though she didn't dare say it out loud, she knew that she had the job.

And after that, thank God, things began to get a little better.

"Not really. I bumped into Scott once, in Hail Caesar's, that awful Italian. He was fine, still angry. Apart from that, I try to avoid it. It's a bit like prison -- best not to associate with the old lags. Except you of course."

So why not celebrate with Ian? As he talked, she scrutinised his face and decided that he was definitely more attractive than he used to be; looking at him, she no longer thought of tractors. There was nothing refined or delicate about him; if you were casting a war film, he'd be the plucky Tommy maybe, writing letters to his mum, while Dexter would be -- what? An effete Nazi. Even so, she liked the way he looked at her. Fond, that was the word. Fond and drunk, and she too felt heavy-limbed and sultry and fond of him in return.

"It wasn't that bad, was it? Working there?"

"Well it's two years of my life I'll never get back." Spoken aloud, the observation shocked her but she shrugged it away. "I don't know, I suppose it wasn't a very happy time, that's all."

He poured the last of the wine into her glass. "So do you see any of the old gang?"

"Didn't I? I don't know, maybe." She raised the glass to her lips. "We're here now. Let's change the subject. How's the stand-up career going?"

He smiled ruefully and nudged her knuckles with his. "That why you didn't answer my phone-calls?"

"Oh, alright. I've got this improv gig which is real seat-of-the-pants stuff, really unpredictable. Sometimes I'm just not funny at all! But I suppose that's the joy of improv, isn't it?" Emma wasn't sure that this was true, but nodded just the same. "And I do this Tuesday night gig at Mr Chuckles in Kennington. It's a bit more hard-edged, more topical. Like I do this kind of Bill Hicks thing about advertising? Like the stupid adverts on TV?…"

He slipped into his routine and Emma freeze-framed her smile. It would kill him to say it but in all the time she had known Ian he had caused her to laugh perhaps twice, and one of those was when he fell down the cellar stairs. He was a man with a great sense of humour while at the same time being in no way funny. Unlike Dexter: Dexter had no interest at all in jokes, probably thought that a sense of humour, like a political conscience, was a little embarrassing and un-cool, and yet with Dexter she laughed all the time, hysterically, sometimes, frankly, until she peed a little. On holiday in Greece, they had laughed for ten days straight, once they'd settled that little misunderstanding. Where was Dexter right now? she wondered.

"Your friend Dexter, on that stupid programme."

"Sometimes. You know, if it's on."

"Me and Dex? Most days. I don't see him much though, with his TV commitments, and his girlfriends."

"Well you mustn't take it personally. He's not that good with other men, he doesn't see the point of them."

"And how is he?"

"Oh fine, the usual. Well, a bit nutty to be honest, a bit off the rails. His mother's sick and, well, he's not taking it very well."

Emma flinched, as if she'd been caught out. "Who?"

"No, I remember."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Ian frowned with concern and tried to work out a way of changing the subject. Not callously; he just didn't want a stranger's illness to get in the way of his evening. "Do you speak a lot?"

"Who's he seeing now then?"

"Just never liked him, I suppose."

"No idea. They're like funfair goldfish; no point giving them names, they never last that long." She had used the line before and hoped that Ian might like it, but he was still frowning. "What's that face?"

"I tried."

"Have you been watching him on telly then?" said Ian.

"As a matter of fact, I always thought --"

"What?"

"That he took you a bit for granted. That's all."

Me again! Just checking in. Bit drunk now actually. Bit sentimental. You're a great thing, Emma Morley. Be nice to see you. Call when you get in. What else did I want to say? Nothing, except that you are a great, great thing. So. When you get in. Call me. Give me a call.

"It's a big comprehensive in north London, teaching English and a bit of Drama. Nice school, really mixed, not one of those cushy suburban numbers where it's all yes-miss no-miss. So the kids are a bit of a challenge, but that's alright isn't it? That's what kids are meant to be. I say that now. They'll probably eat me alive, little sods." She rolled the brandy round the glass in a way that she'd seen in films. "I've got this vision of me sitting on the edge of the desk, talking about how Shakespeare was the first rapper or something, and all these kids are just gazing at me with their mouths open just -- hypnotised. I sort of imagine being carried aloft on inspired young shoulders. That's how I'm going to get around the school, the car park, the canteen, everywhere I go I'm going to be on the shoulders of adoring kids. One of those carpe diem teachers."

By the time the second brandies arrived there was no doubting that they were drunk. The whole restaurant seemed drunk, even the silver-haired pianist, clattering sloppily through "I Get a Kick Out of You", his foot pumping the sustain pedal as if someone had cut his brake cable. Forced to raise her voice, Emma could hear it echoing in her head as she spoke with great passion and force about her new career.

"Carpe --?"

"Oh, it's not just you, it's men in general, all of you doing your number all the time. God, what I'd give for someone who just talked and listened!" She was aware of saying too much, but momentum carried her on. "I just can't work out why it's necessary. It's not an audition."

"Sorry, I --"

"Is that what it means? I thought it meant seize the carpet!"

Emma gave a polite hiccough of mirth, which for Ian was like a starting pistol. "That's where I went wrong! Wow, my school days would have been so different if I'd known! All those years, scrambling around on the floor…"

"What?"

"Carpe diem."

Enough of this. "Ian, don't do that," she said sharply.

"Slip into your act. You don't have to, you know." He looked hurt, and she regretted her tone, leaning across the table to take his hand. "I just don't think you have to be observing all the time, or riffing or quipping or punning. It's not improv, Ian, it's just, you know, talking and listening."

"Sorry, what-teachers?"

"You know, seize the day!"

"Not with me. It doesn't have to be."

"Except it sort of is, isn't it?"

"Sorry."

Ian was silent for a moment, and now it was Emma who felt like apologising. She shouldn't speak her thoughts; nothing good ever came of speaking your thoughts. She was about to apologise, when Ian sighed and rested his cheek against his fist. "I think what it is is, if you're at school and you're not that bright or good-looking or popular or whatever, and one day you say something and someone laughs, well, you sort of grab onto it, don't you? You think, well I run funny and I've got this stupid big face and big thighs and no-one fancies me, but at least I can make people laugh. And it's such a nice feeling, making someone laugh, that maybe you get a bit reliant on it. Like, if you're not funny then you're not… anything." He was looking at the tablecloth now, pinching the crumbs into a little pyramid with his fingertips as he said, "Actually I thought you might know what that's like yourself."

"Oh. Okay."

"And don't keep apologising either."

"I don't put on an act."

"That no-one fancied you."

"No, I… so?"

Her first thought was to be offended. No I'm not, she wanted to say, what an absurd idea, but he was smiling at her so -- what was the word -- fondly, and perhaps she had been a little harsh on him. Instead, she shrugged. "I don't believe it anyway."

"So I just think we're quite similar, you and me. Sometimes."

Emma's hand went to her chest. "Me?"

"What?"

"Putting on an act."

"That bit about the funfair goldfish, you've said that before."

She laughed, quite naturally, looked at him and decided that it really wasn't such a bad face after all; not some silly pretty boy's face, just a decent, proper man's face. She knew that after the bill was paid that he would try and kiss her, and this time she would let him.

He spoke in a jokey, nasal voice. "Well, documentary evidence would seem to suggest otherwise."

"I'm here, aren't I?" There was a silence; she really had drunk too much, and now it was her turn to play with the crumbs on the table. "S'matter of fact, I was thinking how much better looking you were these days."

He grasped his belly with both hands. "Well, I've been working out."

"I'll get the bill." He made the little bill-writing sign at the waiter. "It's weird, isn't it, that little mime that everyone does? Whose idea was that, I wonder?"

"Ian?"

They split the bill two ways as promised and on the way out Ian pulled the door open, sharply kicking the bottom so that it gave the illusion of having hit him in the face. "Little bit of physical comedy there…"

"What? Sorry. Sorry."

"We should go," she said.

Outside a heavy curtain of black and purple clouds had formed across the sky. The warm wind had that ferric tang that precedes a storm, and Emma felt pleasantly woozy and brandy-flavoured as they walked north across the piazza. She had always hated Covent Garden, with its Peruvian pipe bands, jugglers and forced fun, but tonight it seemed fine, just as it seemed fine and natural to hang on the arm of this man who was always so nice and interested in her, even if he did carry his jacket slung over his shoulder by that little loop in the collar. Looking up, she saw that he was frowning.

"What's up?" she asked, squeezing his arm with hers.

"Just, you know, feel like I've blown it a bit, that's all. Getting nervous, trying too hard, making daft remarks. Do you know the worst thing about being a stand-up comedian?"

"Is it the clothes?"

"It's that people always expect you to be 'on'. You're always chasing the laugh --"

And partly to change the subject, she put her hands on his shoulders, using his body to brace herself as she stepped up on tip-toe to kiss him. His mouth was damp but warm. "Blackberries and vanilla," she murmured with their lips pressed together, though in truth he tasted of parmesan and booze. She didn't mind. He laughed into the kiss and she stepped down, held his face and looked up at him. He seemed as if he might cry with gratitude and she felt pleased that she'd done it.

"Emma Morley, can I just say --" He gazed down at her with great solemnity. "I think you are absolutely The Bollocks."

"You, with your honeyed words," she said. "Let's get back to your place, shall we? Before it starts to rain."

At street level on the Cally Road, Ian's studio flat was lit only by the sodium of the street lamps and the occasional searchlight of the passing double-decker buses. Several times a minute the whole room vibrated, shaken by one or more of the Piccadilly, Victoria or Northern lines and buses 30, 10, 46, 214 and 390. In terms of public transport it was possibly the greatest flat in London, but only in those terms. Emma could feel the tremors in her back as she lay on the bed that folded into a sofa, her tights some way down her thighs.

"Oh that's nice."

Guess who? Half-eleven now. Where are you, dirty stop-out? Oh well. Call me anytime, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. Bye. Bye.

Ian listened to the tremor. "Eastbound Piccadilly."

"How do you stand it, Ian?"

"You get used to it. Also I've got these --" and he pointed towards two fat maggots of grey wax on the window ledge. "Mouldable wax ear-plugs."

"What was that one?"

"'Cept I forgot to take them out the other day. Thought I had a brain tumour. All got a bit Children-of-a-Lesser-God, if you know what I mean."

Emma laughed, then groaned as another bubble of nausea was released.

He took her hand. "Feeling any better?"

"I told you, only because of the booze. I'm having a lovely time, really I am. I just need to catch my breath. Come here --" She sat to kiss him, but her best bra had rucked up so that the underwiring was digging into her armpit. "Ow, ow, ow!" She hauled it back into place, then slumped forwards with her head between her knees. His hand was rubbing her back now, like a nurse and she felt embarrassed for spoiling everything. "I'd better head off, I think."

"Course not. It's just, you know, you're kissing a girl and she breaks off because she's nauseous…"

"I'm fine as long as I keep my eyes open." She turned to look at him, pushing down the folds of the duvet to see his face and noting a little queasily that the duvet had no cover and was the colour of mushroom soup. The room smelt like a charity shop, the odour of men who live alone. "I think it was the second brandy that did it." He smiled, but the white light from a passing bus swept the room, and she could see that he looked troubled. "Are you angry with me?"

"Oh. Okay. If that's what you want."

She looked at her watch. 11.52 p. m. Beneath her feet a tube train rumbled by, reminding her that she stood in the dead centre of a remarkable transport hub. Five minutes walk to King's Cross, Piccadilly Westbound, home by 12.30 easy. There was rain on the windowpane, but not much.

"Number 30."

They listened to the sound of tyres on the wet street, white light scanning the room.

"Just too much booze --"

"Me too --"

She hauled at her tights, then stood unsteadily and twisted her skirt round. "I've had a lovely time!"

"Me too --"

"I understand. Still. It's a shame."

"I'll go home and sober up --"

"That one?"

But she imagined the walk at the other end, the silence of the empty flat as she fumbled with the keys, her wet clothes sticking to her back. She imagined herself alone in bed, the ceiling spinning, the Tahiti bucking beneath her, nauseous, regretful. Would it really be the worst thing to stay here, to have some warmth, affection, intimacy for a change? Or did she really want to be one of those girls she saw sometimes on the tube: hungover, pale and fretful in last night's party dress? Rain blew against the windows, a little harder this time.

"You could stay over, sleep it off here? Just, you know, cuddles."

"Cuddles, hugs. Or not even that. We could just lie rigid with embarrassment all night if you like."

"… pick up, pick up, pick up. Nearly midnight now. At the stroke of midnight I will turn into a, what, I don't know, an idiot probably. So anyway, if you get this…"

"Because you sound pretty wasted."

"Oh I'm just having a party. Just me. A little private party."

"Cuddles."

"I didn't know you wore contact lenses."

"You're there!"

"I do."

"Just got in. Are you alright, Dexter?"

"Contact lens solution," she said. "I don't have any."

"Want me to walk you to the station?" said Ian, tucking in his t-shirt. "Or maybe --"

"Hello, Dexter."

"What?"

"Hello? Hello?"

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"There you go then -- something else we've got in common." He smiled and she smiled back. "Might even have a spare pair of wax ear-plugs if you're lucky."

"Ian Whitehead. You old smoothie, you."

"Oh, I'm fine."

She smiled, and he smiled back, hopefully.

"You can't just phone up out of the blue and expect me to --"

"I really need to see someone, Naomi."

"I'll be there in half an hour. Stop drinking. Wait for me."

"I know you're there. I can hear you breathing."

"What?"

"Okay."

"I didn't mean walk. Get a cab, I'll pay."

"Emma's out. And not that kind of company. You know what I mean. The fact is, if I don't touch another human being tonight I think I actually might die."

"Actually I just wondered… hold on, I'll turn the music down… if you wanted to come round. There's champagne, there's music, there might even be some drugs. Hello? Hello, are you there?"

"Do you realise that you are saving my life?"

"Turn the music down, will you?"

"I thought we decided this wasn't a good idea."

"Okay?"

"Oh come on, Naomi, please? I need you."

"No!"

"No! It's pouring with rain."

"Did we? Because I think it's a great idea."

"--"

"You could be here in half an hour."

"I said no!"

"So call Emma!"

"Naomi? Naomi, do you realise?"