Walthamstow and Soho

Portrait In Crimson (A novel)

by Emma T. Wilde

Chapter 1

DCI Penny Something had seen some murder scenes in her time, but never one as as this.

The words glowed in bilious green on the word-processor's screen: the product of a whole morning's work. She sat at the tiny school desk in the tiny back room of the tiny new flat, read the words, then read them again while behind her the immersion heater gurgled in derision.

"Has the body been moved?" she snapped

At weekends, or in the evenings if she could find the energy, Emma wrote. She had made a start on two novels (one set in a gulag, the other in a post-apocalyptic future), a children's picture book, with her own illustrations, about a giraffe with a short neck, a gritty, angry TV drama about social workers called "Tough Shit", a fringe play about the complex emotional lives of twenty-somethings, a fantasy novel for teenagers featuring evil robot teachers, a stream-of-consciousness radio play about a dying Suffragette, a comic strip and a sonnet. None had been completed, not even the fourteen lines of sonnet.

These words on the screen represented her latest project, an attempt at a series of commercial, discreetly feminist crime novels. She had read all of Agatha Christie at eleven years old, and later lots of Chandler and James M. Cain too. There seemed no reason why she shouldn't try writing something in between, but she was discovering once again that reading and writing were not the same -- you couldn't just soak it up then squeeze it out again. She found herself unable to think of a name for her detective, let alone a cohesive original plot, and even her pseudonym was poor: Emma T. Wilde? She wondered if she was doomed to be one of those people who spend their lives trying things. She had tried being in a band, writing plays and children's books, she had tried acting and getting a job in publishing. Perhaps crime fiction was just another failed project to place alongside trapeze, Buddhism and Spanish. She used the computer's word-count feature. Thirty-five words, including the title page and her rotten pseudonym. Emma groaned, released the hydraulic lever on the side of her office chair and sank a little closer to the carpet.

"No thanks, love."

"Nice cup of tea for the lady?" he said, in the voice of a cockney char.

There was a knock on the plywood door. "How are things in the Anne Frank wing?"

That line again. For Ian, a joke was not a single-use item but something you brought out again and again until it fell apart in your hands like a cheap umbrella. When they had first started seeing each other, approximately ninety per cent of what Ian said came under the heading of "humour" in that it involved a pun, a funny voice, some comic intent. Over time she had hoped to get this down to forty per cent, forty being a workable allowance, but nearly two years later the figure stood at seventy-five, and domestic life continued against this tinnitus of mirth. Was it really possible for someone to be "on" for the best part of two years? She had got rid of his black bedsheets, the beer mats, secretly culled his underpants and there were fewer of his famous "Summer Roasts", but even so she was reaching the limits of how much it's possible to change a man.

"Big night, tonight. Out on the town with Mike TV."

Tonight. There it was. Often when Ian was working through his dialects it was because he had something on his mind that couldn't be said in a natural voice.

"Tired, as in sick and --"

"Terrible."

"Emma T. Wilde. Who's Emma T. Wilde?"

"Portrait in Crimson…"

Snootch was a recent development. When pressed to justify himself, Ian had explained that it was because she was just so snootchy, so very, very snootch. There'd been a suggestion that she might reciprocate by calling him skootch; skootch and snootch, snootchy and skootchy, but it hadn't stuck.

"Eggy bread?" Scottish now. "Can ae do you some eggy bread, ma wee snootch?"

She decided to ignore the remark, but he wasn't making it easy. His chin resting on her head, he read the words on the screen.

"My pseudonym. Ian --"

"… wee slice of eggy bread? Line your stomach for tonight?"

"Terrific. Tremendous."

She covered the screen with her hand. "Don't read over my shoulder, please."

"You know what the T stands for?"

He kissed the top of her head, then spoke into her hair. "You know what I think it stands for? 'The' as in 'The Bollocks'. Emma T. B. Wilde."

"Why would you want to read it? It's crap."

"If you ever want me to read it --"

"Nothing you do is crap."

"Well this is." Twisting her head away, she clicked the monitor off and without turning round she knew he'd be doing his hangdog look. All too often this was how she found herself with Ian, switching back and forth between irritation and remorse. "Sorry!" she said, taking his hand by the fingers and shaking it.

With that, he left; a classic technique, compliment and run. Keen not to cave in straightaway, Emma pushed the door to, turned the monitor back on, read the words there, shuddered visibly, closed the file and dragged it to the icon of the wastebasket. An electronic crumpling noise, the sound of writing.

The squeal of the smoke alarm indicated that Ian was cooking. She stood and followed the smell of burning butter down the hall into the kitchen/diner; not a separate room, just the greasiest quarter of the living room of the flat that they had bought together. Emma had been unsure about buying; it felt like the kind of place that the police get called to, she said, but Ian had worn her down. It was crazy to rent, they saw each other most nights anyway, it was near her school, a foot on the ladder etc. and so they had scraped together the deposit and bought some books on interior decoration, including one that told you how to paint plywood so that it looked like fine Italian marble. There had been inspirational talk of putting the fireplace back in, of bookshelves and fitted cupboards and storage solutions. Exposed floorboards! Ian would hire a sander and expose the floorboards as law demanded. On a wet Saturday in February they had lifted the carpet, peered despondently underneath at the mess of mouldering chipboard, disintegrating underlay and old news papers, then guiltily nailed it all back in place as if disposing of a corpse. There was something unpersuasive and impermanent about these attempts at home-making, as if they were children building a den, and despite the fresh paint, the prints on the walls, the new furniture, the flat retained its shabby, temporary air.

"I can see the top of your underpants," she said.

"Not burnt, crispy."

But it was Ian's turn to cave this time. "So. Where's Alpha Boy taking you then?" he said, without turning round.

Nothing, just the sound of food burning.

"Let's call the whole thing off!"

Silence.

She spoke to break the silence. "Isn't that getting a bit burnt?"

"Well it's certainly very provocative."

"Somewhere in Soho, I don't know." In fact she did know, but the restaurant's name was a recent by-word for modish, metropolitan dining and she didn't want to make matters worse. "Ian, if you don't want me to go tonight --"

"I say burnt, you say crispy."

Now Ian stood in the kitchenette in a shaft of smoky sunlight with his broad back towards her. Emma watched him from the doorway, taking in the familiar old grey t-shirt with the holes in, an inch of his underpants visible above his track-suit bottoms, his "tracky botts". She could see the words Calvin Klein against the brown hair on the small of his back and it occurred to her that this was probably not at all what Calvin Klein had in mind.

"Yes, that's deliberate." Lisping, effeminate voice. "It's called fashion, sweetheart."

"And anyway, I've got a gig tonight, haven't I? House of Ha Ha, Putney."

"But if he wasn't?"

"We don't do that --"

"No, we didn't!"

Emma sighed irritably. "If you don't want me to go, just say so."

"Well that's hardly going to happen, is it?"

"He's going out with Suki Meadows."

"Yes, a paid gig!" he snapped. "So I'm fine, thank you very much." He started searching noisily in the cupboard for some brown sauce. "Don't you worry about me."

"A paid gig?"

"If he wasn't it wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference, because I love you."

"You're sure you don't want some eggy bread?"

"No!"

"You did last time!"

"Em, we're not joined at the hip. You go if you want. Enjoy yourself." The sauce bottle wheezed consumptively. "Just don't get off with him, will you?"

"Or if you want to come with us?--"

"No, so you keep saying."

"The two of you bantering and talking over me all night --"

"No, you go, enjoy yourself --"

"What, Harry and Sally and me? Oh, I don't think so, do you?"

"You'd be very welcome."

Still this wasn't enough. Ian said nothing and Emma sighed, crossed the kitchen, her feet sucking on the lino, and looped her arms around his waist, feeling him pull it in as she did so. Pressing her face against his back, she inhaled the familiar warm body smell, kissed the fabric of his t-shirt, mumbled "Stop being daft" and they stood like this for a while, until it became clear that Ian was keen to start eating. "Right. Better mark these essays," she said, and walked away. Twenty-eight numbing opinions on viewpoint in To Kill a Mockingbird.

He hitched himself up onto the kitchen units with the plate on his lap. "Thought we might go to bed, for, you know, a bit of afternoon delight."

"Em?" he said as she reached the door. "What are you doing this afty? Round about seventeen-hundred hours?"

"Should be finished. Why?"

I love him, she thought, I'm just not in love with him and also I don't love him. I've tried, I've strained to love him but I can't. I am building a life with a man I don't love, and I don't know what to do about it.

There were no more mornings, only mornings after.

"Maybe," she said from the doorway. "May-be," and she pouted her lips into a kiss, smiled and closed the door.

The Saturdays after the Late-Night Lock-In were always spent like this, in the stale air, blinds drawn against the sun. Had she still been around, his mother would have been shouting up the stairs for him to get up and do something with the day, but instead he sat smoking on the black leather sofa in last night's underpants, playing Ultimate Doom on the PlayStation and trying not to move his head.

Heart thumping, soaked with sweat, Dexter was woken just after midday by a man bellowing outside, but it turned out to be M People. He had fallen asleep in front of the television again, and was now being urged to search for the hero inside himself.

By mid-afternoon he could feel weekend melancholy creep up on him and so decided to practise his mixing. Something of an amateur DJ, Dexter had a wallful of CDs and rare vinyl in bespoke pine racks, two turntables and a microphone, all tax-deductible, and could often be spotted in record shops in Soho, wearing an immense pair of headphones like halved coconuts. Still in his underpants, he mixed idly back and forth between break-beats on his brand new CD mixing decks in preparation for the next big-night-in with mates. But something was missing, and he soon gave up. "CD's not vinyl," he announced, then realised that he had said this to an entirely empty room.

Melancholy again, he sighed and crossed to the kitchen, moving slowly like a man recovering from surgery. The massive fridge was full to overflowing with bottles of an exciting new brand of upmarket cider. As well as presenting the show ("Car-crash television" they called it, apparently a good thing), he had recently expanded into voiceovers. He was "classless" they said, also apparently a good thing, the exemplar of a new breed of British man: metropolitan, moneyed, not embarrassed by his masculinity, his sex-drive, his liking for cars and big titanium watches and gadgets in brushed steel. So far he had done voiceovers for this premium bottled cider, designed to appeal to a young Ted Baker-wearing crowd, and a new breed of men's razor, an extraordinary sci-fi object with a multitude of blades and a lubricating strip that left a mucal trail, as if someone had sneezed on your chin.

He had even dipped his toe into the world of modelling, a long-standing ambition that he had never dared to voice, and which he was quick to dismiss as "just a bit of a laugh". Only this month he had featured in a fashion spread in a men's magazine, the theme "gangster-chic", and over nine pages he had chewed cigars or lain riddled with bullets in a number of tailored double-breasted suits. Copies of the magazine were accidentally scattered round the flat, so that guests might casually stumble upon it. There was even a copy by the toilet, and he sometimes found himself sitting there and staring at his own photo, dead but beautifully tailored and splayed across the bonnet of a Jag.

Presenting car-crash television was fine for a while, but you could only crash the car so many times. At some point in the future he would have to do something good as opposed to so-bad-it's-good, and in an attempt to acquire some credibility he had set up his own production company, Mayhem TV plc. At the moment Mayhem only existed as a stylish logo on some heavy stationery, but that would surely change. It would have to; as his agent Aaron had said, "You're a great Youth Presenter, Dexy. Trouble is, you're not a Youth." What else might he be capable of, given the breaks? Acting? He knew a lot of actors, both professionally and socially, played poker with a few of them, and frankly if they could do it…

Yes, professionally and socially, the last couple of years had been a time of opportunity, of great new mates, canapés and premieres, helicopter rides and a lot of yammering about football. There had been low points of course: a sense of anxiety and crippling dread, one or two instances of public vomiting. There was something about his presence in a bar or club that made other men want to shout abuse or even hit him, and recently he had been bottled off-stage while introducing a Kula Shaker concert -- that was no fun. In a recent what's hot and what's not column, he had been listed as not-hot. This not-hotness had weighed heavily on his mind, but he tried to dismiss it as envy. Envy was just the tax you paid on success.

There had been other sacrifices on his part. Regretfully he had been obliged to shuffle off some old friends from University, because after all it wasn't 1988 anymore. His old flatmate Callum, the one he was meant to start a business with, continued to leave increasingly sarcastic messages, but Dexter hoped he'd get the idea soon. What were you meant to do, all live in a big house together for the rest of your lives? No, friends were like clothes: fine while they lasted but eventually they wore thin or you grew out of them. With this in mind, he had adopted a three-in, one-out policy. In place of the old friends he had let go, he had taken on thirty, forty, fifty more successful, better-looking friends. It was impossible to argue with the sheer volume of friends, even if he wasn't sure he actually liked all of them. He was famous, no, notorious for his cocktails, his reckless generosity, his DJ-ing and his after-after-show parties back at his flat, and many were the mornings that he had woken in the smoky wreckage to find that his wallet had been stolen.

The afternoon stretched before him. Soon it would be time to call his dealer. There was a party tonight in a huge house off Ladbroke Grove. He had to see Emma for dinner first, but could probably get rid of her by eleven.

Never mind. There had never been a better time to be young, male, successful and British. London was buzzing and he felt as if this was somehow down to him. A VAT-registered man in possession of a modem and a mini-disk player, a famous girlfriend and many, many cufflinks, he owned a fridge full of premium cider and a bathroom full of multi-bladed razors, and though he disliked cider and the razors gave him a rash, life was pretty good here, with the blinds down in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the year, in the middle of the decade, close to the centre of the most exciting city on earth.

Emma lay in the avocado bathtub and heard the front door close as Ian set off on the long journey to the House of Ha Ha in Putney to perform his stand-up act: fifteen unhappy minutes on some differences between cats and dogs. She reached for her glass of wine on the bathroom floor, held it in both hands and frowned at the mixer taps. It was remarkable how quickly the glee of home ownership had faded, how insubstantial and tatty their combined possessions seemed in the small flat with its thin walls and someone else's carpets. It wasn't that the place was dirty -- every single surface had been scrubbed with a wire-brush -- but it retained an unnerving stickiness and a smell of old cardboard that seemed impossible to shift. On their first night, after the front door had closed and the champagne had been opened, she had felt like bursting into tears. It's bound to take time before it feels like our home, Ian had said as he held her in bed that night, and at least they had their foot on the ladder. But the idea of scaling that ladder together, rung by rung over the years, filled her with a terrible gloom. And what was at the top?

Enough of this. Tonight was meant to be a special occasion, a celebration, and she hauled herself from the bathtub, brushed and flossed her teeth until her gums were sore, sprayed herself liberally with an invigorating floral woodiness, then searched her sparse wardrobe for an outfit that didn't make her look like Miss Morley the English teacher on a night out with her famous friend. She decided on some painful shoes and a small black cocktail dress that she had bought while drunk in Karen Millen.

She looked at her watch and, with time to kill, flicked on the television. On a nationwide quest to find Britain's Most Talented Pet, Suki Meadows was standing on Scarborough sea-front, introducing the viewers to a dog who could play the drums, the dog waving his limbs in the direction of a tiny snare, drumsticks gaffer-taped to his paws. Instead of finding this image justly disturbing, Suki Meadows was laughing, bubbling and fizzing away, and for a moment Emma contemplated phoning Dexter, making up an excuse and going back to bed. Because, really, what was the point?

In the hallway she examined herself in the mirror. She had been hoping for understated sophistication, but she felt like a make-over, abandoned halfway through. Recently she had been eating more pepperoni than she had ever thought possible, and there was the result; a little pot belly. Had he been there, Ian would have said that she looked beautiful, but all she saw was the swell of her belly through black satin. She placed her hand on it, closed the front door, and began the long journey from an ex-council flat in E17 to WC2.

It wasn't just the effervescing girlfriend. The fact was Em and Dex didn't get on that well these days. More often than not he would cancel their meetings at the last minute, and when they did see each other he seemed distracted, uncomfortable. They spoke to each other in strange, strangulated voices, and had lost the knack of making each other laugh, jeering at each other instead in a spiteful, mocking tone. Their friendship was like a wilted bunch of flowers that she insisted on topping up with water. Why not let it die instead? It was unrealistic to expect a friendship to last forever, and she had lots of other friends: the old college crowd, her friends from school, and Ian of course. But to whom could she confide about Ian? Not Dexter, not anymore. The dog played the drums and Suki Meadows laughed and laughed and Emma snapped the TV off.

"DID YOU SEE IT?"

"WAHEY!"

"What?"

"THE DOG! PLAYING THE DRUMS! IT WAS AMAZING!"

A hot summer night on Frith Street, and he was on the phone to Suki.

Dexter stood outside Bar Italia, sleek and matt black in shirt and suit, a little trilby-style hat pushed back on his head, the mobile phone held four inches from his ear. He had the sensation that if he hung up he would still be able to hear her.

"… LITTLE DRUMSTICKS ON HIS LITTLE PAWS!"

"It was hysterical," he said, though in truth he couldn't bring himself to watch. Envy was not a comfortable emotion for Dexter, but he knew the whispers -- that Suki was the real talent, that she had been carrying him -- and comforted himself with the notion that Suki's current high profile, large salary and popular appeal were a kind of artistic compromise. Britain's Most Talented Pet? He would never sell out like that. Even if someone asked him to.

"NINE MILLION VIEWERS THEY RECKON THIS WEEK. TEN, MAYBE…"

"Suki, can I just explain something about the telephone? You don't have to shout into it? The phone does that bit for you…"

"They do not damage your brain --"

"Phone the building."

"And if I miss the call?"

He slipped it into his pocket and kissed her cheek. "So you've got a choice, you can either phone me, actually me personally, or you can phone a building in which I might just happen to be at the time --"

"Well, that'll make a change."

"You really should get rid of that," she said, nodding towards the phone.

"Well God forbid you should miss a call."

"It's not 1988 anymore, Em --"

"Besides, they give you brain damage --"

"Never --"

She huffed and hung up on him, and from across the road, Emma took a moment to stand and watch as Dexter swore at the phone in his hand. He still looked great in a suit. It was a shame about the hat but at least he wasn't wearing those ridiculous headphones. She watched his face brighten as he saw her and she felt a swell of affection and hope for the evening.

"Six months, I give you six months before you cave --"

"Okay a bet. If I ever, ever buy a mobile phone I'll buy you dinner."

"Yes, I know that --"

"A bet --"

"Can't believe you're getting at me already," he said sulkily.

"How can you tell?"

"And the shoes!"

"Far too long."

"Thank you. So do you."

She twisted an ankle towards him. "It's the world's first orthopaedic high-heel."

"Well, not beautiful…"

He stepped back. "You look beautiful by the way."

"Thank you." He took her hands and held them out to the side. "You should wear dresses more often, you look almost feminine."

And they stood for a moment in silence, both with a vague sense that the evening had not started well.

They began to walk through the crowds towards Wardour Street, Emma taking his arm then holding the material of his suit between finger and thumb, rubbing at the strange nap of the fabric. "What is this, by the way? Velvet? Velour?"

"Handsome then."

"I like your hat now take it off."

His hand was on her bare neck. "It's been ages."

"Moleskin."

"Well that's my job." She smiled and embraced him, pressing her cheek against his. "I'm not getting at you. Sorry, sorry."

"I had a track-suit in that material once."

"Em and Dex. Like Rogers and Astaire --"

"Mary and Joseph --"

"We're quite a pair, aren't we? Dex and Em --"

Dexter laughed and took her hand and soon they were at the restaurant.

Poseidon was a huge bunker excavated from the remains of an underground car park. Entrance was by way of a vast, theatrical staircase that seemed miraculously suspended above the main room and formed a permanent distraction to the diners below, who spent much of the evening assessing the beauty or fame of the new arrivals. Feeling neither beautiful nor famous, Emma sloped down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other cupping her belly until Dexter took this arm and stopped, surveying the room as proudly as if he were the architect.

"So. What do you think?"

"Burton and Taylor --"

"Club Tropicana," she said.

The interior had been styled to suggest the romance of a luxury liner from the 20s: velvet booths, liveried waiters bearing cocktails, decorative portholes that opened onto a view of nothing, and this lack of natural light gave the place a submarine aspect, as if it had already hit the iceberg and was on its way down. The intended air of inter-war elegance was further undermined by the clamour and ostentation of the room, the pervading atmosphere of youth and sex, money and deep-fat-frying. All the burgundy velvet and pressed peach linen in the world couldn't stifle the tumultuous noise from the open-plan kitchen, a blur of stainless steel and white. So here it is at last, thought Emma: The Eighties.

A sleek handsome man in absurd naval epaulettes told them their table would be ten minutes so they pushed their way to the cocktail lounge where another faux naval man was busy juggling bottles.

"I told you. My treat." He tucked the label into the back of her dress, having glanced at it first, then took her hand and led her down the rest of the stairs with a little Astaire trot, into the heart of all that money, sex and youth.

"What do you want, Em?"

"Are you sure this is okay? It looks quite expensive."

"How do you know all this?"

"Gin and tonic?"

Dexter tutted. "You're not in the Mandela Bar now. You've got to have a proper drink. Two martinis, Bombay Sapphire, very dry, with a twist." Emma made to speak, but Dexter held up an autocratic finger. "Trust me. Best martinis in London."

Obediently she ummed and awwed at the bartender's performance, Dexter commentating throughout. "The trick is to get everything really, really cold before you start. Iced water in the glass, gin in the freezer."

"My mum taught me when I was, what, nine?" They touched glasses, silently toasting Alison, and both felt hope again, for the evening and for their friendship. Emma raised the martini to her lips. "I've never had one of these before." The first taste was delicious, icy and immediately intoxicating, and she tried not to spill it as she shuddered. She was about to thank him when Dexter placed his glass in Emma's hand, a good half of it already gone.

Suddenly a tall woman stood over her in a leopard-skin corset, stockings and suspenders, her appearance so sudden and startling that Emma gave a little yelp as her martini sloshed over her wrist.

"Cigarettes?" The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, voluptuous and barely dressed, like a figure from the fuselage of a B-52, her breasts seeming to recline on a cantilevered tray of cigars and cigarettes. "Would you like anything?" she repeated, smiling through powdery foundation and adjusting with one finger the black velvet choker around her neck.

"Oh, no, I don't smoke," said Emma, as if this were a personal failing she intended to address, but the woman had already redirected her smile over Emma's shoulder, fluttering the sticky black lace of her eyelashes.

"Can't wait!" she said, but he had already gone, and Emma stood alone with two drinks in her hand, attempting to exude an aura of confidence and glamour so as not to look like a waitress.

"Off to the loo. They're incredible here. The best in London."

Dexter smiled, sliding his wallet from the inside of his jacket as he scanned the wares on display below her bosom. With a connoisseur's flourish, he settled on twenty Marlboro Lights, and the Cigarette Girl nodded as if sir had made an excellent choice.

Look at him, the little dear, thought Emma, noticing this little flicker of self-satisfaction. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the boys all wanted to be Che Guevara. Now they all wanted to be Hugh Hefner. With a games console. As the Cigarette Girl wiggled into the crowd, Dexter really looked as if he might try and pat her bottom.

"Cigarettes, sir?"

Dexter handed her a five-pound note folded lengthwise. "Keep the change," he smiled. Was there ever a more empowering phrase than "Keep the change"? He used to feel self-conscious saying it, but not anymore. She gave an extraordinary aphrodisiac smile, and for one callous moment Dexter wished it were the Cigarette Girl, not Emma, who would be joining him for dinner.

"You've got drool on your moleskin."

"If she chooses to wear the outfit, she can wear the outfit!"

"I don't know, Em, maybe her woolly black tights are in the wash." He took his martini and drained it. "Post-feminism, isn't it?"

"So why's she dressed as a prostitute?"

"No-one misses a point quite like you, Dex."

Dexter nodded towards the Cigarette Girl's bottom. "You could look like that if you wanted to."

"Mind like a laser --"

"Pardon?"

"And so would the waiters! And anyway, maybe she likes wearing it, maybe it's fun, maybe she feels sexy in it. That is feminism, isn't it?"

"What was that all about?"

"What I mean is, it's about choice. It's empowering."

Emma looked sceptical. "Oh, is that what we're calling it now?"

"Cigarette Girl," he shrugged, sliding the unopened packet into his pocket. "This place is famous for it. It's glamour, a bit of theatre."

"But if she refused she would be sacked."

"Don't make me out to be some kind of chauvinist, I'm a feminist too!" Emma tutted and rolled her eyes and he was reminded just how annoying and preachy she could be. "I am! I am a feminist!"

"Well, it's not the dictionary definition…"

"… and I will fight to the death, to the death, mind, for the right of a woman to display her breasts for tips."

And now it was his turn to roll his eyes, and give a patronising laugh. "It's not 1988, Em."

"It means don't keep fighting battles that are already lost. The feminist movement should be about equal pay and equal opportunities and civil rights, not deciding what a woman can or can't wear of her own free will on a Saturday night!"

"What does that mean? You keep saying it and I still don't know what it means."

And it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago. They stood on the edge of a long pointless argument that she felt she would win, but which would leave the evening in tatters. Instead, she hid her face in her drink, her teeth biting the glass, and counted slowly before saying: "Let's change the subject."

Her mouth fell open in indignation. "That's not what I --"

"And anyway, I'm buying you dinner! Don't give me a hard time!"

"I'm going to have oysters," said Dexter. "The natives, I think."

But he wasn't listening, gazing over her shoulder instead as the maîtred' beckoned them over. "Come on -- I've managed to get us a banquette."

"What?"

Uncomprehending, Dexter frowned and returned to the menu. "No, they're just sweeter, pearly and sweet and finer than rock oysters, more delicate. I'll get twelve."

They settled into the purple velvet booth and scrutinised the menus in silence. Emma had been expecting something fancy and French, but this was basically expensive canteen food: fishcakes, shepherd's pie, burgers, and she recognised Poseidon as the kind of restaurant where the ketchup comes on a silver salver. "It's Modern British," explained Dexter patiently, as if paying all that money for sausage and mash was very Modern, very British.

"Are they friendly?" said Emma weakly.

"The natives -- are they friendly?" she persevered and thought My God, I'm turning into Ian.

"You're very knowledgeable all of a sudden."

"I love food. I've always loved food and wine."

"Restaurants?"

"What is?"

"Ask me how to make a cocktail, any cocktail you like."

"I remember that tuna stir-fry you cooked me that time. I can still taste it in the back of my throat. Ammonia --"

"Mixology. People go on special courses."

"Mixologist."

"You'd be surprised. Cocktails are very cool now. Sort of a retro glamour thing. In fact --" He put his mouth to the empty martini glass "-- I'm something of a mixologist myself."

"Misogynist?"

"Of course I'd write it myself!" he said, though he had been assured that the column would be heavily ghosted.

"Not cooking, restaurants. I eat out most days now. As a matter of fact I've been asked if I want to review for one of the Sundays."

"What is there to say about cocktails?"

She pressed her chin with her finger. "Okay, um… lager top!"

"I'm serious, Em. It's a real skill."

"I'm sorry, I thought you said 'misogynist'."

"And you'd write it yourself?"

"Cocktail bars. Weekly column called 'Barfly', sort of man-about-town thing."

"Maybe you should have done it for your degree."

He ordered and then was off to the loo again, taking his second martini with him, which Emma found unusual and vaguely unsettling. The minutes stretched. She read the wine label then read it again then stared into space and wondered at what point he had become such a, such a… mixologist? And why was she sounding so spiky, mean and joyless? She didn't care what the Cigarette Girl wore, not really, not that much, so why did she sound so priggish and judgemental? She resolved to relax and enjoy herself. This was Dexter after all, her best friend whom she loved. Didn't she?

The remark was so belligerent and sour that Emma visibly winced, and Dexter seemed a little taken aback too, hiding his face in the wine list. "What do you want: red or white? I'm going to get another martini, then we'll start with a nice biscuity Muscadet for the oysters then go onto something like a Margaux. What d'you think?"

"It would certainly have been more fucking useful."

In London's most amazing toilets, Dexter hunched over the cistern and thought much the same thing. He loved Emma Morley, supposed he did, but more and more resented that air of self-righteousness, of the community centre, the theatre co-op, of 1988. She was so, so… subsidised. It wasn't appropriate, especially not in a setting like this, a place specifically designed to make a man feel like a secret agent. After the grim ideological gulag of a mid-Eighties education, its guilt and bolshy politics, he was finally being allowed to have some fun, and was it really such a bad thing to like a cocktail, a cigarette, a flirtation with a pretty girl?

And the jokes; why was she always getting at him, reminding him of his failings? He hadn't forgotten them. All that stuff about things being "posh" and my-fat-bum and orthopaedic high-heels, the endless, endless self-deprecation. Well God save me from comediennes, he thought, with their put-downs and their smart asides, their insecurities and self-loathing. Why couldn't a woman have a bit of grace and elegance and self-confidence, instead of behaving all the time like some chippy stand-up?

And class! Don't even mention class. He takes her to a great restaurant at his own expense, and on goes the cloth cap! There was a kind of vanity and self-regard in that working-class-hero act that sent him crazy. Why is she still harping on about how she went to a comp, never went abroad on holiday, has never eaten an oyster? She's nearly thirty years old, all that was a long, long time ago, and it's time she took responsibility for her own life. He gave a pound to the Nigerian man who passed him his hand towel, stepped out into the restaurant, saw Emma across the room fiddling with her cutlery in her High Street funeral dress, and he felt a new wave of irritation. In the bar, to his right, he could see the Cigarette Girl, standing alone. She saw him, and smiled, and he decided to make a detour.

"What can I say? I'm like one of those beagles."

She smiled, and he noticed a tiny speck of ruby lipstick on her white front teeth. He wanted very much to hold her chin and wipe it off with his thumb.

"Twenty Marlboro Lights, please."

"What, again?" she laughed, her hand touching his wrist.

She laughed again, and he pictured her in the banquette next to him, his hand under the table on her stockinged thigh. He reached for his wallet. "Actually, I'm going to this party later with my old mate from college over there --" Old mate, he thought, was a nice touch. "-- and I don't want to run out of cigarettes." He handed her a five-pound note, folded crisply lengthwise in two, held between first and second finger. "Keep the change."

"You have lipstick…"

"Where?"

"Can't take me anywhere!" She ran the point of her pink tongue back and forth across her teeth. "Better?" she grinned.

He extended his arm until his finger was two inches from her mouth. "Just. There."

"Much." He smiled and stepped away, then turned back to her.

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.

"Just out of interest," he said, "what time do you finish here tonight?"

"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."

"I'm just saying, he's a nice bloke. Lemon on that?"

Emma felt sea-water dribble down her wrist. "And what's that got to do with anything?"

"Him being a baronet."

"What do you mean?"

"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.

"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."

"She's doing very well, isn't she?"

"Well, we both are," he said, quickly and a little too loud.

"You're very welcome to come along," he said finally, reaching for the Tabasco sauce.

"Oh. Okay."

"Yes, I suppose so. And Suki! Suki will be there."

Clearly she was not invited. "I'll know you," she said weakly.

"Holland Park. Massive great house."

"Isn't she filming in Scarborough?"

"They're driving her back tonight."

Still not sure. Was he inviting her, or excusing himself early? She ate another oyster.

"Am I?"

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.

"She knows what it's like. Being on the telly. She understands."

"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?"

"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 --"

"Dexter -- that is the most romantic thing I've ever heard."

"Go on."

"Tell me about it!" said Emma, but he didn't seem to hear.

"Walthamstow's not Mars, Dex, it's just North East London. It supports human life."

"Yes, she is. How's it going with you two?"

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."

"Oh alright. Bit tricky, you know, being in the public eye all the time…"

He necked another oyster. "She's great, isn't she? Suki."

"I know!"

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.

"If it's awkward for me to come --"

"I do have money, they do pay me."

"Holland Park to Walthamstow though?"

"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.

"How's the King of Comedy?" Since returning from the toilet, Dexter's tone had become even more belligerent and provoking.

"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."

"Co-habiting okay? Flat coming along, is it?"

"Sensational. How's the fish?"

Dexter seemed to have lost his appetite, dissecting the bloody red meat without actually eating it.

"How's your steak?" she asked, eventually.

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.

"Cold."

"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!"

"Ian's great," she said emphatically.

"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.

"It's fine. I'll just eat the chips."

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.

"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.

"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?"

"What? What have I done?" he replied indignantly, eyes snapping back to her.

"You know…"

"I'd like to know. Finish the sentence. "Those who can…""

"It's fine, Dexter," she scowled.

"It's not important." He was starting to look sheepish.

Emma's mouth fell open. Stay calm -- "No, I'm not familiar with it, Dexter. Tell me. What expression?"

"No, seriously, Dexter, tell me."

"I'm sure you are! It's just, well, you know the expression. 'Those who can…'"

"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 am interested! It's just…" He poured himself more wine. "I thought you were meant to be writing some book or something?"

She spoke levelly. "If you're not interested, don't ask."

She spat the words. "And those who teach say go fuck yourself."

He sighed, a glass of wine in his hand, then spoke flatly. "Those who can, do, those who can't, teach…"

"Are you alright there?"

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.

"I will not calm down --"

"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!"

"Alright, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Whatever it is you're angry about, I'm sorry!"

"Don't shout, calm down --"

She turned to him on the stairs, eyes blazing. "What, you don't know?"

"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…"

"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 --"

"Emma, please?"

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.

"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.

"Why are you being like this, Dexter?"

"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."

"I don't want to talk about it, I just want to go home…"

Finally, she spoke, in a quiet voice, her face to the wall.

They were out amongst the crowds on Wardour Street in the fading summer light.

"Let's go somewhere and talk about this."

"That's not true!"

"I'm just being myself!"

She sniffed, once, and looked up at him, through smudged black eyes.

"Go on," he said.

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 --"

"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…"

"And sometimes I get carried away, that's all. If you weren't so… judgemental all the time --"

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."

"I just don't think you're the person I used to know. You're not my friend anymore. That's all."

"Like what?"

"You know what."

"I'm just having fun!"

"Over? What's over?"

Emma shrugged. "Maybe we've grown out of each other."

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."

"Why not?"

"Because we're… us. We're Dex and Em. Aren't we?"

"Yeah, but I didn't mean us…"

"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?"

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?"

"You said yourself, people change, no use getting sentimental about it. Move on, find someone else."

"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."

"Well off you go," she said. "Go to your party. You're rid of me now. You're free."

She sighed, and it was a moment before she spoke. "Like you always want to be somewhere else, with someone else."

"Treated like what?"

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.

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.

"I don't want to talk about it. Not tonight."

"Awful," she murmurs.

"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."

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?"

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, please? Not tonight. Just come here, will you?"

"Why not? Emma, tell me! What did he say? Did you argue?…"

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?"

If Ian feels any glee at this, he doesn't let it into his voice. "Why, what happened?"

She speaks into his chest. "Ian?"

"What?"

"You are a very, very funny man."

"That's part of it, though, isn't it? Everyone gets heckled sometimes."

"Bit of booing."

"Was there heckling?"

"Little bit of heckling."

"Maybe it's not your best material."

She holds the hem of the dress between finger and thumb. "It was a mistake."

"Did you do the cats and dogs stuff?"

"Uh-huh."

"I think you look beautiful."

"I suppose so. I suppose sometimes I just worry…"

"Thanks, Em."

"That I might just be… not very funny."

"Not great."

He rests his head against her and thinks about the small crimson box lined with crumpled silk that contains the engagement ring. For the last two weeks it has been tucked inside a balled-up pair of walking socks, waiting for its moment. Not right now though. In three weeks' time they'll be on the beach in Corfu. He imagines a restaurant overlooking the sea, a full moon, Emma in her summer dress, freshly tanned and smiling, perhaps a bowl of calamari between them. He imagines presenting the ring to her in an amusing way. For some weeks he has been devising different romantic-comedy scenarios in his head -- perhaps dropping it into her wine glass while she's in the loo, or finding it in the mouth of his grilled fish, and complaining to the waiter. Getting it muddled up with the calamari rings, that might work. He might even just give it to her. He tries out the words in his head. Marry Me, Emma Morley. Marry Me.

She curls up against him, her head on his shoulder. "How was the gig?"

"What?

"Love you lots, Em," he says.

"Love you too," says Emma. "Love you too."

The Cigarette Girl sits at the bar on her twenty-minute break, her costume on beneath her jacket, sipping whisky and listening to this man as he talks on and on about his friend, that poor pretty girl who fell down the staircase. They've had some kind of row apparently. The Cigarette Girl tunes in and out of the man's monologue, nodding every now and then and glancing surreptitiously at her watch. It is five minutes to midnight, and she should really get back to work. The hour between twelve and one is the best for tips, the high-water mark of lust and stupidity on the part of the male customers. Five more minutes and she'll go. Poor guy can barely stand up anyway.

She recognises him from that stupid TV programme -- and doesn't he go out with Suki Meadows? -- but can't recall his name. Does anyone watch that show anyway? The man's suit is stained, the pockets bulging with packets of unsmoked cigarettes, there's a sheen of oil on his nose, his breath is bad. What's more, he still hasn't even bothered to ask her real name.

The Cigarette Girl is called Cheryl Thomson. She works most days as a nurse, which is exhausting, but does an occasional shift here too because she went to school with the manager and the tips are incredible if you're prepared to flirt a little. At home in her flat in Kilburn her fiancé is waiting for her. Milo, Italian, 6' 2", once a footballer, now also a nurse. Very good-looking, they're getting married in September.

She would tell all this to the man if he asked, but he doesn't, so at two minutes to midnight on St Swithin's Day, she excuses herself -- got to get back to work, no I can't go to the party, yes I've got your number, hope you and your friend work things out -- and leaves the man alone at the bar, ordering another drink.