David Nicholls - One Day

David Nicholls

One Day

ONE DAY

David Nicholls

www.hodder.co.uk

Also by David Nicholls

Starter For Ten

The Understudy

ONE DAY

David Nicholls

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette Livre UK company

Copyright David Nicholls 2009

The right of David Nicholls to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Burning the Days by James Salter 1997, used by permission of International Creative Management.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Ebook ISBN 978 1 848 94396 4
Book ISBN 978 0 34089 696 9

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
An Hachette Livre UK company
338 Euston Road
London NWl 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

To Max and Romy, for when youre older.
And Hannah, as always.

Part One

19881992

Early Twenties

That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it and think how different its course would have been. Pause, you who read this, and think for a long moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on that memorable day.Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

CHAPTER ONE

The Future

FRIDAY 15 JULY 1988

Rankeillor Street, Edinburgh

I suppose the important thing is to make some sort of difference, she said. You know, actually change something.

What, like change the world, you mean?

Not the whole entire world. Just the little bit around you.

They lay in silence for a moment, bodies curled around each other in the single bed, then both began to laugh in low, predawn voices. Cant believe I just said that, she groaned. Sounds a bit corny, doesnt it?

A bit corny.

Im trying to be inspiring! Im trying to lift your grubby soul for the great adventure that lies ahead of you. She turned to face him. Not that you need it. I expect youve got your future nicely mapped out, ta very much. Probably got a little flow-chart somewhere or something.

Hardly.

So whatre you going to do then? Whats the great plan?

Well, my parents are going to pick up my stuff, dump it at theirs, then Ill spend a couple of days in their flat in London, see some friends. Then France

Very nice

Then China maybe, see what thats all about, then maybe onto India, travel around there for a bit

Travelling, she sighed. So predictable.

Whats wrong with travelling?

Avoiding reality more like.

I think reality is over-rated, he said in the hope that this might come across as dark and charismatic.

She sniffed. Salright, I suppose, for those who can afford it. Why not just say Im going on holiday for two years? Its the same thing.

Because travel broadens the mind, he said, rising onto one elbow and kissing her.

Oh I think youre probably a bit too broad-minded as it is, she said, turning her face away, for the moment at least. They settled again on the pillow. Anyway, I didnt mean what are you doing next month, I meant the future-future, when youre, I dont know... She paused, as if conjuring up some fantastical idea, like a fifth dimension.... Forty or something. What do you want to be when youre forty?

Forty? He too seemed to be struggling with the concept. Dont know. Am I allowed to say rich?

Just so, so shallow.

Alright then, famous. He began to nuzzle at her neck. Bit morbid, this, isnt it?

Its not morbid, its... exciting.

Exciting! He was imitating her voice now, her soft Yorkshire accent, trying to make her sound daft. She got this a lot, posh boys doing funny voices, as if there was something unusual and quaint about an accent, and not for the first time she felt a reassuring shiver of dislike for him. She shrugged herself away until her back was pressed against the cool of the wall.

Yes, exciting. Were meant to be excited, arent we? All those possibilities. Its like the Vice-Chancellor said, the doors of opportunity flung wide...

Yours are the names in tomorrows newspapers...

Not very likely.

So, what, are you excited then?

Me? God no, Im crapping myself.

Me too. Christ... He turned suddenly and reached for the cigarettes on the floor by the side of the bed, as if to steady his nerves. Forty years old. Forty. Fucking hell.

Smiling at his anxiety, she decided to make it worse. So whatll you be doing when youre forty?

He lit his cigarette thoughtfully. Well the thing is, Em

Em? Whos Em?

People call you Em. Ive heard them.

Yeah, friends call me Em.

So can I call you Em?

Go on then, Dex .

So Ive given this whole growing old thing some thought and Ive come to the decision that Id like to stay exactly as I am right now.

Dexter Mayhew. She peered up at him through her fringe as he leant against the cheap buttoned vinyl headboard and even without her spectacles on it was clear why he might want to stay exactly this way. Eyes closed, the cigarette glued languidly to his lower lip, the dawn light warming the side of his face through the red filter of the curtains, he had the knack of looking perpetually posed for a photograph. Emma Morley thought handsome a silly, nineteenth-century word, but there really was no other word for it, except perhaps beautiful. He had one of those faces where you were aware of the bones beneath the skin, as if even his bare skull would be attractive. A fine nose, slightly shiny with grease, and dark skin beneath the eyes that looked almost bruised, a badge of honour from all the smoking and late nights spent deliberately losing at strip poker with girls from Bedales. There was something feline about him: eyebrows fine, mouth pouty in a self-conscious way, lips a shade too dark and full, but dry and chapped now, and rouged with Bulgarian red wine. Gratifyingly his hair was terrible, short at the back and sides, but with an awful little quiff at the front. Whatever gel he used had worn off, and now the quiff looked pert and fluffy, like a silly little hat.

Still with his eyes closed, he exhaled smoke through his nose. Clearly he knew he was being looked at because he tucked one hand beneath his armpit, bunching up his pectorals and biceps. Where did the muscles come from? Certainly not sporting activity, unless you counted skinny-dipping and playing pool. Probably it was just the kind of good health that was passed down in the family, along with the stocks and shares and the good furniture. Handsome then, or beautiful even, with his paisley boxer shorts pulled down to his hip bones and somehow here in her single bed in her tiny rented room at the end of four years of college. Handsome! Who do you think you are, Jane Eyre? Grow up. Be sensible. Dont get carried away.

She plucked the cigarette from his mouth. I can imagine you at forty, she said, a hint of malice in her voice. I can picture it right now.

He smiled without opening his eyes. Go on then.

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