‘Number 30.’

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

‘Me too—’

‘Just too much booze—’

‘Me too—’

‘I’ll go home and sober up—’

‘I understand. Still. It’s a shame.’

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.

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.

‘Want me to walk you to the station?’ said Ian, tucking in his t-shirt. ‘Or maybe—’

‘What?’

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

‘“Cuddles”.’

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

She smiled, and he smiled back, hopefully.

‘Contact lens solution,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any.’

‘I do.’

‘I didn’t know you wore contact lenses.’

‘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.’

‘. . 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. .’

‘Hello? Hello?’

‘You’re there!’

‘Hello, Dexter.’

‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’

‘Just got in. Are you alright, Dexter?’

‘Oh, I’m fine.’

‘Because you sound pretty wasted.’

‘Oh I’m just having a party. Just me. A little private party.’

‘Turn the music down, will you?’

‘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?’

‘I thought we decided this wasn’t a good idea.’

‘Did we? Because I think it’s a great idea.’

‘You can’t just phone up out of the blue and expect me to—’

‘Oh come on, Naomi, please? I need you.’

‘No!’

‘You could be here in half an hour.’

‘No! It’s pouring with rain.’

‘I didn’t mean walk. Get a cab, I’ll pay.’

‘I said no!’

‘I really need to see someone, Naomi.’

‘So call Emma!’

‘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.’

‘—’

‘I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour. Stop drinking. Wait for me.’

‘Naomi? Naomi, do you realise?’

‘What?’

‘Do you realise that you are saving my life?’

FRIDAY 15 JULY 1994

Leytonstone and the Isle of Dogs Emma Morley eats well and drinks only in moderation. She gets eight good hours sleep, then wakes promptly and of her own accord at just before six-thirty and drinks a large glass of water — the first 250ml of a daily 1.5 litres, which she pours from the matching glass and carafe set that stands in a shaft of morning sunlight by her double bed.

The clock radio clicks on and she allows herself to lie in bed and listen to the news headlines. The Labour leader John Smith has died, and there’s a report on his memorial service at Westminster Abbey; respectful cross-party tributes, ‘the greatest Prime Minister we never had’, discreet speculation on who will replace him. Once again she reminds herself to look into the possibility of joining the Labour Party, now that her CND membership has long since lapsed.

More of the endless World Cup news forces her out of bed, throwing off the summer duvet, putting on her old thick-rimmed spectacles and sliding into the tiny corridor of space between the bed and the walls. She heads towards the tiny bathroom and opens the door.

‘One minute!!’ She pulls the door closed again, but not fast enough to prevent herself from seeing Ian Whitehead doubled over on the toilet.

‘Why don’t you lock it, Ian?’ she shouts at the door.

‘Sorry!’

Emma turns, pads back to bed and lies there listening grumpily to the farming forecast and, in the background, the flush of a toilet, then another flush, then a honking sound as Ian blows his nose, then another flush. Eventually he appears in the doorway, red-faced and martyred. He is wearing no underwear and a black t-shirt that stops a little above his hips. There isn’t a man in the world that can carry off this look, but even so Emma makes a conscious effort to keep her eyes focussed on his face, as he slowly blows air out through his mouth.

‘Well. That was quite an experience.’

‘Not feeling any better then?’ She removes her spectacles, just to be on the safe side.

‘Not really,’ he pouts, his hands rubbing his stomach. ‘I’ve got an upset tummy now.’ He talks in a low, martyr’s voice and even though Emma thinks Ian is terrific there’s something about the word ‘tummy’ that makes her want to close the door sharply on his face.

‘I told you that bacon was off, but you wouldn’t listen to me—’

‘It’s not that—’

‘Oh no, bacon doesn’t gooff you say. Bacon’s cured.’

‘I think it’s a virus—’

‘Well maybe it’s that bug that’s going round. They’ve all got it at school, maybe I gave it to you.’

He doesn’t contradict her. ‘Been up all night. Feel rotten.’

‘I know you do, sweetheart.’

‘Diarrhoea on top of catarrh—’

‘It’s a winning combination. Like moonlight and music.’

‘And I hate having summer colds.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ says Emma, sitting up.

‘I reckon it’s gastric flu,’ he says, relishing the pairing of words.

‘Sounds like gastric flu.’

‘I feel so. .’ Fists clenched, he searches for the word that sums up the injustice of it all. ‘So — bunged up! I can’t go to work like this.’

‘So don’t.’

‘But I’ve got to go.’

‘So go.’

‘I can’t, can I? It feels like I’ve got two pints of mucus right here.’ He spreads his hand across the width of his forehead. ‘Two pints of thick phlegm.’

‘Well there’s an image to carry me through the day.’

‘Sorry, but that’s how I feel.’ He squeezes round the edge of the bed to his side, and with another martyred sigh, climbs beneath the duvet.

She gathers herself before standing. Today is a big day for Emma Morley, a monumental day, and she can do without this. Tonight is the premiere of Cromwell Road Comprehensive School’s production of Oliver!and the potential for disaster is almost infinite.

It’s a big day for Dexter Mayhew too. He lies in a tangle of damp sheets, eyes wide, and imagines all of the things that might go wrong. Tonight he is appearing on live national television in his very own TV show. A vehicle. It’s a vehicle for his talents, and he is suddenly not sure that he possesses any.

The previous evening he went to bed early like a small boy, alone and sober while it was still light outside in the hope of being fresh-faced and quick-witted this morning. But he has been awake for seven of the nine hours now, and is exhausted and nauseous with anxiety. The phone rings and he sits up sharply and listens to his own voice on the answering machine. ‘So — talk to me!’ the voice says, urbane and confident, and he thinks Idiot. Must change message.