‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘I think I’d notice, Tilly.’
‘Awww! I’m sorry. Well get one! QUICK!!!! No seriously, boyfriends are great! Husbands are better! We must find you one!’ she commanded. ‘Tonight! We’ll fix you up!’ and Emma felt her head being verbally patted. ‘Awwwww. So! Have you seen Dexter yet?’
‘Briefly.’
‘Have you met his girlfriend? With the hairy forehead? Isn’t she beautiful? Just like Audrey Hepburn. Or is it Katharine? I can never remember the difference.’
‘Audrey. She’s definitely an Audrey.’
The champagne flowed on and a sense of nostalgia spread across the Great Lawn as old friends met and conversation turned into how much people earned now, how much weight they had gained.
‘Sandwiches. That’s the future,’ said Callum O’Neill, who was both earning and weighing a great deal more these days. ‘High-quality, ethically-minded convenience food, that’s where it’s at my friend. Food is the new rock and roll!’
‘I thought that comedy was the new rock and roll.’
‘It was, then it was rock and roll, now it’s food. Keep up, Dex!’ Dexter’s old flatmate had transformed almost beyond recognition in the last few years. Prosperous, large and dynamic, he had moved on from refurbished computers, selling the business at a vast profit to start up the ‘Natural Stuff’ sandwich chain. Now, with his trim little goatee and close-cropped hair, he was the very model of the well-groomed, self-assured young entrepreneur. Callum tugged on the cuffs of an exquisite tailored suit and Dexter found himself wondering if this could really be the same skinny Irishman who wore the same trousers every day for three years.
‘Everything’s organic, everything’s made fresh, we do juices and smoothies to order, we do fair-trade coffee. We’ve got four branches, and they’re full all the time, seriously, constantly. We have to close at three o’clock, there’s just no food left. I tell you, Dex, the food culture in this country, it’s changing, people want things to be better. No-one wants a can of Tango and a packet of crisps anymore. They want hummus wraps, papaya juice, crayfish. .’
‘Crayfish?’
‘In flatbread, with rocket. Seriously, crayfish is the egg sandwich of our time, rocket’s the iceberg lettuce. Crayfish are cheap to produce, they breed like you wouldn’t believe, they’re delicious, the poor man’s lobster! Hey, you should come and have a talk to me about it sometime.’
‘About crayfish.’
‘About the business. I think there could be a lot of opportunities for you.’
Dexter dug at the lawn with his heel. ‘Callum, are you offering me a job?’
‘No, I’m just saying, come in and—’
‘I can’t believe a friend of mine is offering me a job.’
‘—come and have lunch! None of that crayfish crap either, a proper restaurant. My treat.’ He draped a large arm over Dexter’s shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, ‘I haven’t seen you much on TV these days.’
‘That’s because you don’t watch cable and satellite. I do a lot of work on cable and satellite.’
‘Like?’
‘Well I’m doing this new show called Sport Xtreme. Xtreme with an X. Surfing footage, interviews with snow-boarders. You know. From all around the world.’
‘So you’re travelling a lot then?’
‘I just present the footage. The studio’s in Morden. So yes, I do travel a lot, but only to Morden.’
‘Well, like I said, if you ever felt like a change in career. You know a bit about food and drink, you can get on with people if you put your mind to it. Business ispeople. I just think it might be for you. That’s all.’
Dexter sighed through his nose, looked up at his old friend and tried to dislike him. ‘Cal, you wore the same pair of trousers every day for three years.’
‘Long time ago now.’
‘For a whole term you ate nothing but tinned mince.’
‘What can I say — people change! So what do you think?’
‘Alright then. You can buy me lunch. But I warn you, I know nothing about business.’
‘That’s alright. It’ll be nice to catch up anyway.’ Half admonishingly, he tapped Dexter’s elbow. ‘You went very quiet on me for a while.’
‘Did I? I was busy.’
‘Not that busy.’
‘Hey, you could have called me too!’
‘I did, often. You never returned my calls.’
‘Didn’t I? Sorry. I had things on my mind.’
‘I heard about your mum.’ He looked into his glass. ‘Sorry about that. Lovely lady, your mum.’
‘S’alright. Long time ago now.’
There was a moment’s silence, comfortable and affectionate, as they looked around the lawn at old friends talking and laughing in the late afternoon sun. Nearby, Callum’s latest girlfriend, a tiny, striking Spanish girl, a dancer in hip-hop videos, was speaking to Sylvie who stooped down to hear her.
‘It’ll be nice to talk to Luiza again,’ said Dexter.
‘I shouldn’t get too attached.’ Callum shrugged. ‘I think Luiza’s on the way out.’
‘Some things don’t change then.’ A pretty waitress, self-conscious in a mobcap, arrived to top up their glasses. They both grinned at her, caught each other grinning, and tapped their glasses together.
‘Eleven years since we left.’ Dexter shook his head, incredulous. ‘Eleven years. How the fuck did that happen?’
‘I see Emma Morley’s here,’ said Callum, out of nowhere.
‘I know.’ They glanced over and saw that she was talking to Miffy Buchanan, an old arch-enemy. Even at a distance, they could tell Emma’s teeth were gritted.
‘I’d heard you and Em fell out.’
‘We did.’
‘But you’re alright now?’
‘Not sure. We’ll see.’
‘Great girl, Emma.’
‘She is.’
‘Quite a beauty these days.’
‘She is, she is.’
‘Did you ever. .?’
‘No. Nearly. Once or twice.’
‘Nearly?’ sniffs Callum. ‘What does thatmean?’
Dexter changed the subject. ‘But you’re alright, yeah?’
Callum took a sip of champagne. ‘Dex, I’m thirty-four. I’ve got a beautiful girlfriend, my own house, my own business, I work hard at something I enjoy, I make enough money.’ He placed his hand on Dexter’s shoulder. ‘And you, you’ve got a show on late-night TV! Life’s been good for all of us.’
And partly from wounded pride, partly from a revived sense of competition, Dexter decided to tell him.
‘So — do you want to hear something funny?’
Emma heard Callum O’Neill whoop from the other side of the Great Lawn and glanced across in time to see him holding Dexter in a head-lock, rubbing his knuckles on Dexter’s scalp. She smiled then turned her full attention back to hating Miffy Buchanan.
‘So I heard you were unemployed,’ she was saying.
‘Well I prefer to think of myself as self-employed.’
‘As a writer?’
‘Just for a year or two, a Sabbatical.’
‘But you haven’t actually had anything published?’
‘Not as yet. Though I have actually been paid a small advance to—’
‘Hm,’ said Miffy, sceptically. ‘Harriet Bowen has had three novels published now.’
‘Yes, I’ve been made aware of that. Several times.’
‘ Andshe’s got three kids.’
‘Well. There you go.’
‘Have you seen my two?’ Nearby two immense toddlers in three-piece suits were rubbing canapés into each other’s faces. ‘IVAN. NO BITING.’
‘They’re lovely boys.’
‘Aren’t they? So have you had any kidsyet?’ said Miffy, as if it was an either/or situation, novels or kids.
‘Nope—’
‘Seeing anyone?’
‘Nope—’
‘No-one?’
‘Nope—’
‘Anyone on the horizon?’
‘Nope—’
‘Even so, you look much better than you did.’ Miffy looked her up and down appraisingly, as if contemplating buying her at auction. ‘You’re actually one of the few people here who’s actually lostsome weight! I mean you were never massively fator anything, just puppy-fat, but it’s fallen off you!’
Emma felt her hand tighten around the champagne glass. ‘Well it’s good to know the last eleven years haven’t been wasted.’
