expression now, replacing his sunglasses and returning to his book.
Emma watched this performance, amused; the straining for nonchalance, the slight flare of the nostrils, the smile that flickered at the corners of his mouth. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead.
‘It’s not going to change you, is it?’
‘What?’
‘Being very, very, very, very slightly famous.’
‘I hate that word. “Famous”.’
‘Oh and what would you prefer? “Well known”.’
‘How about “notorious”?’ he grinned.
‘Or “annoying”? How about “annoying”?’
‘Leave it out, will ya?’
‘And you can drop that now, please?’
‘What?’
‘The cockney accent. You went to Winchester College for Christ’s sake.’
‘I don’t do a cockney accent.’
‘When you’re being Mr TV you do. You sound like you’ve left your whelk stall to go and do this ’ere fancy telly programme.’
‘You’ve got a Yorkshire accent!’
‘Because I’m
from
Yorkshire!’
Dexter shrugged. ‘I’ve got to talk like that, otherwise it alienates the audience.’
‘And what if it alienates me?’
‘I’m sure it does, but you’re not one of the two million people who watch my show.’
‘Oh,
your
show is it now?’
‘The TV show on which I feature.’
She laughed and went back to her book. After a while Dexter spoke again.
‘Well, do you?’
‘What?’
‘Watch me? On
largin’ it?’
‘I might have had it on. In the background once or twice, while I’m balancing my cheque-book.’
‘And what do you think?’
She sighed and fixed her eyes on the book. ‘It’s not my thing, Dex.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I don’t know about TV …’
‘Just say what you think.’
‘Okay, well I think the programme is like being screamed at for an hour by a drunk with a strobe-light, but like I said—’
‘Alright, point taken.’ He glanced at his book, then back at Emma. ‘And what about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘Well – am I any good? As a presenter?’
She removed her sunglasses. ‘Dexter, you are possibly the greatest presenter of Youth TV that this country has ever known, and I don’t say that kind of thing lightly.’
Proudly, he raised himself onto one elbow. ‘Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a journalist.’
Emma smiled and turned a page. ‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Because that’s what it is, journalism. I have to research, shape the interview, ask the right questions—’
She held her chin between finger and thumb. ‘Yes, yes, I believe I saw your in-depth piece on MC Hammer. Very sharp, very provoking—’
‘Shut up, Em—’
‘No, seriously, the way you got under MC’s skin, his musical inspirations, the trousers. It was, well – untouchable.’
He swatted at her with his book. ‘Shut up and read, will you?’ He lay back down and closed his eyes. Emma glanced over to check that he was smiling, and smiled too.
Mid-morning approached and while Dexter slept, Emma caught her first sight of their destination: a blue-grey granite mass rising from the clearest sea that she had ever seen. She had always assumed that water like this was a lie told by brochures, a trick with lenses and filters, but there it was, sparkling and emerald green. At first glance the island seemed unpopulated except for the huddle of houses spreading up from the harbour, buildings the colour of coconut ice. She found herself laughing quietly at the sight of it. Until now travel had always been a fraught affair. Each year until she was sixteen, it had been two weeks fighting with her sister in a caravan in Filey while her parents drank steadily and looked out at the rain, a sort of harsh experiment in the limits of human proximity. At University she had gone camping in the Cairngormswith Tilly Killick, six days in a tent that smelt of cup-a-soup; a larky, so-awful-it’s-funny holiday that had ended up just awful.
Now, standing at the railing as the town came into clearer view, she began
Emma watched this performance, amused; the straining for nonchalance, the slight flare of the nostrils, the smile that flickered at the corners of his mouth. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead.
‘It’s not going to change you, is it?’
‘What?’
‘Being very, very, very, very slightly famous.’
‘I hate that word. “Famous”.’
‘Oh and what would you prefer? “Well known”.’
‘How about “notorious”?’ he grinned.
‘Or “annoying”? How about “annoying”?’
‘Leave it out, will ya?’
‘And you can drop that now, please?’
‘What?’
‘The cockney accent. You went to Winchester College for Christ’s sake.’
‘I don’t do a cockney accent.’
‘When you’re being Mr TV you do. You sound like you’ve left your whelk stall to go and do this ’ere fancy telly programme.’
‘You’ve got a Yorkshire accent!’
‘Because I’m
from
Yorkshire!’
Dexter shrugged. ‘I’ve got to talk like that, otherwise it alienates the audience.’
‘And what if it alienates me?’
‘I’m sure it does, but you’re not one of the two million people who watch my show.’
‘Oh,
your
show is it now?’
‘The TV show on which I feature.’
She laughed and went back to her book. After a while Dexter spoke again.
‘Well, do you?’
‘What?’
‘Watch me? On
largin’ it?’
‘I might have had it on. In the background once or twice, while I’m balancing my cheque-book.’
‘And what do you think?’
She sighed and fixed her eyes on the book. ‘It’s not my thing, Dex.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I don’t know about TV …’
‘Just say what you think.’
‘Okay, well I think the programme is like being screamed at for an hour by a drunk with a strobe-light, but like I said—’
‘Alright, point taken.’ He glanced at his book, then back at Emma. ‘And what about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘Well – am I any good? As a presenter?’
She removed her sunglasses. ‘Dexter, you are possibly the greatest presenter of Youth TV that this country has ever known, and I don’t say that kind of thing lightly.’
Proudly, he raised himself onto one elbow. ‘Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a journalist.’
Emma smiled and turned a page. ‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Because that’s what it is, journalism. I have to research, shape the interview, ask the right questions—’
She held her chin between finger and thumb. ‘Yes, yes, I believe I saw your in-depth piece on MC Hammer. Very sharp, very provoking—’
‘Shut up, Em—’
‘No, seriously, the way you got under MC’s skin, his musical inspirations, the trousers. It was, well – untouchable.’
He swatted at her with his book. ‘Shut up and read, will you?’ He lay back down and closed his eyes. Emma glanced over to check that he was smiling, and smiled too.
Mid-morning approached and while Dexter slept, Emma caught her first sight of their destination: a blue-grey granite mass rising from the clearest sea that she had ever seen. She had always assumed that water like this was a lie told by brochures, a trick with lenses and filters, but there it was, sparkling and emerald green. At first glance the island seemed unpopulated except for the huddle of houses spreading up from the harbour, buildings the colour of coconut ice. She found herself laughing quietly at the sight of it. Until now travel had always been a fraught affair. Each year until she was sixteen, it had been two weeks fighting with her sister in a caravan in Filey while her parents drank steadily and looked out at the rain, a sort of harsh experiment in the limits of human proximity. At University she had gone camping in the Cairngormswith Tilly Killick, six days in a tent that smelt of cup-a-soup; a larky, so-awful-it’s-funny holiday that had ended up just awful.
Now, standing at the railing as the town came into clearer view, she began
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