One Day by David Nicholls Page B

to understand the point of travel; she had never felt so far away from the launderette, the top deck of the night bus home, Tilly’s box room. It was as if the air was somehow different here; not just how it tasted and smelt, but the element itself. In London the air was something you peered through, like a neglected fish tank. Here everything was bright and sharp, clean and clear.
    She heard the snap of a camera shutter and turned in time to see Dexter take her photo again. ‘I look terrible,’ she said as a reflex, though perhaps she didn’t. He joined her, his arms holding the rail on either side of her waist.
    ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
    ‘S’alright,’ she said, unable to recall a time when she had felt happier.
    They disembarked – the first time she felt that she had ever
disembarked –
and immediately found a flurry of activity on the quayside as the casual travellers and backpackers began the scramble for the best accommodation.
    ‘So what happens now?’
    ‘I’ll find us somewhere. You wait in that café, I’ll come and get you.’
    ‘Somewhere with a balcony—’
    ‘Yes, ma’am.’
    ‘And a sea view please. And a desk.’
    ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ and, sandals slapping, he strolled towards the crowd on the quay.
    She shouted after him: ‘And don’t forget!’
    He turned and looked at her, standing on the harbour wall, holding her wide-brimmed hat to her head in the warm breeze that pressed her light blue dress against her body. She no longer wore spectacles, and there was a scattering of freckles acrossher chest that he had never seen before, the bare skin turning from pink to brown as it disappeared below the neckline.
    ‘The Rules,’ she said.
    ‘What about them?’
    ‘We need
two
rooms. Yes?’
    ‘Absolutely. Two rooms.’
    He smiled and headed off into the crowd. Emma watched him go, then dragged the two backpacks along the quay to a small, wind-blown café. There she reached into her bag and pulled out a pen and notebook, an expensive, cloth-bound affair, her journal for the trip.
    She opened it on the first blank page and tried to think of something she could write, some insight or observation other than that everything was fine. Everything was fine, and she had the rare, new sensation of being exactly where she wanted to be.
    Dexter and the landlady stood in the middle of the bare room: whitewashed walls and cool stone floor, bare save for an immense iron-framed double bed, a small writing desk and chair and some dried flowers in a jar. He walked through louvred double-doors onto a large balcony painted to match the colour of the sky, overlooking the bay below. It was like walking out onto some fantastic stage.
    ‘You are how many?’ asked the landlady, mid-thirties, quite attractive.
    ‘Two of us.’
    ‘And for how long?’
    ‘Not sure, five nights, maybe more?’
    ‘Well here is perfect I think?’
    Dexter sat on the double bed, bouncing on it speculatively. ‘But my friend and I we are just, well, just good friends. We need two rooms?’
    ‘Oh. Okay. I have second room.’
    Emma has these freckles that I’ve never seen before scattered across her chest just above the neckline
.
    ‘So you do have two rooms?’
    ‘Yes, of course, I have two rooms.’
    ‘There’s good news and there’s bad news.’
    ‘Go on,’ said Emma, closing her notebook.
    ‘Well I’ve found this fantastic place, sea view, balcony, a bit higher up in the village, quiet if you want to write, there’s even a little desk, and it’s free for the next five days, longer if we want it.’
    ‘And the bad news?’
    ‘There’s only one bed.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Really?’ she said, suspiciously. ‘One bedroom on the whole island?’
    ‘It’s peak season, Em! I’ve tried everywhere!’
Stay calm, don’t get shrill. Maybe play the guilt card instead
. ‘But if you want me to carry on looking …’ Wearily he made to get up from the chair.
    She put her