Rattling on like a . . . mad old cow. I‘m sorry, I‘m tired, bad day, and I‘m sorry for being so . . . boring.‘

You‘re not that boring.‘

I am, Dex. God, I swear, I bore myself.‘

Well you don‘t bore me.‘ He took her hand in his. You could never bore me. You‘re one in a million, Em.‘

I‘m not even one in three.‘

He kicked her foot with his. Em?‘

What?‘

Just take it, will you? Just shut up and take it.‘

They regarded each other for a moment. He lay down once  more, and after a moment she followed  and  jumped  a  little  when  she  found  out  that  he  had  slid  his  arm  beneath  her shoulders. There was a self-conscious moment of mutual discomfort before she turned onto her side and curled towards him. Tightening his arm  around her, he spoke into the top of her head.

You know what I can‘t understand? You have all these people telling you all the time how  great  you  are,  smart  and  funny  and  talented  and  all  that,  I  mean  endlessly,  I‘ve  been telling you for years. So why don‘t you believe it? Why do you think people say that stuff, Em? Do you think it‘s a conspiracy, people secretly ganging up to be nice about you?‘

She pressed her head against his shoulder to make him stop or else she felt she might cry. You‘re nice. But I should go.‘

No, stay a bit longer. We‘ll get another bottle.‘ 

 

Isn‘t Naomi waiting for you somewhere? Her little mouth crammed full of drugs like a little druggy hamster.‘ She puffed out her cheeks and Dexter laughed, and she began to feel a little better.

They stayed there for a while, then walked down to the off-licence and back up the hill to see the sun set over the city, drinking wine and eating nothing but a large bag of expensive crisps. Strange animal cries could be heard from Regents Park Zoo, and  finally they were the last people on the hill.

I should get home,‘ she said, standing woozily.

You could stay at mine if you wanted.‘

She thought of the journey home, the Northern Line, the top deck of the N38 bus, then the long perilous walk to the flat that smelt unaccountably of fried onions. When she finally got home  the  central  heating  would  probably  be  on  and  Tilly  Killick  would  be  there  with  her dressing-gown hanging open, clinging to the radiators like a gecko and eating pesto out of the jar.  There  would  be  teeth  marks  in  the  Irish  Cheddar  and  thirty something  on  TV,  and  she didn‘t want to go.