''I can imagine you at forty,'' she said, with malice in her
voice. ''I can picture it right now.'' He smiled without opening his
eyes. ''Go on then.'' 15th July 1988. Emma and Dexter meet for the
first time on the night of their graduation. Tomorrow they must go
their separate ways. So where will they be on this one day next
year? And the year after that? And every year that follows? Twenty
years, two people, ONE DAY. From the author of the massive
bestseller STARTER FOR TEN.
關於作者：
David Nicholls trained as an actor before making the switch to
writing. His TV credits include the third series of Cold Feet,
Rescue Me, and I Saw You. He was co-writer for the film adaptation
of Simpatico, which starred Nick Nolte, Jeff Bridges and Sharon
Stone. David''s bestselling first novel, STARTER FOR TEN, was
selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club in 2004, and David has
written the screenplays for film versions of both STARTER FOR TEN
released in 2006, starring James McAvoy and THE UNDERSTUDY not
yet released. Also, for BBC TV, David wrote a modern version of
Much Ado About Nothing and recently adapted Tess of the
D''Urbervilles. He is currently working on an adaptation of Far From
The Madding Crowd.
內容試閱：
CHAPTER ONE
''THE FUTURE''
Friday 15TH July 1988
Rankeillor Street, Edinburgh
''I suppose the important thing is to make some sort of difference,''
she said. ''You know, actually change something.''
''What, like "change the world", you
mean?''
''Not the whole entire world. Just the
little bit around you.''
They lay in silence for a moment, bodies
curled around each other in the single bed, then both began to
laugh in low, pre-dawn voices. ''Can''t believe I just said that,''
she groaned. ''Sounds a bit corny, doesn''t it?''
''A bit corny.''
''I''m trying to be inspiring! I''m trying to
lift your grubby soul for the great adventure that lies ahead of
you.'' She turned to face him. ''Not that you need it. I expect
you''ve got your future nicely mapped out, ta very much. Probably
got a little flow-chart somewhere or something.''
''Hardly.''
''So what''re you going to do then? What''s
the great plan?''
''Well, my parents are going to pick up my
stuff, dump it at theirs, then I''ll spend a couple of days in their
flat in London, see some friends. Then France-''
''Very nice-''
''Then China maybe, see what that''s all
about, then maybe onto India, travel around there for a bit-''
''Traveling,'' she sighed. ''So
predictable.''
''What''s wrong with travelling?''
''Avoiding reality more like.''
''I think reality is over-rated,'' he said
in the hope that this might come across as dark and
charismatic.
She sniffed. ''S''alright, I suppose, for
those who can afford it. Why not just say "I''m going on holiday for
two years"? It''s the same thing.''
''Because travel broadens the mind,'' he
said, rising onto one elbow and kissing her.
''Oh I think you''re probably a bit too
broad-minded as it is,'' she said, turning her face away, for the
moment at least. They settled again on the pillow. ''Anyway, I
didn''t mean what are you doing next month, I meant the
future-future, when you''re, I don''t know...'' She paused, as if
conjuring up some fantastical idea, like a fifth dimension.
''...Forty or something. What do you want to be when you''re
forty?''
''Forty?'' He too seemed to be struggling
with the concept. ''Don''t know. Am I allowed to say "rich"?''
''Just so, so shallow.''
''Alright then, "famous".'' He began to
nuzzle at her neck. ''Bit morbid, this, isn''t it?''
''It''s not morbid, it''s...exciting.''
'' ''Exciting!'' '' He was imitating her voice
now, her soft Yorkshire accent, trying to make her sound daft. She
got this a lot, posh boys doing funny voices, as if there was
something unusual and quaint about an accent, and not for the first
time she felt a reassuring shiver of dislike for him. She shrugged
herself away until her back was pressed against the cool of the
wall.
''Yes, exciting. We''re meant to be excited,
aren''t we? All those possibilities. It''s like the Vice-Chancellor
said, "the doors of opportunity flung wide..."''
''"Yours are the names in tomorrow''s
newspapers..."''
''Not very likely.''
''So, what, are you excited then?''
''Me? God no, I''m crapping myself.''
''Me too. Christ...'' He turned suddenly and
reached for the cigarettes on the floor by the side of the bed, as
if to steady his nerves. ''Forty years old. Forty. Fucking
hell.''
Smiling at his anxiety, she decided to
make it worse. ''So what''ll you be doing when you''re forty?''
He lit his cigarette thoughtfully. ''Well
the thing is, Em-''
''"Em"? Who''s "Em"?''
''People call you Em. I''ve heard
them.''
''Yeah, friends call me Em.''
''So can I call you Em?''
''Go on then, Dex.''
''So I''ve given this whole "growing old"
thing some thought and I''ve come to the decision that I''d like to
stay exactly as I am right now.''
Dexter Mayhew. She peered up at him
through her fringe as he leant against the cheap buttoned vinyl
headboard and even without her spectacles on it was clear why he
might want to stay exactly this way. Eyes closed, the cigarette
glued languidly to his lower lip, the dawn light warming the side
of his face through the red filter of the curtains, he had the
knack of looking perpetually posed for a photograph. Emma Morley
thought ''handsome'' a silly, nineteenth-century word, but there
really was no other word for it, except perhaps ''beautiful''. He had
one of those faces where you were aware of the bones beneath the
skin, as if even his bare skull would be attractive. A fine nose,
slightly shiny with grease, and dark skin beneath the eyes that
looked almost bruised, a badge of honour from all the smoking and
late nights spent deliberately losing at strip poker with girls
from Bedales. There was something feline about him: eyebrows fine,
mouth pouty in a self-conscious way, lips a shade too dark and
full, but dry and chapped now, and rouged with Bulgarian red wine.
Gratifyingly his hair was terrible, short at the back and sides,
but with an awful little quiff at the front. Whatever gel he used
had worn off, and now the quiff looked pert and fluffy, like a
silly little hat.
Still with his eyes closed, he exhaled
smoke through his nose. Clearly he knew he was being looked at
because he tucked one hand beneath his armpit, bunching up his
pectorals and biceps. Where did the muscles come from? Certainly
not sporting activity, unless you counted skinny- dipping and
playing pool. Probably it was just the kind of good health that was
passed down in the family, along with the stocks and shares and the
good furniture. Handsome then, or beautiful even, with his paisley
boxer shorts pulled down to his hip bones and somehow here in her
single bed in her tiny rented room at the end of four years of
college. ''Handsome''! Who do you think you are, Jane Eyre? Grow up.
Be sensible. Don''t get carried away.
She plucked the cigarette from his mouth.
''I can imagine you at forty,'' she said, a hint of malice in her
voice. ''I can picture it right now.''
He smiled without opening his eyes. ''Go on
then.''
''Alright-'' She shuffled up the bed, the
duvet tucked beneath her armpits. ''You''re in this sports car with
the roof down in Kensington or Chelsea or one of those places and
the amazing thing about this car is it''s silent, ''cause all the
cars''ll be silent in, I don''t know, what - 2006?''
He scrunched his eyes to do the sum.
''2004-''
''And this car is hovering six inches off
the ground down the King''s Road and you''ve got this little paunch
tucked under the leather steering wheel like a little pillow and
those backless gloves on, thinning hair and no chin. You''re a big
man in a small car with a tan like a basted turkey-''
''So shall we change the subject
then?''
''And there''s this woman next to you in
sunglasses, your third, no, fourth wife, very beautiful, a model,
no, an ex-model, twenty-three, you met her while she was draped on
the bonnet of a car at a motor- show in Nice or something, and
she''s stunning and thick as shit-''
''Well that''s nice. Any kids?''
''No kids, just three divorces, and
it''s a Friday in July and you''re heading off to some house in the
country and in the tiny boot of your hover car are tennis racquets
and croquet mallets and a hamper full of fine wines and South
African grapes and poor little quails and asparagus and the wind''s
in your widow''s peak and you''re feeling very, very pleased with
yourself and wife number three, four, whatever, smiles at you with
about two hundred shiny white teeth and you smile back and try not
to think about the fact that you have nothing, absolutely nothing,
to say to each other.''
She came to an abrupt halt. You
sound insane, she told herself. Do try not to sound insane. ''Course
if it''s any consolation we''ll all be dead in a nuclear war long
before then!'' she said brightly, but still he was frowning at
her.
''Maybe I should go then. If I''m so
shallow and corrupt-''
''No, don''t go,'' she said, a little
too quickly. ''It''s four in the morning.''
He shuffled up the bed until his
face was a few inches from hers. ''I don''t know where you get this
idea of me, you barely know me.''
''I know the type.''
''The type?''
''I''ve seen you, hanging round Modern
Languages, braying at each other, throwing black-tie dinner
parties-''
''I don''t even own black-tie. And I
certainly don''t bray-''
''Yachting your way round the Med in
the long hols, ra ra ra-''
''So if I''m so awful-'' His hand was
on her hip now.
''-which you are.''
''-then why are you sleeping with
me?'' His hand was on the warm soft flesh of her thigh.
''Actually I don''t think I have slept
with you, have I?''
''Well that depends.'' He leant in and kissed her. ''Define your
terms.'' His hand was on the base of her spine, his leg slipping
between hers.
……
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