Emma Morley and Dexter Mayhew, casual acquaintances during
their university years, spend graduation night together. It’s July
15, 1988, and their futures are up in the air. Dexter, the
handsome, confident son of a well-to-do family, knows only that he
wants “to be successful. . . . to live life to the extreme, but
without any mess or complications” [p. 9]. Emma is determined to
stay true to her left-leaning passions and ideals though she has
little idea of how she’ll do it. They part the next day with vague
promises to keep in touch as Dexter sets off to travel the world
and Emma returns to her working-class family in Leeds to figure out
what she’ll do next. Over the next twenty years, they’ll think
about each other, sometimes to meet and reignite a relationship
that neither can give up nor explain.
關於作者：
David Nicholls trained as an actor before making the switch to
writing. He is the author of two previous novels--Starter For Ten
and The Understudy. He has also written many screenplays for film
and television, including the feature film adaptation of Starter
For Ten and One Day. He lives in London.
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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