For a long time these two characters, Emma and Dexter, have felt like they belong to me. They were my discovery, and mine to share with those I chose to and hide away from those that were undeserving. It’s a strange relationship we humans develop with totally inanimate, public things that we hold no claim to; an unwarranted feeling of ownership over a place, a song, a book or a film.
My connection to this book possibly started way before it was even written. It all began when one of my dearest and oldest friends gave me a copy of The Understudy, a book by the then relatively unknown author David Nicholls. ‘You’re going to love this’ he said as he passed me over the plain looking hardback with a knowing look in his eye, ‘this is sooo us’. And he couldn’t have been more right. I chortled my way from cover to cover, often out loud on public transport which had the added benefit of creating more space for me on the overcrowded Jubilee line. It was love at first sentence.
And so I decided to have a look and see what else this guy had written, and there it was, in the ‘other books by this author section', my arch nemesis of a title ‘Starter for ten’. I had, for many years, refused to read this book or watch the film for an entirely ridiculous reason to which the novel itself was totally innocent. You see at university I was never the cool kid, never the girl who was the centre of the crowd, never pretty enough to play the lead and never funny enough to be the ‘best friend’. I was consigned to wings or bit parts, and I say this with utter love, to what was in hindsight was the unintentional, original, real life cast of Glee. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. But when it came to the final year the spotlight found me and I was cast as the lead, and eponymous I might add, character in a play. Suddenly I was about to shoot into the realms of the noted and notorious. I was going to be... a cool kid. On the first day of rehearsals I walked into the studios, confidence soaring, ready for my adoring army of new groupies to greet me when I was confronted with a film set and not even a single enquiring stare. The shoot for Starter for ten had moved into our department and the spotlight, which was intended for me, moved to them. I was cheated, and it was that damn books' fault.
I eventually forgave the book and read it, but it was shortly after rereading The Understudy for the second time that I saw the author’s name appear in the listings for Bookslam, a monthly literary evening for the arty London crowd. He was going to be reading an excerpt from his soon to be released third novel and I was curious to see the man who had so accurately captured my time at university in his second novel, and reversely, my time after in his first.
I arrived at Bookslam early and got a bottle of wine in to share with the two friends that would be joining me later. They were late and the wine was delicious so I helped myself to the rest of my share and I bit of theirs as well. By the time David came on stage I was lubricated enough to fall in love with him no matter what he was like, but I was not expecting the approachably handsome, well dressed and amiable man that came before us. I was in love and there was nothing but sobriety that could change that.
When he started to read aloud a section of his new novel, One Day, a story about a slightly awkward but funny girl, it was like he was reading from pages of my diary. How painfully, poignantly and precisely he had written me. She even had my name. I sat and listened mesmerised for the duration and by the time he finished my fuzzy mind knew, absolutely knew, that I had to talk to him.
As he walked of stage, I heaved myself out of the folding metal chair and staggered over to where he was stood, armed with my much loved copy of The Understudy for him to sign. I felt a bit lightheaded, but decided this had absolutely everything to do with the touching story and nothing to do with the bottle of wine that I had managed to consume. I put my hand on his shoulder to get his attention and found that, for some reason, I just didn’t take it away. And then I realised that it was necessary that I didn’t remove it as his shoulder and my arm were the only thing keeping me physically upright. Any other person would have realised that this was only going to end in embarrassment, but I persevered and decided to try to convey to the poor guy how much I loved his books. Only my sentiments were delivered through the oaky mist of cheap Pinot Grigo and came out as something along the lines of ‘I fooking love thish yah knoooow’. Bless him, he stood there and let me continue to gush inebriated praises for what must have been a further ten minutes before my friend came to rescue me from further humiliation and possible knicker throwing. But not in time to avoid the awkward moment where I offered to regale him with tales from my diary in the event he ever suffered writers block, leaving him in the uncomfortable situation of having to turn down a grown drunk woman. To this day David Nicholls, I salute you for not calling security.
So this leads me to my somewhat longwinded, non-rational but evangelical love of the book. It is wonderful, and for me, so personal , and that is why I find it so hard to understand how so many other people can feel the same, that this book is about them. It’s like the novel is cheating on me behind my back, being intimate with another woman. How very dare it. That is also why tonight’s trip to the cinema for a screening of the film adaptation felt a little bit like letting the world riffle through my dirty laundry, ridiculous as that may be.
