I must finish writing it, it occurs to me. I keep talking confidently about the speech I’m going to make, but all I’ve actually written so far is, ‘My lady mayoress, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to what is a very special occasion.’
‘Well, it sounds like he was pretty amazing,’ says Simon. ‘To raise all that money, mobilize people year after year …’
‘He also climbed Everest, twice.’ I nod eagerly. ‘And he competed in the Fastnet sailing race. He raised loads doing that.’
Simon raises his eyebrows. ‘Wow. Impressive.’
‘His best friend from school died of liver cancer,’ I say simply. ‘He always wanted to do something for people with that disease. No one at his company was allowed to raise funds for anything else!’
I laugh as though I’m joking, although it’s not really a joke. Daddy could be quite … what’s the word? Intransigent. Like the time I suggested cutting my hair, aged thirteen. He got angry that I’d even suggested it. He kept saying, ‘Your hair is your glory, Sylvie, your glory.’ And actually he was right. I would have regretted it, probably.
Instinctively, I run a hand through my long, blonde waves. I could never cut it now. I’d feel like I was betraying him.
‘You must miss him,’ says Simon.
‘I do. I really do.’ I can feel tears brightening my eyes, but manage to keep my smile going. I take a sip of wine – then I can’t help glancing over at Dan. Sure enough, he’s looking tentery. His jaw has tightened. There are frown lines on his brow. I can tell he’s waiting for the conversation about my father to pass, like you might wait for a cloud to move.
For God’s sake, is he that insecure? The thought shoots through my brain before I can stop it. Which I know is unfair. My father was always so high-octane. So impressive. It must be hard if you’re his son-in-law and keep hearing people raving about him, and you’re just …
No. Stop. I don’t mean just. Dan isn’t just anything.
But compared to Daddy …
OK, let’s be absolutely honest. Here in the privacy of my own mind, where no one else can hear, I can say it: To the outside world, Dan isn’t in the same league as my father. He doesn’t have the gloss, the money, the stature, the charitable achievements.
And I don’t want him to be. I love Dan exactly as he is. I really do. But couldn’t he just once acknowledge that my father did have these amazing qualities – and realize that this fact doesn’t threaten him?
He reacts like clockwork, every time. And now that the subject’s safely passed, I know he’ll relax and lean back in his chair and stretch up with his arms and make that little yawning-yelping sound …
I watch in slight disbelief as Dan does exactly that. Then he sips his wine, just like I knew he would. Then he reaches for a peanut, just like I knew he would.
Earlier on, he ordered a lamb burger for supper, just like I knew he would. He asked them to hold the mayo, just like I knew he would, and joked with the barman, ‘Is it genuine London lamb?’ just like I knew he would.
OK, I’m scaring myself, here. I may not know the capital of Latvia or how many feet there are in a fathom, but I know everything about Dan.
I know what he thinks and what he cares about and what his habits are. I even know what he’s about to do next, right here, sitting in this pub. He’s going to ask Toby about his work, which he does every time we see him. I know it, I know it, I know it …
‘So, Toby,’ says Dan pleasantly. ‘How’s the start-up going?’
Argh! Oh my God. I’m omniscient.
Something weird is happening in my head. I don’t know if it’s the Chardonnay or this bloody torturous quiz or my unsettling day … but I’m losing my grip on reality. It’s as though the chatter and laughter of the pub is receding. The lights are dimming. I’m staring at Dan with a kind of tunnel vision, a realization, an epiphany.
We know too much.
This is the problem. This is the issue. I know everything about my husband. Everything! I can read his mind. I can predict him. I can order food for him. I have shorthand conversations with him and never once does he have to ask, ‘What do you mean by that?’ He already knows.
We’re living in marital Groundhog Day. No wonder we can’t face our endless monotonous future together. Who wants sixty-eight more years with someone who always puts his shoes back in the same place, night after night after night?
(Actually, I’m not sure what else he would do with his shoes. I certainly don’t want him leaving them all over the place. So that’s maybe not the best example. But anyway, the point still stands.)
I take a swig of Chardonnay, my mind swirling around to a conclusion. Because it’s actually rather easy. We need surprises. That’s what we need. Surprises. We need to be jolted and entertained and challenged with lots of little surprises. And then the next sixty-eight years will whizz by. Yes. This is it!
I glance over at Dan, who is chatting with Toby, oblivious of my thoughts. He looks a bit careworn, it occurs to me. He looks tired. He needs something to ginger him up, something to make him smile, or even laugh. Something out of the ordinary. Something fun. Or romantic.
Hmm. What?
It’s too late to organize a strip-o-gram (which, by the way, he’d hate). But can’t I do something? Right now? Something to shake us out of our malaise? I take another gulp of Chardonnay, and then the answer hits me. Oh my God, brilliant. Simple but brilliant, as all the best plans are.
I pull a piece of paper towards me, and start to compose a little love poem.
You may be surprised.
Don’t be.
I want you and I always will.
Let’s find a moment.
Just be us.
Just be the two of us.
Just be
I pause, peering down at my sheet. I’m running out of steam. I always was a bit crap at poetry. How can I end it?
Just be ourselves, I write finally. I draw a love heart and some kisses for good measure. Then I fold the whole thing up into a smallish oblong.
Now to deliver it. I wait until Dan’s looking the other way, then slip it into the pocket of his suit jacket, which is hanging on the back of his chair. He’ll find it later, and he’ll wonder what it is and slowly unfold it, and at first he won’t understand, but then his heart will lift.
Well, maybe it’ll lift.
Well, it would probably have lifted more if I was better at poetry, but so what, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
‘Have a toffee,’ says Toby, offering a bag to me. ‘I made them myself. They’re awesome.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile at him, take a toffee and put it in my mouth. A few moments later I regret it. My teeth are locked together. I can’t chew. I can’t speak. My whole face feels immobilized. What is this stuff?
‘Oh, they’re quite chewy,’ says Toby, noticing me. ‘They’re called “lockjaws”.’
I shoot him a glare, which is supposed to mean: ‘Thanks for the heads-up, not.’
‘Toby!’ says Tilda crossly. ‘You have to warn people about those things. Don’t worry,’ she adds to me. ‘It’ll melt in about ten minutes.’
Ten minutes?
‘All right, people!’ says Dave the quizmaster, tapping his microphone to get everyone’s attention. His cheerful manner has somewhat faded over the course of the evening; in fact, he looks like he’s desperate for it to end. ‘Moving on, the next question was: How many actors have played Doctor Who? And the answer is: thirteen.’
‘No it’s not,’ calls out a fattish guy in a purple polo shirt, promptly. ‘It’s forty-four.’
Dave eyes him warily. ‘It can’t be,’ he says. ‘That’s too many.’
‘Doctor Who doesn’t just feature in the BBC series,’ says the purple-polo-shirt guy pompously.
‘It’s fourteen,’ volunteers a girl at an adjoining table. ‘There was an extra doctor. The War Doctor. John Hurt.’
‘Right,’ says Dave, looking beleaguered. ‘Well, that’s not what I’ve g
ot on my answer sheet …’
‘It’s none of them,’ says Toby loudly. ‘It’s a trick question. “Doctor Who” isn’t the name of the character, the name of the character is “the Doctor”. Boom kanani,’ he adds, looking pleased with himself. ‘Booyah. In your face, everyone who wrote down a number.’
‘That’s a common misunderstanding,’ says the man in the purple polo shirt, giving Toby a baleful look. ‘The answer’s forty-four, as I said. You want the full list?’
‘Did anyone put thirteen?’ Dave perseveres, but no one’s paying attention.
‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ retorts a man in a flowery shirt, who is quite red in the face. He waves a belligerent hand at the purple-polo-shirt team. ‘This is supposed to be a local friendly quiz, but you come marching in with your matching bloody shirts, picking fights …’
‘Oh, don’t like strangers, do you?’ The purple-polo-shirt guy glowers at him. ‘Well sorry, Adolf.’
‘What did you call me?’ The man in the flowery shirt kicks back his chair and stands up, breathing hard.
‘You heard.’ The purple-polo-shirt guy gets up too and takes a menacing step towards the flowery-shirt man.
‘I can’t bear this,’ says Olivia. ‘I’m going out for a cigarette.’ She reaches for Dan’s jacket and puts it on – then looks at Simon’s, which is almost identical, and back at the one she’s wearing. ‘Wait. Simon, is this your jacket?’
‘You’re wearing Simon’s,’ says Dan easily. ‘We swapped chairs. He prefers a lower back.’
It’s about five seconds before the significance of this hits me. Simon’s jacket? That’s Simon’s jacket? I’ve put a love poem in Simon’s jacket?
‘Have you got a lighter?’ Olivia reaches in the pocket and pulls out my oblong of paper. ‘What’s this?’ she says, unfolding it. As she sees the love heart her whole face blanches.
No. Nooo. I need to explain. I try to wrench my teeth apart to speak, but the stupid bloody toffee is too strong. I can’t manage it. I wave my hands frantically at Olivia, but she’s staring at my poem with a look of utter revulsion.
‘Again, Simon?’ she says at last.
‘What do you mean, again?’ says Simon, who’s watching the purple-polo-shirt guy and flowery-shirt man trade insults.
‘You promised!’ Olivia’s voice is so scorching, I feel quite bowled over. ‘You promised, Simon, never again.’ She brandishes the poem at Simon, and as he reads it, his face blanches, too.
I try to grab at the paper and get their attention but Olivia doesn’t even notice me. Her eyes are blazing and quite scary.
‘I’ve never seen that before!’ Simon is stuttering. ‘Olivia, you must believe me! I have no idea what – who—’
‘I think we all know who,’ Olivia says savagely. ‘It’s obvious, from this piece of illiterate trash, that it’s your previous “friend”. I want you and I always will,’ she declaims in a syrupy voice. ‘Let’s find a moment. Just be us. Did she get it from a Hallmark card?’
She’s so mocking, my face flames bright red. At last, with a final wrench, I get my teeth apart, and grab the paper from her hand.
‘Actually, that’s my poem!’ I say, trying to sound bright and nonchalant. ‘It was meant for Dan. Wrong jacket. So. It was … it’s ours. Mine. Not Simon’s. You don’t need to worry about— Or anything. So. Anyway.’
I finally manage to stop babbling and realize that everyone around the table is watching, dumbstruck. The look of horror on Olivia’s face is so priceless I’d laugh, if I didn’t feel so totally embarrassed.
‘Um, so, here you are, Dan,’ I add awkwardly, and give him the paper. ‘You could read it now … or later … It’s quite short,’ I add, in case he’s expecting six verses and metaphors about war, or something.
Dan doesn’t look very thrilled to be handed a love poem, to be fair. He glances at it and clears his throat and shoves it in his pocket without reading it.
‘I didn’t mean …’ Olivia’s hands are clenched harder than I’ve ever seen them. ‘Sylvie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.’
‘It’s fine, honestly—’
‘You’re a disgrace to quizzes!’ The voice of the flowery-shirted man makes us all jump. ‘You had that phone under the table all the time!’
‘We did not!’ the purple-polo-shirt man shouts back. ‘That’s fucking slander, that is!’
He pushes a table roughly towards the flowery-shirted man, and all the glasses jostle and chink together.
‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ calls out Toby cheerfully.
‘Be quiet, Toby!’ snaps Tilda.
‘So!’ Dave is saying desperately into the microphone, over the hubbub. ‘Let’s carry on. And the next question was: Which Briton won an ice-skating gold at the—’
He breaks off as the flowery-shirted guy charges at the purple-polo-shirt team. One of them tackles him, as though they’re playing rugby, and the others start roaring encouragement. All around the pub, people start exclaiming and gasping. The Russian girl even shrieks as though someone’s stuck a knife into her.
‘People!’ Dave is imploring. ‘People, calm down! Please!’
Oh my God, they’re fighting. They’re actually punching each other. I’ve never even seen a pub brawl before.
‘Sylvie,’ says Dan in my ear. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Yes,’ I say at once. ‘Yes.’
As we’re walking home, Dan takes out my love poem. He reads it. He turns the page over as though expecting more. Then he reads it again. Then he puts it away. He looks touched. And a bit flummoxed. OK, maybe slightly more flummoxed than touched.
‘Dan, listen,’ I say in a rush. ‘I have this whole big explanation to give you.’
He looks at me questioningly. ‘Of your poem?’
‘Yes! Of course of my poem!’ What did he think I meant, of thermo-combustion?
‘You don’t need to explain it. I got it. It was nice,’ he adds after a moment’s thought. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not the poem itself,’ I say, a bit impatiently. ‘I mean, the concept of the poem. The fact of the poem. It’s all part of my new brilliant idea which will solve everything.’
‘Right.’ He nods; then he takes the poem out and looks at it again under the light of a street lamp, frowning slightly. ‘Is there supposed to be a second verse?’
‘No,’ I say defensively. ‘It’s pithy.’
‘Ah.’
‘And it’s only the beginning. Here’s my idea, Dan. We need to surprise each other. It can be, like, our joint thing. We can call it …’ I think for a moment. ‘“Project Surprise Me”.’
To my gratification, Dan looks surprised. Ha! It begins! I was hoping Dan would latch on to the idea straight away, but he’s looking a bit uncertain.
‘Right …’ he says. ‘Why?’
‘To pass the endless weary decades, of course! Imagine our marriage is an epic movie. Well, no one gets bored in a movie, do they? Why? Because there are surprises round every corner.’
‘I fell asleep in Avatar,’ he says promptly.
‘I mean an exciting movie,’ I explain. ‘And anyway, you only fell asleep in the middle bit. And you were tired.’
We’re at the front door by now, and Dan reaches for his key. Then, looking over my shoulder, his face changes to one of horror. ‘Oh God. Oh my God. What’s that? Sylvie, don’t look, it’s awful …’
‘What?’ I swing round, my heart tripping in fright. ‘What is it?’
‘Surprise!’ says Dan, and pushes open the door.
‘Not that kind of surprise!’ I say, furiously. ‘Not that kind!’
Honestly. He has completely missed the point. I meant nice surprises, not stupid wind-ups.
The sitter we used tonight is called Beth and we’ve never used her before. As we walk into the kitchen she smiles cheerily, but I can’t quite smile back. The whole place is littered with toys. It’s toy carnage.
I mean, we’re not the tidiest family in the world, but I do
like to be able to see some floor space in my house.
‘Er … hi, Beth,’ I say faintly. ‘Was everything OK?’
‘Yeah, great!’ She’s already pulling on her jacket. ‘They’re sweet, your girls. They couldn’t sleep, so I let them have a little play. We had fun!’
‘Right,’ I manage. ‘So I … see.’
There’s Lego everywhere. Dollies’ clothes everywhere. Sylvanian Families’ furniture everywhere.
‘See you then,’ says Beth blithely, taking the money that Dan is proffering. ‘Thanks.’
‘Right. Er … see you …’
The words are barely out of my mouth before the front door has slammed behind her.
‘Wow,’ I say, looking around.
‘Let’s leave it,’ says Dan. ‘Get up early, get the girls to help …’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Mornings are such a rush. I’d rather get at least some of it put away now.’
I sink to the ground and begin to gather a Sylvanian table and chairs. I set them up together, and add tiny cereal packets. After a moment, Dan sighs, and starts grabbing Lego bits, with the resigned air of a convict settling in for a day with the chain gang.
‘How many hours of our lives …’ he begins.
‘Don’t.’
I put three teeny saucepans on a teeny cooker and pat them. I do rather love Sylvanian Families. Then I sit back on my heels.
‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘We both arrange little surprises for each other. Keep our marriage sparky.’ I wait for him to put the Lego tub back in the cupboard. ‘What do you think? Are you up for it?’
‘Up for what exactly?’ He peers at me with his most scrubcious expression. ‘I still don’t know quite what I’m supposed to do.’
‘That’s the point! There isn’t any “supposed”. Just … use your imagination. Play around. Have fun.’ I head over to Dan, put my arms around his neck and smile up at him affectionately. ‘Surprise me.’
FIVE
I’m actually quite excited.
Dan said he couldn’t launch straight into some programme of surprises for me, he needed time to think first. So we’ve had a week of preparation time. It’s been a bit like Christmas. I know he’s up to something, because he’s been on Google a lot. Meanwhile, I’ve been all over this project. All over it! I have a special notebook, labelled Project Surprise Me. He’s not going to know what’s hit him.
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