‘Hey, Dan’s coming up the path,’ Toby calls down from the stairs. ‘Shall I let him in?’
My whole body jolts in shock. Dan? Dan? Here?
Wildly, Tilda and I stare at each other. Then Tilda calls back, ‘No, don’t worry, Tobes!’ in a slightly strangled voice. ‘Upstairs,’ she hisses to me. ‘I’ll get rid of him.’
I hurry up the stairs, my heart pounding, hoping frantically that he won’t recognize me through the wavy glass of Tilda’s front door, or look up through the clear fanlight. What’s he doing here?
‘Hello, Dan!’ From my vantage point on the landing, I can just see Tilda greeting him below. ‘This is a surprise!’
‘I’m just going to Clapham on a site visit,’ says Dan, ‘so I thought, why not pick up that package now, while Sylvie isn’t about?’
‘Good idea!’ says Tilda, heartily. ‘Very good idea. It’s just through here in my office, come this way …’
My heartbeat is subsiding. OK. No need to panic. He’ll just take the box and go and never know I was here. It’s quite funny, really, the two of us creeping around after each other.
Tilda leads Dan to her office and I tiptoe down the stairs a little, to listen to them.
‘… very nice,’ Dan is saying in a voice I can only barely make out. ‘You’re right, the blue was a little … blue. So which size do you think I should keep?’
‘Definitely the size ten,’ says Tilda. ‘I know it’ll fit her better.’
‘Great.’ There’s a slight pause, then Dan says, sounding puzzled, ‘Er … where is the size ten?’
Shit! Shit, shit!
I look down at myself in sudden ghastly comprehension. I’m wearing the size ten.
‘Oh!’ says Tilda, her voice a desperate squawk. ‘Oh! Of course. I took it upstairs to … to ask Toby’s opinion. I’ll just get it. Stay there!’ she adds, shrilly.
She hurries into the hall and waves her arms at me in mute desperation. Frantically, I unbutton the cardigan, my fingers catching on the buttonholes and, at last, thrust it at her.
‘Go!’ Tilda mouths at me.
As I retreat upstairs to the landing, Dan wanders into the hall, holding the box, and my stomach squirms. That was close.
‘Here we are,’ says Tilda, giving him the cardigan with a rictus smile.
‘It’s warm.’ Dan sounds even more puzzled, as well he might.
‘It was lying in the sunlight,’ says Tilda without missing a beat. ‘Such a lovely present; I know she’ll adore it. But I’m afraid I really do have to get back to work now.’
I sense a movement behind me and turn to see Toby emerging from a door, covered quite thickly in plaster dust.
‘Oh,’ he says in surprise. ‘Hi—’
Before he can say ‘Sylvie’ I’ve clamped my hand over his mouth like a mugger.
‘No!’ I whisper in his ear, with such ferocity, he blinks in alarm. He struggles a little, but I’m not letting go. Not till it’s safe.
‘Right,’ says Dan, below us in the hall. ‘Well, thanks again, Tilda. Really appreciate it.’
‘Any time.’ Tilda gives him a quizzical look. ‘Is it for anything special? Or just a random surprise?’
‘Just a random surprise.’ Dan smiles at her. ‘Just felt like it.’
‘Good idea! Nothing like a nice surprise.’ Tilda shoots a quick, sardonic glance upwards in my direction. ‘See you, Dan.’ She kisses him briskly on each cheek, then the door closes behind him, and finally I relax my grip on Toby.
‘Ow!’ he says, giving me an aggrieved look and rubbing his mouth. ‘Ow!’
‘Sorry,’ I say, not meaning it. ‘But I couldn’t risk you giving me away.’
‘What is all this?’ he demands.
‘Just … a thing,’ I say, heading downstairs. ‘Surprise present. Don’t tell Dan you saw me.’ I squint through the fanlight. ‘What’s he doing? Has he gone? Can you see?’
‘He’s driving away,’ reports Tilda, who is peering through the letter box. She stands up and makes an exaggerated huffing sound. ‘What a palaver. You see? All you’re doing is making trouble for yourselves.’
‘We’re not!’ I say defiantly. ‘It’s fun.’
Tilda rolls her eyes. ‘So what are you doing for Dan? Getting him cashmere socks?’
‘Oh, I’m doing plenty of things.’ My mind ranges over all my plans for tomorrow, and I give a pleased little smile. ‘Plenty of things.’
SIX
My surprise campaign starts first thing, and thankfully my body clock is on my side, because I wake up before Dan. I can hear the girls chatting quietly in their bedroom, but we should have another half-hour or so before they start hurling teddies at each other and shrieking.
I creep downstairs, hover by the front door and spot the Room Service London guy as he pulls up on his motorbike.
‘Hi!’ I call in hushed tones, and give him a wave. ‘Here, thank you!’
I’m so pleased with myself. Anyone could make breakfast. Anyone could put together a tray of croissants or eggs and bacon. But I’ve taken things one step further. I’ve prepared Dan a surprise international breakfast that will blow his mind!
OK, ‘prepared’ is probably the wrong word. ‘Ordered’ would be more accurate. I used this website where you click on items just like on a room service menu and they deliver it all in two insulated boxes (hot and cold) complete with a silver tray. (You put down a deposit against the tray, and apparently a lot of people keep them.)
‘Ssh!’ I say as the delivery guy tramps up the path, still wearing his bike helmet. He’s holding two boxes marked ‘Room Service London’, balanced on what must be the wrapped-up tray. ‘This is a surprise!’
‘Yeah.’ The guy nods impassively as he puts down his load and holds out his handset for me to sign. ‘We’re often a surprise.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, we get a lot of wives in south-west London ordering for their husbands. Fortieth birthday, is it?’
‘No!’ I say, and give him an affronted glare. First: I thought I was being really unique and individual, not just another ‘wife in south-west London’. Second: fortieth birthday? What? Why should I be married to a forty-year-old? I’m only thirty-two and I look far younger than that. Far, far younger. You know, bearing in mind I’ve had twins and everything.
Shall I say, ‘Actually it’s for my twenty-year-old toyboy?’
No. Because I am a mature grown-up and don’t care what delivery people think of me. (Also, Dan might suddenly appear at the door in his dressing gown.)
‘Big order.’ The guy nods at the boxes. ‘This all his favourite stuff?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I almost snap. ‘It’s a bespoke, international surprise breakfast, actually.’
Ha. Not such a south-west London cliché now.
The delivery guy heads back to his bike and I carry the boxes inside to the kitchen. I rip the wrapping off the tray – which is beautiful dull silver with ‘RSL’ engraved at the top – and start assembling dishes. They all come in plain white china (there’s a deposit against that, too) and there’s even cutlery and napkins. The whole thing looks amazing, and my only tiny proviso is that I’m not quite sure which dish is which.
Anyway, never mind. I tuck the printed menu into my dressing gown pocket and decide we can work it all out while we eat it. The main thing is to get it upstairs while the hot things are still hot. It’s a bit of a struggle to carry the tray upstairs without overbalancing, but I manage it, and push my way into the bedroom.
‘Surprise!’
Dan’s head turns from where it was buried in the pillow. He sees me holding the tray and his whole expression lights up. ‘No way.’
I nod in delight. ‘Breakfast! Surprise breakfast!’
I head over to him and dump the tray down on the bed with slightly more force than I was intending, only it was getting heavy.
‘Look at this!’ Dan somehow struggles to a sitting position without overturning the tray, then surveys it, rubbing h
is sleepy eyes. ‘What a treat.’
‘It’s a surprise breakfast,’ I say again, emphasizing surprise, because I think this factor needs to be made clear.
‘Wow.’ I can see Dan’s eyes ranging over the dishes and landing on a glass full of pink juice. ‘So, is this …’
‘Pomegranate juice,’ I tell him, pleased with myself. ‘It’s totally the thing. Orange juice is over.’
Dan sips at the glass and instantly his mouth puckers.
‘Great!’ he says. ‘Very … um … refreshing.’
Refreshing in a good way?
‘Let me taste,’ I say, and take the glass. As I sip, I can feel my taste buds shrivelling. That is tart. It’s an acquired taste.
Which we can acquire very quickly, I’m sure.
‘So, what is all this?’ Dan is still peering at the white dishes. ‘Is there a theme?’
‘It’s a fusion breakfast,’ I say proudly. ‘International. I chose all the dishes myself. Some European, some American, some Asian …’ I pull the menu out of my pocket. ‘You’ve got marinated fish, you’ve got a German meat speciality dish …’
‘Is this coffee?’ Dan reaches for the cup.
‘No!’ I laugh. ‘Coffee wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? This is artichoke and dandelion tea. It’s South American.’
Dan takes his hand away from the cup and instead picks up his spoon. ‘So this …’ He prods at a porridge-type substance. ‘This isn’t Bircher muesli, is it?’
‘No.’ I consult my list. ‘It’s congee. Chinese rice porridge.’
It doesn’t look quite as appealing as I was expecting. Especially with that gelatinous-looking egg floating on top – which, if I’m honest, turns my stomach. But apparently the Chinese eat it every morning. A billion people can’t be wrong, can they?
‘OK,’ says Dan slowly, turning to another dish. ‘And this?’
‘I think it might be the Indian lentil broth.’ I glance at my menu again. ‘Unless it’s the cheese grits.’
Looking at the tray properly for the first time, I realize something: I’ve ordered too many dishes which are basically a bowl of gloopy stuff. But how was I meant to know? Why doesn’t the website have a ‘gloopy stuff’ algorithm? There should be a helpful pop-up box: Did you mean to order so much gloopy stuff? I might suggest it to them, in an email.
‘You haven’t eaten anything yet!’ I say, handing Dan a spherical dumpling-like object. ‘This is an idli. It’s Indian. Made from fermented batter.’
‘Right.’ Dan looks at the idli, then puts it down. ‘Wow. This is really …’
‘It’s different, right?’ I say eagerly. ‘Not what you were expecting.’
‘Absolutely not,’ says Dan, sounding heartfelt. ‘Very much not what I was expecting.’
‘So, dive in!’ I spread my hands wide. ‘It’s all yours!’
‘I will! I will!’ He nods lots of times, almost as though he’s having to convince himself. ‘It’s just hard to know where to start. It all looks so—’ He breaks off. ‘What’s this one?’ He prods the German meat dish.
‘Leberkäse,’ I read from the menu. ‘It literally means, “liver cheese”.’
Dan makes a sort of gulpy sound, and I give him a bright, encouraging smile, even though I’m slightly regretting having said ‘liver cheese’ out loud. It’s not necessarily what you want to hear first thing in the morning, is it, ‘liver cheese’?
‘Look,’ I continue. ‘You love rye bread, so why not start with that?’
I push the Scandinavian dish towards him. It’s marinated fish with rye bread and sour cream. Perfect. Dan loads up his fork, and I watch expectantly as he takes a mouthful.
‘Oh my God.’ He claps his hand to his mouth. ‘I can’t …’ To my dismay, he’s gagging. He’s retching. ‘I’m going to …’
‘Here.’ In panic, I thrust a napkin at him. ‘Just spit it out.’
‘I’m sorry, Sylvie.’ As Dan finally mops his mouth, he’s shuddering. His face has gone pale, and I notice a bead of sweat on his brow. ‘I just couldn’t. It tasted like some kind of decaying, putrefying … what is that?’
‘Have some liver cheese to take away the taste,’ I say, desperately pushing the plate towards him, but Dan looks like he might retch again.
‘Maybe in a minute,’ he says, looking a little wildly around the tray. ‘Is there anything … you know. Normal?’
‘Er … er …’ Frantically I scan the menu. I’m sure I ordered some strawberries. Where the hell are they?
Then I notice a tiny box at the bottom of the menu: Please accept our apologies. The strawberry platter is unavailable, so we have substituted Egyptian foul medames.
Foul medames? I don’t want foul bloody medames. I look at the tray and feel a crash of despair. This whole breakfast is foul. It’s gloopy and weird. I should have bought croissants. I should have made pancakes.
‘I’m sorry.’ I bite my lip miserably. ‘Dan, I’m so sorry. This is a horrible breakfast. Don’t eat it.’
‘It’s not horrible!’ says Dan at once.
‘It is.’
‘It’s just …’ He pauses to choose a word. ‘Challenging. If you’re not used to it.’ The colour has returned to his face and he gives me a reassuring hug. ‘It was a lovely thought.’ He picks up an idli and nibbles it. ‘And you know what? This is good.’ He takes a sip of the artichoke tea and winces. ‘Whereas that’s vile.’ He pulls such a comical expression that I can’t help laughing.
‘Shall I make you some coffee?’
‘I would love some coffee.’ He pulls me tight to him again. ‘And thank you. Really.’
It takes me five minutes to make some coffee and spread marmalade on two slices of toast. As I get back upstairs, Tessa and Anna have joined Dan in bed and the tray of food has been discreetly placed in the far corner of the room, where no one has to look at it.
‘Coffee!’ exclaims Dan, like a man on a desert island seeing a ship. ‘And toast, too!’
‘Surprise!’ I waggle the plate of toast at him.
‘Well, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ rejoins Dan with a grin.
‘It’s a box,’ puts in Tessa, in a rush. ‘We’ve seen it. It’s a box with ribbons on. It’s under the bed.’
‘You’re not supposed to tell Mummy!’ Anna immediately looks distraught. ‘Daddy! Tessa told!’
Tessa turns defiantly pink. She may be only five, but she has mettle, my daughter. She never explains, apologizes or surrenders, unless under severe duress. Whereas Anna, poor Anna, crumples at first glance.
‘Well, Mummy knew already,’ Tessa asserts boldly. ‘Mummy knew what it was. Didn’t you, Mummy?’
My heart flips over, before I realize this is just Tessa being Tessa and inventing an instant, plausible defence. (How are we going to cope with her when she’s fifteen? Oh God. Better park that thought for now.)
‘Know about what?’ I sound totally fake to my own ears. ‘My goodness, a box? What could that be?’
Thankfully Dan has leaned under the bed and can’t see my substandard acting face. He hauls out the box and I unwrap it, trying to pace my reactions, trying to look genuine, aware of Tessa watching me beadily. Somehow my children’s little penetrating eyes are a lot more unnerving than Dan’s trusting ones.
‘Oh my GOD!’ I exclaim. ‘Wow! Cashmere? Is this a … cardigan? It’s just … Oh my God. And the colour’s perfect, and the belt …’
Too much?
No, not too much. Dan looks replete with happiness – and the louder I exclaim, the happier he looks. He’s so easy to fool. I feel a fresh wave of fondness for him, sitting there with his piece of toast, unaware that I’m lying through my teeth.
I honestly don’t think it could go the other way. Dan is transparent. He’s guileless. If he were lying through his teeth, I’d know. I’d just know.
‘Tilda helped me choose it,’ he says modestly.
‘No way!’ I gasp. ‘Tilda? You and Tilda were in league over this? You!’ I give him a li
ttle push on the arm.
Too much?
No, not too much. Dan looks even more delighted. ‘You really like it?’
‘I love it. What a brilliant surprise.’
I give him a huge kiss, feeling satisfied with myself. We’re doing it! The plan’s working! We’re spicing up our marriage. OK, so the breakfast was a slight misfire, but otherwise, bullseye. I could easily face another sixty-eight years of marriage if every day started with Dan giving me a cashmere cardigan.
No, OK, rewind, obviously I don’t mean that literally. Dan can’t give me a cashmere cardigan every day, what a ludicrous idea. (Although – every six months, maybe? Just a thought. Just putting it in the mix.) I suppose what I mean is, I could easily face another sixty-eight years of marriage if they all began like today has. All happy and connected.
So. Actually, I’m not sure where that gets us, but I feel as though I’m Thinking Through Our Issues, which has got to be a good thing, no?
‘So.’ Dan drains his coffee cup and puts it down with a dynamic air. ‘I must get going. I have a mystery errand to complete.’ His eyes flash at me, and I beam back.
‘Well, I have a mystery task, too. Will you be back for lunch?’ I add casually. ‘I thought we’d have pasta and pesto, nothing fancy …’
Ha! Ha! Not.
Dan nods. ‘Oh, sure. I’ll be back by noon.’
‘Great!’ I turn my attention to Tessa and Anna. ‘Right! Who wants breakfast?’
Saturday morning is when I catch up with boring household tasks, while Tessa and Anna play with all the toys they don’t have time for during the week. Then we have an early lunch and I take the girls to their 2 p.m. ballet lesson.
But not today!
The minute Dan’s left the house, I get cracking. I’ve been meaning to change the kitchen curtains forever, and this is my perfect excuse. I’ve also bought a coordinating tablecloth, some new candlesticks and a lamp. I’m giving the kitchen a whole makeover, like in that interiors show I always watch in bed when Dan is downstairs watching the rugby. Our new-look kitchen will feel bright and fresh and new and Dan will love it.
I’m hot and sweating by the time everything is done. It’s taken a bit longer than I expected and I’ve resorted to letting the girls watch CBeebies, but the place looks amazing. The curtains are a really funky print from John Lewis, and the neon rubber candlesticks add a pop of colour. (I got that from the TV show. It’s all about ‘pops of colour’.)
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