I have to go with this.
Somehow.
‘I thought it was a bit strange, to be honest,’ says Claire. ‘Hearing from you.’
‘Well, you know!’ I say, over-brightly. ‘You get to that age and you look back and you think … what did happen to Claire and … the gang?’
‘The gang?’ Claire frowns blankly.
‘You know!’ I say. ‘Everyone! All our mates! Like … er …’
I can’t remember a single name of anyone that Claire might have known. We hung out in different circles. Yes, we were in the same halls – and didn’t we once play in a netball match together, when I was co-opted on to the team? Maybe that’s how Dan got confused. Maybe he saw an old photo online. But that was our only point of connection. We weren’t bloody friends.
‘I’m in touch with Husky,’ allows Claire.
‘Husky!’ I say shrilly. ‘How’s—’
He? She? Who the hell was Husky? I should look more closely at Facebook. But quite honestly, since the twins, I don’t have time to check up on all my 768 ‘friends’ the whole time. I barely keep up with my real ones.
‘I’m still in touch with Sam … Phoebe … Freya … all the art history lot,’ I volunteer. ‘Phoebe’s just got married, actually.’
‘Right,’ says Claire with a dampening lack of interest. ‘I never really got on with them.’
Oh God. This is painful. Where’s that bottle of fizz got to?
‘You and your husband, you’re not selling something, are you?’ says Claire, eyeing me suddenly with suspicion.
‘No!’
‘Or trying to convert me? Are you Mormons?’
‘No.’ I half want to cry and half want to break into hysterical laughter. We had tickets for Tim Wender … ‘Look, here’s Dan with the bottle of fizz. Let’s have a drink.’
It’s an ordeal. The food (mostly beans) is dry and bland. The cava is acidic. The conversation is sparse and difficult, like digging for carrots in rock-hard soil. Claire doesn’t give a lot. I mean, she really makes it hard. How on earth does she motivate a research team at GlaxoSmithKline? The only plus of the experience is, it’s made me want to call up all my real friends and gratefully fall into their conversational laps.
At last we get in the cab that Dan’s ordered to take us home and wave goodbye. (We offered a lift to Claire, who declined, thank God.) Then Dan leans back in his seat in satisfaction.
‘That was amazing,’ I say hastily. ‘Just amazing!’
He grins. ‘You liked it, huh?’
‘I was blown away,’ I say truthfully. ‘To think you went to all that trouble … I’m so touched.’ I reach over to kiss him. ‘Overwhelmed.’
And I really am. Arranging a reunion was the most thoughtful thing to do. He couldn’t have chosen a better treat. (Except if it was with, you know, someone I actually liked.)
‘She’s not what I imagined,’ Dan says, curiously. ‘Was she such a fierce vegan at uni?’
‘Well …’ I have no idea. ‘Maybe not that fierce.’
‘And her views on composting.’ He widens his eyes. ‘She’s quite vociferous, isn’t she?’
Dan just made one flip remark and had to put up with a humourless rant, which he took in the best possible spirit. All for me. I could see him peering at Claire, thinking, Why on earth did Sylvie want to get back in touch with her?
I bite my lip, trying to quell a rising laugh. One day I’ll tell him the truth. Like, in a year’s time. (Maybe five years’ time.)
‘Anyway,’ says Dan as the cab swings round a corner. ‘I have one surprise left.’
‘Me too.’ I touch his knee. ‘Mine’s a sexy surprise. Is yours?’
‘It’s pretty sexy.’ He meets my eyes and I can see the glint in them, and then we’re kissing properly, passionately, just like we used to do in taxis all the time, before the ‘back seat’ meant ‘two car seats and bumper wet wipes, just in case’.
My surprise is some tingly massage oil. It’s supposed to be ‘super-stimulating’, not that Dan seems as though he needs much extra stimulation today. I wonder what his surprise is? Underwear, maybe? Agent Provocateur?
‘I can’t wait,’ I murmur into his neck, and I stay nestled up against him all the way home.
As we head into the house, the girls come running to greet us, shrieking something about a ballet show, and Karen follows behind, her eyes shining in expectation.
‘Was it awesome?’ she demands, then turns to me. ‘Now you see why I chose Dan’s surprise. A reunion! I mean, a reunion!’
‘Yes!’ I try to match her tone. ‘It … blew me away!’
Dan’s phone bleeps with a text and his eyes gleam. ‘Already!’ he says, then looks up. ‘Karen, you can go now. Thanks so much for stepping in.’
‘Of course!’ says Karen. ‘Any time!’
Dan looks suddenly keyed up, I realize. Really keyed up. As Karen waves goodbye and shuts the door behind her, he starts tapping a text into his phone. Is this about the sexy surprise?
‘So, shall we plan the rest of the day?’ I say. ‘Or …?’
‘In a minute,’ says Dan, as though barely hearing me. ‘In a minute.’
The atmosphere has become weirdly tense. Dan’s mouth keeps twitching into a smile. He keeps glancing down at his phone and walking to the front door and back. He seems in such a ferment that I feel a squirm of excitement myself. What on earth is his sexy surprise? If it’s that epic, should we have gone to a hotel for the night?
The doorbell suddenly rings and we both jump.
‘What’s that?’ I say.
‘A delivery.’ Dan’s mouth won’t stop twitching. ‘A very special delivery.’ He opens the door and a delivery man in a black anorak nods curtly at him.
‘All right? Dan Winter, is it?’
‘Yes!’ says Dan. ‘All ready.’
‘We’ll get it out the van, then. Will we be all right, spacewise?’ The guy comes in a step and peers around.
Dan nods. ‘I think so. You should be able to get it through the hall.’
I’m gaping at them in shock. Get what through the hall? This isn’t a set of underwear from Agent Provocateur, is it? It’s something that needs two men to haul it out of a van.
Oh my God, it’s not some sort of … equipment? Should I hurry the girls away before they glimpse something that will scar them for life?
‘Can you take the girls upstairs, Sylvie?’ says Dan in unreadable tones, and my heart flips over. ‘Just until I say so.’
‘OK!’ I say, my voice a bit strangled. What has Dan done?
I hustle the girls into their room and read them a Winnie-the-Pooh story in a self-conscious voice, all the while thinking: erotic chair? Erotic sofa? Erotic … oh God, what else is there? A sex swing? (No, Dan couldn’t have ordered that. Our joists would never support a swing.)
I’m desperate to google big sex item needs delivery in van on my phone, only the girls are bound to grab it. (This is the trouble with your children learning to read.) So I just have to sit there, talking about Heffalumps, getting into a lather of suspicion and fantasy … when, at last, I hear the front door slamming and the sound of Dan’s tread on the stairs.
‘Come downstairs,’ he says, looking round the door, his whole face glowing. ‘I have quite a surprise for you.’
‘Surprise!’ yells Tessa joyfully, and I glance at her in alarm.
‘Dan, should the girls …’ I give him a meaningful glance. ‘Is this suitable?’
‘Of course!’ says Dan. ‘Go to the kitchen, girls. You won’t believe your eyes!’
The kitchen?
OK, I’m really not following this.
‘Dan,’ I demand as we go downstairs, the girls hurrying ahead. ‘I don’t understand. Is this your sexy surprise?’
‘It certainly is.’ He nods beatifically. ‘But not just sexy … beautiful. She’s beautiful.’
She?
‘Arrrggh! A snake!’ Tessa comes bombing out of the kitchen and wraps her arms ro
und my legs. ‘There’s a snake in the kitchen!’
‘What?’ My heart thumping, I skitter into the kitchen, turn around and immediately jump back six feet. Oh my God. Oh my God.
Lined up against the wall, where our toy box used to be, is a glass tank. Inside the glass tank is a snake. It’s orange and brown and has a black snakey eye and I think I might vomit.
‘Wh – wh—’ I’m gibbering. I’m actually unable to form words. ‘Wh—’
‘Surprise!’ Dan has followed me in. ‘Isn’t she lovely? She’s a corn snake. Bred for captivity, so you don’t have to worry about her getting upset.’
That’s not what I was worried about.
‘Dan.’ Finally I find my voice and grab his lapels. ‘We can’t have a snake.’
‘We have a snake,’ Dan corrects me. ‘What shall we call her, girls?’
‘Snakey,’ says Tessa.
‘No!’ I’m nearly hyperventilating. ‘I won’t have a snake! Not in the house! I won’t do it, Dan!’
At last, Dan looks at me properly. Eyebrows raised innocently. As though I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. ‘What’s the big deal?’
‘You said you were getting something sexy!’ I hiss furiously. ‘Sexy, Dan!’
‘She is sexy! She’s exotic … sinuous … You must agree.’
‘No!’ I shudder. ‘I can’t even look at her. It,’ I correct myself quickly. It’s an it.
‘Can we have a dog?’ pipes up Anna, who is quite intuitive and has been watching our exchange. ‘Instead of a snake?’
‘No!’ cries Tessa. ‘We have to keep our lovely snakey …’ She attempts to hug the glass tank and the snake uncoils.
Oh God. I have to look away. How could Dan think a snake was a sexy surprise? How?
By the time the girls are in bed, we’ve reached a compromise. We will give the snake a chance. However, I do not have to feed, handle or look at the snake. I will never even touch the freezer drawer dedicated to its food. (It eats mice, actual mice.) Nor am I calling it Dora, which is what the girls have named it. It is not Dora, it is the Snake.
It’s 8 p.m. and we’re sitting on our bed, exhausted by our negotiations. The girls are in bed and have finally stopped creeping out to ‘see if Dora’s all right’.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ says Dan dolefully. I think the truth has finally dawned on him. ‘I mean, we talked about having a snake …’
‘I was joking,’ I say wearily. ‘As I have explained about a hundred times.’ It never occurred to me he might be serious. I mean, a snake?
Dan leans back against the headboard with a sigh, resting his head against his hands. ‘Well, I surprised you, anyway.’ He looks over with a wry smile.
‘Yup.’ I can’t help smiling back. ‘You did.’
‘And you liked your cardigan, anyway.’
‘It’s stunning!’ I say with enthusiasm, wanting to make up for the snake. ‘Honestly, Dan, I love it.’ I stroke the fabric. ‘It’s so soft.’
‘You like the colour?’
‘I love the colour.’ I nod as emphatically as I can. ‘So much better than the bl—’
I stop mid-word. Shit.
‘What did you say?’ asks Dan slowly.
‘Nothing!’ I paste on a bright smile. ‘So, shall we watch some TV, or …’
‘You were going to say “blue”.’
‘No I wasn’t!’ I say, but not quite convincingly enough. I can see Dan’s mind working. He’s not stupid, Dan.
‘Tilda called you.’ The light is dawning on his face. ‘Of course she bloody called you. You two talk about everything.’ He eyes me balefully. ‘That cardigan wasn’t a surprise at all, was it? You probably—’ He breaks off, as though a fresh theory is dawning. I have a horrible feeling it might be the truth. ‘Is that why it was warm?’ He’s shoffed, I can tell. He’s goggling at me, as though his whole world is crumbling about him. ‘Were you at Tilda’s house?’
‘Look …’ I rub my nose. ‘Look … I’m sorry. But she didn’t know which size to choose, and this way you didn’t have to faff around … it made sense …’
‘But it was supposed to be a surprise!’ he almost bellows.
He has a point.
For a while we’re both silent, staring up at the ceiling.
‘My surprise breakfast wasn’t any good,’ I say morosely. ‘And you didn’t even notice my kitchen makeover.’
‘I did!’ Dan says at once. ‘The … uh … candlesticks. Great.’
‘Thanks.’ I raise a wry smile. ‘But don’t pretend. I was deluded to think you’d get excited by a kitchen makeover, of all things.’
Maybe I was deluded, I’m thinking more honestly to myself … or maybe I just wanted an excuse to buy new stuff for the kitchen.
‘Well,’ replies Dan, his hands spreading in acknowledgement. And I know we’re both thinking: Same goes for the snake.
‘And we never went to Tim Wender …’ I add mournfully.
‘Tim Wender?’ Dan swivels round. ‘What do you mean?’
Oh my God. What with all the snake shenanigans, he doesn’t even know.
‘I had tickets!’ I almost pop with frustration. ‘A special lunchtime performance! It was going to be—’ I break off. There’s no point rubbing it in. ‘Never mind. We can go another time.’ A sudden gurgle of laughter escapes from me. ‘What a fiasco.’
‘Maybe surprises are a red herring,’ says Dan. ‘It was a fun idea, but maybe we should call it a day.’
‘No,’ I retort. ‘I’m not giving up so soon. You wait, Dan, I’m going to come up with an awesome surprise for you.’
‘Sylvie—’
‘I’m not giving up,’ I repeat obstinately. ‘And in the meantime, I do have one more thing up my sleeve.’ I pull open my bedside table drawer, take out my tingly massage oil, and throw it to Dan.
‘Now you’re talking.’ His eyes shine as he reads the label and I can tell I’ve scored. The way to Dan’s heart has always been through sex. So …
Wait a minute. Hang on.
I actually blink, as my thoughts crystallize. Why on earth have I bothered with all this other stuff? Why on earth did I think he’d notice a new tablecloth or care what he has for breakfast? I’ve been a total idiot. Sex is the answer. Like they say: It’s all about sex, stupid. This is how we keep our marriage alive.
Already ideas are bubbling up in my head. A new strategy is forming. I have the perfect surprise for Dan. The perfect plan. And he’ll love it, I just know he will.
SEVEN
I don’t get to the sex plan straight away, because 1. we’ve agreed to have a few days’ rest from surprises and 2. I have a few other things to deal with first. Like giving the girls breakfast and plaiting their hair and stacking the dishwasher, all while avoiding looking at the snake. If I look at the snake, the snake will have won, is how I feel.
Which I know is irrational. But what’s so great about being rational? If you ask me, being rational isn’t always the same as being right. I’m almost tempted to share my little maxim with Dan, but he’s frowning moodily at the Sunday paper, so I don’t disturb him.
I know why he’s in a mood. It’s because we’re seeing my mother this morning. I’m actually getting a bit tired of his attitude. It’s the same as with Daddy. Dan used to be OK with Mummy – but now, forget it. Every time we visit, this horrible cloud of tension grows around him beforehand. When I ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ he scowls and says, ‘What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong.’ So I persist: ‘Yes there is, you’re all grouchy,’ whereupon he snarls, ‘You’re imagining things, it’s fine.’ And I can never face a great big argument, especially when it’s the precious weekend (it’s always the precious weekend), so we leave it.
And OK, it’s only a tiny kink in our happiness – but if we’re going to be married for another zillion years, we really should iron it out. We can’t have Dan wincing each time I say, ‘Let’s visit my mother this weekend.’ Soon the girls will start noticing, and saying, ‘Why does
n’t Daddy like Granny?’ and that’ll be really bad.
‘Dan,’ I begin.
‘Yes?’
He looks up, still frowning, and instantly my nerve fails. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not the best at confrontation. I don’t even know where I’m planning to start.
Anyway, maybe I shouldn’t tackle this openly, I suddenly decide. Maybe I need to operate by stealth. Build trust and affection between my mother and Dan in some subtle way that neither of them notices. Yes. Good plan.
‘We should get going,’ I say, and head out of the kitchen – still managing to avoid looking at the snake by fixing my eyes on a distant corner.
As Dan drives us to Chelsea, I stare ahead at the road, mulling on marriage and life, and how unfair everything is. If anyone was destined to have a long and perfect marriage, it was my parents. I mean, they were perfect. They could have been married for six hundred years, no problem. Daddy adored Mummy, and she adored him back, and they made an amazing couple on the dance floor, or on their boat in pastel polo shirts, or turning up at school parents’ evenings, twinkling and smiling and charming everyone.
Mummy still twinkles. But it’s the kind of bright, unnerving twinkle that might shatter at any moment. Everyone says she’s coped ‘marvellously’ since Daddy died. She certainly coped better than me, Go-to-pieces Sylvie.
(No. Not ‘better’. It’s not a competition. She coped differently from me, that’s all.)
She still talks about Daddy, in fact she loves talking about Daddy. We both do. But the conversation has to be along her lines. If you venture on to the ‘wrong’ topic, she draws breath and her eyes go shiny and she blinks very furiously and gazes at the window and you feel terrible. The trouble is, the ‘wrong’ topics are random and unpredictable. A reference to Daddy’s colourful handkerchiefs, his funny superstitions when he played golf, those holidays we used to spend in Spain: topics that seem utterly safe and harmless … but no. Each of them has brought on an attack of furious blinking and window-gazing and me desperately trying to change the subject.
Which is just grief, I guess. I’ve decided that grief is like a newborn baby. It knocks you for six. It takes over your brain with its incessant cry. It stops you sleeping or eating or functioning, and everyone says, ‘Hang in there, it’ll get easier.’ What they don’t say is, ‘Two years on, you’ll think it’s got easier, but then, out of the blue, you’ll hear a certain tune in the supermarket and start sobbing.’
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