I know what Dan worries about, even though he won’t admit it. He worries that I’m unstable. Or potentially unstable. Just because I went and stood outside Gary Butler’s house that one time. And put one tiny little letter through his letter box. (Which, OK, I’ll admit I shouldn’t have done.) But the point is, that was a special case. I was in the throes of grief when I had my ‘episode’ or whatever we call it.
Whereas my invention of Lynn was long ago, when I was a child, and it was normal and healthy, because I’ve googled it, as he well knows, and what is his bloody problem?
Which is a basic summary of how I put it to him. Only I was hissing under my breath so that the girls wouldn’t hear, and I’m not sure he heard all my nuanced arguments.
Then I woke up this morning, thinking: Never mind, new day, new start, and determined to be cheerful. I even said hello to the snake, over my shoulder, with my eyes shut. But Dan seemed even more mired in gloom. He sat silently at breakfast, scrolling through his phone and then suddenly said, ‘You know, we’ve had an offer to expand into Europe.’
‘Really?’ I glanced up from the girls’ spelling test words. ‘Took.’
‘Tuh – oh – oh – kuh,’ Anna began intoning.
‘There are these guys based out of Copenhagen, who do similar stuff to us. They have a load of projects they want us to team up on, all in Northern Europe. We could end up trebling our turnover.’
‘Right. And would that be a good thing?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. It would be a bit of a punt.’ Dan had a knotted, unhappy look that set warning bells off in my brain. ‘But we’ve got to do something.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The business won’t grow unless we—’
He broke off and sipped his coffee and I gazed at him, feeling troubled. As I’ve mentioned, I know Dan pretty well. I know when his brain is cantering along happily with new, do-able ideas, and I know when it’s got stuck. Right then, it seemed stuck. He didn’t look pleased about expanding. He looked beleaguered.
‘Look,’ I said to Tessa, and she started sounding out:
‘Luh – oh – oh – kuh.’
‘When you say “grow”,’ I began, over the sound of her chanting, ‘what exactly—’
‘We should be five times the size we are.’
‘Five?’ I echoed, in astonishment. ‘Says who? You’re doing really well! You have lots of projects, a great income …’
‘Oh, come on, Sylvie,’ he almost growled. ‘The girls’ room is tiny. We’ll want to move to a new house before long.’
‘Says who? Dan, what’s brought all this on?’
‘It’s simply about looking forward,’ said Dan, not meeting my eye. ‘It’s simply about making a plan.’
‘Right, and what would this plan entail?’ I shot back, feeling more and more scratchy. ‘Would you have to travel?’
‘Of course,’ he said tetchily. ‘It would be a whole new level of commitment, of investment …’
‘“Investment”.’ I seized on the word. ‘So you’d have to borrow money?’
He shrugged. ‘We’d need more leverage.’
‘Leverage’. I hate that word. It’s a weasel word. It sounds so simple. You picture a lever and think: Oh, that makes sense. It took me ages to realize what it actually means is ‘borrowing stacks of money at a scary interest rate’.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It seems like a risky thing. When did these Copenhagen guys approach you?’
‘Two months ago,’ said Dan. ‘We turned them down. But I’m reconsidering.’
And something furious immediately erupted inside me. Why is he reconsidering now? Because we went to my mother’s yesterday and she talked about holidays on yachts in Greece?
‘Dan.’ I fixed his eyes with mine. ‘We have a great life. We have a great work–leisure balance. Your business doesn’t need to be five times bigger. The girls like having you around. We don’t want you in Copenhagen. And I love this house! We’ve made it our home! We don’t need to move, we don’t need more money …’
I was on quite a roll. I could probably have talked for twenty minutes, except that Anna’s little voice piped up, saying, ‘Seven fifty-two.’ She was reading the clock on the oven, which is her new hobby. I broke off mid-stream and exclaimed, ‘What time? Sh-ugar!’ and it was a total scramble to get the girls ready for school.
I never finished testing the girls’ spellings either. Great. They’ll probably get three out of ten in the test. And when the teacher asks, ‘What happened this week?’ Tessa will say in that clear little voice of hers, ‘We couldn’t learn our words because Mummy and Daddy were arguing about money.’ And the teachers will bitch about us in the staff room.
Sigh.
Double sigh.
‘Sylvie!’ exclaims Tilda as she joins me at her gate. ‘What’s wrong? I’ve said hello three times. You’re miles away!’
‘Sorry.’ I greet her with a kiss and we start on our usual walk.
‘What’s up, honey?’ she says, studying her Fitbit. ‘Just the Monday morning blues?’
‘You know.’ I heave another sigh. ‘Marriage.’
‘Oh, marriage.’ She makes a snorting sound. ‘Did you not read the disclaimers? “May cause headache, anxiety, mood swings, sleep disturbance or general feelings of wanting to stab something?”’ Her expression is so comical, I can’t help laughing. ‘Or hives,’ Tilda adds. ‘Brought me out in hives.’
‘I don’t have hives,’ I allow. ‘That’s a plus.’
‘And another plus, I’m assuming, would be your lovely new cashmere cardigan …?’ Tilda prompts, her eyes twinkling. ‘Did everything go to plan?’
‘Oh God.’ I clap a hand to my forehead. ‘That feels ages ago now. To be honest, nothing went to plan. Dan found out I tried the cardigan on. And we double-booked lunch. And we’ve ended up with a snake.’
‘A snake?’ She stares at me. ‘Did not see that one coming.’
I regale Tilda with all the events of Saturday, and we both get fits of the giggles, and I feel really quite cheerful again. But then I remember Dan’s scratchiness, and my mood sinks once more.
‘So, why the blues this morning?’ enquires Tilda, who is one of those friends who likes to know for sure you’re OK and can’t be brushed off and never gets offended. The best kind of friend, in fact. ‘Is it the snake?’
‘No, it’s not the snake,’ I say fairly. ‘I might get used to the snake. It’s just …’ I spread my arms and let them fall.
‘Dan?’
I walk a few paces, marshalling my thoughts. Tilda is wise and loyal. We’ve both shared some sensitive stuff, along the way. She might see the situation a different way.
‘I’ve told you before about Dan and my father,’ I say at last. ‘And that whole …’
‘Financial prickliness?’ Tilda suggests tactfully.
‘Exactly. Financial prickliness. Well, I thought it would get better, but it’s getting worse.’ I lower my voice, even though the street is empty. ‘Dan’s come up with a plan to expand his company. I know it’s because he’s trying to compete with Daddy, but I don’t want him to!’ I look up, meeting Tilda’s shrewd eyes. ‘I don’t want him to work himself into the ground, just to be some version of my father. He’s not my father, he’s Dan! That’s why I love him. Because he’s Dan, not because …’ I trail off, not quite sure where I’m going.
We walk in silence, and I can see that Tilda is mulling.
‘I watched a documentary about lions a while ago,’ she says presently. ‘About the young lions taking over the pride from the older generation. They’re vicious to each other. They get horribly injured. But they have to fight it out. They have to establish who’s boss.’
‘So, what, Dan’s a lion?’
‘Maybe he’s a young lion with no one to fight,’ says Tilda, shooting me a cryptic look. ‘Think about it. Your father died in his prime. He won’t ever get old and frail. He won’t ever make way for Dan. Dan wants to be ki
ng of the jungle.’
‘But he is king of our jungle!’ I say in frustration. ‘Or at least … he’s joint king with me,’ I amend, because our marriage is definitely an equal partnership, which is something I really try to get across to the girls in a positive, feminist-role-model way. (When I’m not arguing with Dan and neglecting their spelling test, that is.) ‘We’re both the king,’ I clarify.
‘Maybe he doesn’t feel like he’s king.’ Tilda shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask David Attenborough.’ She walks a few more steps in silence, then adds, ‘Or else, you know, Dan should just suck it up and get over himself. Sorry to be harsh,’ she adds. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do,’ I say, nodding. We’ve reached the station by now, and there’s the usual stream of commuters and schoolchildren heading inside. ‘Anyway,’ I say to Tilda above the hubbub. ‘I’ve come up with a new plan, and it’ll definitely make Dan feel like the king of the jungle. It’s another surprise,’ I add, and Tilda groans.
‘No! Not more of this nonsense! I thought you were cured. You’ll end up with another snake. Or worse.’
‘No we won’t,’ I say defiantly. ‘This one is a good idea. It’s related to sex, and sex is crucial to everything, agreed?’
‘Sex?’ Tilda seems simultaneously appalled and fascinated. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come up with some new sexual manoeuvre to make Dan feel like the king of the jungle. Frankly, the mind boggles.’
‘It’s not a sexual move. It’s a sexual gift.’ I pause dramatically for effect. ‘It’s boudoir photos.’
‘What?’ Tilda looks totally blank. ‘What’s that?’
‘Boudoir photos! It’s a thing. You do it before you get married. You have sexy photos taken of you in stockings or whatever and you give it to your husband in a special book. So you can look back in future years and remember how hot you were.’
‘And then look at yourself in the mirror and compare and contrast?’ Tilda sounds aghast. ‘No thanks! Keep it all in the misty memory, that’s what I say.’
‘Well, anyway, I’m doing it,’ I rejoin, a bit defiantly. ‘I’m going to google it today. There are special companies who do it.’
‘How much do they charge?’
‘Don’t know,’ I admit. ‘But what’s the price of a happy marriage?’
Tilda just rolls her eyes sardonically. ‘I’ll do it, if you like,’ she says. ‘And I won’t charge anything. You can buy me a bottle of wine. Nice wine,’ she clarifies.
‘You’ll do it?’ I give an incredulous gasp of laughter. ‘You just said you hated the idea!’
‘For me. But for you, why not? Be fun.’
‘But you’re not a photographer!’ As I say it, I suddenly remember all her Instagram efforts. ‘I mean, not a real photographer,’ I add carefully.
‘I have an eye,’ says Tilda confidently. ‘That’s the main thing. My camera’s good enough and we can hire lighting or whatever. I’ve been wanting to get more into photography. As for props … I’ve got a riding crop somewhere around.’ She waggles her eyebrows at me and I dissolve into laughter.
‘OK. Maybe. I’ll think about it. I must go!’
And I give her a hug and dash into the station, still giggling at the idea.
Although in fact … she’s got a point. By ten o’clock, I’ve spent a good hour peering at ‘boudoir photo’ websites on the office computer. (I sent Clarissa off to interview the volunteers on their levels of job satisfaction, to get her out of the way.) First of all, the sessions all cost hundreds of pounds. Second of all, some of them make me cringe: Kevin our photographer will use years of experience (Playboy, Penthouse) to guide you sensitively into a series of erotic poses, including advice on hand placement. (Hand placement?) And thirdly, wouldn’t it be more fun and relaxed with Tilda?
I’m getting some ideas, though. There’s a great picture of a girl in a white negligee, arching her leg through a chair which is just like one of our kitchen chairs. I could do that. I’m peering at the screen, trying to work out her exact position, when I hear a heavy tread coming up the stairs.
Shit. It’s him. The nephew. Robert. Shit.
I have literally about thirty windows open on my screen, each one containing a boudoir photo of a woman in a corset and fishnets, or lying on a bed, wearing nothing but ten sets of false eyelashes and a wedding veil.
Heart thumping, I start closing the images down, but I’m all flustered and keep mis-clicking. The wretched women won’t stop pouting at me, with their red lips and lacy bras and hands placed provocatively over their thongs. (Actually, I can see the point of advice on hand placement.)
As I’m frantically closing down the final photo, I’m aware that the tread on the staircase has stopped. He’s here. But it’s OK: I closed everything down in time. I’m sure I did. He didn’t see anything.
Did he?
My back is prickling with embarrassment. I can’t bring myself to turn round. Shall I pretend to be so engrossed in work that I haven’t noticed he’s here? Yes. Good plan.
I pick up the phone and dial a random number.
‘Hello?’ I say stagily. ‘It’s Sylvie from Willoughby House calling to talk about our event. Can you call me back? Thanks.’
I put down the phone, turn round and do an exaggerated double take at the sight of Robert standing there in his monolithic dark suit, holding a briefcase.
‘Oh, hi!’ I exclaim gushingly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’
His face remains impassive, but his eyes flicker to my computer screen, to the phone and back to me. They’re so dark and impenetrable I can’t read them. In fact, his whole face has a kind of off-putting, closed-up air. As though what you see is the tip of the iceberg.
Not like Dan. Dan is open. His eyes are clear and true. If he frowns, I can usually guess why. If he smiles, I know what the joke is. This guy looks as if the joke might be that no one will ever guess it was him who severed all those heads and hid them in the coal pit.
Then, instantly, I chide myself. Stop exaggerating. He’s not that bad.
‘Most telephone numbers begin with a zero,’ he says matter-of-factly.
Damn.
And bloody hell. He was watching my fingers deliberately, to catch me out. That shows how sneaky he is. I need to be on my guard.
‘Some don’t,’ I say vaguely, and call up a random document on my screen. It’s a budget for a harpsichord concert we did last year, I belatedly realize, but if he queries it I’ll say I’m doing an audit exercise. Yes.
I feel all fake and self-conscious, sitting here under his gaze – and it’s his fault, I decide. He shouldn’t have such a forbidding air. It’s not conducive to … anything. At that moment, I hear Clarissa on the stairs – and as she enters she actually gives a little squeak of dismay at the sight of him.
‘Good, you’re here,’ he says to her. ‘I want a meeting with both of you. I want a few answers about a few things.’
That’s exactly what I mean. How aggressive does that sound?
‘Fine,’ I say coolly. ‘Clarissa, why don’t you make some coffee? I’ll just finish up here.’
I’m not going to jump when he says jump. We have busy lives. We have agendas. What does he think we do all day? I close down the harpsichord concert budget, file a couple of stray documents which are littering the screen (Clarissa leaves everything on the desktop) and then thoughtlessly click on some JPEG which has been minimized.
At once the screen is filled with the image of a woman with a massive trout pout and a see-through bra, her fingers splayed over her breasts (excellent hand placement). My stomach heaves in horror. Shit. I’m an IDIOT. Close down, close down … My face is puce as I dementedly click my mouse, trying to get rid of the picture for good. At last it disappears, and I swivel round in my chair with a shrill laugh.
‘Ha ha! You’re probably wondering why I had that picture up on the screen! It was actually …’ My mind casts around desperately. ‘… research. For a possible exhibition of …
erotica.’
Now my face is flaming even harder. I should never have attempted to say ‘erotica’ out loud. It’s a bad word, ‘erotica’, almost as bad as ‘moist’.
‘Erotica?’ Robert sounds a bit stunned.
‘Historical. Through the ages. Victorian, Edwardian, compared to modern … er … It’s only at the early planning stages,’ I finish lamely.
There’s a bit of a silence.
‘Does Willoughby House contain any erotica?’ says Robert at last, frowning. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was my aunt’s thing.’
Of course it isn’t her bloody thing! But I have to say something, and from the depths of my memory I pluck an image.
‘There’s a picture of a girl on a swing in one of the archived print collections,’ I tell him.
‘A girl on a swing?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t sound very …’
‘She’s naked,’ I elaborate. ‘And fairly … you know. Fulsome. I guess for a Victorian man, she’d be quite alluring.’
‘What about for a modern man?’ His dark eyes gleam at me.
Is that appropriate, for his eyes to gleam? I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice. Or hear the question. Or start this conversation.
‘Shall we begin the meeting?’ I say instead. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’
‘I want to know what the hell you do all day,’ he says pleasantly, and at once I bristle.
‘We run Willoughby House’s administration and fundraising,’ I say with a slight glare.
‘Good. Then you’ll be able to tell me what that is.’
He’s pointing to the Ladder. It’s a wooden library ladder, set against the wall, with boxes of cards on the three steps. As I follow his gaze, I gulp inwardly. I have to admit, the Ladder is idiosyncratic, even by our standards.
‘It’s our Christmas card system,’ I explain. ‘Christmas cards are a big deal for Mrs Kendrick. The top step is for the cards we received last year. The middle step is for this year’s cards, unsigned. The bottom step is for this year’s cards, signed. We each sign five a day.’
Surprise Me Page 15
