Surprise Me

by Kinsella, Sophie

  ‘It’s sweltering!’ I’ve never known Tilda’s house so hot. Usually she’s of the ‘heating is for wimps’ mentality.

  ‘You want to be nice and warm and relaxed. Nice eyelashes, by the way,’ adds Tilda admiringly. ‘And what have you brought?’ She reaches into one of my bags and pulls out the string of pearls. ‘Ah, very good. A boudoir classic. The “draping shot”, as we boudoir photographers call it.’

  She sounds so expert, I want to laugh. I’m also quite touched she’s taking it so seriously.

  ‘You can change behind the screen,’ Tilda continues, opening up the Prosecco and pouring it out. ‘And then we’ll go into the first pose.’ She hands me a glass and consults a handwritten list headed Sylvie – Poses. ‘Sit on the sofa, then gradually slide off. Your head should be thrust upwards, right leg bent, left leg relaxed, back arched, shoe dangling …’

  ‘Uhuh,’ I say doubtfully. ‘Can you show me?’

  ‘Show you?’ Tilda looks aghast. ‘Well, I can try, but I’m not very supple.’

  She sits on the sofa, then slides off. Halfway towards the floor she freezes, one leg pinned to the floor, the other swinging akimbo, and her head thrust back in a painful-looking rictus. She looks like she’s giving birth. That can’t be right.

  ‘Ow.’ She flops to the floor. ‘You see?’

  ‘Er … kind of,’ I say, after a pause.

  ‘It’ll be fine!’ she says breezily. ‘I’ll direct you. Now, what are you going to wear?’

  Choosing the first outfit is a lot of fun, and takes us nearly half an hour. I went a bit overboard with the underwear shopping so we have lots of choice and eventually get it down to a white lace set with white seamed stockings and suspenders. As I emerge from behind the screen, I feel genuinely sexy and excited. Dan won’t believe his eyes!

  ‘Amazing!’ says Tilda, who is fiddling with her light counter. ‘Now, if you get into position …’

  I sit on the sofa, slide down and freeze in the same way that Tilda did. Almost at once, my thighs start burning. I should have done the boudoir workout.

  ‘Ready?’ I say, after what seems like ten minutes.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Tilda, glancing up. ‘Oh, you look gorgeous. Lovely!’

  She takes a few pictures, peering at me between shots.

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  I want to say, ‘Do I look like I’m giving birth?’ only that might sound weird.

  ‘Try putting your hands behind your head,’ suggests Tilda, snapping away. ‘Oh, yes! Now sweep your hair back. Lovely! Do it again!’

  Twenty hair-sweeps later my legs can’t take it any more and I collapse on to the floor.

  ‘Great!’ says Tilda. ‘Shall we have a look?’

  ‘Yes!’ I scrabble to my feet and hurry over to the camera. Tilda scrolls back through the shots and we both gaze in silence.

  The images are so far from what I imagined that I’m speechless. You can barely see my face. You can barely see the sexy underwear. The whole photo is dominated by my legs in their white stockings, which are lit up so brightly, they look like luminous surgical stockings. In half the photos, my hair is over my face, not in a sexy way, but a dishevelled, crap-looking way. And I do look like I’m giving birth.

  ‘My legs look quite …’ I say at last.

  I don’t want to say ‘huge, fat and white’. But that’s the truth.

  ‘I didn’t quite get the lighting right,’ says Tilda after another long pause. Her ebullience has dimmed and there’s a crinkle in her brow. ‘Not exactly right. Never mind. Let’s go on to the second pose.’

  I put on a new outfit – red lace teddy – and get on to all fours, following Tilda’s directions.

  ‘Now, lean forward on your knees … legs apart … further apart …’

  ‘They won’t go any further apart,’ I gasp. ‘I’m not a bloody gymnast!’

  ‘OK, now raise your chin,’ instructs Tilda, ignoring me. ‘Put your weight all on one arm if you can … boost your boobs with the other arm … give me a sexy look …’

  My knees are killing me. My arm is killing me. And now I have to produce a sexy look? I flutter my eyelashes and the camera flashes a few times. ‘Hmm,’ says Tilda, doubtfully squinting at her screen. ‘Could you lift your bum up for a better angle?’

  With a huge effort, I try to arch my back and thrust my bum further into the air.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Tilda again. ‘No. Maybe I meant, lift up your head.’ She stares at her screen as though perplexed. ‘Can you get a bit more curve into your bum, somehow?’

  ‘Get more curve into my bum’? What does that even mean? My bum is my bum.

  ‘No.’ I sit back and rub my knees. ‘Ow. I need knee pads.’ I get to my feet and rub at my legs. ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘No,’ says Tilda hurriedly as I approach. ‘No, better not see these ones. I mean, they’re lovely, absolutely gorgeous, but I might just delete them …’ She jabs quickly at her camera, then looks up with a bright smile. ‘That pose wasn’t quite working. But I’ve got another idea. We’ll use the doorway.’

  The doorway is the worst of all. This time I insist on seeing the shots, and I look like a gorilla. A pale, hairless gorilla in a blonde wig, hanging from a door frame in a black bra and knickers. This time, all the light pools harshly on my stomach. You can’t see my face but you can see my stretch marks in glorious detail. If Dan saw this photo, we’d probably never have sex again.

  ‘I can absolutely Photoshop these,’ Tilda keeps saying as we scroll through, but I can tell she’s slightly losing confidence. ‘It’s harder than I thought,’ she says at last, heaving a sigh. ‘I mean, taking the photos is easy enough, it’s making them look good.’ She gazes at a particularly ghoulish image of me, winces and pours more Prosecco into our glasses.

  We both take a few gulps, and Tilda idly experiments with my black satin corset, wrapping it around herself this way and that.

  ‘Maybe we need something simpler,’ she says at last. ‘We’ll use the failsafe pose.’

  ‘What’s the failsafe pose?’

  ‘It’s for all shapes and sizes,’ she says, more confidently. ‘I read about it on a website. You lie on the sofa, legs crossed and gaze up at the camera. I’ve got lighting instructions, too.’

  Lying on the sofa sounds a lot better than kneeling on the floor, or hanging upside down off the back of a chair, which was her other idea.

  ‘OK,’ I nod. ‘What shall I wear?’

  But Tilda is still preoccupied with my corset. ‘How does this thing work?’ she says suddenly. ‘I can’t work it out at all. Where’s the top? Where’s the boobs bit?’

  ‘It doesn’t have a boobs bit,’ I tell her. ‘It’s an underbust corset. You can wear a bra with it. Or not.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, perfect!’ Her imagination seems seized. ‘Wear this and a pair of knickers and nothing more. Lie on the sofa. Play with your pearls. It’ll look great. Dan will go wild.’

  ‘Right.’ I hesitate. ‘So … a topless shot, you mean.’

  ‘Exactly! It’ll be gorgeous!’

  I’m not too sure. Posing in underwear is one thing. But topless? In front of Tilda?

  ‘Won’t that make you uncomfortable?’ I venture.

  ‘Of course not!’ she says airily. ‘I’ve seen your boobs before, haven’t I?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Well, haven’t I?’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘Out shopping or something? Glimpsed them in the changing room?’

  I’m fairly sure Tilda hasn’t glimpsed my boobs in the changing room. And I’m still not comfortable about this idea. I mean, I’m not prudish. I’m not. Really. It’s just …

  ‘Are you uncomfortable?’ Tilda peers at me as though the thought is just dawning on her.

  ‘Well …’ I shrug awkwardly.

  ‘Well, how about I show you mine? Fair’s fair.’ I gape, stunned, as she whips up her top and unclasps her front-fastening bra, exposing two quite large veiny breasts. ‘Ghastly, aren�
�t they?’ she adds dispassionately. ‘I breastfed Toby for two years, you know, like the idiot I was. No wonder he won’t leave home.’

  I’m not sure what to reply. Or where to look. Do I say, ‘They’re lovely’? What do you say about your friend’s breasts? The truth is, they’re not lovely in a conventional sense, but they’re lovely because they look exactly like Tilda. Comforting and voluminous and Tilda-ish.

  Luckily she doesn’t seem to require an answer. She fastens her bra up again, drops down her shirt and grins. ‘OK, sexy Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Your turn.’

  And suddenly I feel stupid for even hesitating. This is Tilda. They’re just boobs, for God’s sake.

  ‘OK!’ I grab the corset. ‘Let’s do it!’

  ‘I’m going to get my extra pack of filters,’ says Tilda. ‘Be back in a moment.’

  I quickly strip off the bra I’m wearing, fit the satin corset around me and cinch it so tight I can hardly breathe. I put on my highest stripper heels, drape the pearls around my neck and survey myself in the mirror. I have to say, this corset is very flattering. I actually look quite hot. My boobs are … well, they’re OK. Bearing in mind what they’ve done. Still perkyish. As I hear Tilda returning, I sashay to the door.

  ‘So what do you think of this?’ I say, and fling it open, one hand on my hip.

  Toby is standing in front of me. In the split second before I can react, I see his eyes fix on my nipples and his pupils dilate and his jaw slacken.

  ‘Argh!’ I hear myself scream before I realize I’m doing it. ‘Argh! Sorry!’ I clutch my hands over my naked breasts, which probably looks exactly like a boudoir shot.

  A hoarse sound is coming from Toby, too. ‘Oh God!’ He sounds even more aghast than I do, and puts a hand up to shield his eyes. ‘Sylvie, I’m sorry! Argh! Mum …’

  ‘Toby!’ Tilda comes into the hall, scolding him. She tosses me a pashmina from the banister and I hastily wrap it round myself. ‘What are you doing back? I told you Sylvie was coming over!’

  ‘I thought you were just going to drink wine, like you normally do!’ Toby retorts defensively. ‘Not …’ He peers past me. ‘Are you taking photos?’

  ‘Don’t tell Dan,’ I blurt out.

  ‘Right.’ His eyes drift down to my stripper heels and back up again. ‘Right.’

  This is mortifying. I have never felt more like a tragic suburban wife, desperately trying to keep her husband interested because otherwise he’ll shag his secretary, in fact he probably has done already and guess what, she only wears his boxer shorts to bed, but then, she’s twenty-one and a natural 34D.

  (OK, that was a really unhelpful train of thought.)

  ‘Anyway!’ I say, in brittle tones. ‘So. Um. We’re pretty much finished up, aren’t we, Tilda? Nice to see you, Toby.’

  ‘Nice to see you too, Sylvie,’ says Toby politely. ‘Oh, and I got your email about your website. What kind of CMS were you thinking of?’

  ‘CMS?’ I echo blankly.

  ‘Content management system? Because you’ll need to think about scalability, plug-ins, e-commerce … Do you know what kind of functionality you’re after?’

  ‘You know, maybe we should discuss this another time?’ I say in a shrill voice. Like, when I’ve got clothes on? ‘That would be great.’

  ‘No problem,’ says Toby easily. ‘Any time.’

  He thuds upstairs and Tilda and I glance at each other. Suddenly Tilda makes an exploding noise, clutches at her mouth and starts jiggling with suppressed laughter.

  ‘You’ve got to admit,’ she says, when she’s regained control of herself. ‘It’s quite funny.’

  ‘No it’s not!’ I say reproachfully. ‘I’m traumatized! Toby’s traumatized! We’ll all have to have therapy after this!’

  ‘Oh, Sylvie.’ Tilda gives a final gurgle. ‘Don’t be traumatized. And as for Toby, it’s good for him to see that the older generation still has a bit of oomph. Come on, let’s take a picture of you in that corset. You look great,’ she adds.

  ‘No.’ I wrap the pashmina more tightly around me, feeling deflated. ‘I’m not in the mood any more. I feel old and stupid and … you know. Desperate.’

  Tilda’s silent for a moment, surveying me with her shrewd, kind eyes.

  ‘Go home,’ she says. ‘Sylvie, you don’t need a book of boudoir photos. I’m a crap photographer, anyway.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ I begin politely, but Tilda makes a snorting sound.

  ‘I could not have made you look more terrible if I’d tried! And why take pictures anyway? Just go home, wearing that.’ She nods at me. ‘Believe me, if that doesn’t make Dan’s day there’s something wrong with him.’

  I glance towards the party wall and imagine Dan on the other side of it, eating his single salmon fillet, watching sports on the kitchen telly, believing sincerely that Tilda and I are discussing Flaubert.

  ‘You’re right.’ I feel a sudden surge of optimism and adrenaline. ‘You’re right!’

  Suddenly this whole endeavour seems artificial and weird and kind of too much.

  ‘Leave all your stuff here,’ says Tilda. ‘Get it tomorrow.’ She hands me my handbag. ‘If I were you, I’d head home right now in that pashmina, peel it off and ravish Dan. I’ll turn up the TV loud,’ she adds with a wink. ‘We won’t hear anything.’

  Dan is sitting at the kitchen table as I enter, exactly as I pictured him. Discarded plate with salmon skin. Football on. Beer open. Feet up on a chair. If Vermeer had been around, he could have made a perfect study of him: Man with Wife at Book Club.

  ‘Hi.’ He looks up with an absent smile. ‘You’re home early.’

  I smile back. ‘We wrapped it up. There’s only so much you can say about Flaubert.’

  ‘Mmm.’ His attention shifts back towards the screen and he takes a slug of beer.

  Isn’t he going to say, ‘Why are you dressed only in a pashmina and high heels?’

  Clearly not. Clearly he thinks it’s a dress.

  ‘Dan.’ I plant myself in his field of vision and start to unwrap the pashmina in my most tantalizing, boudoir-photo style.

  ‘Come on …’

  I don’t believe it. He’s peering around me at the screen, as if I’m some annoying obstacle, because something far more exciting is obviously happening on the football pitch. ‘Come on!’ He clenches a fist. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Dan!’ I say sharply, and let the pashmina fall to the ground in one go.

  OK, now I’ve got his attention.

  There’s silence, except for the roar of the football crowd. Dan is goggling up at me. He’s actually speechless. He lifts a hand to caress one of my boobs, as though he’s never seen it before.

  ‘Well,’ he says at last, his voice a little thick. ‘This is interesting.’

  I shrug nonchalantly. ‘Surprise.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Slowly he starts playing with the pearl necklace. He presses the pearls into my cleavage, rubs my nipples with them, runs them up and down my skin, his eyes fixed on mine. And I know the pearl necklace is a boudoir photo cliché or whatever, but actually this is pretty sexy. It’s all pretty sexy. The stripper heels, the corset – and Dan’s expression in particular. He hasn’t looked like this in a long time: as though something huge and powerful is overcoming him and no one can stop it.

  ‘The children are asleep,’ I say huskily, reaching for the remote and snapping off the TV. ‘We can do anything. Try anything. Go anywhere. Be anyone.’

  Dan is already eyeing up a nearby barstool with intent. He’s very keen on doing it on those barstools. Me, not so much. They always end up digging into my thighs.

  ‘Maybe something different,’ I say quickly. ‘Something we’ve never done. Something adventurous. Surprise me.’

  There’s another tense silence, broken only by the clicking of the pearls in Dan’s fingers. His eyes are distant. I can tell he’s hugely preoccupied. My own mind is ranging around various delicious possibilities and fixing on that chocolate body pa
int I bought once for Valentine’s Day … hmm, I wonder where it is … when Dan’s eyes seem to snap.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Get your coat on. I’m asking Tilda to babysit.’

  ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’ He flashes me a gaze that makes me shiver in anticipation.

  ‘Do I need clothes on?’

  ‘Just put a coat on.’ His eyes drop to my lacy black pants. ‘You won’t need those.’

  OK, this totally beats a book of boudoir photos. By the time I’ve removed my pants, selected my sexiest coat and made sure that passers-by won’t get an X-rated view of me as I walk along, Dan is back, with Tilda in tow.

  ‘Going out to supper, I hear, Sylvie?’ says Tilda in super-innocent tones. ‘Or is it more like dessert al fresco?’ She eyes my stripper heels so comically, I bite my lip.

  ‘Dan’s in charge.’ I match her innocent tone. ‘So. Who knows?’

  ‘Good man.’ Her eyes sparkle wickedly at me. ‘Well, have a good time. Don’t rush back.’

  Dan hires a taxi and gives an address to the driver that I can’t hear. We travel along in silence, my pulse rising as Dan’s hand roams idly up inside my coat. I’m feeling almost faint with lust. We haven’t done anything like this for ages. Maybe ever. And I’m not even sure what ‘this’ is yet.

  After a short drive, we get out on a street corner in Vauxhall. Vauxhall? This is all very unlikely.

  ‘What?’ I begin, looking around. ‘Where are we—’

  ‘Ssh.’ Dan cuts me off. ‘This way.’

  He leads me briskly through an unfamiliar garden square, just as though he’s been here a million times. He ushers me past the church in the corner. We walk through the little graveyard and approach an old wooden gate, set in a brick wall, with a keypad next to it.

  ‘OK,’ says Dan to himself as we come to a halt. ‘The only question is, have they changed the code?’

  I’m too bemused to answer. Where the hell are we?

  Dan punches in a code, and I hear an unlocking sound from the gate. Then he slowly pushes it open. And I don’t believe it: it’s a garden. A totally deserted little garden. I stare ahead, open-mouthed, and Dan surveys me with a twinkle of satisfaction.