Surprise Me

by Kinsella, Sophie

  I’ve been expecting you, Mr Winter. That’s my line. Except it’s not true. Until last night I didn’t expect any of this. Extramarital affairs? Secret drawers? Little messages? Are you kidding? I’ve looked at the photos on my phone about a thousand times today. I’ve read Dan’s texts, over and over. They’re so familiar-sounding. So Dan-like. Just like the kind of texts he’d send to me … but not to me.

  The one that really makes my stomach clench is Remember PS factor. The ‘Princess Sylvie’ factor. I’m not his beloved wife, I’m a factor. Not to mention the fact that Princess Sylvie is a very private little nickname that makes me flinch for all sorts of reasons, and now he’s using it with her.

  I just don’t get it. The Dan I know is caring and solicitous. Protective of us: of what we’ve made together. Our home. Our family. Our world. Can you really not know someone you’ve been so close to? Can you really be so blind?

  I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say. What I do know is, I’m not going to greet him by waving the evidence in his face. Because what do I gain by doing that? Nothing, except a momentary flash of vindictive glee. (Which, actually, is fairly appealing right now.)

  But then what happens? I’ve caught him out. I win. Except it doesn’t feel like winning.

  Winning would be: he decides to confess everything, totally spontaneously, and is really sorry and has some explanation which makes everything right. (What explanation? Don’t know. Not my job.)

  Or even better, we go back in time, and none of this ever happened.

  The sound of his key in the lock makes me jump. Fuck. I’m not ready. I hastily smooth down my hair and take a few deep breaths. My heart is pounding so hard, I feel like it must be audible – but as Dan comes in, he doesn’t seem to hear it. Or notice anything. He looks knackered and his brow is screwed up as though he can’t escape his thoughts. As he drops his briefcase he exhales with a weary sigh. Any other night, I’d say, ‘Are you OK?’ and get him a cup of tea or a drink.

  But not tonight. If he’s knackered, maybe he shouldn’t make so many complicated arrangements in his private life. I spit the words out in the privacy of my own brain, and almost wish he could hear them.

  ‘All right?’ I say shortly.

  ‘I’ve had better days.’ Dan rubs his brow and I feel a flare of fury which I quell.

  ‘I think we need to talk,’ I say.

  ‘Sylvie …’ Dan looks up as though this is the last straw. ‘I’m shattered, it’s been a fuck of a day, I have calls I need to make …’

  ‘Oh, calls,’ I retort sarcastically before I can stop myself.

  He stares at me. ‘Yes, calls.’

  ‘What kind of calls?’

  ‘Just calls.’

  I’m breathing hard. My thoughts are skittering around. I need to gather myself.

  ‘I just think … we should be … honest with each other,’ I say, feeling my way. ‘Really, really honest. Let’s have a new project where we confess everything. Project Clean Slate.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Dan mutters. ‘I need a drink.’ He looks as if Project Clean Slate is the last thing he wants in his life, but I press on determinedly as he gets a beer from the fridge.

  ‘We need to connect. And to connect you need to be totally straightforward and not hide anything. Like …’ I scrabble hastily around. ‘Like, I found a Post-it that I’d written for myself the other day. Your mum had called and I totally forgot to tell you. Sorry.’

  There’s silence, and I look at Dan expectantly.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘Your turn! Project Clean Slate! There must be something you … something you haven’t told me … it could be anything …’

  I trail off, my heart beating even faster. Already I know this isn’t going to work. It was a stupid idea. I confess a missed phone message and he confesses an entire affair?

  ‘Sylvie, I really don’t have time for this,’ Dan says, and something about his terse, dismissive tone makes me see red.

  ‘You don’t have time for your marriage?’ I explode. ‘You don’t have time to talk about the hiccups in our relationship?’

  ‘What hiccups?’ Dan sounds irritable. ‘Why are you always inventing problems?’

  Inventing? I want to scream. Did I invent your texts?

  There’s silence in the kitchen, apart from the ticking of our wall clock. We bought it together in Ikea, before we were married. We didn’t even need to discuss it. We were both instantly drawn to the same one, with a big black rim and no numerals. I remember thinking, God, we’re so in sync.

  What a joke.

  Dan pulls up a chair and sits down and he looks exactly like the husband I’ve known and loved all these years, except, he’s not, is he? He’s stuffed full of secrets.

  I’m bubbling over again. I need to confront him. If I can’t bring myself to brandish his texts to Mary, I can brandish something else.

  ‘I know you’re cooking up something at work,’ I fling out at him. ‘I heard you at the hospital, talking to my mother. “A million pounds, maybe two,” huh, Dan? Is that what you’re borrowing? Without telling me? Is this for that Copenhagen business?’

  Dan’s eyes widen. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I heard you!’ I know my voice is shrill but I can’t help it. ‘“One million, maybe two!” Jesus, Dan! This is our future you’re gambling on! And I know exactly what it’s about really—’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Dan says in ominous tones. ‘What’s it about really?’

  Seriously? He’s asking this?

  ‘My father!’ I almost yell. ‘What do you think? It’s always about my father! You can’t stand that Daddy was rich and successful, you can’t stand that he was admired, you look miserable any time anyone says anything nice about him—’

  ‘I do not,’ snaps Dan.

  ‘Oh my God, Dan, are you for real?’ I almost want to laugh, except it’s not funny. ‘Have you seen yourself? It’s completely obvious. And that’s why you want to expand your company, not because it’s good for us, as a family, but because you’ve got to compete with my father, who by the way, is dead. Dead. You’re so bloody chippy, and I’m sick of it.’

  I break off, panting, tears rising, half-terrified. I can’t believe I called Dan ‘chippy’. It’s a word I vowed never, ever to use. But now I have. I’ve crossed a line.

  A vein is twitching in Dan’s forehead. He stares at me for a few silent moments and I can see a million thoughts passing through his eyes, but I can’t read any of them.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ he says abruptly, pushing back his chair.

  ‘Can’t do what?’ I throw after him, but he doesn’t answer, just strides into the hall and up the stairs.

  ‘Dan!’ I hurry after him furiously. ‘Come back! We need to talk!’

  ‘Jesus, Sylvie!’ Dan pauses halfway up the stairs and wheels round. ‘Are you for real? We do not need to talk. I’m fucking talked out. I need to have some space. Some space. To think. To … I need space. Space.’ He clutches his head. ‘Space.’

  ‘Oh, space,’ I say, as scathingly as I can, because inside my heart is beating a tattoo of panic.

  This has all gone far worse than I expected, far more quickly. I want to pull it back. I want to say, ‘Please. Please, Dan. Tell me you don’t love her.’ But I’m petrified of what he might say. So much for knowing him inside out; for being psychic; for finishing off his sentences. I have no idea what he’s about to say any more.

  I feel almost faint with fear, standing here in my familiar hall, staring up at my unfamiliar husband. He’s gazing at me with a wry expression that makes my hair stand on end, because it’s not one of our looks. It’s the kind of look he might give to a stranger.

  ‘I meant to tell you,’ he says at last, in a voice that doesn’t ring true. ‘I’ve got a trip tomorrow. I need to fly up to … Glasgow. I might as well go and stay at an airport hotel tonight.’

  ‘Glasgow?’ I stare at him. ‘Why Glasgow?’

  ‘Possi
ble new supplier,’ he says, looking away, and my heart plunges. He’s lying. I can tell.

  He’s going to her.

  ‘Fine.’ I manage the single syllable, even though my lungs feel like they’re packing up.

  ‘Tell the girls I’ll be back soon. Give them a kiss.’

  ‘Fine.’

  He turns and trudges up the stairs and I stand, motionless, replaying our conversation in my head on a loop, feeling as if any move I make might be wrong. After a few minutes he’s back, holding the leather weekend bag I gave him our first Christmas together.

  ‘Dan, listen.’ I swallow, trying not to sound desperate. ‘Why don’t you stay here tonight? Couldn’t you drive to the airport in the morning?’

  ‘I have stuff I need to do,’ he says, staring resolutely past me. ‘It’ll be simpler if … I’ll text Karen. I’m sure she’ll do some extra hours, take care of the school run …’

  The school run? Is that what he thinks I’m worried about? The school run?

  ‘OK.’ I can barely get the word out.

  ‘I’ll be a day or two. I’ll keep you posted.’ He kisses me on the forehead, then heads to the front door with his swift, determined stride. Within ten seconds he’s gone, and I’m still standing motionless, almost light-headed with shock. What just happened?

  A sudden thought comes to me and I dart upstairs to his study. I wrench open his top drawer – and his passport is inside, where it’s always kept. Dan’s not the type to forget his passport. He’s not flying anywhere.

  I pick up the passport, open it and stare at Dan’s impassive photo face, feeling sick. The man I thought couldn’t keep secrets from me turns out to be a pretty good liar.

  And now humiliation is descending upon me like a suffocating blanket. It’s so sordid. So predictable. My husband has walked out on me for his mistress, leaving me to look after the kids. This is my reality. I thought we were different. Special. But we’re just like every other tedious messed-up marriage in south-west London. With a sudden half-sob, half-scream, I grab my phone and start texting him with stabby fingers:

  Go off and enjoy yourself, then. Talk about surprising each other. You’re such a predictable, boring, fucking cliché.

  I send the text, then collapse down on to the floor. I’m beyond crying. I’m beyond thought.

  We were that couple. We were always that couple.

  Now we’re that couple.

  FIFTEEN

  I remember this from when Daddy died – at first you’re numb. You function perfectly. You smile and crack jokes. You think, Wow, it’s actually all fine, I must be a really strong person, who knew? And it’s only later that the pain swallows you up and you start dry-heaving into your sink.

  I’m still at the numb stage. I’ve got the girls ready for school. I’ve chatted merrily with Karen and mentioned Dan being really busy with work. I’ve waved at Professor Russell – John – through the window.

  I could easily have done the school run, but Dan clearly texted Karen last night claiming a state of emergency, because she pitched up at 7 a.m., all ready to swing into action. They’ve just left, and the house has that super-silent feeling it gets whenever the children leave it. It’s just me and the snake. Which, thank God, does not need feeding for another five days. If Dan isn’t back by then, I’m giving it to the RSPCA.

  I put on more make-up than usual, savagely jabbing at my eyes with the mascara wand. I step into a pair of high heels, because I feel height will help me today. I’m in my jacket, ready to leave for work, when the post rattles through the letter box, and I pick it up, thinking dazedly, What do I do if there’s post for Dan? Forward it on? Where?

  But it’s just a couple of catalogues and a handwritten envelope. Creamy and expensive. Nice handwriting, slanted and elegant. I stare at it in mounting suspicion. That can’t be from … She wouldn’t have …

  I rip it open and something seems to stab my stomach. It is. It’s from her. She’s written us a bloody thank-you letter. I scan the anodyne words, but I can’t digest them. I can’t focus. All I can think is: How dare you, how dare you?

  Both of them.

  Him.

  Her.

  With their texts and secret hugs. Treating me like a fool.

  A new energy is suffusing me. A new, incandescent fury. Last night I played it all wrong. I was wrong-footed. I didn’t react quickly enough. I didn’t say the stuff I should have said. I keep going over the scene, wishing I had confronted Dan with those texts, that I had shoved everything out in the open. What was I thinking of, waiting for him to confess? Why was he ever going to do that?

  So today, I’m taking charge. My husband’s lover may get to do a lot of things. But she does not get to write me a two-faced thank-you letter, laughing at me behind my back. She does not get to do that.

  I send a text to Clarissa: Just popping to London Library for research, then google Mary’s company, Green Pear Consulting. It’s in Bloomsbury. Easy. As I emerge from the tube at Goodge Street I’m walking snappily, my legs like scissors. My fists are clenched at my sides. My jaw is tight. I feel ready for body blows.

  I arrive at the address to find one of those tall London houses with about ten companies on five different floors and a rickety lift and a receptionist whose aim seems to be to misunderstand you at every turn. But at last, after an excruciating conversation between the receptionist and someone on the phone at Green Pear Consulting – ‘No, she don’t have no appointment. No. No appointment. She called Sylvie. Syl-vee Winter. For Mary. Ma-ree.’ – I’m on my way up the stairs to the fourth floor. I’m pretty fit but my heart is already pounding and my skin keeps breaking out in goosebumps. I feel unreal. Finally, finally, I’m going to get some answers. Or some payback. Or something …

  I get to the top and push my way through a heavy fire door. And there’s Mary, waiting for me on a tiny landing, as beautiful as ever, in a grey linen shift dress. She looks shocked to see me, I notice with satisfaction. Not so tranquil now.

  ‘Sylvie!’ she says. ‘They phoned up and told me someone called Sylvie was here, but I didn’t … I mean …’

  ‘You didn’t know why I was here?’ I say scathingly. ‘Really? You have no idea?’

  There’s silence and I can see Mary’s dark eyes flickering with thought. Then she says, ‘Maybe we should go to my office.’

  She leads me to a tiny room and gestures to a chair opposite her desk. It’s quite a bare space – all pale wood and posters for environmental causes and a striking abstract painting, which I would ask her about in different circumstances.

  Mary sits down, but I don’t. I want the advantage of height.

  ‘So,’ I say, in my most cutting tones. ‘Thanks for your letter.’ I take it out of my bag and throw it on to her desk and she flinches, startled.

  ‘Right.’ She picks the envelope up warily, then replaces it on her desk. ‘Is there a … Are you …’ She tries a third time. ‘Sylvie …’

  ‘Yes?’ I say, as unforgivingly as I can. I’m certainly not making this easy for her.

  ‘Is something … wrong?’

  Is something wrong?

  ‘Oh, come on, Mary,’ I snap. ‘So you’re having a secret thing with him. An affair. He’s moved in with you. Whatever. But don’t send me a letter saying thank you for the lovely dinner, OK?’ I break off, breathing hard, and Mary stares at me, her jaw dropped.

  ‘Moved in with me? What on earth …?’

  ‘Nice try.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Mary clutches her head. ‘I need to unpick all this. Sylvie, I’m not having an affair with Dan and he hasn’t moved in with me. OK?’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say icily. ‘I suppose he hasn’t sent you secret texts, either. I suppose he didn’t tell you he feels “pinned in a corner”. I saw you talking, Mary. I saw you hugging. So you can stop the play-acting, OK? I know.’

  There’s silence, and I can see I’ve got to Mary. I’ve punctured her serene veneer. She looks quite rattled, for an angel.

&nb
sp; ‘We did talk that night,’ she says at last. ‘And yes, we did hug. But as old friends, nothing more. Dan wanted to open up to me … and I found myself listening. Talking.’ She suddenly rises from her chair, so she’s at eye-level with me. ‘But Dan and I are not having an affair. We’re really, really not. Please believe me.’

  ‘“Old friends”.’ I echo the words sarcastically.

  ‘Yes!’ Her face suddenly flushes. ‘Just that. I don’t have affairs with married men. I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘What about the texts?’ I fling back at her.

  ‘I’ve only sent him a couple of texts. We’ve chatted. Nothing more. I promise.’

  ‘But you’ve met up. At Starbucks. At Villandry.’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘At your house we talked about meeting up, possibly … That’s all. He just wanted to talk to me. Download. That’s all.’

  ‘Download about what?’ There’s an edge to my voice. ‘About how I’m “nuts”?’

  ‘What?’ She blinks at me in shock. ‘No!’

  ‘Stop denying it!’ I erupt. ‘I’ve seen the texts! “Running late”. “It’s ok have distracted S”.’ I make jabbing, quotey gestures at her. ‘“Remember PS factor”. I’ve read them! There’s no point lying!’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ She appears baffled. ‘What’s the PS factor? And he’s never been “running late” because we’ve never met up.’

  I’m breathing hard. Seriously?

  ‘Look.’ I summon up the photos I took of Dan’s secret phone and thrust them in front of her. ‘Remember these?’

  Mary looks down, her forehead delicately wrinkled, then shakes her head. ‘I’ve never seen these texts in my life.’

  ‘What?’ I’m almost shouting. ‘But they’re to “Mary”! Look! “Mary”!’

  ‘I don’t care. They’re not to me.’

  For a moment we just stare at each other. My mind is scrabbling around and around, trying to find an explanation. Then Mary grabs the phone. She flicks through the photos until she comes to a text from “Mary” reading New mobile no. from tomorrow, followed by a string of digits.