‘That’s not my number,’ she says calmly. ‘Those aren’t my texts. I’ll show you my phone, if you like. You can read the texts Dan sent me, all three of them, and you’ll see how innocent they are.’ She grabs an iPhone from where it’s charging, and swipes it open.
A moment later I’m looking at three texts from Dan, all beginning Hi Mary, and all along the lines of So great to make contact. Mary’s right. They’re all innocent and even quite formal. Nothing like the intimate, casual ease of the other texts.
‘I don’t know who this is …’ She jerks a thumb at the photos on my phone. ‘But you have the wrong woman.’
‘But …’
I sink into a chair, my legs trembling. I feel shoffed. I feel so shoffed, I’m breathless. Who’s this other Mary? How many Marys does Dan have in his life? At last I glance up at Mary, who seems equally perplexed. She’s swiping slowly through my photos, and I can see her grimacing.
‘I can see why you’re … alarmed,’ she says. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Don’t know.’ I lift a helpless hand and drop it. ‘Dan went off somewhere last night. He said it was a work trip but I don’t believe him. Is he with her?’
‘No,’ says Mary at once. ‘I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do that. I think more likely—’ She stops as though a thought has occurred to her and I sit up, alert.
‘What?’ I demand. ‘What did he say to you? Did he confide in you?’
‘Not exactly. He started to … but then he stopped himself.’ Mary sighs. ‘I felt bad for him. He’s really stressed out at the moment.’
‘I know he’s stressed out!’ I exclaim in frustration. ‘But he won’t tell me why. I don’t even know where to start. It’s like there’s some massive great secret. But how can I help him if I don’t know what’s going on?’
Mary is swiping through the photos again, reading the texts carefully. Her brow is furrowed and she seems troubled. She looks as though she’s wrestling with a dilemma. She looks as though—
‘Oh my God.’ I stare at her. ‘He did tell you something. Didn’t he? What?’
Mary looks up and I can tell I’ve hit the mark. Her mouth is clamped shut. Her eyes are pained. Clearly he revealed something to her and she’s protecting him because she’s a good person and she thinks it’s the right thing to do. But it’s the wrong thing to do.
‘Please, Mary.’ I lean forward, trying to convey the urgency of the situation. ‘I know you’re his friend and you want to respect Dan’s confidence. But maybe the best way to help him is to break his confidence. I’ll never ever say it was you who told me,’ I add hurriedly. ‘And I’ll do the same for you, I promise.’
I can’t see how an equivalent situation will ever arise, but I mean it. If it does, I will totally reveal everything to Mary.
‘He didn’t tell me any details,’ says Mary reluctantly. ‘Not properly. But yes, there is … something. He said it was clogging up his life. He called it his “ongoing nightmare”.’
‘His “ongoing nightmare”?’ I echo in dismay. Dan has an ongoing nightmare that I don’t know about? But how can he? What is it? What hasn’t he told me?
‘That’s the phrase he used. He didn’t give any other details. Except …’ She bites her soft, pink lip, looking uncomfortable.
‘What?’ I’m nearly popping with frustration.
‘OK.’ She exhales. ‘Whatever it is … it has to do with your mother.’
I gape at her. ‘My mother?’
‘I’d talk to her. Ask her. I got the feeling …’ Again Mary stops herself. ‘Talk to her.’
I can’t face work. I text Clarissa, Still researching, back later, and head straight home. By the time I reach Wandsworth I’ve left Mummy three voicemails, texted and sent her an email – entitled We need to talk!!! – but I haven’t had a response. I’ll go round there in person if I have to. Right now, though, I need some quiet time to digest what I’ve just heard. An ‘ongoing nightmare’. How long has Dan been dealing with an ongoing nightmare?
It’s something to do with my mother, Mary said. Is this the ‘million pounds, maybe two’? Oh God, what’s going on, what?
And – worse – what if Mary’s wrong? What if I’m the ongoing nightmare? The thought makes me feel cold and rather small inside. I’m remembering Dan’s face last night. The way he said, ‘I can’t do this,’ as though he was at the end of his tether.
Every time I remember last night I cringe inside. I called him a ‘boring, fucking cliché’. I assumed he was just following the same old tedious trope: Husband Hooks Up with Old Flame, Lies to Wife. But there’s more. There’s something else. As I’m walking, I pull out my phone, wanting to text him again, wanting to make it right. I even get as far as Dear Dan, but then I stop. What do I say? Phrases shoot into my mind but I instantly discard them, one by one.
Tell me who the other Mary is. Please don’t shut me out any more. I know you have an ongoing nightmare; what is it?
If he wanted to tell me, he would have told me. Which brings me back to the question which fills me with foreboding: am I his ongoing nightmare?
As I walk along our street, tears are running down my face, but when I see Toby, I hastily scrub them away. He’s standing outside Tilda’s house, clutching a pair of rollerblades and a helmet.
‘Hi, Toby!’ I say. ‘I knew you’d be back.’
He nods. ‘Getting my blades. I forgot to take them.’ He dumps them in the boot of an open Corsa, which I don’t recognize.
‘Is that your car?’ I say curiously as he locks it.
‘Michi’s. Actually, I’d better tell her I took it.’ He perches on the garden wall, sending a text. The sun has come out and when he’s finished texting he leans back, savouring the warmth, seeming utterly unhurried.
‘Don’t you have a job?’
‘I’ll go in later. It’s fine.’ He shrugs. ‘We normally work, like, noon to midnight?’
Midnight? I suddenly feel very ancient.
‘Right. Well, make sure you see your mum while you’re here. Is she around?’
‘Yeah, she’s making me spaghetti Bolognese.’ His face lights up and I can’t help smiling. He must have made Tilda’s day, coming home so soon. Either that, or they’re yelling at each other again.
‘D’you want to come for lunch?’ he adds politely. ‘I’m sure we’ve got some spare.’
‘No thanks.’ I try to smile. ‘I’ve got some stuff to … I’m … It’s all a bit …’ Without intending to, I sigh heavily and sit down next to him on the wall. ‘Do you ever feel like there’s a conspiracy?’
I’m not really expecting an answer, but Toby nods gravely. ‘There is a conspiracy. I’ve told you, Sylvie, it’s all a conspiracy.’
The sun’s getting hotter on our faces. He must be sweltering with his beard. I get out my sunglasses and reach for my lip balm, and as I unbutton the pink case, Toby nods at it, as though that proves everything. ‘Big Pharma, Sylvie. You see?’
I don’t respond. I’m gazing at the gold embossed P.S. I can’t believe Dan used my private nickname in texts to another woman. I can’t believe he referred to me as the ‘PS factor’. The ‘Princess Sylvie factor’. Just the idea of some other woman calling me that makes me cringe. It’s almost the worst betrayal.
Who is she? Who is she?
‘What would you do if you’d found a whole load of texts on a phone and you didn’t know who they were to?’ I say, staring up at the blue sky.
‘Get the number off Contacts,’ says Toby with a shrug.
‘A number doesn’t tell you anything,’ I object.
‘Google it, then. See if anything comes up.’
I turn to stare at him. Google it? I never even thought of googling it.
‘Mobile phone numbers aren’t on Google,’ I say warily.
‘Sometimes they are. Worth a try. Whose phone?’ he asks with interest, and my defences instantly rise.
‘Oh, just a girl at work,’ I say. ‘Her cousin,’ I add for good measure. ‘Half-
cousin. It’s not a big deal.’
I could google the number. Suddenly I’m all jittery. I need to get to a computer, now.
‘Well, see you, Tobes,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘Bring Michi over! We’d like to meet her.’
‘Sure. Bye, Sylvie.’
I hurry into the house, fumbling with my key in my haste. It seems to take forever for my computer to fire up, and I actually start saying, ‘Come on, come on,’ under my breath.
I type in the phone number from the text, and wait breathlessly for the results, although if I was hoping for an instant answer, I was an idiot. There’s a lot of garbage to wade through. Entries about car serial numbers and phone directory pages without any actual information. But on page five, I see something that makes me lean forward.
St Saviour’s School Rugby Club. Parent rep: Mary Smith-Sullivan.
It’s her. The same mobile number. The same first name. Oh God, she exists. Can I find out anything else about her? Does she have a job, maybe?
My heart beating wildly, I look up Mary Smith-Sullivan on LinkedIn. And there she is. Mary Smith-Sullivan, Partner, Avory Milton. Specialism: defamation, privacy and other media-related litigation. She looks to be in her early fifties, with close-cropped dark hair and a boxy jacket. Minimal make-up. She’s smiling, but not in a warm way, more in a businesslike ‘I have to smile for this photo’ way.
This is who Dan is sending endless texts to?
He can’t be having an affair with her. He can’t. I mean …
He can’t.
I stare at the page, trying and failing to make sense of it. Then at last, with a trembling hand, I reach for my phone and dial.
‘Avory Milton, how can I help you?’ a sing-song voice greets me.
‘I’d like to make an appointment with Ms Smith-Sullivan,’ I say in a rush. ‘Today. As soon as possible, please.’
Avory Milton is a medium-sized law firm, off Chancery Lane, with a reception area on the fourteenth floor. It has a big floor-to-ceiling window, showing off an impressive view over London, which made my legs nearly give way when I stepped out of the lift. People should not just put terrifying windows there like that.
But somehow I made it to the front desk and got my visitor’s pass. And now I’m in the seating area, firmly turned away from the view.
As I sit there, pretending to read a magazine, I look around carefully. I study the slate-grey sofas and the people in suits striding through and even the water dispenser … but there aren’t any clues. I have no idea what this place has to do with Dan. I am also unimpressed by their timekeeping. I’ve been sitting here for at least half an hour.
‘Mrs Tilda?’
My chest seizes up in apprehension as I see a woman approaching me. It’s her. She has the same close-cropped hair that she did on LinkedIn. She’s wearing a navy jacket and a blue striped shirt I recognize from Zara. Expensive shoes. A wedding ring.
‘I’m Mary Smith-Sullivan.’ She smiles professionally and holds out a manicured hand. ‘Apologies for keeping you. How d’you do?’
‘Oh, hi.’ My voice catches, and I can only produce a squawk. ‘Hi,’ I try again, scrambling to my feet. ‘Yes. Thank you. How do you do?’
My pseudonym is Mrs Tilda. Which is not ideal, but I was so flustered as I made the appointment that I wasn’t thinking straight. When the receptionist asked ‘And the name?’ I panicked and blurted out ‘Tilda’. Then I quickly amended, ‘Mrs Tilda. Er … Mrs Penelope Tilda.’
Penelope Tilda? What was I thinking? No one’s called Penelope Tilda. But I haven’t been challenged yet. Although, as we walk along a neutral, pale-carpeted corridor, Mary Smith-Sullivan shoots me the odd appraising look. I didn’t say why I wanted the appointment on the phone. I just kept saying it was ‘highly confidential’ and ‘highly urgent’, until the receptionist said, ‘Of course, Mrs Tilda. I’ve booked you in for two thirty p.m.’
Mary Smith-Sullivan ushers me into a fairly large office – with, thankfully, quite a small window – and I sit down on a blue upholstered chair. There’s a still, unbearable pause as she pours us both glasses of water.
‘So.’ At last she faces me properly and gives one of those professional smiles again. ‘Mrs Tilda. How can I help you?’
This is exactly what I predicted she’d say, and I have my line all ready to fling at her, just like a soap-opera heroine: I want to know why my husband’s been texting you, BITCH.
(OK, not ‘bitch’. Not in real life.)
‘Mrs Tilda?’ she prompts, pleasantly.
‘I want to know …’ I break off and swallow. Shit. I promised myself I was going to be calm and steely, but my voice is already wobbling.
OK. Take a moment. No rush.
Actually, there is a rush. This woman probably costs a thousand pounds an hour and she’ll bill me even if she is Dan’s mistress. Especially then. And I haven’t even thought about how I’ll afford it. Shit. Why didn’t I find out the fee? Quick, Sylvie, talk.
I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts, and glance out of the window of her door. And what I see makes me nearly pass out.
It’s Mummy.
She’s wearing a pink suit and walking quickly towards this room with a hugely fat guy in pinstripes, talking animatedly while he cocks his head to listen.
What the fuck is my mother doing here?
Already my legs are propelling me to the door of Mary Smith-Sullivan’s office. I’m grabbing the handle like a demented person.
‘Mummy?’ I demand, my voice strident. ‘Mummy?’
Both Mummy and the fat pinstriped guy stop dead and Mummy’s face freezes in a rictus of dismay.
‘So it is you,’ she says.
‘It is me?’ I look from her to the fat pinstriped guy. ‘What does that mean, “It is me”? Of course it’s me. Mummy, why are you here?’
‘I’m the one who called your mother, Sylvie,’ says Mary Smith-Sullivan behind me, and I swivel round to face her.
‘You know me?’
‘I thought it was you as soon as I saw you in reception. I’ve seen photos and your hair’s quite distinctive. Although of course, the false name …’ She shrugs. ‘But still, I was sure it was you.’
‘Darling, why are you here?’ demands Mummy almost accusingly. ‘What brought you here?’
‘Because …’ I stare at her, bewildered, then turn back to Mary Smith-Sullivan. ‘I want to know why my husband’s been texting you.’
Finally I’ve managed to get my line out. But it’s lost its sting. Everything has lost its meaning. I feel as though I’ve walked into a stage play and I don’t know my part.
‘Yes, I expect you do,’ says Mary, and she regards me with a kind of pity. The same kind of pity Dan had. ‘I always said you should know, but—’
‘Mrs Winter.’ The fat pinstriped guy speaks in a booming voice as he approaches me. ‘I do apologize, let me introduce myself. I’m Roderick Rice, and I’ve been dealing with this issue, along with Mary of course …’
‘What issue?’ I feel as though I might scream. Or kill someone. ‘What bloody issue?’ I look from Mary Smith-Sullivan, to Roderick, to Mummy, who is hovering outside the office door with one of her evasive Mummy looks. ‘What is it? What?’
I can see eyes meeting; silent consultations flying around.
‘Is anyone in touch with Dan?’ Mary says to Roderick at length.
‘He’s gone to Devon. To see what he can do down there. I tried him earlier, but …’ Roderick shrugs. ‘No signal, probably.’
Devon? Why’s Dan gone to Devon? But Mary nods as though this makes total sense.
‘Just thinking of the PS factor,’ she says quietly.
The PS factor. Again. I can’t bear it.
‘Please don’t call me that!’ My voice explodes out of me like a rocket. ‘I’m not a princess, I’m not Princess Sylvie, I wish Dan had never given me that stupid nickname.’
Both lawyers turn to survey me in what seems like genuine surprise.
‘�
�PS” doesn’t stand for “Princess Sylvie”,’ says Mary Smith-Sullivan at last. ‘Not in this office.’
‘But …’ I stare at her, taken aback. ‘Then what …’
There’s silence. And once again, she gives me that odd, pitying look, as though she knows far more about me than I do.
‘“Protect Sylvie”,’ she says. ‘It stands for “Protect Sylvie”.’
For an instant, I can’t speak. My mouth won’t work. Protect me?
‘From what?’ I manage at last, and turn to Mummy, who’s still standing at the doorway. ‘Mummy?’
‘Oh, darling.’ She starts blinking furiously. ‘It’s been so difficult to know what to do …’
‘Your husband loves you very much,’ says Mary Smith-Sullivan. ‘And I think he’s been acting for all the right reasons. But—’ She breaks off and looks at Roderick, then Mummy. ‘This is ridiculous. She’s got to know.’
We sit in Mary’s little seating area with cups of tea in proper cups and saucers, brought in by an assistant. I cradle mine in my hands, not drinking it, just gripping it tightly. It’s something tangible. It’s something real. When nothing else in my life seems to be.
‘Let me give you the bare facts,’ says Mary, in her measured way, when at last the assistant leaves. ‘It has been alleged that your father had an affair, many years ago, with a sixteen-year-old girl.’
I look back at her silently. I don’t know what I was expecting. Not this.
Daddy? A sixteen-year-old girl?
I glance at Mummy, who is staring at a distant corner of the room.
‘Is it … true?’ I manage.
‘Of course it’s not true,’ snaps Mummy. ‘The whole thing is falsehood. Wretched, evil falsehood.’ She starts to blink furiously again. ‘When I think of your father …’
‘The girl in question, who is now an adult,’ continues Mary impassively, ‘threatened to expose this affair in a book. This was … prevented.’
‘What book?’ I say, confused. ‘A book about my father?’
‘Not exactly, no. Have you heard of a writer called Joss Burton?’
‘Through the High Maze.’ I stare at her. ‘I’ve read it. She had a really hard time before her success. She had an eating disorder; she had to drop out of university …’ I swallow, feeling ill. ‘Did Daddy – no.’
Surprise Me Page 27
