And that’s what Mummy has always been to me, I realize. Surface, all surface. Shine and reflection. Bright smiles, designed to deflect. The pair of us have echoed the same lines to each other, over the years, never pausing or examining them. ‘Lovely skirt.’ ‘Delicious wine.’ ‘Daddy was a hero.’ When did we last have a deep, empathetic conversation that actually went somewhere?
Never.
‘What about Dan?’ I say flatly.
‘Dan?’ Mummy crinkles her brow as though perhaps she’s forgotten who Dan is, and I feel another flare of anger at her.
‘Dan who’s been working his socks off for you. Dan who’s in Devon right now, trying to protect Daddy’s name. Again. Dan who is the hero in all this, but you treat him like … like …’ I flounder. ‘Like … a joke.’
As I say the word, I realize it’s exactly right. Mummy has never taken Dan seriously. Never respected him. She’s been polite and charming and everything else, but there’s always been that slight curve to her mouth. That slight pitying air. Poor Dan.
‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous,’ says Mummy crisply. ‘We all feel for poor Dan.’
I don’t believe it. She’s doing it again. ‘Don’t call him “poor Dan”!’ I snap. ‘You’re so patronizing!’
‘Sylvie, darling, calm down.’
‘I’ll calm down when you treat my husband with respect! You’re as bad as Daddy. I saw his emails to Dan and they were rude. Rude. All this time, we’ve been behaving as though Daddy’s the saint. Daddy’s the star. Well, Dan’s the star! He’s the star, and he hasn’t had any recognition, any thanks …’
Anger is spilling out, but it’s anger at myself, too. I feel hot all over with self-reproach, mortification. I’m remembering the number of times I defended Daddy to Dan. The assumptions I made. The unforgivable things I said: ‘You can’t stand that Daddy was rich and successful … You’re so bloody chippy, and I’m sick of it …’
I called Dan, who patiently put up with all that shit, chippy.
I can’t bear it. I can’t bear myself. No wonder he got all tentery. No wonder he felt pinned in a corner. No wonder he couldn’t stand us watching the wedding DVD, wallowing in the Daddy show.
Shame keeps crawling over me. I thought I was so clever. I thought I was psychic Sylvie. I knew nothing.
And even now, Mummy won’t see it. She won’t acknowledge any of it. I can tell it, from her distant gaze. She’s reordering events in her mind to suit herself, like some algorithm, placing Daddy and herself in the centre and everyone else just floats to the sides.
‘You sat here in this very room,’ I continue, ‘and you said Dan’s “hardly the life and soul, is he?” Well, he is the life and soul.’ My voice gives a sudden wobble. ‘He’s the genuine life and soul. Not flashing around, not showing off … but being there for his family. You’ve underestimated him. I’ve underestimated him.’ Tears suddenly prick my eyes. ‘And I can’t believe how Daddy just took him for granted. Swore at him. Treated him like—’
‘Sylvie, enough of this!’ snaps Mummy, cutting me off. ‘You’re overreacting. Dan is very lucky to have married into this family, very lucky indeed.’
‘What?’ I stare at her, not sure I heard that right. ‘What?’
‘Your father was a wonderful, generous, remarkable man. Think what he achieved. He would be distraught to hear you talking of him this way!’
‘Well, too bad!’ I explode. ‘And what do you mean, Dan’s lucky? He hasn’t touched a penny of my family money, he’s provided for me and the girls, he’s put up with watching that bloody wedding DVD every time we come here, watching Daddy steal the show … Lucky? You and Daddy were lucky to gain such a fantastic son-in-law! Did you ever think of that?’
I break off, panting. I’m starting to lose control of myself. I don’t know what I’m going to say next. But I don’t care.
‘Don’t speak about your father like that!’ Mummy’s voice rockets shrilly through the room. ‘Do you know how much he loved you? Do you know how proud he was of you?’
‘If he’d loved me, he would have respected the man I love! He would have treated Dan like a proper family member, not like some … underling! He wouldn’t have lied about my imaginary friend because it was convenient for him!’ I stare at Mummy, my breath suddenly caught, my thoughts assembling themselves into a pattern which makes horrible sense. ‘I’m not even sure he loved me as a person in my own right. He loved me as a reflection of him. As part of the Marcus Lowe show. The princess to his king. But I’m me. I’m Sylvie.’
As I speak, I glance into one of Mummy’s gilt-framed mirrors, and see my reflection. My waist-length blonde hair, as girlish and wavy and princesslike as ever. It was Daddy who loved my hair. Daddy who stopped me cutting it.
Do I even like long hair?
Does long hair even suit me?
For a few moments I just stare at myself, barely breathing. Then, feeling heady and unreal, I walk to Mummy’s writing desk and reach for the handmade scissors I bought her for Christmas one year. I grab my hair with one hand and start to cut.
I’ve never felt so empowered in my life. In my life.
‘Sylvie?’ Mummy inhales in horror. ‘Sylvie. Sylvie!’ Her voice rises to a hysterical shriek. ‘What are you doing?’
I pause, my hand mid-snip, a length of blonde hair already on the floor. I look at it dispassionately, then raise my head to meet her eyes.
‘I’m growing up.’
SIXTEEN
I get through the rest of the day on autopilot. I pick the girls up from after-school club and try to laugh off their dismayed exclamations:
‘Mummy, what’s happened to your hair?’
‘Where’s your hair gone?’
‘When will you put it back?’ (Anna, blinking anxiously at me.) ‘Will you put it back now, Mummy? Now?’
And my first instinct is somehow to protect them. Soften the blow. I even find myself thinking, Should I buy a long blonde wig? Until reality hits me. I can’t protect the girls forever, and I shouldn’t. Stuff will happen in their lives that they don’t like. Shit happens. And they will have to cope. We all have to cope.
We eat supper and I put them to bed and then just sit on my bed – our bed – staring at the wall, until the events of the last few days overcome me like a wave over my head and I succumb to crying. Deep, heaving sobbing, my head buried in a pillow, as though I’m grieving all over again.
And I suppose I am grieving, in a way. But for what? For my lost real/imaginary friend Lynn? For the heroic father I thought I knew? For Dan? For our battered marriage? For the Sylvie I used to be, so blithe and innocent, tripping about the world with no bloody idea about anything?
My thoughts keep veering towards Daddy and Lynn and that whole issue … fabrication … whatever it was, but then I mentally jump away. I can’t deal with thinking about it. The whole thing is just surreal. Surreal.
And what I really care about – what I’m really fixating on, like a crazy obsessed person – is Dan. As evening turns into night and I finally get into bed, I can’t sleep. I’m staring up at the ceiling, words and phrases churning round my brain. I’m so sorry … I didn’t understand … You should have told me … If I’d known … If I’d only known …
He hasn’t replied to my voicemail. He hasn’t been in touch at all. I don’t blame him.
By morning I’ve dozed for a couple of hours and my face is deathly pale, but I get up as soon as the alarm goes, feeling wired. As I’m getting dressed for work, I automatically reach for one of my Mrs Kendrick-friendly sprigged dresses. Then I pause, my mind working hard. I push all my dresses aside and reach for a black suit with slim trousers and a well-cut jacket. I haven’t worn it for years. It’s very much not a Mrs Kendrick sort of outfit. Which is exactly what I want.
My head has clarified overnight. I can see everything differently in the pale morning light. Not just me and Dan … and Daddy … and our marriage … but work. Who I am. What I’ve been doing.
And it needs changing. No more ladylike steps. No more convention. No more caution. I need to stride. I need to grab life. I need to make up for lost time.
I drop the girls at school and nod, smiling tightly, as everyone who didn’t see me last night gasps over my new chopped hair. Parents, teachers – even Miss Blake the headmistress as she passes by – all of them blanch in shock, then rearrange their faces hastily as they greet me. The truth is, it does look quite brutal. Even I was shocked anew when I saw myself in the mirror this morning. I say pleasantly, ‘Yes, I fancied a change,’ and ‘It needs a bit of tidying up,’ about six hundred times, and then escape.
I must book a proper haircut. I will do. But I have other things to do first.
As I arrive at Willoughby House, Clarissa’s jaw drops in horror.
‘Your hair, Sylvie!’ she exclaims. ‘Your hair!’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘My hair. I cut it off.’
‘Right. Gosh.’ She swallows. ‘It looks … lovely!’
‘You don’t have to lie.’ I smile, touched by her efforts. ‘It doesn’t look lovely. But it looks right. For me.’
Clarissa clearly has no idea what I mean – but then why should she?
‘Robert was wondering what you were up to yesterday,’ she says, eyeing me warily. ‘In fact, we were all wondering.’
‘I was cutting my hair off,’ I say, and head to the computer desk. The Books are stacked neatly in a pile and I grab them. They go back twelve years. That should be enough. Surely?
‘What are you doing?’ Clarissa is watching me curiously.
‘It’s time for somebody to take action,’ I say. ‘It’s time for one of us to do something.’ I swivel to face her. ‘Not just safe little actions … but big actions. Risky actions. Things we should have done a long time ago.’
‘Right,’ says Clarissa, looking taken aback. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘I’ll be back later.’ I put the Books carefully into a tote bag. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck,’ echoes Clarissa obediently. ‘You look very businesslike,’ she adds suddenly, peering at me as though this is a new and alien idea. ‘That trouser suit. And the hair.’
‘Yes, well.’ I give her a wry smile. ‘It’s about time.’
I arrive at the Wilson–Cross Foundation with twenty minutes to spare. It’s an office in a white stucco house in Mayfair and has a staff of about twenty people. I have no idea what they all do – apart from have coffee with idiots like me at Claridge’s – but I don’t care. It’s not their staff I’m interested in. It’s their money.
The Trustees’ Meeting begins at eleven o’clock, as I know from consulting the Diary of Events that Susie Jackson sent me at the beginning of the year. I’ve heard her describe Trustees’ Meetings many times, over coffee, and she’s quite funny about them. The way the trustees won’t get down to business but keep chatting about schools and holidays. The way they misread figures but then pretend they haven’t. The way they’ll make a decision about a million pounds in a heartbeat, but then argue for half an hour about some tiny grant of five hundred pounds and whether it ‘fulfils the brief of the Foundation’. The way they gang up on each other. The trustees of the Wilson–Cross Foundation are very grand and important people – I’ve seen the list and it’s all Sir This and Dame That – but apparently they can behave like little children.
So, I know all this. I also know that today, the trustees are making grants of up to five million pounds. And that they’ll be listening to recommendations, including from Susie Jackson herself.
And what I know, above all, is that she owes us.
I’ve told the girl at the front desk that I have an appointment, and as Susie comes into the reception area, holding a thick white folder, she looks confused.
‘Sylvie! Hi! Your hair.’ Her eyes widen in revulsion, and I mentally allot her two out of ten in the Tactful Response category. (Ten out of ten goes to the girls’ headmistress, Miss Blake, who caught sight of me and was clearly shocked, but almost instantly said, ‘Mrs Winter, what dramatic hair you have today, most inspiring.’)
‘Yes. My hair. Whatever.’
‘Did we have an appointment?’ Susie’s brow furrows as she consults her phone. ‘I don’t think we did. Oh, I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your email yet—’
‘Don’t worry about the email.’ I cut her off. ‘And no, we didn’t have an appointment. I just want to borrow you quickly and ask how much of a grant you’re planning to give Willoughby House today.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Susie looks perplexed.
‘It was so great to see you at Claridge’s for our meeting, and I do hope you enjoyed your cake,’ I say meaningfully, and a pink tinge comes over her face.
‘Oh. Yes.’ She addresses the floor. ‘Thank you.’
‘I do believe in quid pro quo, don’t you?’ I add sweetly. ‘Cashing in favours. Payback.’
‘Look, Sylvie, this isn’t a good time,’ begins Susie, but I press on.
‘And what I’ve realized is, we’ve been waiting quite a long time for our payback.’ I reach into my bag and pull out the Books. I marked them up with sticky notes before I came here, and I now flick to an old entry written in faded fountain pen. ‘We first had a meeting with one of your predecessors eleven years ago. Eleven years ago. She was called Marian and she said that Willoughby House was exactly the sort of cause you should be supporting, but unfortunately the time wasn’t quite right. She said that for three years.’ I flick to another of the Books. ‘Then Fiona took over from Marian. Look, on the twelfth of May 2011, Mrs Kendrick treated her to lunch at the Savoy.’ I run a finger down the relevant handwritten entry. ‘They had three courses and wine and Fiona promised that the Foundation would support us. But of course, it never happened. And then you took over from Fiona and I’ve had, what, eight meetings with you? You’ve been treated to coffee, cakes, parties and receptions. We apply every year for a grant. And not a penny.’
‘Right,’ says Susie, her manner becoming more formal. ‘Well. As you know, we have many demands upon us, and we treat each application with great care …’
‘Don’t give me the bloody spiel!’ I say impatiently. ‘Why have you donated constantly to the V & A, the Wallace Collection, Handel House, the Museum Van Loon in Amsterdam … and never Willoughby House?’
I’ve done my homework, and I can see I’ve hit home. But instantly Susie rallies.
‘Sylvie,’ she says, a little pompously. ‘If you think there’s some kind of vendetta against Willoughby House—’
‘No. I don’t think that,’ I cut her off. ‘But I think we’ve been too polite and unassuming. We’re as deserving as any other museum and we’re about to go bust.’
I can feel my inner Mrs Kendrick wincing at that word: ‘bust’. But the time has come to be blunt. Blunt hair, blunt talk.
‘Bust?’ Susie stares at me, looking genuinely shocked. ‘How can you be going bust? I thought you were rolling in it! Didn’t you have some huge private donation?’
‘Long gone. We’re about to be sold off to be condos.’
‘Oh my God.’ She seems aghast. ‘Condos? I didn’t – I thought – We all thought—’
‘Well. So did we.’ I shrug.
There’s a long silence. Susie seems truly chastened. She looks at the folder in her hand, then up at me, her face troubled.
‘There’s nothing I can do today. All the budgets are worked out. The recommendations have been made. Everything’s been planned out to the last penny.’
‘But it hasn’t been agreed.’ I gesture at her white folder. ‘These are just recommendations. You could un-plan. Un-recommend.’
‘No I couldn’t!’
‘You could make an amendment. An extra proposal.’
‘It’s too late.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘It’s too late.’
‘The meeting hasn’t begun yet!’ I suddenly flip out. ‘How can it be too late? All you need to do is walk in there and say, “Hey, trustees, guess what, I’ve just h
eard some terrible news about Willoughby House going bust and I think we’ve somewhat overlooked them, so let’s make a donation, hands up who agrees?”’
I can see this idea lodging in Susie’s brain, although she still looks resistant.
‘That would be the right thing to do,’ I say, for emphasis. ‘And you know it. Here’s a document with some useful information.’ I hand her a sheet with a few bullet points about Willoughby House written neatly on it. ‘I’m going to leave this with you, Susie, and wait to hear from you, because I trust you. Have a good meeting.’
Somehow I force myself to turn and leave, even though there are hundreds more arguments I could make. Less is more, and if I stay, I’ll only launch into some rant which will piss Susie off.
Besides, I’m on a mission today. That was only part one. Now on to parts two, three and four.
By five o’clock I’m exhausted. But I’m on a roll, too. In all the time I’ve worked for Willoughby House, I’ve never put myself out like I have today. I’ve never pitched so much, or cajoled so much or talked so passionately to so many people. And now I’m wondering: what have I been doing, all this time?
I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking for years. Doing everything according to Mrs Kendrick’s Way. Even in these last few weeks, even knowing we were under threat, I didn’t strike out boldly enough. I didn’t challenge anything; I didn’t change anything.
Well, today I have. Today it’s been Sylvie’s Way. And Sylvie’s Way is quite different, it turns out.
I’ve never called the shots here before. But today, I’ve summoned Mrs Kendrick and Robert for a meeting and I’ve stipulated the time and place and I’ve drawn up the agenda and basically I’m in charge. I’m on it. I’ve been steely and focused all day.
OK, not ‘all day’. It would be more truthful to say I’ve been steely and focused ‘in patches’. Sometimes I’ve been concentrating on Willoughby House. And sometimes I’ve been checking my phone five hundred times to see if Dan has texted, and trying his number another five hundred times, and imagining what he must think of me, and imagining worst-case scenarios while my eyes fill with tears.
Surprise Me Page 29
