Surprise Me
Page 21

Feathered fan.
As I type, I feel a bit conflicted. Obviously I still resent this Robert character for trampling into our world and freaking out his aunt. But on the more positive side, if he’s suggesting we do Museum Selfie Day, maybe he’s not going to turn us into condos? Maybe he actually wants to help?
Should we do Museum Selfie Day?
I try to imagine any of our regular patrons taking a selfie – and fail. I can see where Robert’s coming from, I really can, but hasn’t he picked up the vibe? Hasn’t he looked at our clientele?
Even so, I write Museum Selfie Day? on a Post-it and sigh. It’s the kind of forward-thinking idea I would have been really excited about when I first joined Willoughby House. I actually wrote a whole Digital Strategy document when I arrived, in my spare time. I dug it out last night, to see if there was anything useful in it. But when I read it through, all I could do was wince. It felt so old. It referred to websites that don’t even exist any more.
Mrs Kendrick, needless to say, responded to it at the time with a charming ‘I don’t think so, dear’. So we didn’t use any of my ideas. Willoughby House just went on its own sweet, quirky way. And we’re fine. We’re happy. Do we need to change? Isn’t there room for one place in the world that isn’t like everywhere else?
With another sigh, I consult the typed notes which one of Mrs Kendrick’s pet experts compiled for us – but he hasn’t added anything about this fan. Honestly. Is there nothing else to say about it? I’m not just putting Feathered fan. It sounds totally lame. The V & A wouldn’t just put Feathered fan, I’m sure of it.
I peer at the photo of the fan, which is large and rather flamboyant, then add probably used by a courtesan.
Which I expect is true. Then my phone buzzes and I see Tilda on the display.
‘Hiya!’ I fit my phone under my ear and carry on typing. ‘What’s up?’
‘I have a hypothetical for you,’ says Tilda without preamble. ‘Suppose Dan bought you a piece of clothing as a surprise and you didn’t like it?’
At once my mind zigzags like lightning. Dan’s bought me something! Tilda knows about it. How? Because he asked her advice, maybe. What’s wrong with it? What could be wrong with it?
What is it?
No. I don’t want to know. It’s supposed to be a surprise. I’m not going to ruin his surprise.
And anyway, I’m not the type of person to pick holes in a present, just because it’s not ‘perfect’, whatever that is. I’m not some kind of mean-spirited control freak. I love the idea that Dan has gone off to choose me something, and I’m sure it’s wonderful, whatever it is.
‘I’d appreciate it, whatever it was,’ I say, a little sanctimoniously. ‘I’d be really grateful he’d bought me something and value his effort and thought. Because that’s what presents are all about. It’s not the things themselves which matter, but the emotions behind those things.’
I finish typing my sentence with a flourish, feeling rather noble for being so unmaterialistic.
‘OK,’ says Tilda, not sounding convinced. ‘Fair enough. But suppose it was really expensive and really hideous?’
My fingers stop, midway through typing the word embroidered. ‘How expensive?’ I say, at length. ‘How hideous?’
‘Well, I don’t want to give anything away,’ says Tilda cautiously. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’
‘Give a little bit away,’ I suggest, lowering my voice instinctively. ‘I won’t let on.’
‘OK.’ Tilda lowers her voice too. ‘Suppose it was cashmere, but a really odd colour?’
Again, my mind does lightning zigzags. Cashmere! Dan bought me cashmere! But oh God, what colour? Tilda is actually quite adventurous with colour, so if she thinks it’s bad …
‘How do you know what colour it is?’ I can’t help asking.
‘Dan asked me to take delivery, and the box was already a bit open, so I peeked inside the tissue paper and …’ She exhales. ‘I don’t know for sure … but I don’t think you’re going to like it.’
‘What colour is it?’
Tilda sighs again. ‘It’s this weird petrol blue. It’s horrible. Shall I send you the link?’
‘Yes!’
I wait anxiously for her email to arrive, click on the link and then blink in horror. ‘Oh my God.’
‘I know,’ comes Tilda’s voice. ‘Awful.’
‘How did they even create that colour?’
‘I don’t know!’
The jumper itself is quite nice, if a little dull in shape. But that blue. On the website, they’ve put it on this stunning Asian girl, and given her blue lipstick to match, and she can carry it off, just about. But me? With my pale skin and blonde hair? In that?
‘They talked Dan into it,’ asserts Tilda. ‘I’m sure they did. He told me they were “very helpful” on the phone. Like hell they were. They had a shedload of vile blue jumpers to sell, and along comes Dan like an innocent lamb, with his credit card and no idea …’
‘What am I going to do, Tilda?’ My voice jerks in slight panic. ‘What am I going to do?’
I’m not feeling quite as noble as I was. I mean, I know it’s the thought that counts and everything … but I really don’t want an expensive petrol-blue cashmere jumper in my wardrobe, reproaching me every time I don’t wear it. Or having to put it on every time we go out to dinner.
Or saying I love it, and then Dan buys me the matching scarf and gloves for Christmas and I have to say I love those too, and then he gets me a coat and says, ‘It’s “your colour”, darling …’
‘Exchange it?’ suggests Tilda.
‘Oh, but …’ I wince. ‘I can’t say, “Dan, darling, that’s amazing, it’s perfect, now I’m going to exchange it.”’
‘Shall I say something to Dan?’
‘Would you?’ I collapse in relief.
‘I’ll say I caught sight of it and I know the company and there’s something that would suit you much better. Just a friendly suggestion.’
‘Tilda, you’re a star.’
‘So what shall I suggest?’
‘Ooh! Dunno. I’ve never looked at this website before.’
I’m quite impressed, actually, that Dan headed there. It’s not discount cashmere, it’s posh, high-end Scottish cashmere.
I flick through a few of the pages and suddenly come across a cardigan called the Nancy. It’s stunning. Long-line and flattering, with a belt. It’ll look fantastic over jeans.
‘Hey, look at the Nancy cardigan,’ I say, in excitement.
‘OK, just clicking …’ There’s a pause, then Tilda exclaims, ‘Oh, that’s perfect! I’ll tell Dan to order you that instead. Not in vile blue. What colour do you like?’
I scroll down the colour options, feeling like a child in a sweetie shop. Choosing your own surprise present is fun.
‘Sea foam,’ I say at last.
‘Gorgeous. What size?’
‘Ah.’ I stare at the website uncertainly. ‘Maybe ten. Maybe twelve. What size is the jumper?’
‘It’s size ten,’ reports Tilda. ‘But it’s a bit small-looking. Tell you what, I’ll get Dan to order both and then I’ll look at them and judge. He can send the other one back. I mean, if you’re going to get it right, you might as well get it right.’