Surprise Me
Page 52

During a lull, I find myself alone with Mummy, just the two of us. Mummy’s colour is high too, although whether that’s the champagne or the emotion, I can’t tell.
‘That was a lovely speech, Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Lovely.’
‘Thanks.’ I bite my lip. ‘I hope Daddy would have been proud.’
‘Oh, darling, he’s looking down at you now.’ Mummy nods emphatically, as though convincing herself. ‘He really is. He’s looking down at his beautiful daughter and he’s so, so proud …’ She reaches up and takes one of my blonde ringlets. ‘He loved your hair,’ she says, almost absently.
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know he did.’
For a while, neither of us speaks, and a voice is telling me to leave the moment be. But another voice is urging me on to find out more. This is my chance.
‘So … I saw you talking to Dan.’ I try to sound casual, as though I’m just making chit-chat.
‘Oh yes.’ Her eyes slide away from mine. ‘Poor Dan. Such a rock for us all.’
‘What were you talking about?’
‘Talking about?’ Mummy blinks at me. ‘Darling, I have no idea. This and that.’
I feel a surge of frustration. ‘This and that’? Really? I saw Dan mouthing ‘a million pounds, maybe two’ at her. In what universe could this be described as ‘this and that’?
‘Nothing important, then?’ I say, more bluntly. ‘Nothing I should know about?’
Mummy gives me one of her most infuriating, wide-eyed looks. I know she’s hiding something. I know it. But what? Oh God, she’s not in debt, is she? The idea hits me with sudden force. Has she bought so many stupid gadgets to sell that she owes QVC a million pounds, maybe two?
Stop it, Sylvie. Don’t be ridiculous. But something else?
Gambling?
The thought comes to me in a flash. I remember Mummy blinking furiously in the kitchen when I’d just mentioned the play Dealer’s Choice. Oh God. Please don’t say that’s been her way of assuaging her grief.
But … no. Surely not. I can’t picture Mummy gambling. Even when we went to Monte Carlo that time, she wasn’t interested in the casino. She preferred drinking cocktails and eyeing up people on their boats.
I take a gulp of champagne, my thoughts all over the place. Am I going to push it? Am I going to confront my mother at a reception honouring her dead husband?
No. Clearly I am not.
‘Well, it was a lovely ceremony,’ I say, retreating into platitude. ‘Lovely.’
Mummy nods. ‘Sinead Brook looked older than I’d imagined, don’t you agree? Or was it all that make-up she was wearing?’
We bitch happily about Sinead Brook’s make-up for a few minutes, then Mummy’s car arrives for her and she leaves, and I look around for my family, who are all scoffing the mini eclairs, including Dan. I gather them up and find the children’s inflated disposable-glove toys, which they’ve named ‘Glovey’ and ‘Glover’ and which have obviously become their most precious, treasured friends. (God knows what’s going to happen when they burst this evening. Oh well, cross that bridge.) Then it’s time for goodbyes and thank yous and I start to feel I’ve really had enough of this event.
At last we emerge into the fresh air. I’m quite dazed and my head is pounding. There were too many bright lights and voices and faces and memories. Not to mention emotional encounters. Not to mention mystery conversations involving a million pounds, maybe two.
We stand in the hospital forecourt for the longest time, wondering whether to go for a cup of tea or not and looking cafes up on our phones, before Sue and Neville decide that no, in fact they’ll catch the earlier train to Leicester. So then we’re into a round of hugs and future arrangements, and that takes forever, too.
When, finally, we pile into the car, I feel exhausted. But I’m wired, too. I’ve been waiting to be alone with Dan. I need to get to the bottom of this.
‘So, you had a nice long chat with my mother!’ I say lightly as we pull up at some traffic lights. ‘And I thought I heard you talking about … money?’
‘Money?’ Dan gives me a quick, impenetrable glance. ‘No.’
‘You didn’t talk about money at all?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Right,’ I say after a long pause. ‘Must have made a mistake.’
I stare out of the windscreen, feeling a heaviness in my stomach. He’s lying. Dan’s actually lying to me. What do I do? Do I call him out? Do I say, ‘Well, guess what, I heard you saying “a million pounds, maybe two”,’ and see what he says?
No. Because … just, no.
If he wants to lie, he’ll lie, even if I do throw ‘a million pounds, maybe two’ at him. He’ll say I misread his lips. Or he’ll say, ‘Oh, that. We were talking about the local council.’ He’ll have some explanation. And then he’ll be on his guard. And I’ll feel even more desperate than before. I’m just quelling an urge to wail, ‘Oh, Dan, please tell me, please tell me what’s going on,’ when he wriggles in his seat and clears his throat and speaks.
‘By the way, I’m having some old friends round. But don’t worry, I’ve arranged it for your Pilates night so you won’t be bored by us.’
He gives a short little laugh, which doesn’t ring quite true, and I stare at him with fresh concern. The million pounds (maybe two) feel instantly less urgent. I’m now more perturbed by these old friends. What old friends?
‘Don’t worry!’ I say, attempting an easy tone. ‘I’ll cancel Pilates. I’d love to meet your old friends! Which old friends are these?’
‘Oh, just … friends,’ says Dan vaguely. ‘From back in the day. You don’t know them.’
‘I don’t know any of them?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Like I say, you don’t know them.’ Dan frowns into his mirror, as he changes lanes. ‘Adrian, Jeremy … There was a whole bunch of us. We volunteered at the St Philip’s Garden.’
‘Oh, right!’ I shoot him a savage smile. ‘The St Philip’s Garden. Brilliant. What a super idea, to invite them round, after all this time.’ And I leave it a full five seconds before I add in my lightest tones, ‘And what about Mary, did you ask her, too?’
‘Oh yes,’ Dan says, still apparently preoccupied by the road. ‘Of course.’
‘Of course!’ My savage smile gets even brighter. ‘Of course you invited Mary! Why wouldn’t you?’
Of course he bloody did.
ELEVEN
This is officially a Marital Situation. And actually I’m quite freaked out, in a way I really didn’t expect to be.
I feel as though our whole marriage, I’ve been playing around with worries. They were amateur worries. Mini-worries. I used to sigh and roll my eyes and exclaim, ‘I’m so stressed!’ without knowing what ‘stressed’ really was.
But now a real, genuine, scary worry is looming at me, like Everest. Ten days have passed since the hospital event. Things haven’t got any better. And I can’t sigh or roll my eyes or exclaim, ‘I’m so stressed!’ because they, I now realize, are things you do when you’re not really worried. When you’re really worried, you go silent and pick at your fingernails and forget to put your lipstick on. You stare at your husband and try to read his mind. You google Mary Holland a hundred times a day. Then you google husband lying what does it mean? Then you google husband affair how common? And you flinch at the answers you receive.