Surprise Me
Page 63

‘That would take us so far,’ he says. ‘But what then? Sell three paintings every year till they’re all gone? This place needs to be sustainable.’
‘It needs an injection of cash,’ I counter. ‘Just one lump sum would really help us …’
‘It’s had injections of cash!’ Robert sounds frustrated. ‘Year after year! There’s a limit! Do you realize how much my aunt—’ He stops himself, and I feel an uneasy twinge. I have no idea how much Mrs Kendrick has spent propping us up.
‘So you’re really going to sell?’ I can’t help a catch in my voice. ‘You said you’d give us a chance.’
‘I haven’t said I won’t,’ Robert says after a pause. ‘Nothing’s definite. It’s just …’ He exhales. ‘It’s a big job. Bigger than I first imagined. It’s not just turning round an ocean liner. It’s turning round an ocean liner while also saving the ocean liner from sinking. YouTube videos won’t save us. A new website … well, maybe. But maybe not.’
The rain is drumming on the windows as he refreshes my glass. I can feel sadness settling about me like a cloud. So that’s it. The end of an era. At home, maybe it’s the end of another era. And suddenly I can’t stop tears rolling down my cheeks. I was so happy. My life made sense. Now I feel like the whole lot is unravelling. Job, income, husband …
‘Oh God. Sylvie, I’m sorry—’ Robert looks perturbed. ‘Look, as I say, it’s not for definite … it won’t be for a while … we’ll help you find new positions …’
‘It’s not that.’ I take out my hanky and wipe my face. ‘Sorry. It’s … personal stuff.’
‘Ah,’ he says – and there’s an immediate shift in the air. I can actually feel the molecules changing. It’s as if my professional life was a beaker of clear water and now I’ve introduced a drop of home life colour and it’s slowly seeping through everything.
I glance up, as though to reassure myself that Robert isn’t remotely interested in my ridiculous private affairs – but he’s leaning forward, a crease in his forehead as though he is interested. Very interested.
His hair is about twice the thickness of Dan’s, I find myself noticing randomly. Thick and dark and shiny. And I can smell his aftershave from here. It’s expensive. Nice.
‘I won’t pry,’ says Robert, after a long pause.
‘It’s not …’ I shrug. ‘I just …’ I wipe my nose, trying to get control of myself. ‘Are you married?’ I find myself asking, I don’t even know why.
‘No.’ He pauses. ‘I was with someone.’
‘Right.’
‘But even that wasn’t easy. Marriage …’ He shrugs.
‘Yup.’
‘But I will say one thing.’ Robert gulps his wine. ‘I probably shouldn’t, but I will. If your husband has, in any way … If he for one moment … If he doesn’t realize what he has—’ He breaks off and looks at me full on, his eyes dark and unreadable. ‘Then he’s mad. He’s mad.’
I can feel my skin shimmer under Robert’s gaze. I’m transfixed by his eyes. His shiny hair. His forthright manner. He’s so different from Dan. He’s a different variety of man. A different flavour altogether.
If life is like a box of chocolates, then getting married is like choosing a chocolate and saying, ‘That’s it, done,’ and slamming the lid closed. When you make your vows, what you’re basically saying is: ‘That’s all I want, ever. That one flavour. Even if it goes off. Yum. I can’t even see any other flavours any more, la-la-la.’
And it might be your favourite flavour. And you might truly love it. But can you help it if you sometimes look over at the honeycomb crunch and think … mmm?
‘He’s mad,’ Robert repeats, his eyes still locked on mine. ‘Do you want to get something to eat?’ he adds, more tentatively.
In a flash, a door in my mind seems to open. Through it, I can see a glittering, beckoning chain of events, starting right now. Dinner. More drinks. Laughter and a blurred head and a screw you, Dan kind of exhilaration. A hand on my arm, murmurings in my ear … dancing? A taxi? The dimly lit corridor of a hotel … unfamiliar lips on mine … hands peeling off my clothes … a new body against mine …
It would be good.
And it would be terrible.
It would screw me up. I’m just not in that place. I don’t know what place I am in … but it’s not that one.
‘No thanks,’ I say at last, my breath a little jagged. ‘I’d better go and … But thanks. Thanks. Really. Thanks.’
I get home before Dan, say goodbye to Karen with a cheery smile, put the children to bed and then just wait in the kitchen, feeling like a Bond villain.
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.