Surprise Me

FOUR

OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

Am I pregnant?

Am I?

I’m lying in bed the next morning, my head pounding. I feel nauseous. I feel freaked out. Do I feel pregnant? Oh God, do I?

I can’t believe I’m waking up to this scenario. I feel as though I’m in a video warning teens about accidental pregnancy. We didn’t use any protection last night.

Hang on, did we?

No. No. Definitely not.

Gingerly, my hand steals down to touch my abdomen. It hasn’t changed. But that means nothing. Inside me, the miracle of human conception could have happened. Or it could be happening, right now, while Dan sleeps on, blissfully clutching his pillow as though our life hasn’t just been ruined.

No, not ruined.

Yes, ruined. In so, so many ways.

Morning sickness. Backache. No sleep. Baby weight. Those vile pregnancy jeans with the elastic panels. No money. No sleep.

I know I’m fixated by sleep. That’s because sleep deprivation is a form of torture. I can’t do the no-sleep thing again. Plus: the age gap would be six years. So, would we have to have a fourth child, to keep the baby company? But four? Four children? What kind of car would we need then? Some monstrous people carrier. How will we park a people carrier in our little street? Nightmare.

Would I have to give up work to look after the brood? But I don’t want to give up work. My routine works well, and everyone’s happy …

A brand-new, horrific thought makes me gasp. What if we have another baby, and then we try for a fourth … and end up with triplets? It happens. These things happen. That family in Stoke Newington that Tilda met once. Three singletons and then boom! Triplets. I would die. I would actually collapse. Oh God, why didn’t we think this through? Six children? Six? Where would we put them?

I’m hyperventilating. I’ve gone from a mother of two girls, keeping her head above water, to a submerged mother of six, with her bedraggled hair in a scrunchie and flip-flops on her pregnancy-ruined feet and a look of meek exhaustion …

Wait. I need the bathroom.

I creep out of bed, tiptoe into the bathroom without waking Dan and immediately realize: I’m not pregnant. Very much not pregnant.

Which is, oh God, such a relief. I sink down on the loo and allow myself to sag, head in hands. I feel as though I’ve skidded to a halt just before hurtling over the precipice. I’m happy just as we are. The four of us. Perfect.

But what will Dan say? What about the duckling sleepsuit and the dinky little socks and ‘That’s how we make sense of our life’? What if he wants six children, he just never told me before?

For a while, I sit there, trying to work out how I’m going to break it to him that not only are we not having this baby, we’re not having any more babies.

‘Sylvie?’ he calls out from the bedroom. ‘You OK?’

‘Oh, hi! You woke up!’ My voice is high and a bit strained. ‘I’m just … um …’

I head back into the bedroom, avoiding Dan’s eye.

‘So … I’m not pregnant,’ I say to the floor.

‘Oh.’ He clears his throat. ‘Right. Well, that’s …’

He breaks off into an almighty pause. My breath is on hold. I feel like I’m in an episode of Deal or No Deal. How exactly is he going to finish that sentence?

‘That’s … a shame,’ he says at last.

I make a sound which could sound like agreement, although is in fact totally the opposite. My stomach is gnarling up a little. Is this going to turn into the massive deal-breaker of our marriage? Even more than the green velvet sofa? (Total saga. We compromised on grey in the end. But the green would have looked so much better.)

‘We can try again next month,’ Dan says at length.

‘Yes.’ I swallow hard, thinking: Shit, shit, shit, he does want six children …

‘You should probably get some … whatsit,’ he adds. ‘Folic acid.’

No. This is going too fast. Folic bloody acid? Shall I buy some newborn nappies while I’m at it?

‘Right.’ I gaze at the chest of drawers. ‘I mean, yes. I could do that.’

I’m going to have to break it to him. It’s like jumping into a swimming pool. Take a deep breath and go.

‘Dan, I’m sorry, but I just don’t want any more children,’ I say in a burst. ‘I know we got all sentimental about socks, but at the end of the day, they’re just socks, whereas a baby is a massive life-changing commitment, and I’ve just got my life sorted, and we’d probably have to have a fourth, which might mean six, and we just don’t have room in our life for six children! I mean, do we?’

As I run out of steam, I realize that Dan is also talking, just as urgently, straight across me, as though he’s jumped into a swimming pool too.

‘… look at the finances,’ he’s saying. ‘I mean, what about university fees? What about the extra bedroom? What about the car?’

Hang on a minute.

‘What are you saying?’ I peer at him, puzzled.

‘I’m sorry, Sylvie.’ He looks at me tensely. ‘I know we got carried away last night. And maybe you want a bigger family, which is something we’ll have to talk through, and I’ll always respect your views, but I’m just saying—’

‘I don’t want a bigger family!’ I cut across him. ‘You’re the one that wants six children!’

‘Six?’ He gapes at me. ‘Are you nuts? We had one unprotected shag. Where did “six children” come from?’

Honestly. Can’t he see? It’s so obvious!

‘We have another one and then we go for a fourth, so the baby has a friend, and get landed with triplets,’ I explain. ‘It happens. That family in Stoke Newington,’ I remind him.

At the word ‘triplets’, Dan looks utterly aghast. His eyes meet mine, and I can see the truth in them: he doesn’t want triplets. He doesn’t want a people carrier. He doesn’t want any of this.

‘I think another baby is a red herring,’ he says at last. ‘It’s not the answer to anything.’

‘I think we were both quite pissed last night.’ I bite my lip. ‘We really shouldn’t be in charge of our own reproductive systems.’

I cast my mind back to the little duckling sleepsuit. Last night I felt so broody. I desperately wanted a brand-new baby inside it. Now I want to fold it up and put it away. How can I have changed my mind like that?

‘What about the duckling sleepsuit?’ I press Dan, just to make sure he’s not concealing some deep, buried desire, which he’ll then reveal in some torrent of resentment when it’s all too late and we’re a faded, elderly couple staying by a lake in Italy, wondering where our lives went wrong. (We just did an Anita Brookner novel in our book club.)

‘It’s a sleepsuit.’ He shrugs. ‘End of.’

‘And what about the next sixty-eight years?’ I remind him. ‘What about the empty interminable decades ahead of us?’

There’s silence – then Dan looks up at me with a wry smile.

‘Well, like the doctor said … There are always box sets.’

Box sets. I think we can do better than bloody box sets.

As I arrive at the Bell for the quiz that evening, I feel fired up on all cylinders. I’m pumping with adrenaline; almost seething. Which, to be fair, is due to all sorts of things, not just dealing with how to be married to Dan forever (and then some).

Mostly, it’s my day at work which has got me agitated. I don’t know what’s happened at Willoughby House. No, scratch that, I know exactly what’s happened: the evil nephew has happened. I suppose what I mean is: I don’t know what he’s said to Mrs Kendrick, because she’s transformed overnight, and not for the better.

Mrs Kendrick used to be the standard-bearer. She was the fixed measure for what was Right, according to her. She just knew. She had her Way, and she never doubted it, ever, and we all abided by it.

But now her iron rod is wavering. She seems jumpy and nervy. Unsure of all her principles. For about half an hour this morning, she went wandering around the office as though seeing it through fresh eyes. She picked up the Box and looked at it, as though suddenly dissatisfied with it. She put some old editions of Country Life in recycling. (She got them back out again later; I saw her.) She gazed longingly at the fax machine for a bit. Then she turned away, approached the computer and said in hopeful tones, ‘A computer is very like a fax machine, isn’t it, Sylvie?’

I reassured her that yes, a computer was in many ways like a fax machine, in that it was a great way to communicate with people. But that was a huge mistake, because she sat down and said, ‘I think I’ll do some emails,’ with an air of bravado, and tried to swipe the screen like an iPad.

So I broke off what I was doing and went to help her. And after a few minutes, when Mrs Kendrick tetchily said, ‘Sylvie, dear, you’re not making any sense,’ Clarissa joined in too.

Oh my God. It eventually turned out – after a lot of frustration and bewilderment on everyone’s part – that Mrs Kendrick had been under the impression that the subject line was the email. I had to explain that you open each email up and read the contents. Whereupon she gazed in astonishment and said, ‘Oh, I see.’ Then when I closed each email down she gasped and said, ‘Where’s it gone?’

About twenty times.

She was getting a bit hassled by then, so I made her a nice cup of tea and showed her a letter of appreciation that had come in from a supporter. (On paper, written in ink pen.) That made her happy. And I know her nephew’s probably said to her, ‘Get with the programme, Aunt Margaret, and start using email,’ but what I would retort is: ‘For God’s sake, let her send faxes to all her friends, what’s wrong with that?’

He’ll be coming in again to ‘assess things’ apparently. Well, two can play at ‘assessing’. And if I ‘assess’ that he’s freaking his aunt out for no good reason, I’ll be letting him know, believe me.

(Probably in a nice polite email after he’s left. I’m not brilliant at confrontation, truth be told.)

I give my hair a quick smooth-down, then venture into the pub, already deciding that this was a terrible idea but there’s not much I can do about it now.

The place has been transformed for the evening, with a glittery banner reading ‘ROYAL TRINITY HOSPICE QUIZ’, and a little stage in the corner with a PA system. Groups of people are already sitting with glasses of wine and pints, peering at sheets of paper. I see Simon and Olivia sitting with Tilda and Toby, and head to the table, giving everyone a kiss.

‘Dan’s on his way,’ I say, pulling out a chair. ‘Just waiting for the babysitter.’

What with the cost of babysitting, plus tickets and booze, tonight has worked out pretty expensive for an evening we’re both dreading. As I was leaving home, Dan actually said, ‘Why the hell didn’t we just send along a fifty-quid donation, stay at home and watch Veep?’

But I don’t divulge this to the others. I’m trying to be positive.

‘Won’t this be fun?’ I add brightly.

‘Absolutely,’ says Olivia at once. ‘You can’t take these things too seriously. We’re just here for the fun of it.’

I don’t know Simon and Olivia very well. They’re about Tilda’s age, and have children at uni. He’s avuncular and jolly, with curly hair and specs, but she’s quite nervy and intense. She always seems to be clenching her hands, with her knuckles straining at her white skin. And she has this disconcerting way of looking away mid-conversation, with a sudden swooping, ducking gesture of her head as though she thinks you’re about to hit her.

The gossip is that they nearly divorced last year, because Simon had an affair with his assistant, and Olivia made him go away for a week’s marriage therapy in the Cotswolds, and they had to light candles and ‘brush away his infidelity’ with special mystic twig brooms. That’s according to Toby, who heard it from their neighbour’s au pair.

Although, obviously, I don’t listen to gossip. Nor imagine the pair of them brushing away his infidelity with twig brooms, every time I see them. (Believe me, if it was Dan’s infidelity, I’d want to do a lot more than brush it away with a twig broom. Thrash it with a mallet, maybe.)

‘What’s your specialist subject, Sylvie?’ demands Tilda as I sit down. ‘I’ve been boning up on capital cities.’

‘No!’ I say. ‘Capitals are my thing.’

‘Capital of Latvia,’ rejoins Tilda, passing me a glass of wine.

My mind jumps about with a little spark of optimism. Do I know this? Latvia. Latvia. Budapest? No, that’s Prague. I mean, Hungary.

‘OK, capital cities can be your thing,’ I allow generously. ‘I’ll focus on art history.’

‘Good. And Simon knows all about football.’

‘Last year we would have won if we’d played our joker on the football round,’ Olivia suddenly puts in. ‘But Simon insisted on using it too early.’ She regards Simon with stony eyes and I exchange glances with Tilda. Olivia is so not here for the fun of it.

‘Our team is called the Canville Conquerors,’ Tilda tells me. ‘Because of living on Canville Road.’

‘Very good.’ I take a gulp of wine and am about to regale Tilda with my day at the office, when Olivia leans forward.

‘Sylvie, look at these famous landmarks.’ She pushes a sheet of paper towards me. On it are about twenty grainy, photocopied photos. ‘Can you name any of them? This is the first round.’

I peer at the sheet with a frown. It’s so badly reproduced I can’t even see what anything is, let alone—

‘The Eiffel Tower!’ I say, suddenly spotting it.

‘Everyone’s got the Eiffel Tower,’ says Olivia impatiently, ‘Look, we’ve already written it in. Eiffel Tower. Can’t you get any others?’

‘Er …’ I peer vaguely at the sheet, passing over Stonehenge and Ayers Rock, which have also been written on. ‘Is that the Chrysler Building?’

‘No,’ snaps Olivia. ‘It just looks a bit like the Chrysler Building, but it isn’t actually it.’

‘OK,’ I say humbly.

I’m already feeling a bit hysterical. I don’t know anything and nor does Tilda and Olivia is looking more and more like a headmistress with pursed lips. Suddenly she sits bolt upright and nudges Simon. ‘Who are they?’

A team of guys in matching purple polo shirts walks in and sits down. Half of them have beards and most of them have glasses and all of them look fearsomely bright.

‘Shall we not do the quiz?’ I say to Tilda, only half joking. ‘Shall we just be spectators?’

‘Welcome, everyone, welcome!’ A middle-aged guy with a moustache mounts the tiny platform and speaks into the microphone. ‘I’m Dave and I’m your quizmaster tonight. I’ve never done this before, I’ve stepped in because Nigel’s ill, so go easy on me …’ He gives an awkward half-laugh, then clears his throat. ‘So, let’s play fair, let’s have some fun … please switch off your phones …’ He looks around severely. ‘No googling. No texting a friend. Verboten.’

‘Toby!’ Tilda gives him a nudge. ‘Off!’

Toby blinks at her and puts his phone away. He’s trimmed his hipster beard, I notice. Excellent. Now he just needs to get rid of his million grotty leather bracelets.

‘Hey, that’s Iguazú National Park,’ he says suddenly, pointing at one of the grainy pictures. ‘I’ve been there.’

‘Ssh!’ says Olivia, looking livid. ‘Be discreet! Don’t yell it out for the whole room to hear!’

At the next table, I hear someone saying, ‘Put “Iguazú National Park”,’ and Olivia practically explodes in rage.

‘You see?’ she says to Toby. ‘They heard! If you know an answer, write it down!’ She jabs furiously at the paper. ‘Write it!’

‘I’m getting some crisps,’ says Toby, without acknowledging Olivia at all. As he gets up, I shoot Tilda a collusive grin, but she doesn’t return it.

‘That boy,’ she says. She presses her hands against her cheeks, hard, then blows out. ‘What am I going to do with him? You won’t guess his latest. Never.’

‘What’s he done now?’

‘Empty pizza boxes. He’s been keeping them in the airing cupboard, can you believe? The airing cupboard! With our clean sheets!’ Tilda’s face is so pink and indignant, I want to laugh, but somehow I keep a straight face.

‘That’s not good,’ I say.

‘You’re right!’ she says hotly. ‘It’s not! I started to smell herbs every time I opened the airing cupboard. Like oregano. I thought: Well, it must be our new fabric conditioner. But today it started to smell rancid and quite vile, so I investigated further and what did I find?’

‘Pizza boxes?’ I venture.

‘Exactly! Pizza boxes.’ She fixes a reproachful gaze on Toby, who sits down and dumps three packets of crisps on the table. ‘He was disposing of them in the airing cupboard because he couldn’t be bothered to go downstairs.’

‘I was not disposing of them,’ Toby responds laconically. ‘Mum, I’ve explained this to you. It was a holding system. I was going to take them to recycling.’

‘No you weren’t!’

‘Of course I was.’ He gives her a rancorous glare. ‘I just hadn’t taken them yet.’

‘Well, even if it was a holding system, you can’t have a holding system for pizza boxes in an airing cupboard!’ Tilda’s voice pitches upwards in outrage. ‘An airing cupboard!’

‘So, on with the Space and Time round.’ Dave’s chirpy tones boom through the microphone. ‘And the first question is: Who was the third man on the moon? I repeat: Who was the third man on the moon.’

There’s a rustling and muttering throughout the room. ‘Anyone?’ says Olivia, looking round the table.

‘The third man on the moon?’ I pull a face at Tilda.

‘Not Neil Armstrong.’ Tilda counts briskly off on her fingers. ‘Not Buzz Aldrin.’

We all look at each other blankly. Around the room, I can hear about twenty people whispering to each other, ‘Not Neil Armstrong …’

‘We know it wasn’t them!’ snaps Olivia. ‘Who was it? Toby, you’re into maths and science. Do you know?’

‘The moon landings were faked, so the question’s invalid,’ says Toby without missing a beat, and Tilda emits an exasperated squeak.

‘They were not faked. Ignore him, Olivia.’

‘You can live in denial if you like.’ Toby shrugs. ‘Live in your bubble. Believe the lies.’

‘Why do you think they were faked?’ I ask curiously and Tilda shakes her head at me.

‘Don’t get him started,’ she says. ‘He’s got a conspiracy theory about everything. Lip balm, Paul McCartney …’

‘Lip balm?’ I stare at her.

‘Lip balm causes your lips to crack,’ says Toby dispassionately. ‘It’s addictive. It’s designed to make you buy more. You use lip balm, Sylvie? Big Pharma’s using you like a puppet.’ He shrugs again, and I gaze back, feeling a bit unnerved. I always have lip balm in my bag.

‘And Paul McCartney?’ I can’t help asking.

‘Died in 1966,’ Toby says succinctly. ‘Replaced by a lookalike. There are clues in Beatles songs everywhere if you know where to look for them.’

‘You see?’ Tilda appeals to me. ‘You see what I have to live with? Pizza boxes, conspiracy theories, everything in the house rewired …’

‘It wasn’t rewired,’ says Toby patiently, ‘it was rerouted.’

‘Question two!’ says Dave into the microphone. ‘Harrison Ford played Han Solo in Star Wars. But what character did he play in the 1985 film Witness?’

‘He was the Amish chap!’ says Simon, coming to life and tapping his pen thoughtfully on his fingers. ‘Or … wait. He wasn’t Amish, the girl was Amish.’

‘Oh God.’ Olivia gives a groan. ‘That film is ancient. Does anyone remember it?’ She turns to Toby. ‘It was before your time, Toby. It’s about … what’s it about?’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘The witness protection scheme. Something like that.’

‘The “witness protection scheme”,’ echoes Toby sardonically, doing quote marks with his fingers.

‘Toby, do not start about the witness protection scheme,’ says Tilda ominously. ‘Do not start.’

‘What?’ I say, my curiosity fired up. ‘Don’t tell me you have a conspiracy theory about the witness protection scheme, too.’

‘Does anyone know the answer to the actual question?’ Olivia demands crossly, but none of us is paying attention.

‘You want to know?’ Toby turns his gaze on me.

‘Yes! Tell me!’

‘If they ever offer you a place in the witness protection scheme, run for your life,’ says Toby without batting an eyelid. ‘Because they’re going to get rid of you.’

‘What do you mean?’ I demand. ‘Who is?’

‘The government kills everyone in the witness protection scheme.’ He shrugs. ‘It makes economic sense.’

‘Kills them?’

‘They could never afford to “protect” that number of people.’ He does his little quotey fingers again. ‘It’s a myth. A fairy-tale. They get rid of them instead.’

‘But they can’t just “get rid” of people! Their families would—’ I stop mid-stream. ‘Oh.’

‘You see?’ He raises his eyebrows at me, significantly. ‘Either way, they disappear forever. Who knows the difference?’

‘Absolute nonsense,’ snaps Tilda. ‘You spend far too much time on the internet, Toby. I’m off to the loo.’

As she pushes her chair back, I fold my arms and survey Toby. ‘You don’t really believe all this rubbish, surely? You’re just winding up your mum.’

‘Maybe.’ He winks. ‘Or maybe not. Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean there isn’t a conspiracy against you. Hey, do your girls like origami?’ He pulls a piece of paper towards him and starts folding it swiftly. A moment later he’s created a bird, and I gasp.

‘Amazing!’

‘Give it to Anna. Here’s one for Tessa.’ He’s making a cat now, with little pointed ears. ‘Tell them they’re from Tobes.’ He flashes me a sudden smile and I feel a pang of affection for him. I’ve known Toby since he was a teenager in a school uniform and used to lug a trombone to school every morning.

‘Harrison Ford!’ Olivia bangs the table to get our attention. ‘Concentrate, everyone! What character did he play?’

‘Actually, I’ve just seen Dan arriving.’ I get to my feet, desperate to escape. ‘I’ll just go and … er … Back in a second!’

OK, I’m never doing a pub quiz again, ever. They’re pure evil, sent from Satan. There’s a conspiracy theory for you.

It’s nearly two hours later. We’ve had about a hundred more rounds (it feels like) and now we’re finally on to the answers. Everyone’s getting very tired and bored. But proceedings have stalled, because a row has broken out. The question was: How do you spell ‘Rachmaninov’? and some Russian girl at another table wrote it down in Cyrillic. Now Dave is trying to manage a dispute between her and the purple-polo-shirt team, who are arguing: if no one else in the room understands Cyrillic, how can anyone judge if she’s right or not?

I mean for God’s sake, what does it matter? Give her the point. Give her ten points. Whatever. Let’s just move on.

It’s not just our marriage which is going to last forever. This quiz is going to last forever. We’re going to be trapped at this table for eternity, drinking terrible Chardonnay and trying to remember who won Wimbledon in 2008, until our hair goes white and we shrivel up like Miss Havisham.

‘By the way, Sylvie, I saw a piece about your father in the local paper,’ says Simon in an undertone. ‘About his fundraising achievements. You must be very proud.’

‘I am.’ I beam gratefully at him. ‘I’m very proud.’

My father spent a lot of time fundraising for liver cancer. It was his big thing. And being Daddy the super-networker, he did it spectacularly. He launched an annual ball at the Dorchester and managed to corral a load of celebrities into coming along, and even got minor royalty involved.

‘It said they’re naming a scanner suite at the New London Hospital after him?’

I nod. ‘They are. It’s amazing. They’re putting on this big opening ceremony, in a couple of weeks. Sinead Brook is unveiling the plaque, you know, the newsreader? It’s such an honour. I’m making a speech, actually.’

I must finish writing it, it occurs to me. I keep talking confidently about the speech I’m going to make, but all I’ve actually written so far is, ‘My lady mayoress, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to what is a very special occasion.’

‘Well, it sounds like he was pretty amazing,’ says Simon. ‘To raise all that money, mobilize people year after year …’

‘He also climbed Everest, twice.’ I nod eagerly. ‘And he competed in the Fastnet sailing race. He raised loads doing that.’

Simon raises his eyebrows. ‘Wow. Impressive.’

‘His best friend from school died of liver cancer,’ I say simply. ‘He always wanted to do something for people with that disease. No one at his company was allowed to raise funds for anything else!’

I laugh as though I’m joking, although it’s not really a joke. Daddy could be quite … what’s the word? Intransigent. Like the time I suggested cutting my hair, aged thirteen. He got angry that I’d even suggested it. He kept saying, ‘Your hair is your glory, Sylvie, your glory.’ And actually he was right. I would have regretted it, probably.

Instinctively, I run a hand through my long, blonde waves. I could never cut it now. I’d feel like I was betraying him.

‘You must miss him,’ says Simon.

‘I do. I really do.’ I can feel tears brightening my eyes, but manage to keep my smile going. I take a sip of wine – then I can’t help glancing over at Dan. Sure enough, he’s looking tentery. His jaw has tightened. There are frown lines on his brow. I can tell he’s waiting for the conversation about my father to pass, like you might wait for a cloud to move.

For God’s sake, is he that insecure? The thought shoots through my brain before I can stop it. Which I know is unfair. My father was always so high-octane. So impressive. It must be hard if you’re his son-in-law and keep hearing people raving about him, and you’re just …

No. Stop. I don’t mean just. Dan isn’t just anything.

But compared to Daddy …

OK, let’s be absolutely honest. Here in the privacy of my own mind, where no one else can hear, I can say it: To the outside world, Dan isn’t in the same league as my father. He doesn’t have the gloss, the money, the stature, the charitable achievements.

And I don’t want him to be. I love Dan exactly as he is. I really do. But couldn’t he just once acknowledge that my father did have these amazing qualities – and realize that this fact doesn’t threaten him?

He reacts like clockwork, every time. And now that the subject’s safely passed, I know he’ll relax and lean back in his chair and stretch up with his arms and make that little yawning-yelping sound …

I watch in slight disbelief as Dan does exactly that. Then he sips his wine, just like I knew he would. Then he reaches for a peanut, just like I knew he would.

Earlier on, he ordered a lamb burger for supper, just like I knew he would. He asked them to hold the mayo, just like I knew he would, and joked with the barman, ‘Is it genuine London lamb?’ just like I knew he would.

OK, I’m scaring myself, here. I may not know the capital of Latvia or how many feet there are in a fathom, but I know everything about Dan.

I know what he thinks and what he cares about and what his habits are. I even know what he’s about to do next, right here, sitting in this pub. He’s going to ask Toby about his work, which he does every time we see him. I know it, I know it, I know it …

‘So, Toby,’ says Dan pleasantly. ‘How’s the start-up going?’

Argh! Oh my God. I’m omniscient.

Something weird is happening in my head. I don’t know if it’s the Chardonnay or this bloody torturous quiz or my unsettling day … but I’m losing my grip on reality. It’s as though the chatter and laughter of the pub is receding. The lights are dimming. I’m staring at Dan with a kind of tunnel vision, a realization, an epiphany.

We know too much.

This is the problem. This is the issue. I know everything about my husband. Everything! I can read his mind. I can predict him. I can order food for him. I have shorthand conversations with him and never once does he have to ask, ‘What do you mean by that?’ He already knows.

We’re living in marital Groundhog Day. No wonder we can’t face our endless monotonous future together. Who wants sixty-eight more years with someone who always puts his shoes back in the same place, night after night after night?

(Actually, I’m not sure what else he would do with his shoes. I certainly don’t want him leaving them all over the place. So that’s maybe not the best example. But anyway, the point still stands.)

I take a swig of Chardonnay, my mind swirling around to a conclusion. Because it’s actually rather easy. We need surprises. That’s what we need. Surprises. We need to be jolted and entertained and challenged with lots of little surprises. And then the next sixty-eight years will whizz by. Yes. This is it!

I glance over at Dan, who is chatting with Toby, oblivious of my thoughts. He looks a bit careworn, it occurs to me. He looks tired. He needs something to ginger him up, something to make him smile, or even laugh. Something out of the ordinary. Something fun. Or romantic.

Hmm. What?

It’s too late to organize a strip-o-gram (which, by the way, he’d hate). But can’t I do something? Right now? Something to shake us out of our malaise? I take another gulp of Chardonnay, and then the answer hits me. Oh my God, brilliant. Simple but brilliant, as all the best plans are.

I pull a piece of paper towards me, and start to compose a little love poem.

You may be surprised.

Don’t be.

I want you and I always will.

Let’s find a moment.

Just be us.

Just be the two of us.

Just be

I pause, peering down at my sheet. I’m running out of steam. I always was a bit crap at poetry. How can I end it?

Just be ourselves, I write finally. I draw a love heart and some kisses for good measure. Then I fold the whole thing up into a smallish oblong.

Now to deliver it. I wait until Dan’s looking the other way, then slip it into the pocket of his suit jacket, which is hanging on the back of his chair. He’ll find it later, and he’ll wonder what it is and slowly unfold it, and at first he won’t understand, but then his heart will lift.

Well, maybe it’ll lift.

Well, it would probably have lifted more if I was better at poetry, but so what, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?

‘Have a toffee,’ says Toby, offering a bag to me. ‘I made them myself. They’re awesome.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile at him, take a toffee and put it in my mouth. A few moments later I regret it. My teeth are locked together. I can’t chew. I can’t speak. My whole face feels immobilized. What is this stuff?

‘Oh, they’re quite chewy,’ says Toby, noticing me. ‘They’re called “lockjaws”.’

I shoot him a glare, which is supposed to mean: ‘Thanks for the heads-up, not.’

‘Toby!’ says Tilda crossly. ‘You have to warn people about those things. Don’t worry,’ she adds to me. ‘It’ll melt in about ten minutes.’

Ten minutes?

‘All right, people!’ says Dave the quizmaster, tapping his microphone to get everyone’s attention. His cheerful manner has somewhat faded over the course of the evening; in fact, he looks like he’s desperate for it to end. ‘Moving on, the next question was: How many actors have played Doctor Who? And the answer is: thirteen.’

‘No it’s not,’ calls out a fattish guy in a purple polo shirt, promptly. ‘It’s forty-four.’

Dave eyes him warily. ‘It can’t be,’ he says. ‘That’s too many.’

‘Doctor Who doesn’t just feature in the BBC series,’ says the purple-polo-shirt guy pompously.

‘It’s fourteen,’ volunteers a girl at an adjoining table. ‘There was an extra doctor. The War Doctor. John Hurt.’

‘Right,’ says Dave, looking beleaguered. ‘Well, that’s not what I’ve got on my answer sheet …’

‘It’s none of them,’ says Toby loudly. ‘It’s a trick question. “Doctor Who” isn’t the name of the character, the name of the character is “the Doctor”. Boom kanani,’ he adds, looking pleased with himself. ‘Booyah. In your face, everyone who wrote down a number.’

‘That’s a common misunderstanding,’ says the man in the purple polo shirt, giving Toby a baleful look. ‘The answer’s forty-four, as I said. You want the full list?’

‘Did anyone put thirteen?’ Dave perseveres, but no one’s paying attention.

‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ retorts a man in a flowery shirt, who is quite red in the face. He waves a belligerent hand at the purple-polo-shirt team. ‘This is supposed to be a local friendly quiz, but you come marching in with your matching bloody shirts, picking fights …’

‘Oh, don’t like strangers, do you?’ The purple-polo-shirt guy glowers at him. ‘Well sorry, Adolf.’

‘What did you call me?’ The man in the flowery shirt kicks back his chair and stands up, breathing hard.

‘You heard.’ The purple-polo-shirt guy gets up too and takes a menacing step towards the flowery-shirt man.

‘I can’t bear this,’ says Olivia. ‘I’m going out for a cigarette.’ She reaches for Dan’s jacket and puts it on – then looks at Simon’s, which is almost identical, and back at the one she’s wearing. ‘Wait. Simon, is this your jacket?’

‘You’re wearing Simon’s,’ says Dan easily. ‘We swapped chairs. He prefers a lower back.’

It’s about five seconds before the significance of this hits me. Simon’s jacket? That’s Simon’s jacket? I’ve put a love poem in Simon’s jacket?

‘Have you got a lighter?’ Olivia reaches in the pocket and pulls out my oblong of paper. ‘What’s this?’ she says, unfolding it. As she sees the love heart her whole face blanches.

No. Nooo. I need to explain. I try to wrench my teeth apart to speak, but the stupid bloody toffee is too strong. I can’t manage it. I wave my hands frantically at Olivia, but she’s staring at my poem with a look of utter revulsion.

‘Again, Simon?’ she says at last.

‘What do you mean, again?’ says Simon, who’s watching the purple-polo-shirt guy and flowery-shirt man trade insults.

‘You promised!’ Olivia’s voice is so scorching, I feel quite bowled over. ‘You promised, Simon, never again.’ She brandishes the poem at Simon, and as he reads it, his face blanches, too.

I try to grab at the paper and get their attention but Olivia doesn’t even notice me. Her eyes are blazing and quite scary.

‘I’ve never seen that before!’ Simon is stuttering. ‘Olivia, you must believe me! I have no idea what – who—’

‘I think we all know who,’ Olivia says savagely. ‘It’s obvious, from this piece of illiterate trash, that it’s your previous “friend”. I want you and I always will,’ she declaims in a syrupy voice. ‘Let’s find a moment. Just be us. Did she get it from a Hallmark card?’

She’s so mocking, my face flames bright red. At last, with a final wrench, I get my teeth apart, and grab the paper from her hand.

‘Actually, that’s my poem!’ I say, trying to sound bright and nonchalant. ‘It was meant for Dan. Wrong jacket. So. It was … it’s ours. Mine. Not Simon’s. You don’t need to worry about— Or anything. So. Anyway.’

I finally manage to stop babbling and realize that everyone around the table is watching, dumbstruck. The look of horror on Olivia’s face is so priceless I’d laugh, if I didn’t feel so totally embarrassed.

‘Um, so, here you are, Dan,’ I add awkwardly, and give him the paper. ‘You could read it now … or later … It’s quite short,’ I add, in case he’s expecting six verses and metaphors about war, or something.

Dan doesn’t look very thrilled to be handed a love poem, to be fair. He glances at it and clears his throat and shoves it in his pocket without reading it.

‘I didn’t mean …’ Olivia’s hands are clenched harder than I’ve ever seen them. ‘Sylvie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.’

‘It’s fine, honestly—’

‘You’re a disgrace to quizzes!’ The voice of the flowery-shirted man makes us all jump. ‘You had that phone under the table all the time!’

‘We did not!’ the purple-polo-shirt man shouts back. ‘That’s fucking slander, that is!’

He pushes a table roughly towards the flowery-shirted man, and all the glasses jostle and chink together.

‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ calls out Toby cheerfully.

‘Be quiet, Toby!’ snaps Tilda.

‘So!’ Dave is saying desperately into the microphone, over the hubbub. ‘Let’s carry on. And the next question was: Which Briton won an ice-skating gold at the—’

He breaks off as the flowery-shirted guy charges at the purple-polo-shirt team. One of them tackles him, as though they’re playing rugby, and the others start roaring encouragement. All around the pub, people start exclaiming and gasping. The Russian girl even shrieks as though someone’s stuck a knife into her.

‘People!’ Dave is imploring. ‘People, calm down! Please!’

Oh my God, they’re fighting. They’re actually punching each other. I’ve never even seen a pub brawl before.

‘Sylvie,’ says Dan in my ear. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Yes,’ I say at once. ‘Yes.’

As we’re walking home, Dan takes out my love poem. He reads it. He turns the page over as though expecting more. Then he reads it again. Then he puts it away. He looks touched. And a bit flummoxed. OK, maybe slightly more flummoxed than touched.

‘Dan, listen,’ I say in a rush. ‘I have this whole big explanation to give you.’

He looks at me questioningly. ‘Of your poem?’

‘Yes! Of course of my poem!’ What did he think I meant, of thermo-combustion?

‘You don’t need to explain it. I got it. It was nice,’ he adds after a moment’s thought. ‘Thank you.’

‘Not the poem itself,’ I say, a bit impatiently. ‘I mean, the concept of the poem. The fact of the poem. It’s all part of my new brilliant idea which will solve everything.’

‘Right.’ He nods; then he takes the poem out and looks at it again under the light of a street lamp, frowning slightly. ‘Is there supposed to be a second verse?’

‘No,’ I say defensively. ‘It’s pithy.’

‘Ah.’

‘And it’s only the beginning. Here’s my idea, Dan. We need to surprise each other. It can be, like, our joint thing. We can call it …’ I think for a moment. ‘“Project Surprise Me”.’

To my gratification, Dan looks surprised. Ha! It begins! I was hoping Dan would latch on to the idea straight away, but he’s looking a bit uncertain.

‘Right …’ he says. ‘Why?’

‘To pass the endless weary decades, of course! Imagine our marriage is an epic movie. Well, no one gets bored in a movie, do they? Why? Because there are surprises round every corner.’

‘I fell asleep in Avatar,’ he says promptly.

‘I mean an exciting movie,’ I explain. ‘And anyway, you only fell asleep in the middle bit. And you were tired.’

We’re at the front door by now, and Dan reaches for his key. Then, looking over my shoulder, his face changes to one of horror. ‘Oh God. Oh my God. What’s that? Sylvie, don’t look, it’s awful …’

‘What?’ I swing round, my heart tripping in fright. ‘What is it?’

‘Surprise!’ says Dan, and pushes open the door.

‘Not that kind of surprise!’ I say, furiously. ‘Not that kind!’

Honestly. He has completely missed the point. I meant nice surprises, not stupid wind-ups.

The sitter we used tonight is called Beth and we’ve never used her before. As we walk into the kitchen she smiles cheerily, but I can’t quite smile back. The whole place is littered with toys. It’s toy carnage.

I mean, we’re not the tidiest family in the world, but I do like to be able to see some floor space in my house.

‘Er … hi, Beth,’ I say faintly. ‘Was everything OK?’

‘Yeah, great!’ She’s already pulling on her jacket. ‘They’re sweet, your girls. They couldn’t sleep, so I let them have a little play. We had fun!’

‘Right,’ I manage. ‘So I … see.’

There’s Lego everywhere. Dollies’ clothes everywhere. Sylvanian Families’ furniture everywhere.

‘See you then,’ says Beth blithely, taking the money that Dan is proffering. ‘Thanks.’

‘Right. Er … see you …’

The words are barely out of my mouth before the front door has slammed behind her.

‘Wow,’ I say, looking around.

‘Let’s leave it,’ says Dan. ‘Get up early, get the girls to help …’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Mornings are such a rush. I’d rather get at least some of it put away now.’

I sink to the ground and begin to gather a Sylvanian table and chairs. I set them up together, and add tiny cereal packets. After a moment, Dan sighs, and starts grabbing Lego bits, with the resigned air of a convict settling in for a day with the chain gang.

‘How many hours of our lives …’ he begins.

‘Don’t.’

I put three teeny saucepans on a teeny cooker and pat them. I do rather love Sylvanian Families. Then I sit back on my heels.

‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘We both arrange little surprises for each other. Keep our marriage sparky.’ I wait for him to put the Lego tub back in the cupboard. ‘What do you think? Are you up for it?’

‘Up for what exactly?’ He peers at me with his most scrubcious expression. ‘I still don’t know quite what I’m supposed to do.’

‘That’s the point! There isn’t any “supposed”. Just … use your imagination. Play around. Have fun.’ I head over to Dan, put my arms around his neck and smile up at him affectionately. ‘Surprise me.’