Surprise Me

FIVE

I’m actually quite excited.

Dan said he couldn’t launch straight into some programme of surprises for me, he needed time to think first. So we’ve had a week of preparation time. It’s been a bit like Christmas. I know he’s up to something, because he’s been on Google a lot. Meanwhile, I’ve been all over this project. All over it! I have a special notebook, labelled Project Surprise Me. He’s not going to know what’s hit him.

I’m gazing with satisfaction at my Surprise Me: Masterplan page, when Mrs Kendrick’s tread becomes audible on the stairs. I hastily shut my notebook, turn to the office computer and resume typing out captions for the Fabulous Fans brochure. We’ll print the brochure on creamy paper and then write all the labels out by hand in blue-black fountain pen. (Rollerballs are very much not a Mrs Kendrick thing.)

Nineteenth-century fan, hand-painted by Parisian artist (unattributed).

‘Good morning, Mrs Kendrick.’ I look up with a smile.

‘Good morning, Sylvie.’

Mrs Kendrick is wearing a pale-blue suit, her cameo brooch and her customary worried frown. Customary as of the evil nephew arriving, that is. Apparently he’s staying with her at the moment, which explains why she looks so downtrodden. I expect he lectures her about modern working practices over the toast every morning. She gives the room her usual anxious sweeping gaze, as though to say ‘something’s wrong here but I don’t know what’. Then she turns to me.

‘Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Have you heard of “Museum Selfie Day”?’ She utters the words with care, as though they’re a foreign language.

‘Yes,’ I say warily. ‘I have. Why?’

‘Oh, just that Robert mentioned it. He thinks we should participate.’

‘Well.’ I shrug. ‘We could. But I’m not sure the patrons would really go for it, do you? I think it’s for a certain demographic. I think, to be honest, taking selfies might put some of our patrons off.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Kendrick nods. ‘Quite. Quite. Good point.’ Then she pauses, looking still more worried. ‘Sylvie, may I ask you …’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘What is a “selfie”? I keep hearing this word, everywhere, but I’ve never quite … and I couldn’t ask Robert what it meant …’

Oh God. I bite my lip at the thought of poor old Mrs Kendrick having some long conversation about ‘Selfie Day’ with no idea what a selfie is.

‘It’s a photo,’ I say kindly. ‘Just a photo of yourself somewhere. You take it with your phone.’

I know this won’t mean much to Mrs Kendrick. In her world, a phone is something that lives on a side table and has a curly wire. She meanders out of the office, probably to go and look dolefully at the Tesco Value biscuits we now offer, and I type another caption.

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.’

‘Tilda, thank you!’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble. It’s quite fun, secret packages arriving like this …’ She hesitates, then adds, ‘Very nice of Dan to order you a cashmere jumper out of the blue. Is it in honour of anything?’

‘Er …’ I’m not sure how to reply. I haven’t told anyone else about our little project. But maybe I’ll confide in Tilda. ‘Kind of,’ I say at last. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

I’m not expecting to hear any more from Tilda that day, but two hours later, as I’m in the middle of typing out a newsletter, she rings again.

‘They’re here!’

‘What are here?’ I say, confused.

‘Your cardigans! Dan changed the order, they biked them over and took the jumper back. It’s a good delivery service, I must say.’

‘Wow. Well, what do you think?’

‘Gorgeous,’ says Tilda emphatically. ‘My only issue is, which size? I can’t tell. And so I was wondering, why don’t you pop over quickly and try them on?’

Try them on? I stare uncertainly at the phone. Choosing my own surprise present was one thing. But is trying it on going too far?

‘Shouldn’t I keep some of the mystery?’ I say.

‘Mystery?’ Tilda sounds scoffing. ‘There is no mystery! Try them on, choose the one that fits, job done. Otherwise, I’m bound to pick the wrong one and it’ll be a great big hassle.’

She sounds so matter-of-fact, I’m convinced.

‘OK.’ I glance at my watch. ‘It’s time for lunch, anyway. I’m on my way.’

As I arrive at Tilda’s house I can hear thumping noises coming from upstairs. Tilda opens the front door, scoops me in for a hug, then yells, ‘What are you doing?’ over her shoulder.

A moment later, Toby appears on the stairs. He’s in an old white T-shirt and black jeans and is holding a hammer.

‘Hello, Sylvie, how are you?’ he says politely. Then he turns to Tilda, before I have time to reply. ‘What do you mean, “What am I doing?” You know what I’m doing. We discussed it.’

I can see Tilda breathing in and out again, slowly.

‘I mean,’ she says, ‘why are you making so much noise?’

‘I’m putting up speakers,’ says Toby, as though it’s obvious.

‘But why is it taking so long?’

‘Mum, have you ever put up speakers?’ Toby sounds irritated. ‘No. So. This is how long it takes. This is what it sounds like. Bye, Sylvie, nice to see you,’ he adds, in his polite-Toby manner, and I can’t help smiling. He turns and marches back upstairs and Tilda glowers after him.

‘Don’t damage the wall!’ she calls. ‘That’s all I ask. Don’t damage the wall.’

‘I’m not going to damage the wall,’ Toby shouts back, as though highly offended. ‘Why would I damage the wall?’

There’s the sound of a door shutting, and Tilda clutches her head. ‘Oh God, Sylvie. He has no idea what he’s doing, he’s got some set of power tools from somewhere …’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say soothingly. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Yes.’ Tilda seems unconvinced. ‘Yes, maybe. Anyway.’ She focuses on me as though for the first time. ‘Cardigans.’

‘Cardigans!’ I echo with a tweak of glee. I follow Tilda into her office, which is yellow-painted and lined with books and has French windows into the garden. She reaches below her desk and pulls out a flat, expensive-looking box.

‘They’re perfect,’ she says, as I’m taking off the lid. ‘The only issue is the fit.’

I pull the cardigans out and sigh with pleasure. The colour is beautiful and the cashmere is super-soft. How Dan could ever have chosen that vile—

Anyway. Not the point.

An almighty, whining drilling comes from upstairs and Tilda jumps. ‘What’s he doing now?’ She gazes upwards as though in despair.

‘It’ll be fine!’ I say reassuringly. ‘He’ll just be putting brackets up, or something.’

I try on the size ten, and then the size twelve and then the size ten again, admiring myself in Tilda’s full-length mirror.

‘Stunning.’ Tilda eyes me curiously. ‘But you still haven’t told me what it’s for. Not birthday, not Christmas, not your wedding anniversary, I don’t think?’

‘Oh.’ I pause in my preening. I don’t mind telling Tilda, I suppose, even though this is quite a private thing. ‘Well, the truth is, Dan and I have decided to plan some little surprises for each other.’

‘Really?’ Tilda’s curious gaze doesn’t waver. ‘Why?’

I won’t go into the whole 68-more-years-of-marriage thing, I decide. It might sound a bit weird.

‘Because … why not?’ I prevaricate. ‘To keep our marriage alive. Spice things up. Because it’s fun.’

‘Fun?’ Tilda looks aghast. ‘Surprises aren’t fun.’

‘Yes they are!’ I can’t help laughing at her expression.

‘I understand “keep your marriage alive”. That I understand. But surprises, no.’ She shakes her head emphatically. ‘Surprises have a bad habit of going wrong.’

‘They do not!’ I retort, feeling nettled. ‘Everyone loves surprises.’

‘Life throws enough curve balls at you. Why add to them? This won’t end well,’ she adds darkly, and I feel a flinch of annoyance.

‘How can it not end well? Look, just because you don’t happen to like surprises—’

‘You’re right.’ She nods. ‘I don’t like surprises. In my experience you plan one surprise and end up with a totally different one. When I was twenty-eight, my boyfriend – Luca, his name was, Italian – he threw me a surprise party. But the big surprise was that he ended up snogging my cousin.’

‘Oh,’ I say feebly.

‘While everyone was singing happy birthday.’

‘Oh God.’

‘They didn’t stay together or anything. Shagged a couple of times, maybe.’

‘Right.’ I pull a face. ‘That’s really—’

‘And we’d been happy until then,’ she continues relentlessly. ‘We’d had three great years together. If he hadn’t thrown me that surprise party, maybe I’d have married Luca instead of Adam and my life wouldn’t have been the clusterfuck it has been. He moved back to Italy, it turned out. I stalked him on Facebook. Tuscany, Sylvie. I think you need the ten,’ she adds without taking breath. ‘Fits you much better across the shoulders.’

‘Right.’ I’m trying to take in everything she’s saying, all at once. Tilda is a brilliant multitasker, but sometimes her conversation multitasks a bit too much. ‘If you hadn’t married Adam, you wouldn’t have Gabriella and Toby,’ I point out. I’m about to elaborate on this, when there’s a thundering down the stairs. The door of Tilda’s office bursts open, and Toby surveys her with an accusing look. He has a large piece of plaster in his hair, a light dusting of plaster over his beard and an electric power drill in his hand.

‘These walls are crap,’ he pronounces resentfully. ‘They’re shoddy. How much did you pay for this house?’

‘What have you done?’ demands Tilda at once.

He scowls, ignoring the question. ‘They’re flimsy. Walls should be solid. They shouldn’t just break off in chunks.’

‘“Break off in chunks”?’ echoes Tilda in alarm. ‘What do you mean, “break off in chunks”? What have you done?’

‘It’s not my fault, OK?’ Toby exclaims, with a defensive glower. ‘If this house was a bit more well built …’ He gestures at the door frame with his drill, and clearly presses the ‘On’ button by mistake, because it starts drilling noisily into the door frame.

‘Toby!’ screams Tilda above the noise. ‘Stop! Turn it off!’

Hastily, Toby turns the drill off and withdraws it from the hole that it’s now made in the office door frame.

‘I don’t know how that happened,’ he says, eyeing the drill dispassionately. ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’

‘What have you done?’ says Tilda for the third time, and this time she sounds quite steely.

‘There’s a bit of a … hole,’ says Toby. He catches Tilda’s eye and gulps, suddenly looking a bit less sure of himself. ‘I expect I can cover it up. I’ll do that. I’ll cover it up. Bye, Sylvie,’ he adds, and hastily backs away.

‘Bye!’ I call after him, biting my lip. I know I shouldn’t laugh. But Tilda’s expression is quite comical.

‘How my life could have been different,’ she says, apparently to the wall. ‘I could be in Tuscany. Making my own olive oil.’

‘Hey, Dan’s coming up the path,’ Toby calls down from the stairs. ‘Shall I let him in?’

My whole body jolts in shock. Dan? Dan? Here?

Wildly, Tilda and I stare at each other. Then Tilda calls back, ‘No, don’t worry, Tobes!’ in a slightly strangled voice. ‘Upstairs,’ she hisses to me. ‘I’ll get rid of him.’

I hurry up the stairs, my heart pounding, hoping frantically that he won’t recognize me through the wavy glass of Tilda’s front door, or look up through the clear fanlight. What’s he doing here?

‘Hello, Dan!’ From my vantage point on the landing, I can just see Tilda greeting him below. ‘This is a surprise!’

‘I’m just going to Clapham on a site visit,’ says Dan, ‘so I thought, why not pick up that package now, while Sylvie isn’t about?’

‘Good idea!’ says Tilda, heartily. ‘Very good idea. It’s just through here in my office, come this way …’

My heartbeat is subsiding. OK. No need to panic. He’ll just take the box and go and never know I was here. It’s quite funny, really, the two of us creeping around after each other.

Tilda leads Dan to her office and I tiptoe down the stairs a little, to listen to them.

‘… very nice,’ Dan is saying in a voice I can only barely make out. ‘You’re right, the blue was a little … blue. So which size do you think I should keep?’

‘Definitely the size ten,’ says Tilda. ‘I know it’ll fit her better.’

‘Great.’ There’s a slight pause, then Dan says, sounding puzzled, ‘Er … where is the size ten?’

Shit! Shit, shit!

I look down at myself in sudden ghastly comprehension. I’m wearing the size ten.

‘Oh!’ says Tilda, her voice a desperate squawk. ‘Oh! Of course. I took it upstairs to … to ask Toby’s opinion. I’ll just get it. Stay there!’ she adds, shrilly.

She hurries into the hall and waves her arms at me in mute desperation. Frantically, I unbutton the cardigan, my fingers catching on the buttonholes and, at last, thrust it at her.

‘Go!’ Tilda mouths at me.

As I retreat upstairs to the landing, Dan wanders into the hall, holding the box, and my stomach squirms. That was close.

‘Here we are,’ says Tilda, giving him the cardigan with a rictus smile.

‘It’s warm.’ Dan sounds even more puzzled, as well he might.

‘It was lying in the sunlight,’ says Tilda without missing a beat. ‘Such a lovely present; I know she’ll adore it. But I’m afraid I really do have to get back to work now.’

I sense a movement behind me and turn to see Toby emerging from a door, covered quite thickly in plaster dust.

‘Oh,’ he says in surprise. ‘Hi—’

Before he can say ‘Sylvie’ I’ve clamped my hand over his mouth like a mugger.

‘No!’ I whisper in his ear, with such ferocity, he blinks in alarm. He struggles a little, but I’m not letting go. Not till it’s safe.

‘Right,’ says Dan, below us in the hall. ‘Well, thanks again, Tilda. Really appreciate it.’

‘Any time.’ Tilda gives him a quizzical look. ‘Is it for anything special? Or just a random surprise?’

‘Just a random surprise.’ Dan smiles at her. ‘Just felt like it.’

‘Good idea! Nothing like a nice surprise.’ Tilda shoots a quick, sardonic glance upwards in my direction. ‘See you, Dan.’ She kisses him briskly on each cheek, then the door closes behind him, and finally I relax my grip on Toby.

‘Ow!’ he says, giving me an aggrieved look and rubbing his mouth. ‘Ow!’

‘Sorry,’ I say, not meaning it. ‘But I couldn’t risk you giving me away.’

‘What is all this?’ he demands.

‘Just … a thing,’ I say, heading downstairs. ‘Surprise present. Don’t tell Dan you saw me.’ I squint through the fanlight. ‘What’s he doing? Has he gone? Can you see?’

‘He’s driving away,’ reports Tilda, who is peering through the letter box. She stands up and makes an exaggerated huffing sound. ‘What a palaver. You see? All you’re doing is making trouble for yourselves.’

‘We’re not!’ I say defiantly. ‘It’s fun.’

Tilda rolls her eyes. ‘So what are you doing for Dan? Getting him cashmere socks?’

‘Oh, I’m doing plenty of things.’ My mind ranges over all my plans for tomorrow, and I give a pleased little smile. ‘Plenty of things.’