Surprise Me

SIX

My surprise campaign starts first thing, and thankfully my body clock is on my side, because I wake up before Dan. I can hear the girls chatting quietly in their bedroom, but we should have another half-hour or so before they start hurling teddies at each other and shrieking.

I creep downstairs, hover by the front door and spot the Room Service London guy as he pulls up on his motorbike.

‘Hi!’ I call in hushed tones, and give him a wave. ‘Here, thank you!’

I’m so pleased with myself. Anyone could make breakfast. Anyone could put together a tray of croissants or eggs and bacon. But I’ve taken things one step further. I’ve prepared Dan a surprise international breakfast that will blow his mind!

OK, ‘prepared’ is probably the wrong word. ‘Ordered’ would be more accurate. I used this website where you click on items just like on a room service menu and they deliver it all in two insulated boxes (hot and cold) complete with a silver tray. (You put down a deposit against the tray, and apparently a lot of people keep them.)

‘Ssh!’ I say as the delivery guy tramps up the path, still wearing his bike helmet. He’s holding two boxes marked ‘Room Service London’, balanced on what must be the wrapped-up tray. ‘This is a surprise!’

‘Yeah.’ The guy nods impassively as he puts down his load and holds out his handset for me to sign. ‘We’re often a surprise.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, we get a lot of wives in south-west London ordering for their husbands. Fortieth birthday, is it?’

‘No!’ I say, and give him an affronted glare. First: I thought I was being really unique and individual, not just another ‘wife in south-west London’. Second: fortieth birthday? What? Why should I be married to a forty-year-old? I’m only thirty-two and I look far younger than that. Far, far younger. You know, bearing in mind I’ve had twins and everything.

Shall I say, ‘Actually it’s for my twenty-year-old toyboy?’

No. Because I am a mature grown-up and don’t care what delivery people think of me. (Also, Dan might suddenly appear at the door in his dressing gown.)

‘Big order.’ The guy nods at the boxes. ‘This all his favourite stuff?’

‘No, it’s not,’ I almost snap. ‘It’s a bespoke, international surprise breakfast, actually.’

Ha. Not such a south-west London cliché now.

The delivery guy heads back to his bike and I carry the boxes inside to the kitchen. I rip the wrapping off the tray – which is beautiful dull silver with ‘RSL’ engraved at the top – and start assembling dishes. They all come in plain white china (there’s a deposit against that, too) and there’s even cutlery and napkins. The whole thing looks amazing, and my only tiny proviso is that I’m not quite sure which dish is which.

Anyway, never mind. I tuck the printed menu into my dressing gown pocket and decide we can work it all out while we eat it. The main thing is to get it upstairs while the hot things are still hot. It’s a bit of a struggle to carry the tray upstairs without overbalancing, but I manage it, and push my way into the bedroom.

‘Surprise!’

Dan’s head turns from where it was buried in the pillow. He sees me holding the tray and his whole expression lights up. ‘No way.’

I nod in delight. ‘Breakfast! Surprise breakfast!’

I head over to him and dump the tray down on the bed with slightly more force than I was intending, only it was getting heavy.

‘Look at this!’ Dan somehow struggles to a sitting position without overturning the tray, then surveys it, rubbing his sleepy eyes. ‘What a treat.’

‘It’s a surprise breakfast,’ I say again, emphasizing surprise, because I think this factor needs to be made clear.

‘Wow.’ I can see Dan’s eyes ranging over the dishes and landing on a glass full of pink juice. ‘So, is this …’

‘Pomegranate juice,’ I tell him, pleased with myself. ‘It’s totally the thing. Orange juice is over.’

Dan sips at the glass and instantly his mouth puckers.

‘Great!’ he says. ‘Very … um … refreshing.’

Refreshing in a good way?

‘Let me taste,’ I say, and take the glass. As I sip, I can feel my taste buds shrivelling. That is tart. It’s an acquired taste.

Which we can acquire very quickly, I’m sure.

‘So, what is all this?’ Dan is still peering at the white dishes. ‘Is there a theme?’

‘It’s a fusion breakfast,’ I say proudly. ‘International. I chose all the dishes myself. Some European, some American, some Asian …’ I pull the menu out of my pocket. ‘You’ve got marinated fish, you’ve got a German meat speciality dish …’

‘Is this coffee?’ Dan reaches for the cup.

‘No!’ I laugh. ‘Coffee wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? This is artichoke and dandelion tea. It’s South American.’

Dan takes his hand away from the cup and instead picks up his spoon. ‘So this …’ He prods at a porridge-type substance. ‘This isn’t Bircher muesli, is it?’

‘No.’ I consult my list. ‘It’s congee. Chinese rice porridge.’

It doesn’t look quite as appealing as I was expecting. Especially with that gelatinous-looking egg floating on top – which, if I’m honest, turns my stomach. But apparently the Chinese eat it every morning. A billion people can’t be wrong, can they?

‘OK,’ says Dan slowly, turning to another dish. ‘And this?’

‘I think it might be the Indian lentil broth.’ I glance at my menu again. ‘Unless it’s the cheese grits.’

Looking at the tray properly for the first time, I realize something: I’ve ordered too many dishes which are basically a bowl of gloopy stuff. But how was I meant to know? Why doesn’t the website have a ‘gloopy stuff’ algorithm? There should be a helpful pop-up box: Did you mean to order so much gloopy stuff? I might suggest it to them, in an email.

‘You haven’t eaten anything yet!’ I say, handing Dan a spherical dumpling-like object. ‘This is an idli. It’s Indian. Made from fermented batter.’

‘Right.’ Dan looks at the idli, then puts it down. ‘Wow. This is really …’

‘It’s different, right?’ I say eagerly. ‘Not what you were expecting.’

‘Absolutely not,’ says Dan, sounding heartfelt. ‘Very much not what I was expecting.’

‘So, dive in!’ I spread my hands wide. ‘It’s all yours!’

‘I will! I will!’ He nods lots of times, almost as though he’s having to convince himself. ‘It’s just hard to know where to start. It all looks so—’ He breaks off. ‘What’s this one?’ He prods the German meat dish.

‘Leberkäse,’ I read from the menu. ‘It literally means, “liver cheese”.’

Dan makes a sort of gulpy sound, and I give him a bright, encouraging smile, even though I’m slightly regretting having said ‘liver cheese’ out loud. It’s not necessarily what you want to hear first thing in the morning, is it, ‘liver cheese’?

‘Look,’ I continue. ‘You love rye bread, so why not start with that?’

I push the Scandinavian dish towards him. It’s marinated fish with rye bread and sour cream. Perfect. Dan loads up his fork, and I watch expectantly as he takes a mouthful.

‘Oh my God.’ He claps his hand to his mouth. ‘I can’t …’ To my dismay, he’s gagging. He’s retching. ‘I’m going to …’

‘Here.’ In panic, I thrust a napkin at him. ‘Just spit it out.’

‘I’m sorry, Sylvie.’ As Dan finally mops his mouth, he’s shuddering. His face has gone pale, and I notice a bead of sweat on his brow. ‘I just couldn’t. It tasted like some kind of decaying, putrefying … what is that?’

‘Have some liver cheese to take away the taste,’ I say, desperately pushing the plate towards him, but Dan looks like he might retch again.

‘Maybe in a minute,’ he says, looking a little wildly around the tray. ‘Is there anything … you know. Normal?’

‘Er … er …’ Frantically I scan the menu. I’m sure I ordered some strawberries. Where the hell are they?

Then I notice a tiny box at the bottom of the menu: Please accept our apologies. The strawberry platter is unavailable, so we have substituted Egyptian foul medames.

Foul medames? I don’t want foul bloody medames. I look at the tray and feel a crash of despair. This whole breakfast is foul. It’s gloopy and weird. I should have bought croissants. I should have made pancakes.

‘I’m sorry.’ I bite my lip miserably. ‘Dan, I’m so sorry. This is a horrible breakfast. Don’t eat it.’

‘It’s not horrible!’ says Dan at once.

‘It is.’

‘It’s just …’ He pauses to choose a word. ‘Challenging. If you’re not used to it.’ The colour has returned to his face and he gives me a reassuring hug. ‘It was a lovely thought.’ He picks up an idli and nibbles it. ‘And you know what? This is good.’ He takes a sip of the artichoke tea and winces. ‘Whereas that’s vile.’ He pulls such a comical expression that I can’t help laughing.

‘Shall I make you some coffee?’

‘I would love some coffee.’ He pulls me tight to him again. ‘And thank you. Really.’

It takes me five minutes to make some coffee and spread marmalade on two slices of toast. As I get back upstairs, Tessa and Anna have joined Dan in bed and the tray of food has been discreetly placed in the far corner of the room, where no one has to look at it.

‘Coffee!’ exclaims Dan, like a man on a desert island seeing a ship. ‘And toast, too!’

‘Surprise!’ I waggle the plate of toast at him.

‘Well, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ rejoins Dan with a grin.

‘It’s a box,’ puts in Tessa, in a rush. ‘We’ve seen it. It’s a box with ribbons on. It’s under the bed.’

‘You’re not supposed to tell Mummy!’ Anna immediately looks distraught. ‘Daddy! Tessa told!’

Tessa turns defiantly pink. She may be only five, but she has mettle, my daughter. She never explains, apologizes or surrenders, unless under severe duress. Whereas Anna, poor Anna, crumples at first glance.

‘Well, Mummy knew already,’ Tessa asserts boldly. ‘Mummy knew what it was. Didn’t you, Mummy?’

My heart flips over, before I realize this is just Tessa being Tessa and inventing an instant, plausible defence. (How are we going to cope with her when she’s fifteen? Oh God. Better park that thought for now.)

‘Know about what?’ I sound totally fake to my own ears. ‘My goodness, a box? What could that be?’

Thankfully Dan has leaned under the bed and can’t see my substandard acting face. He hauls out the box and I unwrap it, trying to pace my reactions, trying to look genuine, aware of Tessa watching me beadily. Somehow my children’s little penetrating eyes are a lot more unnerving than Dan’s trusting ones.

‘Oh my GOD!’ I exclaim. ‘Wow! Cashmere? Is this a … cardigan? It’s just … Oh my God. And the colour’s perfect, and the belt …’

Too much?

No, not too much. Dan looks replete with happiness – and the louder I exclaim, the happier he looks. He’s so easy to fool. I feel a fresh wave of fondness for him, sitting there with his piece of toast, unaware that I’m lying through my teeth.

I honestly don’t think it could go the other way. Dan is transparent. He’s guileless. If he were lying through his teeth, I’d know. I’d just know.

‘Tilda helped me choose it,’ he says modestly.

‘No way!’ I gasp. ‘Tilda? You and Tilda were in league over this? You!’ I give him a little push on the arm.

Too much?

No, not too much. Dan looks even more delighted. ‘You really like it?’

‘I love it. What a brilliant surprise.’

I give him a huge kiss, feeling satisfied with myself. We’re doing it! The plan’s working! We’re spicing up our marriage. OK, so the breakfast was a slight misfire, but otherwise, bullseye. I could easily face another sixty-eight years of marriage if every day started with Dan giving me a cashmere cardigan.

No, OK, rewind, obviously I don’t mean that literally. Dan can’t give me a cashmere cardigan every day, what a ludicrous idea. (Although – every six months, maybe? Just a thought. Just putting it in the mix.) I suppose what I mean is, I could easily face another sixty-eight years of marriage if they all began like today has. All happy and connected.

So. Actually, I’m not sure where that gets us, but I feel as though I’m Thinking Through Our Issues, which has got to be a good thing, no?

‘So.’ Dan drains his coffee cup and puts it down with a dynamic air. ‘I must get going. I have a mystery errand to complete.’ His eyes flash at me, and I beam back.

‘Well, I have a mystery task, too. Will you be back for lunch?’ I add casually. ‘I thought we’d have pasta and pesto, nothing fancy …’

Ha! Ha! Not.

Dan nods. ‘Oh, sure. I’ll be back by noon.’

‘Great!’ I turn my attention to Tessa and Anna. ‘Right! Who wants breakfast?’

Saturday morning is when I catch up with boring household tasks, while Tessa and Anna play with all the toys they don’t have time for during the week. Then we have an early lunch and I take the girls to their 2 p.m. ballet lesson.

But not today!

The minute Dan’s left the house, I get cracking. I’ve been meaning to change the kitchen curtains forever, and this is my perfect excuse. I’ve also bought a coordinating tablecloth, some new candlesticks and a lamp. I’m giving the kitchen a whole makeover, like in that interiors show I always watch in bed when Dan is downstairs watching the rugby. Our new-look kitchen will feel bright and fresh and new and Dan will love it.

I’m hot and sweating by the time everything is done. It’s taken a bit longer than I expected and I’ve resorted to letting the girls watch CBeebies, but the place looks amazing. The curtains are a really funky print from John Lewis, and the neon rubber candlesticks add a pop of colour. (I got that from the TV show. It’s all about ‘pops of colour’.)

When Karen our nanny arrives, I lean nonchalantly against the counter and wait for her to exclaim in admiration. Karen is quite into design and stuff. She always has interesting-coloured trainers or nail polish on, and she reads my Livingetc after me. She’s half-Scottish, half-Guyanese, and has lots of dark curly hair which Anna loves decorating with hair slides. Sure enough, she notices the makeover at once.

‘Awesome!’ She looks around, taking in all the details. ‘I love those curtains! Really awesome!’

Karen’s thing is that she adopts a word and uses only that word for about a week and then moves on to a new one. Last week it was ‘trashy’, this week it’s ‘awesome’.

‘Awesome candlesticks!’ she says, picking one up. ‘Are those from Habitat? I was looking at those last week.’

‘I think they add a pop of colour,’ I say casually.

‘Awesome.’ Karen nods and puts the candlestick down. ‘So, what exactly is happening today?’

She sounds a bit puzzled, and I don’t blame her. We don’t normally employ her on Saturdays, nor do I normally send her texts beginning Don’t tell Dan I’m texting you!!

‘I wanted to give Dan a surprise,’ I explain. ‘Take him out somewhere special.’

‘Right.’ Karen opens her mouth as though to say something – then closes it again. ‘Right. Awesome.’

‘So, if you could give the girls lunch, take them to ballet and then maybe the park? We’ll be back at fourish.’

‘OK,’ says Karen slowly. Again, she looks as though she wants to say something more, but isn’t sure where to start. She isn’t going to ask for a change in hours or something, is she? Because I really don’t have time.

‘Anyway!’ I say briskly. ‘I must go and get ready. Thanks, Karen!’

I take a quick shower before dressing in capri pants and my new cardigan. Sure enough, a minicab soon pulls up outside our house, and I feel a tweak of glee. Dan will be so surprised! In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s him I can hear, arriving home. I’d better get a move on.

It only takes me four minutes to do my make-up and a minute more to put my hair in a knot. I hurry downstairs and pause halfway down, glancing through the landing window. To my surprise, there’s a second cab parked next to the first one.

Two?

Oh my God. Please don’t say …

As I’m staring at the cabs, Dan comes out of the sitting room. He’s wearing a smart blue shirt and linen jacket and his eyes are gleaming.

‘You look lovely!’ he says. ‘Which is good news, because … drum roll … we’re not having pasta at home!’

‘Dan,’ I say slowly. ‘Have you done something? Because I’ve done something, too.’

‘What do you mean?’ Dan says, puzzled.

‘Look outside,’ I say, coming all the way down the stairs. Dan opens the front door and I see him blink at the sight of the two cabs. I’m pretty sure they both come from Asis Taxis, the firm we always use.

‘What the hell?’

‘One of them’s mine,’ I say. ‘Don’t tell me the other one’s yours. Have we both organized a treat?’

‘But …’ Dan is staring at the cabs, looking totally scrubcious, his brow furrowed. ‘But I was organizing lunch,’ he says at last.

‘No you weren’t, I was!’ I retort, almost crossly. ‘It was a surprise. I ordered the cab, I booked Karen …’

‘I booked Karen too!’ says Dan, hotly. ‘I booked her days ago.’

‘You both booked me!’ Karen’s voice comes from behind and the two of us swivel round. She’s gazing at the pair of us and seems a bit freaked out. ‘You both sent me these texts, saying could I work on Saturday and “keep it secret”. I didn’t know what was going on. So I thought I’d just turn up and … see.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Fair enough.’

We should have known this would happen. We should have made a plan. Only then it wouldn’t have been a surprise.

‘Well, we obviously can’t do both …’ Dan suddenly focuses on me. ‘What’s your surprise?’

‘I’m not telling you! It’s a surprise.’

‘Well, I’m not telling you mine,’ he says adamantly. ‘It would ruin it.’

‘Well.’ I fold my arms, equally adamant.

‘So what do we do? Toss a coin?’

‘I’m not tossing a coin!’ I retort. ‘I think we should just do my surprise. It’s really good. We can do yours another day.’

‘No we can’t!’ Dan seems offended. ‘What, you’re assuming your idea is better than mine?’

‘Tickets to Tim Wender’s sold-out lunchtime event at the Barbican Comedy Festival?’ I want to say. ‘Our favourite stand-up comedian and lunch? You think you can beat that?’

But obviously I have manners, so I don’t. I just give him a little smile and shrug and say, ‘Mine’s pretty good.’

‘Well, so’s mine.’ Dan glares at me.

‘Let me decide!’ suggests Karen suddenly. ‘You tell me the plans and I’ll decide which one you should go with.’

What? That’s a stupid idea.

‘Great idea!’ says Dan. ‘I’ll go first.’ And there’s something about his ebullient demeanour that makes me wonder for the first time: What’s he planned? ‘We’ll go into the sitting room,’ he adds to Karen, ‘and I’ll pitch you my idea there, where Sylvie can’t hear. No listening at the door!’ he adds to me.

Pitch? What is this, Dragon’s bloody Den?

As he disappears into the sitting room with Karen, I shoot him a mistrustful look. Then I wander disconsolately into the kitchen, where the girls are hoovering up pasta with pesto and studiously ignoring their carrot sticks.

‘What does “virgin” mean?’ says Tessa at once.

I stare at her. ‘Virgin?’

‘Virgin.’ She raises her eyes to mine. ‘I don’t know what it means.’

‘Oh. Goodness. Right.’ I swallow, my mind scurrying around. ‘Well, it means … it’s a person who hasn’t yet … er …’ I trail off and reach for a carrot stick, playing for time.

‘It can’t be a person,’ objects Tessa. ‘How would they fit in?’

‘They would be too big,’ agrees Anna. She measures the width of herself with her hands, then squeezes them together tight. ‘You see?’ She looks at me as though making an obvious point. ‘Too big.’

‘Fit in?’ ‘Too big?’ My mind is ranging uneasily over various interpretations of these remarks. And why is Tessa talking about virgins, anyway?

‘Tessa,’ I say carefully. ‘Have children been talking in the playground, about … grown-up things?’

Do I have to have the whole chat, right here, right now? What is the chat, anyway? Oh God. I know you’re supposed to start early and be all frank like the Dutch, but I’m not saying the word ‘condom’ to my five-year-old, I’m just not …

‘I think it means tomato,’ volunteers Anna.

‘It’s not tomato,’ says Tessa scathingly. ‘It’s green. Green.’

Suddenly I realize what they’re both looking at. The bottle of extra virgin olive oil sitting on the table.

‘Oh, this!’ I say, my voice almost giddy with relief. ‘Extra virgin oil! That just means … very new. Nice new olives. Mm. Yummy. Eat up, girls.’

I will be frank when the time comes, I promise myself. I’ll be Dutch. I’ll even say ‘condom’. Just not today.

‘All done!’ Dan comes striding into the kitchen, exactly like someone who just went on Dragon’s Den and won a million pounds’ investment. ‘Your turn.’

I head to the sitting room, to find Karen sitting on a high-backed chair in the middle of the room, holding a pen and an A4 writing pad.

‘Hello, Sylvie,’ she says in formal, pleasant tones. ‘And welcome. Begin whenever you’re ready.’

I’m already prickling. Welcome to my own sitting room? And, by the way, what’s she writing? I haven’t even started yet.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ repeats Karen, and I hastily marshal my thoughts.

‘Right,’ I begin. ‘Well, I’m planning to whisk Dan off for a fabulous, once-in-a-lifetime treat. We’re seeing our favourite comedian, Tim Wender, in a special lunchtime performance at the Barbican Comedy Festival. Lunch and wine are included.’

I sound like a competition from daytime TV, I realize. Next I’ll be promising him five hundred pounds’ spending money in London’s exclusive West End.

‘Very nice,’ says Karen, in the same pleasant, ambivalent tone. ‘Is that it?’

Is that it? I’m about to retort ‘Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get those tickets?’ but that might not help my case. (And actually, it was Clarissa who pulled the strings, because she used to work at the Barbican.)

‘Yes. That’s it,’ I say.

‘All right. I’ll let you know my thoughts presently.’ She smiles a dismissal and I head back out into the hall, feeling all cross and bothered. This is ridiculous.

Dan comes out of the kitchen, crunching a carrot stick. ‘How did it go?’

I shrug. ‘Fine.’

‘Great!’ He gives me his ebullient smile again, just as the door opens. Karen emerges and looks from me to Dan, her face serious.

‘I have come to my decision.’ She pauses momentously, exactly like a judge on TV. ‘And today … you will be carrying out Dan’s plan. I’m sorry, Sylvie,’ she adds to me, ‘but Dan’s plan just had that extra something.’

Dan’s plan did?

Dan’s plan did?

I can’t believe it. In fact, I don’t believe it. Mine had the extra something. But, just like a TV contestant, I manage to squash my real feelings beneath a vivacious smile.

‘Well done!’ I kiss Dan. ‘I’m sure you deserve it.’

‘I wish we could both have won,’ he says generously.

‘You did really well, Sylvie,’ says Karen kindly. ‘But Dan just had that extra attention to detail.’

‘Of course!’ My smile becomes even brighter. ‘Well, I can’t wait to see it all in action!’

No pressure. But I have set the bar preeeeetty high.

‘Sylvie surprised me with breakfast this morning,’ Dan is telling Karen. ‘So really it’s only fair that I should surprise her with lunch.’

‘Hey, you haven’t mentioned my other surprise,’ I say in sudden realization. Dan was in the kitchen just now. He saw the makeover. So why hasn’t he exclaimed over it?

‘What other surprise?’

‘The kitchen …?’ I prompt, but Dan still looks blank. ‘The kitchen!’ I snap. ‘Kitchen!’

‘Sorry, was I supposed to find something in the kitchen?’ Dan seems bewildered.

I take a deep breath in and a deep breath out.

‘The curtains?’ I say calmly.

I see a look of panic flash through Dan’s eyes. ‘Of course,’ he says quickly. ‘The curtains. I was just going to mention them.’

‘What else?’ I grasp his arm tightly, so he can’t move. ‘Tell me what else I did in there.’

Dan gulps. ‘The … uh … cupboards?’

‘No.’

‘Table … er … tablecloth?’

‘Lucky guess.’ I glare at him. ‘You didn’t notice any of it, did you?’

‘Let me have another look,’ pleads Dan. ‘I was distracted by this lunch business.’

‘OK.’ I follow him into the kitchen, where I have to say, my makeover looks amazing. How could he not have noticed it?

‘Wow!’ he duly exclaims. ‘Those curtains are great! And the tablecloth …’

‘What else?’ I press him relentlessly. ‘What else is different?’

‘Um …’ Dan’s eyes are darting around, baffled. ‘This!’ He suddenly seizes a Nigella cookbook lying on the table. ‘This is new.’

Tessa breaks into laughter. ‘That’s not new, Daddy!’

‘It’s the candlesticks,’ I tell him. ‘The candlesticks.’

‘Of course!’ Dan’s eyes focus on them, and I can tell he’s scrabbling for something to say. ‘Absolutely! I should’ve … They’re so bright!’

‘They’re a pop of colour,’ I explain.

‘Definitely,’ Dan says uncertainly, as though he’s not quite sure what ‘pop of colour’ means but doesn’t dare ask.

‘Anyway, I just thought I’d brighten the place up a bit. I thought you’d like it …’ I allow a slightly martyred tone to creep into my voice.

‘I love it. Love it,’ Dan repeats emphatically. ‘And now, my lady …’ He gives a little bow. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

Luckily the man on the phone at the Barbican Comedy Festival was really sympathetic and had another couple on standby, who were thrilled to get the Tim Wender tickets. (I bet they were.) The second cab wasn’t so thrilled to be cancelled, but it’s a firm we use a lot, so at least they let us off the fare.

On the plus side, Dan’s enthusiasm is infectious, and as we travel along in the cab that he booked, I’m really starting to feel excited. He has something major to spring on me, I know it.

Although weirdly, we’re not heading into town, which is what I would have expected. We’re heading to an unfamiliar part of Clapham. What goes on here?

The car pulls up outside a small restaurant in a side street. It’s called Munch, and I peer out doubtfully. Munch? Should I have heard of that? Is it one of these amazing tiny places where you sit on an uncomfortable bench but the food is award-winning?

‘So.’ As Dan turns to me, he looks all shiny-faced with anticipation. ‘You wanted to be surprised, right?’

‘Yes,’ I say, laughing at his expression. ‘Yes!’

OK, I’m properly excited now. What’s this all about? What?

Our driver opens the door and Dan gestures for me to get out. As he’s paying the cab driver, I scan the menu board on the pavement and see that it’s a vegan restaurant. Interesting. Not what I would have expected. Unless—

‘Oh my God.’ I turn to Dan in sudden alarm. ‘Are you turning vegan? Is that your surprise? I mean, if so, great!’ I hastily add. ‘Well done!’

Dan laughs. ‘No, I’m not turning vegan.’

‘Oh, right. So … you just felt like being healthy?’

‘Not that either.’

Dan ushers me to the entrance, and I push open the door. It’s one of those earthy, worthy places, I can see at once. Lots of terracotta. Wooden ceiling fans. A ‘Pick your own Mint Tea’ planter. (Actually, that’s quite fun. Maybe I’ll steal that idea for dinner parties.)

‘Wow!’ I say. ‘This is—’

‘Oh, this isn’t the surprise.’ Dan cuts me off, almost bursting with pride. ‘That’s the surprise.’

He points at a far corner table, and I follow his gaze. There’s a girl sitting there. A girl with long brown hair and really skinny legs encased in black jeans. Who is it? Do I know her? I think I recognize her—

Oh my God, of course. It’s that girl from uni. She did … chemistry? Biochemistry? What’s her name again?

Suddenly I realize Dan is waiting for a reaction from me. And not just any old reaction.

‘No … way!’ I say, mustering all my energy. ‘Dan! You didn’t!’

‘I did!’ Dan beams at me, as though he’s presenting me with all my dreams at once.

My mind is working frantically. What the hell is going on? Why is some random person from uni sitting at our lunch table? And how do I find out her name?

‘So!’ I say as we give our jackets to a girl with about sixteen earrings in her right ear. ‘Amazing! How did you – what—’

‘How many times have you said to me you wish you’d kept in touch with Claire?’ Dan is pink-faced with delight. ‘So you know what I thought? I thought: Let’s make it happen.’

Claire. She’s called Claire. Of course she is. But this is nuts! I’ve never even thought about Claire since university. What on earth—

Oh my God, Claire.

He’s talking about Claire from the art course.

Somehow, I manage to keep smiling as a waitress leads us towards the corner table. There was this girl called Claire whom I met on an art course, years ago. She was really great, with a brilliant sense of humour, and we had a few lunches but then our friendship fizzled out. She’s the one I’ve been talking about.

Not this Claire.

Fuck, fuck …

As we reach the table, my face feels stiff. What am I going to do? ‘We meet at last!’ Dan greets Claire like an old friend. ‘Thank you so much for going along with all my cloak-and-dagger plans …’

‘No problem,’ says Claire in a flat voice. She always had a flat way about her, Claire. ‘Hi, Sylvie.’ She pushes back her chair and stands up, taller than me and make-up free. ‘Long time.’

I glance at Dan. He’s watching the pair of us fondly, as though expecting us to fall into each other’s arms like that YouTube video of the pet lion seeing its owners again.

‘Claire!’ I exclaim in the most emotional voice I can drum up. ‘This is … It’s been too long!’ I hug her bony, resistant body. ‘I just … Here you are! I don’t know what to say!’

‘Well.’ Claire shrugs. ‘Uni was a long time ago.’

‘There should be a bottle of fizz on the table,’ says Dan fretfully. ‘I’ll just go and sort that out … Claire chose the restaurant,’ he adds to me. ‘Isn’t it great?’

‘Fab!’ I say, and take a seat on a really uncomfortable painted wooden chair.

‘So, this was a surprise,’ says Claire impassively.

‘Yes! So, what exactly happened?’ I try to sound casual. ‘How did this all get arranged?’

‘Your husband messaged me on Facebook and said you really wanted to hang out with me.’ Claire eyes me. ‘He said you kept saying what a shame it was that we’d lost touch.’

‘Right.’

I’m still smiling, while my mind darts frenziedly around my options. Do I tell her the truth and have a little laugh and ask her to keep it quiet? No. She’s not that sort. She’d blurt it out to Dan in a heartbeat, I can tell, and he’d be crushed.

I have to go with this.

Somehow.

‘I thought it was a bit strange, to be honest,’ says Claire. ‘Hearing from you.’

‘Well, you know!’ I say, over-brightly. ‘You get to that age and you look back and you think … what did happen to Claire and … the gang?’

‘The gang?’ Claire frowns blankly.

‘You know!’ I say. ‘Everyone! All our mates! Like … er …’

I can’t remember a single name of anyone that Claire might have known. We hung out in different circles. Yes, we were in the same halls – and didn’t we once play in a netball match together, when I was co-opted on to the team? Maybe that’s how Dan got confused. Maybe he saw an old photo online. But that was our only point of connection. We weren’t bloody friends.

‘I’m in touch with Husky,’ allows Claire.

‘Husky!’ I say shrilly. ‘How’s—’

He? She? Who the hell was Husky? I should look more closely at Facebook. But quite honestly, since the twins, I don’t have time to check up on all my 768 ‘friends’ the whole time. I barely keep up with my real ones.

‘I’m still in touch with Sam … Phoebe … Freya … all the art history lot,’ I volunteer. ‘Phoebe’s just got married, actually.’

‘Right,’ says Claire with a dampening lack of interest. ‘I never really got on with them.’

Oh God. This is painful. Where’s that bottle of fizz got to?

‘You and your husband, you’re not selling something, are you?’ says Claire, eyeing me suddenly with suspicion.

‘No!’

‘Or trying to convert me? Are you Mormons?’

‘No.’ I half want to cry and half want to break into hysterical laughter. We had tickets for Tim Wender … ‘Look, here’s Dan with the bottle of fizz. Let’s have a drink.’

It’s an ordeal. The food (mostly beans) is dry and bland. The cava is acidic. The conversation is sparse and difficult, like digging for carrots in rock-hard soil. Claire doesn’t give a lot. I mean, she really makes it hard. How on earth does she motivate a research team at GlaxoSmithKline? The only plus of the experience is, it’s made me want to call up all my real friends and gratefully fall into their conversational laps.

At last we get in the cab that Dan’s ordered to take us home and wave goodbye. (We offered a lift to Claire, who declined, thank God.) Then Dan leans back in his seat in satisfaction.

‘That was amazing,’ I say hastily. ‘Just amazing!’

He grins. ‘You liked it, huh?’

‘I was blown away,’ I say truthfully. ‘To think you went to all that trouble … I’m so touched.’ I reach over to kiss him. ‘Overwhelmed.’

And I really am. Arranging a reunion was the most thoughtful thing to do. He couldn’t have chosen a better treat. (Except if it was with, you know, someone I actually liked.)

‘She’s not what I imagined,’ Dan says, curiously. ‘Was she such a fierce vegan at uni?’

‘Well …’ I have no idea. ‘Maybe not that fierce.’

‘And her views on composting.’ He widens his eyes. ‘She’s quite vociferous, isn’t she?’

Dan just made one flip remark and had to put up with a humourless rant, which he took in the best possible spirit. All for me. I could see him peering at Claire, thinking, Why on earth did Sylvie want to get back in touch with her?

I bite my lip, trying to quell a rising laugh. One day I’ll tell him the truth. Like, in a year’s time. (Maybe five years’ time.)

‘Anyway,’ says Dan as the cab swings round a corner. ‘I have one surprise left.’

‘Me too.’ I touch his knee. ‘Mine’s a sexy surprise. Is yours?’

‘It’s pretty sexy.’ He meets my eyes and I can see the glint in them, and then we’re kissing properly, passionately, just like we used to do in taxis all the time, before the ‘back seat’ meant ‘two car seats and bumper wet wipes, just in case’.

My surprise is some tingly massage oil. It’s supposed to be ‘super-stimulating’, not that Dan seems as though he needs much extra stimulation today. I wonder what his surprise is? Underwear, maybe? Agent Provocateur?

‘I can’t wait,’ I murmur into his neck, and I stay nestled up against him all the way home.

As we head into the house, the girls come running to greet us, shrieking something about a ballet show, and Karen follows behind, her eyes shining in expectation.

‘Was it awesome?’ she demands, then turns to me. ‘Now you see why I chose Dan’s surprise. A reunion! I mean, a reunion!’

‘Yes!’ I try to match her tone. ‘It … blew me away!’

Dan’s phone bleeps with a text and his eyes gleam. ‘Already!’ he says, then looks up. ‘Karen, you can go now. Thanks so much for stepping in.’

‘Of course!’ says Karen. ‘Any time!’

Dan looks suddenly keyed up, I realize. Really keyed up. As Karen waves goodbye and shuts the door behind her, he starts tapping a text into his phone. Is this about the sexy surprise?

‘So, shall we plan the rest of the day?’ I say. ‘Or …?’

‘In a minute,’ says Dan, as though barely hearing me. ‘In a minute.’

The atmosphere has become weirdly tense. Dan’s mouth keeps twitching into a smile. He keeps glancing down at his phone and walking to the front door and back. He seems in such a ferment that I feel a squirm of excitement myself. What on earth is his sexy surprise? If it’s that epic, should we have gone to a hotel for the night?

The doorbell suddenly rings and we both jump.

‘What’s that?’ I say.

‘A delivery.’ Dan’s mouth won’t stop twitching. ‘A very special delivery.’ He opens the door and a delivery man in a black anorak nods curtly at him.

‘All right? Dan Winter, is it?’

‘Yes!’ says Dan. ‘All ready.’

‘We’ll get it out the van, then. Will we be all right, spacewise?’ The guy comes in a step and peers around.

Dan nods. ‘I think so. You should be able to get it through the hall.’

I’m gaping at them in shock. Get what through the hall? This isn’t a set of underwear from Agent Provocateur, is it? It’s something that needs two men to haul it out of a van.

Oh my God, it’s not some sort of … equipment? Should I hurry the girls away before they glimpse something that will scar them for life?

‘Can you take the girls upstairs, Sylvie?’ says Dan in unreadable tones, and my heart flips over. ‘Just until I say so.’

‘OK!’ I say, my voice a bit strangled. What has Dan done?

I hustle the girls into their room and read them a Winnie-the-Pooh story in a self-conscious voice, all the while thinking: erotic chair? Erotic sofa? Erotic … oh God, what else is there? A sex swing? (No, Dan couldn’t have ordered that. Our joists would never support a swing.)

I’m desperate to google big sex item needs delivery in van on my phone, only the girls are bound to grab it. (This is the trouble with your children learning to read.) So I just have to sit there, talking about Heffalumps, getting into a lather of suspicion and fantasy … when, at last, I hear the front door slamming and the sound of Dan’s tread on the stairs.

‘Come downstairs,’ he says, looking round the door, his whole face glowing. ‘I have quite a surprise for you.’

‘Surprise!’ yells Tessa joyfully, and I glance at her in alarm.

‘Dan, should the girls …’ I give him a meaningful glance. ‘Is this suitable?’

‘Of course!’ says Dan. ‘Go to the kitchen, girls. You won’t believe your eyes!’

The kitchen?

OK, I’m really not following this.

‘Dan,’ I demand as we go downstairs, the girls hurrying ahead. ‘I don’t understand. Is this your sexy surprise?’

‘It certainly is.’ He nods beatifically. ‘But not just sexy … beautiful. She’s beautiful.’

She?

‘Arrrggh! A snake!’ Tessa comes bombing out of the kitchen and wraps her arms round my legs. ‘There’s a snake in the kitchen!’

‘What?’ My heart thumping, I skitter into the kitchen, turn around and immediately jump back six feet. Oh my God. Oh my God.

Lined up against the wall, where our toy box used to be, is a glass tank. Inside the glass tank is a snake. It’s orange and brown and has a black snakey eye and I think I might vomit.

‘Wh – wh—’ I’m gibbering. I’m actually unable to form words. ‘Wh—’

‘Surprise!’ Dan has followed me in. ‘Isn’t she lovely? She’s a corn snake. Bred for captivity, so you don’t have to worry about her getting upset.’

That’s not what I was worried about.

‘Dan.’ Finally I find my voice and grab his lapels. ‘We can’t have a snake.’

‘We have a snake,’ Dan corrects me. ‘What shall we call her, girls?’

‘Snakey,’ says Tessa.

‘No!’ I’m nearly hyperventilating. ‘I won’t have a snake! Not in the house! I won’t do it, Dan!’

At last, Dan looks at me properly. Eyebrows raised innocently. As though I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. ‘What’s the big deal?’

‘You said you were getting something sexy!’ I hiss furiously. ‘Sexy, Dan!’

‘She is sexy! She’s exotic … sinuous … You must agree.’

‘No!’ I shudder. ‘I can’t even look at her. It,’ I correct myself quickly. It’s an it.

‘Can we have a dog?’ pipes up Anna, who is quite intuitive and has been watching our exchange. ‘Instead of a snake?’

‘No!’ cries Tessa. ‘We have to keep our lovely snakey …’ She attempts to hug the glass tank and the snake uncoils.

Oh God. I have to look away. How could Dan think a snake was a sexy surprise? How?

By the time the girls are in bed, we’ve reached a compromise. We will give the snake a chance. However, I do not have to feed, handle or look at the snake. I will never even touch the freezer drawer dedicated to its food. (It eats mice, actual mice.) Nor am I calling it Dora, which is what the girls have named it. It is not Dora, it is the Snake.

It’s 8 p.m. and we’re sitting on our bed, exhausted by our negotiations. The girls are in bed and have finally stopped creeping out to ‘see if Dora’s all right’.

‘I thought you’d like it,’ says Dan dolefully. I think the truth has finally dawned on him. ‘I mean, we talked about having a snake …’

‘I was joking,’ I say wearily. ‘As I have explained about a hundred times.’ It never occurred to me he might be serious. I mean, a snake?

Dan leans back against the headboard with a sigh, resting his head against his hands. ‘Well, I surprised you, anyway.’ He looks over with a wry smile.

‘Yup.’ I can’t help smiling back. ‘You did.’

‘And you liked your cardigan, anyway.’

‘It’s stunning!’ I say with enthusiasm, wanting to make up for the snake. ‘Honestly, Dan, I love it.’ I stroke the fabric. ‘It’s so soft.’

‘You like the colour?’

‘I love the colour.’ I nod as emphatically as I can. ‘So much better than the bl—’

I stop mid-word. Shit.

‘What did you say?’ asks Dan slowly.

‘Nothing!’ I paste on a bright smile. ‘So, shall we watch some TV, or …’

‘You were going to say “blue”.’

‘No I wasn’t!’ I say, but not quite convincingly enough. I can see Dan’s mind working. He’s not stupid, Dan.

‘Tilda called you.’ The light is dawning on his face. ‘Of course she bloody called you. You two talk about everything.’ He eyes me balefully. ‘That cardigan wasn’t a surprise at all, was it? You probably—’ He breaks off, as though a fresh theory is dawning. I have a horrible feeling it might be the truth. ‘Is that why it was warm?’ He’s shoffed, I can tell. He’s goggling at me, as though his whole world is crumbling about him. ‘Were you at Tilda’s house?’

‘Look …’ I rub my nose. ‘Look … I’m sorry. But she didn’t know which size to choose, and this way you didn’t have to faff around … it made sense …’

‘But it was supposed to be a surprise!’ he almost bellows.

He has a point.

For a while we’re both silent, staring up at the ceiling.

‘My surprise breakfast wasn’t any good,’ I say morosely. ‘And you didn’t even notice my kitchen makeover.’

‘I did!’ Dan says at once. ‘The … uh … candlesticks. Great.’

‘Thanks.’ I raise a wry smile. ‘But don’t pretend. I was deluded to think you’d get excited by a kitchen makeover, of all things.’

Maybe I was deluded, I’m thinking more honestly to myself … or maybe I just wanted an excuse to buy new stuff for the kitchen.

‘Well,’ replies Dan, his hands spreading in acknowledgement. And I know we’re both thinking: Same goes for the snake.

‘And we never went to Tim Wender …’ I add mournfully.

‘Tim Wender?’ Dan swivels round. ‘What do you mean?’

Oh my God. What with all the snake shenanigans, he doesn’t even know.

‘I had tickets!’ I almost pop with frustration. ‘A special lunchtime performance! It was going to be—’ I break off. There’s no point rubbing it in. ‘Never mind. We can go another time.’ A sudden gurgle of laughter escapes from me. ‘What a fiasco.’

‘Maybe surprises are a red herring,’ says Dan. ‘It was a fun idea, but maybe we should call it a day.’

‘No,’ I retort. ‘I’m not giving up so soon. You wait, Dan, I’m going to come up with an awesome surprise for you.’

‘Sylvie—’

‘I’m not giving up,’ I repeat obstinately. ‘And in the meantime, I do have one more thing up my sleeve.’ I pull open my bedside table drawer, take out my tingly massage oil, and throw it to Dan.

‘Now you’re talking.’ His eyes shine as he reads the label and I can tell I’ve scored. The way to Dan’s heart has always been through sex. So …

Wait a minute. Hang on.

I actually blink, as my thoughts crystallize. Why on earth have I bothered with all this other stuff? Why on earth did I think he’d notice a new tablecloth or care what he has for breakfast? I’ve been a total idiot. Sex is the answer. Like they say: It’s all about sex, stupid. This is how we keep our marriage alive.

Already ideas are bubbling up in my head. A new strategy is forming. I have the perfect surprise for Dan. The perfect plan. And he’ll love it, I just know he will.