Surprise Me

NINE

Everything’s got so stressful. It’s three days later, and I’ve just about had enough. Why is life like this? Just as you relax and start enjoying yourself, smiling, having fun … life looms up like a mean teacher in the playground, shouting, ‘Playtime is over!’ and everyone trails off to be miserable and bored again.

Dan is constantly strained but he won’t tell me why. He got home at midnight the other night and smelled of whisky. He sits gazing into the snake tank quite a lot, and his default expression has become a frown.

I joked yesterday morning, ‘Don’t worry, only another sixty-seven years and fifty weeks to go,’ and he just looked up blankly as though he didn’t get it. Then, when I said more gently, ‘Come on, Dan, what’s the matter?’ he sprang up and left the room, replying, ‘Nothing,’ over his shoulder.

How many divorces are caused by the word ‘nothing’? I think this would be a very interesting statistic. When Dan says, ‘Nothing,’ I get this jab of total frusture, like a little twisty knife. Frusture is my word for the exquisite fury that only your husband can give you. Not only are you furious, you feel like he’s doing it all on purpose, in order to torment you.

I raised this theory with Dan, once. I was – in hindsight – a bit stressed out. The babies had been up all night, in my defence. And I yelled, ‘Do you deliberately find the most annoying thing to say to me, Dan? Is this your plan?’ Whereupon he looked all hunted and said, ‘No. I don’t know. I wasn’t quite following what you said. You look really nice in that dress.’

Which kind of appeased me and didn’t appease me, all at once. I mean, I had gone off-topic. I will admit that. I sometimes do. But couldn’t he see that our holiday plans and the problem with the recycling bins and his mother’s birthday present was all the same issue?

(Also, it wasn’t a dress, it was a nondescript breastfeeding tunic top that I’d worn fifty times before. So how on earth could he say I looked nice in it?)

Probably we should have agendas for our arguments. Probably we should decide to have an argument every Thursday evening and buy in snacks and hire a mediator. We should take ownership of the arguing process. But until we do, we’re stuck with Dan saying ‘nothing’ and me seething and the air all crackly with static resentment.

Anyway, I’m hoping my boudoir pictures will change everything. Or change some things, at least.

Meanwhile, the office is pretty stressful, too. Robert has been hanging around every day, going through figures and files and basically insulting everything we’ve ever done. He isn’t scary, exactly, but he’s businesslike. He asks short, brusque questions. He expects short, brusque answers. Poor Clarissa can’t cope at all, and communicates in whispers. I’m more resilient – but doesn’t he realize? We don’t make the big decisions. It wasn’t our idea to commission a special Willoughby House Christmas Pudding last year as a gift to supporters (total loss: £379), it was Mrs Kendrick’s.

Shamed by Mrs Kendrick’s positive and adaptable attitude, I’ve done some research on websites and online shops and all the things I think we should be doing. I’ve spent every waking moment trying to think of creative ideas other than a ghost story podcast. (The trouble is, once you try to have an idea, they all fly away.) I’ve also been round to see Toby, but he wasn’t in, so I emailed him and haven’t heard back yet.

Meanwhile, Mummy keeps phoning me about the opening ceremony. She’s nearly as bad as Esme, with her endless questions. Today she wanted to know: 1. What colour shoes should she wear? And 2. How will she remember everyone’s name? (Answers: 1. No one will be looking at her shoes and 2. name badges.) Esme, on the other hand, wanted to know: 3. Do I require a radio microphone? And 4. What kind of snacks would I like in the ‘green room area’? (Answers: 3. I’m really not bothered and 4. a bowl of M&M’s with all the blue ones taken out. Joke.)

Just to add to the fraught atmosphere, Tilda and Toby had a massive shouting match last night. I could hear them through the wall and it made me wince. (I also decided it would be tactless for me to pop straight round and say, ‘Oh, Toby, you’re in, did you get my email?’ So I left it half an hour and by then he’d gone out again. Typical.)

I know it’s tough for Toby and that his generation have it hard. I know all that. But I think Tilda’s going to have to be firm. He needs to get a job. A place to live. A life, basically.

I’m actually quite apprehensive as I knock on her door on Thursday evening, in case I come across her and Toby mid-row again. But as she opens the door she looks quite calm – mellow, even, and there’s music playing in the background.

‘He’s out,’ she says succinctly. ‘Staying over with friends. We’re fine. All ready?’

‘I guess!’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘Ready as I ever will be.’

‘And Dan?’ She peers round to next door, as though he might suddenly pop up.

‘He thinks I’m at book group.’ I grin. ‘You might have to bullshit about our interesting discussion on Flaubert.’

‘Flaubert!’ She gives a short laugh. ‘Well come on in, Madame Bovary.’

I’ve been googling ‘boudoir photos’ pretty solidly over the last three days, and as a result, I’m equipped. More than equipped. I have procured: a spray tan, a manicure, a pedicure, blow-dried hair, false eyelashes, a bag of pretty underwear, a bag of racy underwear, a bag of super-racy/trashy-whore underwear and a massive long string of fake pearls from Topshop. I also have a few accessories which arrived in a plainly packaged box – I told Dan they were new ballet shoes for the girls – but I’m not sure about those. (In fact, I’m thinking the ‘vintage fur rabbit mask’ was a definite mistake.)

Every chance I’ve got, I’ve been posing in the mirror, squinting at my bum to see how big it looks and practising an alluring expression. Although I think I’ll need a glass of Prosecco beforehand to loosen up. (I’ve brought that, too.)

‘What do you think?’ Tilda bustles me into her sitting room, and I gasp. She’s moved half the furniture out and it looks like a photographer’s studio. There are big lights on stands, and a white umbrella-type thing and a single sofa in the centre of the room, plus a folding screen and a full-length mirror.

‘Amazing!’

‘Isn’t it?’ Tilda looks pleased. ‘If this goes well, I thought I might go into the business properly. It’s quite a racket, this boudoir photography.’

‘Have you ever used equipment like this before?’ I ask, curiously touching the umbrella-type thing.

‘No, but it’s all fairly obvious.’ Tilda waves an airy hand. ‘I’ve been googling. Is the house warm enough for you?’

‘It’s sweltering!’ I’ve never known Tilda’s house so hot. Usually she’s of the ‘heating is for wimps’ mentality.

‘You want to be nice and warm and relaxed. Nice eyelashes, by the way,’ adds Tilda admiringly. ‘And what have you brought?’ She reaches into one of my bags and pulls out the string of pearls. ‘Ah, very good. A boudoir classic. The “draping shot”, as we boudoir photographers call it.’

She sounds so expert, I want to laugh. I’m also quite touched she’s taking it so seriously.

‘You can change behind the screen,’ Tilda continues, opening up the Prosecco and pouring it out. ‘And then we’ll go into the first pose.’ She hands me a glass and consults a handwritten list headed Sylvie – Poses. ‘Sit on the sofa, then gradually slide off. Your head should be thrust upwards, right leg bent, left leg relaxed, back arched, shoe dangling …’

‘Uhuh,’ I say doubtfully. ‘Can you show me?’

‘Show you?’ Tilda looks aghast. ‘Well, I can try, but I’m not very supple.’

She sits on the sofa, then slides off. Halfway towards the floor she freezes, one leg pinned to the floor, the other swinging akimbo, and her head thrust back in a painful-looking rictus. She looks like she’s giving birth. That can’t be right.

‘Ow.’ She flops to the floor. ‘You see?’

‘Er … kind of,’ I say, after a pause.

‘It’ll be fine!’ she says breezily. ‘I’ll direct you. Now, what are you going to wear?’

Choosing the first outfit is a lot of fun, and takes us nearly half an hour. I went a bit overboard with the underwear shopping so we have lots of choice and eventually get it down to a white lace set with white seamed stockings and suspenders. As I emerge from behind the screen, I feel genuinely sexy and excited. Dan won’t believe his eyes!

‘Amazing!’ says Tilda, who is fiddling with her light counter. ‘Now, if you get into position …’

I sit on the sofa, slide down and freeze in the same way that Tilda did. Almost at once, my thighs start burning. I should have done the boudoir workout.

‘Ready?’ I say, after what seems like ten minutes.

‘Sorry,’ says Tilda, glancing up. ‘Oh, you look gorgeous. Lovely!’

She takes a few pictures, peering at me between shots.

‘Really? Are you sure?’

I want to say, ‘Do I look like I’m giving birth?’ only that might sound weird.

‘Try putting your hands behind your head,’ suggests Tilda, snapping away. ‘Oh, yes! Now sweep your hair back. Lovely! Do it again!’

Twenty hair-sweeps later my legs can’t take it any more and I collapse on to the floor.

‘Great!’ says Tilda. ‘Shall we have a look?’

‘Yes!’ I scrabble to my feet and hurry over to the camera. Tilda scrolls back through the shots and we both gaze in silence.

The images are so far from what I imagined that I’m speechless. You can barely see my face. You can barely see the sexy underwear. The whole photo is dominated by my legs in their white stockings, which are lit up so brightly, they look like luminous surgical stockings. In half the photos, my hair is over my face, not in a sexy way, but a dishevelled, crap-looking way. And I do look like I’m giving birth.

‘My legs look quite …’ I say at last.

I don’t want to say ‘huge, fat and white’. But that’s the truth.

‘I didn’t quite get the lighting right,’ says Tilda after another long pause. Her ebullience has dimmed and there’s a crinkle in her brow. ‘Not exactly right. Never mind. Let’s go on to the second pose.’

I put on a new outfit – red lace teddy – and get on to all fours, following Tilda’s directions.

‘Now, lean forward on your knees … legs apart … further apart …’

‘They won’t go any further apart,’ I gasp. ‘I’m not a bloody gymnast!’

‘OK, now raise your chin,’ instructs Tilda, ignoring me. ‘Put your weight all on one arm if you can … boost your boobs with the other arm … give me a sexy look …’

My knees are killing me. My arm is killing me. And now I have to produce a sexy look? I flutter my eyelashes and the camera flashes a few times. ‘Hmm,’ says Tilda, doubtfully squinting at her screen. ‘Could you lift your bum up for a better angle?’

With a huge effort, I try to arch my back and thrust my bum further into the air.

‘Hmm,’ says Tilda again. ‘No. Maybe I meant, lift up your head.’ She stares at her screen as though perplexed. ‘Can you get a bit more curve into your bum, somehow?’

‘Get more curve into my bum’? What does that even mean? My bum is my bum.

‘No.’ I sit back and rub my knees. ‘Ow. I need knee pads.’ I get to my feet and rub at my legs. ‘Can I have a look?’

‘No,’ says Tilda hurriedly as I approach. ‘No, better not see these ones. I mean, they’re lovely, absolutely gorgeous, but I might just delete them …’ She jabs quickly at her camera, then looks up with a bright smile. ‘That pose wasn’t quite working. But I’ve got another idea. We’ll use the doorway.’

The doorway is the worst of all. This time I insist on seeing the shots, and I look like a gorilla. A pale, hairless gorilla in a blonde wig, hanging from a door frame in a black bra and knickers. This time, all the light pools harshly on my stomach. You can’t see my face but you can see my stretch marks in glorious detail. If Dan saw this photo, we’d probably never have sex again.

‘I can absolutely Photoshop these,’ Tilda keeps saying as we scroll through, but I can tell she’s slightly losing confidence. ‘It’s harder than I thought,’ she says at last, heaving a sigh. ‘I mean, taking the photos is easy enough, it’s making them look good.’ She gazes at a particularly ghoulish image of me, winces and pours more Prosecco into our glasses.

We both take a few gulps, and Tilda idly experiments with my black satin corset, wrapping it around herself this way and that.

‘Maybe we need something simpler,’ she says at last. ‘We’ll use the failsafe pose.’

‘What’s the failsafe pose?’

‘It’s for all shapes and sizes,’ she says, more confidently. ‘I read about it on a website. You lie on the sofa, legs crossed and gaze up at the camera. I’ve got lighting instructions, too.’

Lying on the sofa sounds a lot better than kneeling on the floor, or hanging upside down off the back of a chair, which was her other idea.

‘OK,’ I nod. ‘What shall I wear?’

But Tilda is still preoccupied with my corset. ‘How does this thing work?’ she says suddenly. ‘I can’t work it out at all. Where’s the top? Where’s the boobs bit?’

‘It doesn’t have a boobs bit,’ I tell her. ‘It’s an underbust corset. You can wear a bra with it. Or not.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, perfect!’ Her imagination seems seized. ‘Wear this and a pair of knickers and nothing more. Lie on the sofa. Play with your pearls. It’ll look great. Dan will go wild.’

‘Right.’ I hesitate. ‘So … a topless shot, you mean.’

‘Exactly! It’ll be gorgeous!’

I’m not too sure. Posing in underwear is one thing. But topless? In front of Tilda?

‘Won’t that make you uncomfortable?’ I venture.

‘Of course not!’ she says airily. ‘I’ve seen your boobs before, haven’t I?’

‘Have you?’

‘Well, haven’t I?’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘Out shopping or something? Glimpsed them in the changing room?’

I’m fairly sure Tilda hasn’t glimpsed my boobs in the changing room. And I’m still not comfortable about this idea. I mean, I’m not prudish. I’m not. Really. It’s just …

‘Are you uncomfortable?’ Tilda peers at me as though the thought is just dawning on her.

‘Well …’ I shrug awkwardly.

‘Well, how about I show you mine? Fair’s fair.’ I gape, stunned, as she whips up her top and unclasps her front-fastening bra, exposing two quite large veiny breasts. ‘Ghastly, aren’t they?’ she adds dispassionately. ‘I breastfed Toby for two years, you know, like the idiot I was. No wonder he won’t leave home.’

I’m not sure what to reply. Or where to look. Do I say, ‘They’re lovely’? What do you say about your friend’s breasts? The truth is, they’re not lovely in a conventional sense, but they’re lovely because they look exactly like Tilda. Comforting and voluminous and Tilda-ish.

Luckily she doesn’t seem to require an answer. She fastens her bra up again, drops down her shirt and grins. ‘OK, sexy Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Your turn.’

And suddenly I feel stupid for even hesitating. This is Tilda. They’re just boobs, for God’s sake.

‘OK!’ I grab the corset. ‘Let’s do it!’

‘I’m going to get my extra pack of filters,’ says Tilda. ‘Be back in a moment.’

I quickly strip off the bra I’m wearing, fit the satin corset around me and cinch it so tight I can hardly breathe. I put on my highest stripper heels, drape the pearls around my neck and survey myself in the mirror. I have to say, this corset is very flattering. I actually look quite hot. My boobs are … well, they’re OK. Bearing in mind what they’ve done. Still perkyish. As I hear Tilda returning, I sashay to the door.

‘So what do you think of this?’ I say, and fling it open, one hand on my hip.

Toby is standing in front of me. In the split second before I can react, I see his eyes fix on my nipples and his pupils dilate and his jaw slacken.

‘Argh!’ I hear myself scream before I realize I’m doing it. ‘Argh! Sorry!’ I clutch my hands over my naked breasts, which probably looks exactly like a boudoir shot.

A hoarse sound is coming from Toby, too. ‘Oh God!’ He sounds even more aghast than I do, and puts a hand up to shield his eyes. ‘Sylvie, I’m sorry! Argh! Mum …’

‘Toby!’ Tilda comes into the hall, scolding him. She tosses me a pashmina from the banister and I hastily wrap it round myself. ‘What are you doing back? I told you Sylvie was coming over!’

‘I thought you were just going to drink wine, like you normally do!’ Toby retorts defensively. ‘Not …’ He peers past me. ‘Are you taking photos?’

‘Don’t tell Dan,’ I blurt out.

‘Right.’ His eyes drift down to my stripper heels and back up again. ‘Right.’

This is mortifying. I have never felt more like a tragic suburban wife, desperately trying to keep her husband interested because otherwise he’ll shag his secretary, in fact he probably has done already and guess what, she only wears his boxer shorts to bed, but then, she’s twenty-one and a natural 34D.

(OK, that was a really unhelpful train of thought.)

‘Anyway!’ I say, in brittle tones. ‘So. Um. We’re pretty much finished up, aren’t we, Tilda? Nice to see you, Toby.’

‘Nice to see you too, Sylvie,’ says Toby politely. ‘Oh, and I got your email about your website. What kind of CMS were you thinking of?’

‘CMS?’ I echo blankly.

‘Content management system? Because you’ll need to think about scalability, plug-ins, e-commerce … Do you know what kind of functionality you’re after?’

‘You know, maybe we should discuss this another time?’ I say in a shrill voice. Like, when I’ve got clothes on? ‘That would be great.’

‘No problem,’ says Toby easily. ‘Any time.’

He thuds upstairs and Tilda and I glance at each other. Suddenly Tilda makes an exploding noise, clutches at her mouth and starts jiggling with suppressed laughter.

‘You’ve got to admit,’ she says, when she’s regained control of herself. ‘It’s quite funny.’

‘No it’s not!’ I say reproachfully. ‘I’m traumatized! Toby’s traumatized! We’ll all have to have therapy after this!’

‘Oh, Sylvie.’ Tilda gives a final gurgle. ‘Don’t be traumatized. And as for Toby, it’s good for him to see that the older generation still has a bit of oomph. Come on, let’s take a picture of you in that corset. You look great,’ she adds.

‘No.’ I wrap the pashmina more tightly around me, feeling deflated. ‘I’m not in the mood any more. I feel old and stupid and … you know. Desperate.’

Tilda’s silent for a moment, surveying me with her shrewd, kind eyes.

‘Go home,’ she says. ‘Sylvie, you don’t need a book of boudoir photos. I’m a crap photographer, anyway.’

‘No you’re not,’ I begin politely, but Tilda makes a snorting sound.

‘I could not have made you look more terrible if I’d tried! And why take pictures anyway? Just go home, wearing that.’ She nods at me. ‘Believe me, if that doesn’t make Dan’s day there’s something wrong with him.’

I glance towards the party wall and imagine Dan on the other side of it, eating his single salmon fillet, watching sports on the kitchen telly, believing sincerely that Tilda and I are discussing Flaubert.

‘You’re right.’ I feel a sudden surge of optimism and adrenaline. ‘You’re right!’

Suddenly this whole endeavour seems artificial and weird and kind of too much.

‘Leave all your stuff here,’ says Tilda. ‘Get it tomorrow.’ She hands me my handbag. ‘If I were you, I’d head home right now in that pashmina, peel it off and ravish Dan. I’ll turn up the TV loud,’ she adds with a wink. ‘We won’t hear anything.’

Dan is sitting at the kitchen table as I enter, exactly as I pictured him. Discarded plate with salmon skin. Football on. Beer open. Feet up on a chair. If Vermeer had been around, he could have made a perfect study of him: Man with Wife at Book Club.

‘Hi.’ He looks up with an absent smile. ‘You’re home early.’

I smile back. ‘We wrapped it up. There’s only so much you can say about Flaubert.’

‘Mmm.’ His attention shifts back towards the screen and he takes a slug of beer.

Isn’t he going to say, ‘Why are you dressed only in a pashmina and high heels?’

Clearly not. Clearly he thinks it’s a dress.

‘Dan.’ I plant myself in his field of vision and start to unwrap the pashmina in my most tantalizing, boudoir-photo style.

‘Come on …’

I don’t believe it. He’s peering around me at the screen, as if I’m some annoying obstacle, because something far more exciting is obviously happening on the football pitch. ‘Come on!’ He clenches a fist. ‘Come on!’

‘Dan!’ I say sharply, and let the pashmina fall to the ground in one go.

OK, now I’ve got his attention.

There’s silence, except for the roar of the football crowd. Dan is goggling up at me. He’s actually speechless. He lifts a hand to caress one of my boobs, as though he’s never seen it before.

‘Well,’ he says at last, his voice a little thick. ‘This is interesting.’

I shrug nonchalantly. ‘Surprise.’

‘So I see.’

Slowly he starts playing with the pearl necklace. He presses the pearls into my cleavage, rubs my nipples with them, runs them up and down my skin, his eyes fixed on mine. And I know the pearl necklace is a boudoir photo cliché or whatever, but actually this is pretty sexy. It’s all pretty sexy. The stripper heels, the corset – and Dan’s expression in particular. He hasn’t looked like this in a long time: as though something huge and powerful is overcoming him and no one can stop it.

‘The children are asleep,’ I say huskily, reaching for the remote and snapping off the TV. ‘We can do anything. Try anything. Go anywhere. Be anyone.’

Dan is already eyeing up a nearby barstool with intent. He’s very keen on doing it on those barstools. Me, not so much. They always end up digging into my thighs.

‘Maybe something different,’ I say quickly. ‘Something we’ve never done. Something adventurous. Surprise me.’

There’s another tense silence, broken only by the clicking of the pearls in Dan’s fingers. His eyes are distant. I can tell he’s hugely preoccupied. My own mind is ranging around various delicious possibilities and fixing on that chocolate body paint I bought once for Valentine’s Day … hmm, I wonder where it is … when Dan’s eyes seem to snap.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Get your coat on. I’m asking Tilda to babysit.’

‘What are we doing?’

‘You’ll find out.’ He flashes me a gaze that makes me shiver in anticipation.

‘Do I need clothes on?’

‘Just put a coat on.’ His eyes drop to my lacy black pants. ‘You won’t need those.’

OK, this totally beats a book of boudoir photos. By the time I’ve removed my pants, selected my sexiest coat and made sure that passers-by won’t get an X-rated view of me as I walk along, Dan is back, with Tilda in tow.

‘Going out to supper, I hear, Sylvie?’ says Tilda in super-innocent tones. ‘Or is it more like dessert al fresco?’ She eyes my stripper heels so comically, I bite my lip.

‘Dan’s in charge.’ I match her innocent tone. ‘So. Who knows?’

‘Good man.’ Her eyes sparkle wickedly at me. ‘Well, have a good time. Don’t rush back.’

Dan hires a taxi and gives an address to the driver that I can’t hear. We travel along in silence, my pulse rising as Dan’s hand roams idly up inside my coat. I’m feeling almost faint with lust. We haven’t done anything like this for ages. Maybe ever. And I’m not even sure what ‘this’ is yet.

After a short drive, we get out on a street corner in Vauxhall. Vauxhall? This is all very unlikely.

‘What?’ I begin, looking around. ‘Where are we—’

‘Ssh.’ Dan cuts me off. ‘This way.’

He leads me briskly through an unfamiliar garden square, just as though he’s been here a million times. He ushers me past the church in the corner. We walk through the little graveyard and approach an old wooden gate, set in a brick wall, with a keypad next to it.

‘OK,’ says Dan to himself as we come to a halt. ‘The only question is, have they changed the code?’

I’m too bemused to answer. Where the hell are we?

Dan punches in a code, and I hear an unlocking sound from the gate. Then he slowly pushes it open. And I don’t believe it: it’s a garden. A totally deserted little garden. I stare ahead, open-mouthed, and Dan surveys me with a twinkle of satisfaction.

‘Surprise,’ he says.

I follow him in, looking around in wonderment. What is this place? There are raised beds. Trellises. Pleached apple trees. Roses. It’s a little haven in the heart of London. And in the centre of it all is an arrangement of five abstract modern sculptures – all twisting, sinuous, hardwood curves.

It’s towards these that Dan is leading me, authoritatively, as though he owns the place. Without speaking, he pushes me up against a sculpture and starts to kiss me with determination, peeling off my coat, cupping my naked breasts, not saying a word. The smooth sweep of the sculpture melds to me perfectly. The air is fresh against my skin. I can smell roses in the air; hear the laughter of passers-by on the other side of the wall. They’ve got no idea what we’re up to. This is surreal.

I want to ask, ‘Where are we?’ and ‘How did you know about this place?’ and ‘Why haven’t we been here before?’ but already Dan is pulling me on to another of the sculptures. He fits my limbs expertly to its curves as though it’s custom-made. For thirty seconds he just stares at me, splayed on the wood, like his own private boudoir shot. A million miles from white suspenders and Prosecco.

Then he’s stripping off his own clothes, no pausing, no hesitating, no wondering, his face urgent. Businesslike. Serious. Was this sculpture designed for sex? I can’t help wondering. And how does Dan know about it? And what – why …?

Moments later, I inhale in shock as Dan bodily lifts me on to a third, even more strangely curved sculpture. With firm hands, still not speaking, he manoeuvres me into the weirdest ever … Wait, what does he want me to do? I’m getting head rush. My limbs are twitching in this unfamiliar position. I’ve never known … How did he even think of … If the boudoir shots were ‘soft’, this is full-on, 18-rated …

I had no idea Dan even …

Oh God. My thoughts putter out. I can hear my breath coming in short gasps. I’m clutching hard at the wood. I’m going to explode. This isn’t ‘surprise’. This is ‘seismic’.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sated in my life. I’m almost shaky. What was that?

When we’re finally, finally done, we nestle in the curve of one of the sculptures (they are so designed for sex) and stare up into the sky. There aren’t any stars to speak of – too cloudy – but there’s the floral, earthy scent of the garden and the trickle of a water feature that I didn’t notice before.

‘Wow,’ I say at last. ‘Best surprise ever. You win.’

‘Well, if you will dress up like a hooker.’ I can sense Dan grinning into the darkness.

‘So, what is this place?’ I gesture around with a bare arm. ‘How did you know about it?’

‘I just knew about it. It’s great, isn’t it?’

I nod, feeling my heart rate subside. ‘Amazing.’ I’m still suffused with a rosy glow, with endorphins coursing round my body. (Do I mean pheromones? Sexy loving hormones, anyway.) In fact, I feel pretty euphoric. Finally it’s all worked out! Project Surprise Me has led to this astounding, sublime and transcendental evening which we’ll remember forever. I feel so connected to Dan right now. When’s the last time we lay naked in the fresh night air? We should do this more. All the time.

How did he know about this place, anyway? I think idly. He didn’t really answer the question.

I nudge Dan. ‘How exactly did you know about it?’

‘Oh,’ says Dan, yawning. ‘Well, in actual fact, I helped to create it.’

‘You what?’ I raise myself on an elbow to stare at him.

‘During university, the summer after my first year. I volunteered for a while.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s a community garden. They let groups in to study horticulture, herbology, that kind of thing.’

‘But … how come? Why a garden?’

‘Well,’ Dan says, as though it’s obvious, ‘you know I’m into gardening.’

I know what?

‘No I don’t.’ I peer at him in astonishment. ‘What do you mean, “I’m into gardening”? You’ve never been into gardening. You never garden at home.’

‘That’s true.’ Dan makes a regretful face. ‘Too busy with work, I suppose. And the twins. And now our garden’s basically a playground, what with the Wendy houses.’

‘Right.’ I pull my coat around my shoulders, digesting this. ‘My husband, the gardener. I never knew.’

‘It’s not a big thing.’ Dan shrugs. ‘Maybe I’ll take it up again when I retire.’

‘But wait.’ A fresh thought strikes me. ‘How did you know these sculptures were so … fit for purpose?’

‘I didn’t,’ says Dan. ‘But I always looked at them and wondered.’ He twinkles at me wickedly. ‘I wondered a lot.’

‘Ha.’ I smile back, running an affectionate hand over his shoulder. ‘I wish I’d been your girlfriend back then. But that year …’ I wrinkle my brow, trying to remember. ‘Yes. I was attached.’

‘Well, so was I,’ says Dan. ‘And I don’t wish we’d known each other back then. I think we found each other at exactly the right time.’ He kisses me tenderly and I smile absently back. But my brain is snagging on something. He was attached?

‘Who were you attached to?’ I ask, puzzled. My mind is already running through the roster of Dan’s previous girlfriends. (I’ve quizzed him quite extensively on this subject.) ‘Charlotte? Amanda?’

Surely neither of those works, timing-wise?

‘Actually, no.’ He stretches, with another huge yawn, then pulls me closer. ‘Does it matter who it was?’

My mind tussles with two answers. The not-ruining-the-moment answer: no. And the I-have-to-know-this answer: yes.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say at last in a light, breezy tone. ‘I’m not saying it matters. I’m just wondering. Who it was.’

‘Mary.’

He smiles at me and kisses my forehead, but I don’t react. All my internal radar has sprung into action. Mary? Mary?

‘Mary?’ I try a little laugh. ‘I don’t remember you mentioning a Mary, ever.’

‘I’m sure I told you about her,’ he says easily.

‘No you didn’t.’

‘I’m sure I did.’

‘You didn’t.’ There’s a hint of steel in my voice. I have all Dan’s former girlfriends logged in my brain, in the same way that FBI agents have America’s Most Wanted. There is not and has never been a Mary. Until now.

‘Well, maybe I forgot about her,’ says Dan. ‘To be honest, I’d forgotten about this place. I’d forgotten about that whole part of my life. It was only when you said, “something adventurous” …’ He leans over me again, his eyes mischievous. ‘It woke something up in me.’

‘Clearly!’ I say, matching his tone, deciding to leave the issue of Mary. ‘Come on then, give me a tour.’

As Dan leads me around the paths, gesturing at plants, I’m slightly gobsmacked at his knowledge. I thought I knew Dan inside out. And yet here’s this rich seam of passion which he’s never shared with me.

I mean, it’s great, because we could definitely do more with our own garden. We can turn it into a family hobby. He can teach the girls to weed … hoe … And presents! Yes! I have to resist a sudden urge to fist-pump. All his presents are solved for the next twenty years! I can buy him gardening tools and plants and all those witty items saying ‘Head Gardener’.

But I must bone up on gardening myself. As we progress, I’m realizing quite how inexpert I am. I keep thinking he’s talking about a shrub when he’s referring to a climber, or vice versa. (The Latin names really don’t help.)

‘Amazing tree,’ I say as we reach the far corner. (I can get ‘tree’ right.)

‘That was Mary’s idea.’ Dan’s eyes soften. ‘She had a thing about hawthorn trees.’

‘Right,’ I say, forcing a polite smile. This is the third time he’s mentioned Mary. ‘Gorgeous. And that arbour is lovely! I didn’t even notice it at first, tucked away there.’

‘Mary and I put that up,’ says Dan reminiscently, patting the wooden structure. ‘We used reclaimed wood. It took us a whole weekend.’

‘Well done, Mary!’ I say sarcastically, before I can stop myself, and Dan turns his head in surprise. ‘I mean … amazing!’

I link my arm in Dan’s and smile up at him, to cover the fact that all these little mentions of Mary are feeling like pinpricks of irritation. For a woman I’d never even heard about three minutes ago, she seems to be remarkably present in our conversation.

‘So, was it serious, you and Mary?’ I can’t help asking.

Dan nods. ‘It was, for a bit. But she was studying at Manchester, which is why we broke up eventually, I guess.’ He shrugs. ‘Long way from Exeter.’

They didn’t break up because they had a row or slept with other people, I register silently. It was logistics.

‘We had all kinds of dreams,’ Dan continues. ‘We were going to set up a smallholding together. Organic veg, that kind of thing. Change the world. Like I say, it was a different me.’ Dan looks around the garden and shakes his head with a wry smile. ‘Coming in here is strange. It’s taken me back to the person I was then.’

‘Were you so different?’ I say, feeling disconcerted again. He’s got a light in his eye I’ve never seen before. Distant and kind of wistful. Wistful for what, exactly? This was supposed to be a sublime and transcendental evening about us, not some long-ago relationship.

‘Oh, I was different, all right.’ He laughs. ‘Wait. There might be a picture …’

He searches for a while on his phone, then holds it out. ‘Here.’ I take it and find myself looking at a website headed The St Philip’s Garden: How We Started.

‘See?’ Dan points to a dated-looking photo of young people in jeans, clutching muddy spades and forks. ‘That’s Mary … and that’s me.’

I’ve seen pictures of Dan in his youth before. But never from this era. He looks so skinny. He’s wearing a checked shirt and some weird bandana round his head and his arm is firmly squeezing Mary. I zoom in and survey her critically. Apart from the frizzy hair, she’s pretty. Really pretty. In a wholesome, organic, dimpled way. Very long, lean legs, I notice. Her smile is radiant and her cheeks are flushed and her jeans are filthy. I can’t imagine her doing a boudoir shoot. But then, I can’t imagine Dan the gardener either.

‘I wonder what she’s doing now?’ Dan muses. ‘It’s crazy to think I just forgot about her. I mean, for a while we were—’ He breaks off as though realizing where this is taking him. ‘Anyway.’

‘Crazy!’ I say, with a shrill little laugh. ‘Well, here you are. Are you getting cold?’

I hold his phone out to him, but he doesn’t take it. He’s staring, transfixed, at the arbour. He seems lost in … what? Thought? Memories? Memories of him and Mary, aged nineteen, all lithe and idealistic, building their reclaimed arbour?

Shagging in the arbour? When everyone else had gone home?

No. Do not have that thought.

‘What are you thinking about?’ I say, trying to sound light and carefree, thinking, If he says ‘Mary’, I will …

‘Oh.’ Dan comes to and darts an evasive look at me. ‘Nothing. Really. Nothing.’