Surprise Me

TEN

It woke something up in me.

I keep recalling Dan’s words, and every time it’s with a sense of foreboding. I can’t stop picturing his transported face. Transported away from me, to some other, golden, halcyon time of scented flowers and honest earthy work and nineteen-year-old girls with radiant smiles and dimples.

Whatever that secret garden ‘woke up in him’, I would be quite keen on it going back to sleep now, thank you very much. I would be quite keen on him forgetting all about the garden, and Mary and whatever ‘different person’ he was back then. Because, newsflash, this isn’t then, it’s now. He’s not nineteen any more. He’s married and a father. Has he forgotten all that?

I know I shouldn’t leap to conclusions without evidence. But there is evidence. I know for a fact that in the five days since we visited the garden, Dan has been utterly preoccupied by Mary. Secretly preoccupied with her, I should clarify. On his own. Away from me.

I’m not a suspicious woman. I’m not. It’s perfectly reasonable for me to glance at my husband’s browsing history. It’s part of the intimate ebb and flow of married life. He sees my used tissues, thrown in the bin – I see the workings of his mind, all there for me to find on his laptop with no attempt at concealment.

Honestly. You’d think he’d have been more discreet.

I can’t decide if I’m pleased or not pleased that he didn’t clear his history. On the one hand it could mean he doesn’t have anything to hide. On the other hand it could mean he doesn’t have any sense of women, or any sense of anything, or even a brain, maybe. What did he think? That I wasn’t going to check his laptop after he revealed a secret long-lost girlfriend with dimples whom he’d failed to mention?

I mean.

He’s searched for her in various different ways: Mary Holland. Mary Holland job. Mary Holland husband. One might ask: Why does he need to know about Mary Holland’s (as it happens, non-existent) husband? But I’m not going to be so undignified as to bring the subject up. I’m not that needy. I’m not that kind of wife.

Instead, I deliberately googled one of my old boyfriends – I typed in Matt Quinton flash job big car really sexy – and left my laptop out on the kitchen table. As far as I could tell, Dan didn’t even notice. He is so annoying.

So then I decided on another tack. I bought a gardening magazine and tried to start a conversation about our garden, and whether we should go for hardy annuals. I persevered for about ten minutes and even used a couple of Latin names, and at the end, Dan said, ‘Hmm, maybe,’ in this absent way.

Hmm, maybe?

I thought he loved gardening. I thought that was his undeclared passion. He should have leaped at the chance to talk about hardy annuals.

And it left a question burning in my mind. A more concerning question. If it wasn’t gardening that he was thinking about so wistfully the other night … what was it?

I haven’t addressed this. Not directly. I just said, ‘I thought you wanted to garden more, Dan?’ and Dan said, ‘Oh, I do, I do. We should make a plan,’ and went off to send some emails.

And now, of course, he’s in a filthy mood because it’s the opening ceremony at the hospital this afternoon and he has to take time off work and dress up super-smart and be nice to my mother and basically all the things he hates most in life.

The girls woke even earlier than usual and begged to play in the garden before school, so Dan and I are sitting in an unusual quietness at breakfast while I tweak my speech about Daddy. I’m lurching between thinking it’s too sentimental, then not sentimental enough. Every time I read it through, I get misty about the eyes, but I’m determined that at the actual event, I am not going to cry. I am going to be a dignified representative of the family.

It is taking me back, though. Life with Daddy was golden, somehow. Or do I mean gilded? I just remember endless summers and sunshine and being out on the boat and corner tables at restaurants and special ice-cream sundaes for ‘Miss Sylvie’. Daddy’s wink. Daddy’s firm hand holding mine. Daddy putting the world to rights.

I mean, OK, he had a few forthright political views that I didn’t totally agree with. And he wasn’t wild about being argued with. I remember arriving at his office once as a child with Mummy and witnessing him tearing into some hapless employee. I was so shocked that tears actually sprang into my eyes.

But Mummy hurried me away and explained that all bosses had to shout at their staff sometimes. And then Daddy joined us and kissed and cuddled me and let me buy two chocolate bars out of the vending machine. Then he took me into a meeting room and told his assembled employees I was going to run the world one day and they all clapped while Daddy lifted my hand up like a champion. It’s one of the best memories of my childhood.

And as for the shouting – well, everyone loses their temper once in a while. It’s simply a human flaw. And Daddy was such a positive force the rest of the time. Such a jolt of sunshine.

‘Dan,’ I say suddenly as I reread my anecdote about Daddy and the golf buggy, ‘let’s go on holiday to Spain next year.’

‘Spain?’ He flinches. ‘Why?’

‘Back to Los Bosques Antiguos,’ I explain. ‘Or nearby, anyway.’

There’s no way we could afford to stay at Los Bosques Antiguos. I’ve looked it up – the houses are way out of our league. But we could find a little hotel and go to Los Bosques Antiguos for the day, at least. Wander among the white houses. Dip our feet in the communal lake. Crush the scented pine needles of the neighbouring forest underfoot. Revisit my past.

‘Why?’ says Dan again.

‘Lots of people go on holiday there,’ I assert.

‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea.’ His face is closed up and tentery. Of course it is. ‘It’s too hot, too expensive …’

He’s talking nonsense. It’s only expensive if we stay somewhere expensive.

‘Flights to Spain are cheap,’ I retort. ‘We could probably find a campsite. And I could go back to Los Bosques Antiguos. See what it’s like now.’

‘I’m just not keen,’ Dan says at length, and I feel sudden fury boiling over.

‘What is your problem?’ I yell, and Anna comes hurtling in from the garden.

‘Mummy!’ She looks at me with wide eyes. ‘Don’t shout! You’ll scare Dora!’

I stare at her blankly. Dora? Oh, the bloody snake. Well, I hope I do scare it. I hope it has a heart attack out of fright.

‘Don’t worry, darling!’ I say as soothingly as I can. ‘I was just trying to make Daddy understand something. And I got a bit loud. Go and play with your stomp rocket.’

Anna runs outside again and I pour out more tea. But my words are still hanging in the air, unanswered. What is your problem?

And of course, deep down, I know what his problem is. We’ll walk among those huge white houses and Dan will see the wealth that I had when I was a child and it’ll somehow spoil everything. Not for me, but for him.

‘I just wanted to go and see where I went as a child,’ I say, staring down at my new tablecloth. ‘Nothing else. I don’t want to spend any money, I don’t want to go there every year, I just want to visit.’

In my peripheral vision, I can see Dan gathering himself.

‘Sylvie,’ he says in what is clearly an effort to be reasonable. ‘You can’t possibly remember Los Bosques Antiguos. You only went there until the age of four.’

‘Of course I remember it!’ I protest impatiently. ‘It made a huge impression on me. I remember our house with the verandah and the lake, and sitting on the jetty and the smell of the forest and the sea views …’

I want to add what I really feel, which is: ‘I wish Daddy had never sold that house,’ but it probably wouldn’t go down well. Nor will I admit that my memories are a tad hazy. The point is, I want to go back.

Dan’s silent. His face is motionless. It’s as if he can’t hear me. Or maybe he can hear me, but something else in his head is louder and more insistent.

My energy levels are sinking. There’s only so many times you can try. Sometimes I feel his issue with my father is like a huge boulder, and I’m going to have to push it and drag it and heave it along beside us, our whole marriage.

‘Fine,’ I say at last. ‘Where shall we go next year?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Dan, and I can tell he feels defensive. ‘Somewhere in Britain, maybe.’

‘Like an organic garden?’ I say pointedly, but I’m not sure Dan gets my little dig. I’m about to add, ‘I hope you’ve got your snake-sitter lined up,’ when Tessa comes running in, her mouth an ‘O’ of horror.

‘Mummy!’ she cries. ‘Mummeeee! We’ve lost our stomp rocket!’

As Professor Russell answers the front door, his eyes seem to have a glint of humour in them, and I suddenly wonder: did he hear me yelling at Dan just now? Oh God, of course he did. They’re not deaf at all, are they? He and Owen probably sit and listen to Dan and me as though we’re The Archers.

‘Hello,’ I begin politely. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I think my daughter’s rocket has landed on your greenhouse. I do apologize.’

‘My stomp rocket,’ clarifies Tessa, who was determined to accompany me on this little visit and is clutching my hand.

‘Ah. Oh dear.’ Professor Russell’s eyes dim, and I can tell he’s got visions of Dan climbing up and cracking his glass.

‘I’ve brought this,’ I say hastily, and I gesture at the telescopic broom in my hand. ‘I’ll be really gentle, I promise. And if I can’t reach it, then we’ll get the window cleaner to do it.’

‘Very well.’ The professor’s face relaxes into a smile. ‘Let’s “give it a go”, as they say.’

As he leads us through the house, I look curiously about. Wow. Lots of books. Lots of books. We pass through a bare little kitchen and a tiny conservatory furnished with two Ercol chairs and a radio. And there, dominating the garden, is the greenhouse. It’s a modernist structure of metal and glass, and if you put a kitchen in it, it could totally go in an interiors magazine.

I can already see our stomp rocket, looking incongruous and childlike on the glass roof, but I’m more interested in what’s inside. It’s not like other people’s greenhouses. There aren’t any tomatoes or flowers or wrought-iron furniture. It’s more lab-like. I can see functional tables and rows of pots, all containing what looks like the same kind of fern at different stages of growth, and a computer. No, two computers.

‘This is amazing,’ I say as we approach. ‘Are these all the same kind of plant?’

‘They are all varieties of fern,’ says Professor Russell with that glimmering smile he has, as though sharing a private joke with someone. (His plants, probably.) ‘Ferns are my particular interest.’

‘Look, Tessa.’ I point through the glass panes. ‘Professor Russell has written books about these ferns. He knows everything about them.’

‘“Knows everything about them”?’ Professor Russell echoes. ‘Oh my goodness, no. Oh no, no, no. I’m only just beginning to fathom their mysteries.’

‘You’ve been studying plants at school, haven’t you, darling?’ I say to Tessa. ‘You grew cress, didn’t you?’ I’m suddenly wondering if we could get Professor Russell to go into the girls’ primary school and give a talk. I would get major brownie points.

‘Plants need water,’ recites Tessa, on cue. ‘Plants grow towards the light.’

‘Quite right.’ Professor Russell beams benevolently at her, and I feel a swell of pride. Look at my five-year-old, discussing botany with an Oxford professor!

‘Do people grow towards the light?’ Tessa says, in that joking way she has.

I’m about to say, ‘Of course not, darling!’ and share an amused glance with Professor Russell. But he says mildly, ‘Yes, my dear. I believe we do.’

Oh, OK. That tells me.

‘We have, of course, many different kinds of light,’ Professor Russell continues, almost dreamily. ‘Sometimes our light might be a faith, or an ideology, or even a person, and we grow towards that.’

‘We grow towards a person?’ Tessa finds this hilarious. ‘Towards a person?’

‘Of course.’ His eyes focus on something beyond my shoulder and I turn to see Owen coming down the path.

I haven’t seen Owen close up for a while, and there’s something about him that makes me catch my breath. He looks translucent, somehow. Frailer than I remember. His white hair is sparse and his bony hands are painfully thin.

‘Good morning,’ he says to me in a charming though hoarse voice. ‘I came to see if our visitors would like coffee.’

‘Oh, no thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘We’re just here to get our toy. Sorry for all the noise,’ I add. ‘I know we make a bit of a racket.’

I can see Professor Russell’s eyes meeting Owen’s briefly, and I’m suddenly sure without a doubt that they’ve heard me and Dan fighting. Great. But almost at once, Owen smiles kindly at me.

‘Not at all. Nothing to apologize for. We enjoy hearing the children play.’ He eyes the broom in my hand. ‘Ah. Now that’s ingenious.’

‘Well,’ I say doubtfully. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Don’t wait out here.’ Professor Russell pats Owen’s hand. ‘You can watch our efforts from the conservatory.’

As Owen retreats towards the house, I extend the broom handle and reach up, and after just a few jabs, the stomp rocket falls down into my arms.

‘Well done!’ applauds Professor Russell. Then he turns to Tessa. ‘And now, my dear, may I give you a little plant as a souvenir? You’ll have to water it, mind, and look after it.’

‘Oh, that would be lovely!’ I exclaim. ‘Thank you!’

I’m thinking: I’ll put Dan in charge of the plant. That is, if he really is into gardening and not just into dimpled ex-girlfriends.

Professor Russell potters into the greenhouse and emerges with a small green frondy thing in a pot.

‘Give it some light, but not too much,’ he says, his eyes twinkling at her. ‘And watch how it grows.’

Tessa takes the pot, then looks up at him expectantly. ‘But we need one for Anna,’ she says.

‘Tessa!’ I exclaim, appalled. ‘You don’t say that! You say, “Thank you for the lovely plant.” Anna’s her twin,’ I explain apologetically to Professor Russell. ‘They look out for each other. You can share it with Anna,’ I add to Tessa.

‘Not at all!’ says Professor Russell at once. ‘Tessa’s quite right. How could we forget Anna?’

He darts back into the greenhouse and produces a second little plant.

I wince. ‘I’m so sorry. Tessa, you mustn’t ask for things.’

‘Nonsense!’ Professor Russell winks at Tessa. ‘If we don’t stick up for the ones we love, then what are we good for?’

As Tessa sinks to her haunches and begins examining the plants more closely, Professor Russell’s gaze drifts again over my shoulder. I turn and see that he’s watching Owen, who is settling himself in one of the Ercol chairs in the conservatory, a blanket over his knees. I can see Professor Russell mouthing, ‘Are you all right?’ and Owen nodding.

‘How long have you two been …’ I ask softly, not quite sure how to put it. I’m fairly sure they’re not just friends, but you can never be sure.

‘We knew each other as schoolboys,’ says Professor Russell mildly.

‘Oh, right,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Wow. That’s a long time. So …’

‘At that time, Owen didn’t realize his … true nature, shall we say.’ Professor Russell blinks at me. ‘He married … I devoted myself to research … We found each other again eight years ago. In answer to what I believe you are asking, I have loved him for fifty-nine years. Much of it from afar, of course.’ He gives that glimmering smile again.

I’m speechless. Fifty-nine years? As I survey his wrinkled face, I feel like Professor Russell towers above me in every way. He has a towering intellect. A towering love. I have an urge to stay here and ask him lots of questions and soak up some of his wisdom.

Then, suddenly, I notice that Tessa is shredding a frond from one of the pot plants. Shit. There’s five-year-old intellectual curiosity for you.

‘Anyway, we must go,’ I say hastily. ‘We’ve taken up too much of your time. Thank you so much, Professor Russell.’

‘Please.’ He beams at me. ‘Do call me John.’

‘John.’

John leads us back through the house and we say goodbye with lots of warm hand-shaking and promises to have tea some time. As I’m opening our own front door, I’m so busy trying to picture him and Owen as gangly teenage boys that Tilda’s voice makes me jump.

‘Sylvie!’ She’s striding down the path, dressed in a rather dated maroon work suit, and beckons me over vigorously. ‘How’s things?’

‘Oh, hi!’ I greet her. ‘I’ve just been in Professor Russell’s garden. He’s really lovely. We should have drinks or something.’ I release Tessa’s hand. ‘Go and show Anna her plant, darling. And get your book bags. I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘So?’ Tilda’s eyes flash at me as Tessa scampers inside the house. ‘How was dessert al fresco? I haven’t had the full debrief yet.’

This is true. Apart from a thirty-second hello-thank-you-goodbye when we got back from the sculpture garden, I haven’t seen Tilda. She’s been working for one of her clients on site in his Andover office, so we’ve missed our morning walks. Which means she has no idea what’s been going on. I glance cautiously towards the house, but there’s no sign of Dan. Still, just to be sure, I pull the front door to.

‘Don’t you have to get to Andover?’ I say, eyeing up her suit.

‘I’ll go in a moment.’ Tilda waves an airy hand. ‘Spill.’

‘Well.’ I sit on her garden wall and wrap my arms around myself. ‘Slight backfire, if you must know.’

‘Really?’ She sounds surprised. ‘Dan looked pretty revved up to me. Didn’t he like the corset?’

‘It’s not that.’ I shake my head. ‘The sex was good. We went to this special secret garden and it was all pretty spectacular, in fact.’

‘So, what’s the problem?’

I’m silent for a few moments. The truth is, although I’m trying to be breezy and matter-of-fact, I am feeling the odd flicker of genuine worry. And saying it out loud is going to make it twenty times worse.

‘It “woke something up” in Dan,’ I say at last. ‘Apparently.’

Tilda stares at me. ‘Woke what up?’

‘The whole thing reminded him of this ex-girlfriend. An ex-girlfriend he’d never even told me about. And now he’s been googling her. Loads of times.’ I’m speaking calmly, but I feel a tremor in my face, as if my worries can’t be contained. ‘In secret.’

‘Oh.’ Tilda looks disconcerted for a moment, then rallies. ‘Oh, but googling means nothing. Everyone googles. I google Adam about three times a week. I like to torture myself,’ she adds with a wry shrug.

‘But he’s never googled her before. He’s never even thought about her before. And it’s all my own doing!’ I add in self-castigation. ‘I brought this on myself!’

‘No you didn’t!’ Tilda gives an incredulous laugh. ‘What, by dressing up in sexy gear?’

‘By poking our marriage with a stick! By pushing him to be adventurous! It made him think. And that’s what he thought of! His ex!’

‘Ah.’ Tilda pulls a wry, comical expression. ‘Well, yes. Maybe that wasn’t such a wild idea. You don’t want husbands to start thinking.’

‘You warned me,’ I say miserably. ‘You said, “Surprises have a bad habit of going wrong.” Well, you were right.’

‘Sylvie, I didn’t mean it!’ says Tilda in dismay. ‘And you mustn’t worry. Look at the facts. Dan loves you and you had great sex. A lot of couples would die to be having great sex,’ she adds pointedly.

‘Yes, but even the sex …’ I bite my lip and glance towards my front door again.

‘What?’ Tilda leans forward, looking fascinated, and I hesitate. I’m not really one for spilling intimate details. But since the boudoir shoot, there doesn’t seem any point in being coy with Tilda.

‘Well,’ I say, my voice almost a whisper. ‘It was super hot, but it was … different. He was different. At the time, I thought: Great, I’m turning him on. But now I’m thinking: Was it the memory of her?’ I give a little shudder. ‘Was it all about her?’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t—’

‘I said I wanted a surprise,’ I cut her off in agitation. ‘Well, what if his “surprise” is, he goes and shags someone else?’

‘Enough!’ says Tilda briskly, putting a hand on my arm. ‘Sylvie, you’re overreacting. All Dan’s actually done is google his ex. If you ask me, he’ll never mention her again. In a month, he’ll have forgotten her.’

‘You really think so?’

‘I’m positive. What’s her name?’ Tilda adds casually.

‘Mary.’

‘Well, there you go.’ Tilda rolls her eyes. ‘He’s never going to be unfaithful with someone called Mary.’

I can’t help laughing. Tilda has a knack of cheering me up, whatever the situation.

‘How are you two getting on otherwise?’ she queries.

‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Up and down …’ But there’s something quizzical in her expression which makes me add, ‘Did you hear me yelling at him this morning?’

‘Hard to miss it.’ Tilda’s mouth is clamped together as though she’s trying not to smile. Or laugh.

Great. So Dan and I really are the resident street soap opera.

‘You’ll be fine.’ Tilda pats me on the hand. ‘But promise me one thing. No more surprises.’

She doesn’t add ‘I told you so’, but it’s sitting there, unspoken in the air. And she did.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say in heartfelt tones. ‘I’m totally over surprises. Totally.’

I’ve never met Esme in person and for some reason I’m expecting someone small and thin, in a slimline jacket and heels. But the girl waiting for me at the New London Hospital is large and fair, and wearing endearingly childish clothes – a skirt covered in a sheep print and rubber-soled Mary Janes. She has one of those broad, well-structured faces which look naturally cheerful, but has a giveaway furrowed brow.

‘I think I’ve planned for everything,’ she says about five times as we walk through the lobby. ‘So, the green room area has got coffee, tea, water, snacks …’ She counts off on her fingers. ‘Biscuits … croissants … Oh, fizzy water, of course …’

I bite my lip, wanting to laugh. We’re talking about a small seating area which we’ll use for half an hour, if that. Not a polar expedition.

‘That’s very kind,’ I say.

‘And your husband’s on his way?’ She blinks anxiously at me. ‘Because we do have a parking space reserved for him.’

‘Thank you. Yes, he’s bringing our girls and his own parents.’

Dan’s parents suddenly decided they wanted to come to this event, about three days ago. Dan mentioned it to his mother on the phone and apparently she got all prickly and wondered why she and Neville hadn’t been asked? Were they not considered part of the extended family? Had it not occurred to Dan that they might like to pay their respects, too? (Which is weird, because they never got on with Daddy when he was alive.) Dan looked all beleaguered and I could hear him saying, ‘Mum, it’s not … No, it’s not a party … I mean, I never thought you’d want to come down from Leicester … I mean, of course you can come. We’d love you to!’

Dan’s parents can be a bit tricky. Although to be fair, my mother can be tricky, too. I expect the twins think Dan and I are tricky. In fact, I suppose all people are tricky, full stop. Sometimes I wonder how we all get anything done as a human race, there are so many misunderstandings and sore points and people taking umbrage all over the place.

I’m so busy thinking, it takes me a moment to realize that Esme is conveying information to me.

‘I’ll take you to the green room,’ she says, ushering me along, ‘then we’ll have a quick rehearsal and soundcheck and you can comb your hair or whatever … not that you need it,’ she adds, giving my hair a sidelong look. ‘It’s amazing, your hair.’

It does look quite spectacular. I took some time off work to have a blow-dry earlier, and it’s been tonged into ringlets, just how Daddy loved it.

‘Thanks.’ I smile back.

‘It must take forever to wash,’ she says next, just as I knew she would.

‘Oh, it’s not too bad,’ I reply, silently predicting her next remark: How long did it take you to grow it?

‘How long did it take you to grow it?’ she asks breathlessly as we turn a corner.

‘I’ve always had really long hair. Just like Rapunzel!’ I add swiftly, pre-empting any Rapunzel remarks. ‘So, is Sinead Brook here yet?’

‘Not yet, but she does have a very busy schedule. She’s lovely,’ Esme adds. ‘Really lovely. She does loads for the hospital. She had her three children here, that’s the connection.’

‘She looks lovely on the TV,’ I say politely.

‘Oh, she’s even more lovely in real life,’ Esme says, so quickly that I instantly wonder if Sinead is in fact a total bitch. ‘Now, I think I’ve planned for everything …’ As she leads me down a hospital corridor, filled with bright art and that antiseptic, hospital smell, her brow is furrowed again. ‘So here’s the green room …’ She ushers me into a tiny room with ‘VISITORS’ printed on the door. ‘You can leave your things here.’

I don’t really have any ‘things’. But to make Esme feel that everything is going to plan, I take off my jacket and put it on a chair. I can see her mentally checking off ‘leave things in green room’ and relaxing a little. Poor Esme. I’ve organized events myself. I know what it’s like.

‘Good!’ she says, and bustles me along the corridor again. ‘So, come this way … and here it is!’ We’ve stopped in a circular area, facing a new-looking set of double doors. There’s a podium and a microphone in front of the doors – and above them is a sign reading ‘The Marcus Lowe Suite’ in the standard hospital blue Helvetica. And as soon I see it, my throat clogs up.

I thought I was prepared for today. I thought I had my mental armour on. But I hadn’t imagined actually seeing Daddy’s name, up there like that.

‘That’s what your dad achieved,’ says Esme gently, and I nod. I don’t dare speak.

I wasn’t going to get emotional, but how do you not get emotional when your father paid for a facility which will help save lives, then lost his own life? The sharp, antiseptic hospital smell everywhere is reminding me of that last, terrible night, three days after the crash, when it became clear that ‘catastrophic’ really did mean ‘catastrophic’.

No. I can’t think about that. Not now.

‘Darling, you’re not going sleeveless?’ Mummy’s voice hails me, and instantly my throat unclogs. Trust Mummy to puncture the moment.

She’s approaching down the corridor with a smooth, suited man whom I’ve met before. He’s called Cedric and he’s in charge of all development so presumably he’s Esme’s boss. He must have been plying Mummy with coffee.

‘No,’ I say defensively. ‘I just took my jacket off for a moment.’

Why shouldn’t I go sleeveless? I want to add. Are you body-shaming me? What if the girls heard you and got a complex? (But, time and place.)

‘Your hair looks good,’ Mummy allows, and I instinctively run a hand through my ringlets.

‘Thanks. You look very nice, too,’ I say in return – and she does, all in mauve with matching shoes. I’m in powder blue, because Daddy loved that colour. ‘Are you all right?’ I add in an undertone, because this is a pretty momentous day and if I’m feeling like I might crumble into bits, what about her?

She nods with a resolutely bright smile. ‘I’m fine, darling. I’ll be fine. Absolutely fine. Although I am rather looking forward to my glass of champagne.’

‘Is the podium all right?’ Esme asks me anxiously.

‘It’s perfect.’ I beam at her, trying to boost her confidence. ‘Everything looks wonderful.’ I step up on to the podium, switch on the mike, and say ‘one-two-one-two’ into it, my voice booming through the speakers.

‘Brilliant.’ Esme consults a document in her hand. ‘Then Sinead will come forward and unveil the plaque.’ She gestures at a small pair of red velvet curtains, positioned on the wall to the side of the double doors. There are two tasselled cords hanging down, with a pink ribbon tied on one.

‘What’s the ribbon for?’ I ask curiously.

‘So that Sinead knows which tassel to pull,’ explains Esme. ‘It’s a bit of a confusing system. Maybe you could be Sinead and we can check it all works?’

‘Of course.’ I head over to the curtains, then glance at Cedric, to make sure he’s listening. ‘But first, Esme, I want to thank you. You’ve organized every detail of this event so meticulously. You’ve been beyond thorough.’

‘Well.’ Esme flushes modestly. ‘You know. I think I’ve planned for everything …’

‘You certainly have.’ I reach for the tassel. ‘OK, pretend I’m Sinead. I now pronounce this scanner suite open!’

I tug on the tassel with the ribbon, the red velvet curtains swish open and we all stare at … nothing.

It’s bare wall. What?

I glance at Esme, and she’s staring at the wall with horrified, bulging eyes. I swish the curtains back and forth as though the plaque might somehow be hiding – but there’s nothing there.

‘It’s going to be a little tricky for Sinead Brook to unveil a non-existent plaque,’ says Mummy in that sweet, pointed way she has when she wants.

‘Esme!’ barks Cedric. ‘Where’s the plaque?’

‘I don’t know!’ whispers Esme, staring at the wall as though it’s a mirage. ‘It should be there. Maintenance were supposed to …’ She jabs feverishly at her phone. ‘Trev? It’s Esme. Trev, where’s the plaque? The plaque! For the new scanner suite! Well, it was supposed to be here this morning. They’re going to unveil it. Yes! Yes, you did know that!’ Her voice rises almost to a shriek. Then, with a weird over-calm air, she puts her phone away and turns to the rest of us. ‘They’re looking for it.’

‘Looking for it?’ expostulates Cedric. ‘What time does the ceremony begin?’

‘Twenty minutes.’ Esme gulps. Her face has turned a kind of pale green and I feel incredibly sorry for her, although at the same time – hello? Didn’t it even occur to her to check the plaque?

‘What happens if they can’t find it?’ snaps Cedric. ‘Esme, we have Sinead Brook coming to unveil this plaque, do you realize?’

‘Um … um …’ Esme swallows desperately. ‘We could … make a temporary one?’

‘A temporary one?’ he bellows. ‘With what, a Sharpie and some cardboard?’

‘Sylvie!’ Dan’s voice greets me, and I see him approaching with Tessa, Anna and his parents. There’s a general greeting as we all kiss each other and exclaim over how long it’s been. Dan’s mother Sue has clearly been to the hairdresser for the occasion and her hair looks lovely – all auburn and shiny. Meanwhile Dan’s dad Neville is surveying everything with that measured look he has. When he was an accountant he audited big companies and he’s still in the habit of assessing. Everywhere he goes, he hangs back, looks around and gauges things before he proceeds. I can see him doing it now. He’s eyeing up the sign with Daddy’s name on it. He’s looking at the podium, and the velvet curtains, and now Cedric, who is berating Esme in the corner.

‘Something up?’ he says at last.

‘Bit of a drama,’ I say. ‘Let’s get out of the way for a few moments.’ As we walk to the green room, it occurs to me again that Sue and Neville have been married for thirty-eight years. And I know Dan says they’re ‘hardly a good example’, and I know they went through that dicey patch … but they’re together, aren’t they? They must be doing something right. Maybe we can learn from them.

But, oh God.

I’d forgotten. I always forget. The atmosphere of Dan’s parents. It’s like a crackly, invisible veil of just … tension. It’s not that they don’t smile and laugh and make jokes. But everything is so barbed. There are so many little flashes of resentment and simmering fury. It’s exhausting. They’re talking about their recent trip to Switzerland, which you’d think would be innocuous enough. But, no.

‘Then we got out at Lausanne,’ Neville is saying to Tessa (as though Tessa has the first idea what Lausanne is), ‘and we started climbing the mountain, but then Granny Sue suddenly changed her mind. So that was a shame, wasn’t it? Grandpa had to go up all alone.’

‘Granny Sue didn’t “suddenly change her mind”.’ Sue prickles all over. ‘Grandpa’s remembering everything wrong, as usual. Granny Sue was never supposed to be climbing the mountain. Granny Sue had a bad foot, which Grandpa kept forgetting about!’ She flashes an unnerving smile at Anna. ‘Poor Granny!’

The girls are both silenced by their grandparents’ double act. They can pick up on the hostile undertones, even if they don’t know what Lausanne is. Even Dan’s spirits are descending, and you’d think he’d be used to it. His shoulders look cowed and he glances at me as though for rescue.

‘Well!’ I say brightly. ‘Maybe we should head along to the reception. It must have started by now. Girls, finish your biscuits.’

Mummy’s already left the green room – she had one nibble of a grape and then said she was going to visit the Ladies. The truth is, she can’t really connect with Neville and Sue. She doesn’t understand their concerns and they don’t understand hers. Sue, in particular, got in a real huff after she came to one of Mummy’s jewellery parties, all the way from Leicester, and there was a misunderstanding over the pricing of a necklace.

Unfortunately, it was the one party I couldn’t make, so I couldn’t smooth things over. I’m sure it was Mummy’s fault. Sue isn’t married to an accountant for nothing – she would have clocked the price exactly. But Mummy would just think: Well, what’s twenty pounds? and not even notice there was a problem, because she’s infuriating that way.

‘Lovely outfit, Sylvie,’ says Sue as I slip on my powder-blue jacket. ‘Really super. And your hair …’ She shakes her head admiringly. ‘Your dad would be proud, love. I know he always loved your hair. Your “glory”.’

The thing about Sue is, when she’s talking to anyone but her spouse, she’s charming. Neville, too.

‘Thanks, Sue,’ I say gratefully. ‘You look gorgeous, too.’ I stroke her creamy silk shirtsleeve. ‘This is pretty.’

‘You do look good, Mum,’ Dan joins in, and I see Sue’s face pinken with pleasure.

‘Very nice,’ says Neville, his gaze sweeping over her without really looking. ‘All right. Into the fray.’

He never properly looks at her, I think to myself idly. Then this thought hits me again, with more vigour. Or maybe it’s a theory. A hypothesis. Neville never properly looks at Sue. His gaze always seems to skate past her, like a magnet being repelled. I can’t picture them making proper eye contact. I don’t think it ever happens. Neville, the man who surveys everything so carefully, doesn’t look at his wife. Isn’t that a bit weird? A bit sad?

And now I’m stricken by a new thought: Will Dan and I be like that one day? Raging silently against each other as we trudge up Swiss mountains?

No.

No. Definitely not. We won’t let that happen.

But isn’t that what every young couple thinks, and then suddenly, boom, they’re old and bitter and not looking at each other properly? According to Dan, Neville and Sue used to have a great relationship. They made jokes and did ballroom dancing and all sorts.

Oh God. How can we prevent it happening? What do we do? Clearly surprising each other isn’t the answer. So, what is?

As we walk to the reception area, hospital staff are gathering and waitresses are handing out drinks. I glimpse a lady in a purple jacket and a heavy gold chain decorating her shoulders, who is chatting to Mummy and must be the mayoress. There’s also a loud sound of drilling, as a guy in overalls, on a stepladder, fixes screws into the wall. The plaque is at his feet, propped against the wall, but everyone is politely ignoring it and trying to make conversation above the din. Esme is standing at the foot of the ladder, saying, ‘Hurry! Hurry!’ and I shoot her a sympathetic smile.

I take a glass of water, have a sip, and unfold my speech. I must concentrate. I must do this occasion justice and stop obsessing about my marriage, because today isn’t about that, it’s about Daddy. The workman has finally finished screwing the plaque to the wall, and there’s an excited hubbub in the corridor, which must be Sinead Brook arriving. I’ll be on, any moment.

I skim over the words I wrote, wondering if they’re OK, knowing they’re not, and realizing I could never do justice to Daddy in a six-minute speech, anyway. It’s all so arbitrary. Three sides of A4. Such a tiny sliver of a man and his life and all he did.

Should I have mentioned his childhood? Or the story about the horses?

Too late now. A familiar, celebrity-type woman in a red clingy dress is suddenly in front of me, shaking my hand and Esme is saying, ‘Sylvie, I’m delighted to introduce Sinead Brook,’ in awestruck tones, and we barely have time to exchange a word before Cedric mounts the podium and taps the microphone.

‘My lady mayoress, ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins, ‘welcome to what is a very special occasion.’

Hmph. He’s pinched my opening.

‘A lot of you here today knew Marcus Lowe,’ he continues, more sombrely. ‘Some, sadly, did not. Marcus was known to all of us here at the New London Hospital as a man of commitment, charm, great intelligence and an inability to take no for an answer.’ His eyes glint, and a lot of the guests laugh knowingly. ‘He masterminded the fundraising for this scanner suite with tremendous tenacity, and quite simply it would not exist today without him. I’m now going to hand you over to his daughter, Sylvie Winter, who will say a few words.’

I mount the podium and look at the faces – some familiar but most not – and take a breath.

‘Hello, everyone,’ I say simply. ‘Thank you for coming today to celebrate both this wonderful scanner suite, and my father, who was so determined to make it happen. Those of you who met my father know that he was a remarkable man. He had the looks of Robert Redford … the dash of Errol Flynn … and the persistence of Columbus. Or maybe I mean Columbo. Or both.’

Even as I’m finishing my speech, I know it was crap.

No, I’m being too hard on myself. It wasn’t crap, but it wasn’t what it could have been. People nodded and smiled and even laughed, but they didn’t look fired up. They didn’t get who Daddy was. I have a sudden urge to take a week off and rewrite my thoughts until I get to the real, real essence of him … and then invite everyone back and tell them properly.

But everyone’s clapping and smiling approvingly, and Mummy looks all misty-eyed and the honest truth is, no one cares about the real essence of Daddy, do they? They just want to swig champagne and start using the scanners and saving lives. The world moves on. As I’ve been told about 56,000 times.

I think I need a drink. As soon as the curtains have been opened, I’m having a drink.

We all watch as the mayoress takes the podium and introduces Sinead Brook, mispronouncing her name twice. (It’s obvious she doesn’t really know who Sinead Brook is.) Sinead Brook gives what is clearly a standard-issue speech about the hospital, then pulls the cord and the plaque is there this time. There’s another round of applause and a few photos. Then, at last, the glasses of champagne start coming around again, and everyone disperses into groups.

The children are being entertained by some younger members of hospital staff blowing up disposable gloves. Cedric is telling me about the new children’s wing campaign, which does sound like an amazing project, and I find myself drinking three glasses in quick succession. Dan’s promised to drive home. It’s fine.

Where is Dan, come to that?

I glance around the gathering and notice him with Mummy, huddled right over in the corner. At once I stiffen. Why are they huddled together? What are they talking about?

I can’t escape Cedric’s constant stream of facts on children’s hospital beds in London, and I am genuinely interested in what he’s saying. But, by reaching for a canapé, I’m also able to move subtly towards Dan and Mummy. I’m also able to tilt my head, and just about pick up snippets of their conversation.

‘… certain that’s the right course?’ she’s saying in a sharpish, anxious sort of tone.

‘… this is the reality of the …’ I can’t hear the end of the sentence, but Dan sounds fairly tense, too.

‘… really don’t understand why …’

‘… discussed this …’

‘… so, what exactly …’

The conversation seems to die out, and I turn, just in time to see Dan mouthing, ‘A million pounds, maybe two?’ at my mother.

My lungs seem to freeze. The next moment I’m choking on my champagne. A million pounds, maybe two? What does that mean? What ‘million pounds, maybe two’?

‘Sylvie!’ Cedric halts his flood of statistics. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine!’ I swivel back. ‘Sorry! Just went down the wrong way. Please do carry on.’ I smile at Cedric, but my head is whirring in a nasty, ominous way.

Is Dan borrowing money? Is Dan borrowing money without telling me, from my own mother? A million pounds, maybe two?

I don’t want to be a suspicious wife. I don’t. I’m not. There’s an explanation; I know there is. Maybe he’s won the Lottery.

No. He and Mummy did not look like Lottery winners. Quite the opposite, in fact.

At last Cedric presses his business card on me and disappears. I glance over at the girls, who are playing safely with Esme, then head towards Dan. He’s on his own now, all hunched and miserable-looking, gazing at his phone.

‘Hi!’ I say in a breezy, non-suspicious way. ‘I saw you chatting to Mummy just now.’

Dan’s eyes lift to mine and for an instant – just an instant – I see undiluted fear in them. But then it’s gone. His eyes have closed up. Did I imagine it?

‘Right,’ he says with a discouraging frown.

I try again. ‘Nice to see you two getting along.’

‘Right. Actually, Sylvie, I’ve got to make a call. Great speech, by the way,’ he shoots back over his shoulder as he strides away.

For a few seconds I just watch him go, trying to keep my breath steady, while my brain begins on an angry fishwife rant. He didn’t look me in the eye. He rushed off. He barely had anything to say about my speech, which, after all, was quite a big deal for me, even if it was crap. He was all frowning and tentery while I was making it. (I noticed.) Nor did he even clap very hard when I finished. (I noticed that, too.)

At last I wheel round, head to the drinks table and grab a spare bottle of champagne. I head to where three lurid red foam chairs have been pushed together to form a kind of sofa. Sue is sitting down (her shoes have uncomfortable-looking stiletto heels, I now notice) and her cheeks are rosy. I guess she’s been necking the champagne, too.

‘Hi,’ I say, flopping down beside her. ‘How are you doing, Sue?’

‘Oh, Sylvie.’ She regards me with slightly bloodshot eyes. ‘What a speech. I was quite choked up.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, touched.

‘It must be hard for you.’ She pats my knee. ‘So hard. Dan says you do marvellously, coping with everything.’

Dan does? I blink at her, trying not to give away my surprise. My fury is sliding away. The truth is, I’d always assumed Dan thought I was a complete shambles. Now I want to know more. I want to ask: ‘What else does Dan say about me?’ And: ‘Do you know about this million quid, maybe two?’ But that might cause more problems. So instead, I fill her glass up and lean back with a massive sigh.

‘It is hard,’ I say, nodding. ‘It is. It’s hard.’

As I take yet another gulp of champagne, I feel my brain cells gently tipping over the edge from pleasantly relaxed to actually quite drunk. Glancing at Sue, I’d guess hers are in the same state. Is this a good moment for a full-and-frank?

‘The thing is …’ I begin thoughtfully – then stop. There are so many things. I’ll pick one. Thing One. ‘The thing is, how do you stay married forever?’ I say, more plaintively than I meant to.

Sue laughs. ‘Forever?’

‘For a long time. Sixty-eight years,’ I clarify. Sue gives me a puzzled glance, but I press on. ‘Dan and I look at the future, and we think … we worry, you know?’ I gesture with my glass for emphasis and a little champagne spills out. ‘We think, how do we sustain it? And we look at you, still married after all this time, and we think …’ I trail off awkwardly. (Obviously I can’t say what we really think, which is: Oh my God, how do you stand it?)

But I don’t need to say anything more. Sue has sat up, her face more alert than I’ve ever seen it. As though finally, after all this time, I’m tapping into her special area of expertise.

‘It’s all about retirement,’ she says, and swigs her champagne with fresh determination. ‘All about retirement.’

‘Right,’ I say uncertainly. I wasn’t expecting that, somehow. ‘What exactly do you …’

‘When he retires’ – she eyes me firmly – ‘don’t let him in the house.’

‘Huh?’ I gape at her.

‘Hobbies. Interests. They need interests. Travel. You can manage if you travel. Travel separately!’ she adds. ‘Find some girlfriends. Weekends to Dublin, that kind of thing.’

‘But—’

‘Golf,’ she cuts me off. ‘Neville never would take up golf. Why not? That’s what I want to know. What’s wrong with golf?’ Her mouth twists and her eyes go distant, as though she’s mentally having an argument about golf, and winning. Then she comes to. ‘Just don’t let them loaf about the house asking you what’s for lunch every half-hour. That’s where it goes wrong. All my girlfriends agree. Fatal. Fatal!’

I’m dumbstruck. I hadn’t even thought about retirement. And anyway, why wouldn’t I want Dan in the house?

‘I’m looking forward to having Dan around more when he retires,’ I venture. ‘I mean it’s still a long way away, obviously …’

Sue surveys me for a moment, and then bursts into laughter. ‘Oh, Sylvie, I do forget, you’re very young.’ She pats my knee again. ‘But bear my advice in mind, when the time comes. That’s how to make it work.’

She relaxes back and sips her champagne. And here’s the thing. (Thing Two.) This is my mother-in-law talking. I should just nod. I should say, ‘I’m sure you’re right, Sue,’ and move the conversation on. It would be polite. It would be easy.

But I can’t. I can’t buy into this version of marriage, or retirement, or whatever we’re talking about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally up for some girlie trips to Dublin with Tilda and my mates from the school gate (excellent idea). But banning Dan from the house in case he asks for lunch? I mean, really? First of all, I’m more likely to ask him what’s for lunch. He’s the better cook. And secondly, we’d probably just make our own sandwiches. And third, why would you want your husband to take up a sport he didn’t enjoy?

‘But don’t you lose intimacy if you create barriers like that?’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘Don’t you create wedges?’

‘Wedges? What does that mean, wedges?’ says Sue suspiciously, as though I might mean potato wedges.

‘You know.’ My brain gropes for an explanation. ‘Things in the way. Things that stop you being what you should be as a partnership. As a relationship.’

‘Well.’ Sue sounds almost truculent. ‘What is a partnership? What is a relationship? What is a marriage? There are a thousand different answers to that.’ She takes another deep slug of champagne and for a while we’re both silent. My mind is chewing on what she’s just said. I close my eyes and squint into the back of my brain, trying to work out what I think.

I could tell you what I think about the Kardashians in a heartbeat. But ‘What is a relationship?’ not so much. I’ve neglected the subject. Or maybe I didn’t ever realize I should be thinking about it.

‘I think a relationship is like two stories,’ I say at last, feeling my way cautiously through my thoughts. ‘Like … two open books, pressing together, and all the words mingle into one big, epic story. But if they stop mingling …’ I lift my glass for emphasis. ‘Then they turn into two stories again. And that’s when it’s over.’ I clap my hands together, spilling champagne. ‘The books shut. The End.’

There’s quite a long silence, and I wonder if I’m so drunk that I’m not making sense. But when at last I turn, I see to my horror that Sue has tears running down her cheeks. Shit. Where did they come from?

‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim. ‘Sue! I’m sorry! What did I say?’

Sue just shakes her head. She produces a tissue from her snappy leather handbag and wipes her nose roughly with it.

We sit in silence for a while – then on impulse I put an arm around Sue’s shoulders and squeeze.

‘Let’s have lunch,’ I say. ‘One of these days.’

‘Yes,’ says Sue. ‘Let’s.’

The reception goes on and on. Staff keep popping up from different hospital departments and wanting to say hello to me and Mummy and tell me about that time they met Daddy at some fundraiser or other, and he was so charming/brilliant/amazing at darts. (Darts? I never knew he could play darts.)

During a lull, I find myself alone with Mummy, just the two of us. Mummy’s colour is high too, although whether that’s the champagne or the emotion, I can’t tell.

‘That was a lovely speech, Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Lovely.’

‘Thanks.’ I bite my lip. ‘I hope Daddy would have been proud.’

‘Oh, darling, he’s looking down at you now.’ Mummy nods emphatically, as though convincing herself. ‘He really is. He’s looking down at his beautiful daughter and he’s so, so proud …’ She reaches up and takes one of my blonde ringlets. ‘He loved your hair,’ she says, almost absently.

‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know he did.’

For a while, neither of us speaks, and a voice is telling me to leave the moment be. But another voice is urging me on to find out more. This is my chance.

‘So … I saw you talking to Dan.’ I try to sound casual, as though I’m just making chit-chat.

‘Oh yes.’ Her eyes slide away from mine. ‘Poor Dan. Such a rock for us all.’

‘What were you talking about?’

‘Talking about?’ Mummy blinks at me. ‘Darling, I have no idea. This and that.’

I feel a surge of frustration. ‘This and that’? Really? I saw Dan mouthing ‘a million pounds, maybe two’ at her. In what universe could this be described as ‘this and that’?

‘Nothing important, then?’ I say, more bluntly. ‘Nothing I should know about?’

Mummy gives me one of her most infuriating, wide-eyed looks. I know she’s hiding something. I know it. But what? Oh God, she’s not in debt, is she? The idea hits me with sudden force. Has she bought so many stupid gadgets to sell that she owes QVC a million pounds, maybe two?

Stop it, Sylvie. Don’t be ridiculous. But something else?

Gambling?

The thought comes to me in a flash. I remember Mummy blinking furiously in the kitchen when I’d just mentioned the play Dealer’s Choice. Oh God. Please don’t say that’s been her way of assuaging her grief.

But … no. Surely not. I can’t picture Mummy gambling. Even when we went to Monte Carlo that time, she wasn’t interested in the casino. She preferred drinking cocktails and eyeing up people on their boats.

I take a gulp of champagne, my thoughts all over the place. Am I going to push it? Am I going to confront my mother at a reception honouring her dead husband?

No. Clearly I am not.

‘Well, it was a lovely ceremony,’ I say, retreating into platitude. ‘Lovely.’

Mummy nods. ‘Sinead Brook looked older than I’d imagined, don’t you agree? Or was it all that make-up she was wearing?’

We bitch happily about Sinead Brook’s make-up for a few minutes, then Mummy’s car arrives for her and she leaves, and I look around for my family, who are all scoffing the mini eclairs, including Dan. I gather them up and find the children’s inflated disposable-glove toys, which they’ve named ‘Glovey’ and ‘Glover’ and which have obviously become their most precious, treasured friends. (God knows what’s going to happen when they burst this evening. Oh well, cross that bridge.) Then it’s time for goodbyes and thank yous and I start to feel I’ve really had enough of this event.

At last we emerge into the fresh air. I’m quite dazed and my head is pounding. There were too many bright lights and voices and faces and memories. Not to mention emotional encounters. Not to mention mystery conversations involving a million pounds, maybe two.

We stand in the hospital forecourt for the longest time, wondering whether to go for a cup of tea or not and looking cafes up on our phones, before Sue and Neville decide that no, in fact they’ll catch the earlier train to Leicester. So then we’re into a round of hugs and future arrangements, and that takes forever, too.

When, finally, we pile into the car, I feel exhausted. But I’m wired, too. I’ve been waiting to be alone with Dan. I need to get to the bottom of this.

‘So, you had a nice long chat with my mother!’ I say lightly as we pull up at some traffic lights. ‘And I thought I heard you talking about … money?’

‘Money?’ Dan gives me a quick, impenetrable glance. ‘No.’

‘You didn’t talk about money at all?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Right,’ I say after a long pause. ‘Must have made a mistake.’

I stare out of the windscreen, feeling a heaviness in my stomach. He’s lying. Dan’s actually lying to me. What do I do? Do I call him out? Do I say, ‘Well, guess what, I heard you saying “a million pounds, maybe two”,’ and see what he says?

No. Because … just, no.

If he wants to lie, he’ll lie, even if I do throw ‘a million pounds, maybe two’ at him. He’ll say I misread his lips. Or he’ll say, ‘Oh, that. We were talking about the local council.’ He’ll have some explanation. And then he’ll be on his guard. And I’ll feel even more desperate than before. I’m just quelling an urge to wail, ‘Oh, Dan, please tell me, please tell me what’s going on,’ when he wriggles in his seat and clears his throat and speaks.

‘By the way, I’m having some old friends round. But don’t worry, I’ve arranged it for your Pilates night so you won’t be bored by us.’

He gives a short little laugh, which doesn’t ring quite true, and I stare at him with fresh concern. The million pounds (maybe two) feel instantly less urgent. I’m now more perturbed by these old friends. What old friends?

‘Don’t worry!’ I say, attempting an easy tone. ‘I’ll cancel Pilates. I’d love to meet your old friends! Which old friends are these?’

‘Oh, just … friends,’ says Dan vaguely. ‘From back in the day. You don’t know them.’

‘I don’t know any of them?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Like I say, you don’t know them.’ Dan frowns into his mirror, as he changes lanes. ‘Adrian, Jeremy … There was a whole bunch of us. We volunteered at the St Philip’s Garden.’

‘Oh, right!’ I shoot him a savage smile. ‘The St Philip’s Garden. Brilliant. What a super idea, to invite them round, after all this time.’ And I leave it a full five seconds before I add in my lightest tones, ‘And what about Mary, did you ask her, too?’

‘Oh yes,’ Dan says, still apparently preoccupied by the road. ‘Of course.’

‘Of course!’ My savage smile gets even brighter. ‘Of course you invited Mary! Why wouldn’t you?’

Of course he bloody did.