Surprise Me

FIFTEEN

I remember this from when Daddy died – at first you’re numb. You function perfectly. You smile and crack jokes. You think, Wow, it’s actually all fine, I must be a really strong person, who knew? And it’s only later that the pain swallows you up and you start dry-heaving into your sink.

I’m still at the numb stage. I’ve got the girls ready for school. I’ve chatted merrily with Karen and mentioned Dan being really busy with work. I’ve waved at Professor Russell – John – through the window.

I could easily have done the school run, but Dan clearly texted Karen last night claiming a state of emergency, because she pitched up at 7 a.m., all ready to swing into action. They’ve just left, and the house has that super-silent feeling it gets whenever the children leave it. It’s just me and the snake. Which, thank God, does not need feeding for another five days. If Dan isn’t back by then, I’m giving it to the RSPCA.

I put on more make-up than usual, savagely jabbing at my eyes with the mascara wand. I step into a pair of high heels, because I feel height will help me today. I’m in my jacket, ready to leave for work, when the post rattles through the letter box, and I pick it up, thinking dazedly, What do I do if there’s post for Dan? Forward it on? Where?

But it’s just a couple of catalogues and a handwritten envelope. Creamy and expensive. Nice handwriting, slanted and elegant. I stare at it in mounting suspicion. That can’t be from … She wouldn’t have …

I rip it open and something seems to stab my stomach. It is. It’s from her. She’s written us a bloody thank-you letter. I scan the anodyne words, but I can’t digest them. I can’t focus. All I can think is: How dare you, how dare you?

Both of them.

Him.

Her.

With their texts and secret hugs. Treating me like a fool.

A new energy is suffusing me. A new, incandescent fury. Last night I played it all wrong. I was wrong-footed. I didn’t react quickly enough. I didn’t say the stuff I should have said. I keep going over the scene, wishing I had confronted Dan with those texts, that I had shoved everything out in the open. What was I thinking of, waiting for him to confess? Why was he ever going to do that?

So today, I’m taking charge. My husband’s lover may get to do a lot of things. But she does not get to write me a two-faced thank-you letter, laughing at me behind my back. She does not get to do that.

I send a text to Clarissa: Just popping to London Library for research, then google Mary’s company, Green Pear Consulting. It’s in Bloomsbury. Easy. As I emerge from the tube at Goodge Street I’m walking snappily, my legs like scissors. My fists are clenched at my sides. My jaw is tight. I feel ready for body blows.

I arrive at the address to find one of those tall London houses with about ten companies on five different floors and a rickety lift and a receptionist whose aim seems to be to misunderstand you at every turn. But at last, after an excruciating conversation between the receptionist and someone on the phone at Green Pear Consulting – ‘No, she don’t have no appointment. No. No appointment. She called Sylvie. Syl-vee Winter. For Mary. Ma-ree.’ – I’m on my way up the stairs to the fourth floor. I’m pretty fit but my heart is already pounding and my skin keeps breaking out in goosebumps. I feel unreal. Finally, finally, I’m going to get some answers. Or some payback. Or something …

I get to the top and push my way through a heavy fire door. And there’s Mary, waiting for me on a tiny landing, as beautiful as ever, in a grey linen shift dress. She looks shocked to see me, I notice with satisfaction. Not so tranquil now.

‘Sylvie!’ she says. ‘They phoned up and told me someone called Sylvie was here, but I didn’t … I mean …’

‘You didn’t know why I was here?’ I say scathingly. ‘Really? You have no idea?’

There’s silence and I can see Mary’s dark eyes flickering with thought. Then she says, ‘Maybe we should go to my office.’

She leads me to a tiny room and gestures to a chair opposite her desk. It’s quite a bare space – all pale wood and posters for environmental causes and a striking abstract painting, which I would ask her about in different circumstances.

Mary sits down, but I don’t. I want the advantage of height.

‘So,’ I say, in my most cutting tones. ‘Thanks for your letter.’ I take it out of my bag and throw it on to her desk and she flinches, startled.

‘Right.’ She picks the envelope up warily, then replaces it on her desk. ‘Is there a … Are you …’ She tries a third time. ‘Sylvie …’

‘Yes?’ I say, as unforgivingly as I can. I’m certainly not making this easy for her.

‘Is something … wrong?’

Is something wrong?

‘Oh, come on, Mary,’ I snap. ‘So you’re having a secret thing with him. An affair. He’s moved in with you. Whatever. But don’t send me a letter saying thank you for the lovely dinner, OK?’ I break off, breathing hard, and Mary stares at me, her jaw dropped.

‘Moved in with me? What on earth …?’

‘Nice try.’

‘Oh God.’ Mary clutches her head. ‘I need to unpick all this. Sylvie, I’m not having an affair with Dan and he hasn’t moved in with me. OK?’

‘Oh, right,’ I say icily. ‘I suppose he hasn’t sent you secret texts, either. I suppose he didn’t tell you he feels “pinned in a corner”. I saw you talking, Mary. I saw you hugging. So you can stop the play-acting, OK? I know.’

There’s silence, and I can see I’ve got to Mary. I’ve punctured her serene veneer. She looks quite rattled, for an angel.

‘We did talk that night,’ she says at last. ‘And yes, we did hug. But as old friends, nothing more. Dan wanted to open up to me … and I found myself listening. Talking.’ She suddenly rises from her chair, so she’s at eye-level with me. ‘But Dan and I are not having an affair. We’re really, really not. Please believe me.’

‘“Old friends”.’ I echo the words sarcastically.

‘Yes!’ Her face suddenly flushes. ‘Just that. I don’t have affairs with married men. I wouldn’t do that.’

‘What about the texts?’ I fling back at her.

‘I’ve only sent him a couple of texts. We’ve chatted. Nothing more. I promise.’

‘But you’ve met up. At Starbucks. At Villandry.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘At your house we talked about meeting up, possibly … That’s all. He just wanted to talk to me. Download. That’s all.’

‘Download about what?’ There’s an edge to my voice. ‘About how I’m “nuts”?’

‘What?’ She blinks at me in shock. ‘No!’

‘Stop denying it!’ I erupt. ‘I’ve seen the texts! “Running late”. “It’s ok have distracted S”.’ I make jabbing, quotey gestures at her. ‘“Remember PS factor”. I’ve read them! There’s no point lying!’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ She appears baffled. ‘What’s the PS factor? And he’s never been “running late” because we’ve never met up.’

I’m breathing hard. Seriously?

‘Look.’ I summon up the photos I took of Dan’s secret phone and thrust them in front of her. ‘Remember these?’

Mary looks down, her forehead delicately wrinkled, then shakes her head. ‘I’ve never seen these texts in my life.’

‘What?’ I’m almost shouting. ‘But they’re to “Mary”! Look! “Mary”!’

‘I don’t care. They’re not to me.’

For a moment we just stare at each other. My mind is scrabbling around and around, trying to find an explanation. Then Mary grabs the phone. She flicks through the photos until she comes to a text from “Mary” reading New mobile no. from tomorrow, followed by a string of digits.

‘That’s not my number,’ she says calmly. ‘Those aren’t my texts. I’ll show you my phone, if you like. You can read the texts Dan sent me, all three of them, and you’ll see how innocent they are.’ She grabs an iPhone from where it’s charging, and swipes it open.

A moment later I’m looking at three texts from Dan, all beginning Hi Mary, and all along the lines of So great to make contact. Mary’s right. They’re all innocent and even quite formal. Nothing like the intimate, casual ease of the other texts.

‘I don’t know who this is …’ She jerks a thumb at the photos on my phone. ‘But you have the wrong woman.’

‘But …’

I sink into a chair, my legs trembling. I feel shoffed. I feel so shoffed, I’m breathless. Who’s this other Mary? How many Marys does Dan have in his life? At last I glance up at Mary, who seems equally perplexed. She’s swiping slowly through my photos, and I can see her grimacing.

‘I can see why you’re … alarmed,’ she says. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Don’t know.’ I lift a helpless hand and drop it. ‘Dan went off somewhere last night. He said it was a work trip but I don’t believe him. Is he with her?’

‘No,’ says Mary at once. ‘I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do that. I think more likely—’ She stops as though a thought has occurred to her and I sit up, alert.

‘What?’ I demand. ‘What did he say to you? Did he confide in you?’

‘Not exactly. He started to … but then he stopped himself.’ Mary sighs. ‘I felt bad for him. He’s really stressed out at the moment.’

‘I know he’s stressed out!’ I exclaim in frustration. ‘But he won’t tell me why. I don’t even know where to start. It’s like there’s some massive great secret. But how can I help him if I don’t know what’s going on?’

Mary is swiping through the photos again, reading the texts carefully. Her brow is furrowed and she seems troubled. She looks as though she’s wrestling with a dilemma. She looks as though—

‘Oh my God.’ I stare at her. ‘He did tell you something. Didn’t he? What?’

Mary looks up and I can tell I’ve hit the mark. Her mouth is clamped shut. Her eyes are pained. Clearly he revealed something to her and she’s protecting him because she’s a good person and she thinks it’s the right thing to do. But it’s the wrong thing to do.

‘Please, Mary.’ I lean forward, trying to convey the urgency of the situation. ‘I know you’re his friend and you want to respect Dan’s confidence. But maybe the best way to help him is to break his confidence. I’ll never ever say it was you who told me,’ I add hurriedly. ‘And I’ll do the same for you, I promise.’

I can’t see how an equivalent situation will ever arise, but I mean it. If it does, I will totally reveal everything to Mary.

‘He didn’t tell me any details,’ says Mary reluctantly. ‘Not properly. But yes, there is … something. He said it was clogging up his life. He called it his “ongoing nightmare”.’

‘His “ongoing nightmare”?’ I echo in dismay. Dan has an ongoing nightmare that I don’t know about? But how can he? What is it? What hasn’t he told me?

‘That’s the phrase he used. He didn’t give any other details. Except …’ She bites her soft, pink lip, looking uncomfortable.

‘What?’ I’m nearly popping with frustration.

‘OK.’ She exhales. ‘Whatever it is … it has to do with your mother.’

I gape at her. ‘My mother?’

‘I’d talk to her. Ask her. I got the feeling …’ Again Mary stops herself. ‘Talk to her.’

I can’t face work. I text Clarissa, Still researching, back later, and head straight home. By the time I reach Wandsworth I’ve left Mummy three voicemails, texted and sent her an email – entitled We need to talk!!! – but I haven’t had a response. I’ll go round there in person if I have to. Right now, though, I need some quiet time to digest what I’ve just heard. An ‘ongoing nightmare’. How long has Dan been dealing with an ongoing nightmare?

It’s something to do with my mother, Mary said. Is this the ‘million pounds, maybe two’? Oh God, what’s going on, what?

And – worse – what if Mary’s wrong? What if I’m the ongoing nightmare? The thought makes me feel cold and rather small inside. I’m remembering Dan’s face last night. The way he said, ‘I can’t do this,’ as though he was at the end of his tether.

Every time I remember last night I cringe inside. I called him a ‘boring, fucking cliché’. I assumed he was just following the same old tedious trope: Husband Hooks Up with Old Flame, Lies to Wife. But there’s more. There’s something else. As I’m walking, I pull out my phone, wanting to text him again, wanting to make it right. I even get as far as Dear Dan, but then I stop. What do I say? Phrases shoot into my mind but I instantly discard them, one by one.

Tell me who the other Mary is. Please don’t shut me out any more. I know you have an ongoing nightmare; what is it?

If he wanted to tell me, he would have told me. Which brings me back to the question which fills me with foreboding: am I his ongoing nightmare?

As I walk along our street, tears are running down my face, but when I see Toby, I hastily scrub them away. He’s standing outside Tilda’s house, clutching a pair of rollerblades and a helmet.

‘Hi, Toby!’ I say. ‘I knew you’d be back.’

He nods. ‘Getting my blades. I forgot to take them.’ He dumps them in the boot of an open Corsa, which I don’t recognize.

‘Is that your car?’ I say curiously as he locks it.

‘Michi’s. Actually, I’d better tell her I took it.’ He perches on the garden wall, sending a text. The sun has come out and when he’s finished texting he leans back, savouring the warmth, seeming utterly unhurried.

‘Don’t you have a job?’

‘I’ll go in later. It’s fine.’ He shrugs. ‘We normally work, like, noon to midnight?’

Midnight? I suddenly feel very ancient.

‘Right. Well, make sure you see your mum while you’re here. Is she around?’

‘Yeah, she’s making me spaghetti Bolognese.’ His face lights up and I can’t help smiling. He must have made Tilda’s day, coming home so soon. Either that, or they’re yelling at each other again.

‘D’you want to come for lunch?’ he adds politely. ‘I’m sure we’ve got some spare.’

‘No thanks.’ I try to smile. ‘I’ve got some stuff to … I’m … It’s all a bit …’ Without intending to, I sigh heavily and sit down next to him on the wall. ‘Do you ever feel like there’s a conspiracy?’

I’m not really expecting an answer, but Toby nods gravely. ‘There is a conspiracy. I’ve told you, Sylvie, it’s all a conspiracy.’

The sun’s getting hotter on our faces. He must be sweltering with his beard. I get out my sunglasses and reach for my lip balm, and as I unbutton the pink case, Toby nods at it, as though that proves everything. ‘Big Pharma, Sylvie. You see?’

I don’t respond. I’m gazing at the gold embossed P.S. I can’t believe Dan used my private nickname in texts to another woman. I can’t believe he referred to me as the ‘PS factor’. The ‘Princess Sylvie factor’. Just the idea of some other woman calling me that makes me cringe. It’s almost the worst betrayal.

Who is she? Who is she?

‘What would you do if you’d found a whole load of texts on a phone and you didn’t know who they were to?’ I say, staring up at the blue sky.

‘Get the number off Contacts,’ says Toby with a shrug.

‘A number doesn’t tell you anything,’ I object.

‘Google it, then. See if anything comes up.’

I turn to stare at him. Google it? I never even thought of googling it.

‘Mobile phone numbers aren’t on Google,’ I say warily.

‘Sometimes they are. Worth a try. Whose phone?’ he asks with interest, and my defences instantly rise.

‘Oh, just a girl at work,’ I say. ‘Her cousin,’ I add for good measure. ‘Half-cousin. It’s not a big deal.’

I could google the number. Suddenly I’m all jittery. I need to get to a computer, now.

‘Well, see you, Tobes,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘Bring Michi over! We’d like to meet her.’

‘Sure. Bye, Sylvie.’

I hurry into the house, fumbling with my key in my haste. It seems to take forever for my computer to fire up, and I actually start saying, ‘Come on, come on,’ under my breath.

I type in the phone number from the text, and wait breathlessly for the results, although if I was hoping for an instant answer, I was an idiot. There’s a lot of garbage to wade through. Entries about car serial numbers and phone directory pages without any actual information. But on page five, I see something that makes me lean forward.

St Saviour’s School Rugby Club. Parent rep: Mary Smith-Sullivan.

It’s her. The same mobile number. The same first name. Oh God, she exists. Can I find out anything else about her? Does she have a job, maybe?

My heart beating wildly, I look up Mary Smith-Sullivan on LinkedIn. And there she is. Mary Smith-Sullivan, Partner, Avory Milton. Specialism: defamation, privacy and other media-related litigation. She looks to be in her early fifties, with close-cropped dark hair and a boxy jacket. Minimal make-up. She’s smiling, but not in a warm way, more in a businesslike ‘I have to smile for this photo’ way.

This is who Dan is sending endless texts to?

He can’t be having an affair with her. He can’t. I mean …

He can’t.

I stare at the page, trying and failing to make sense of it. Then at last, with a trembling hand, I reach for my phone and dial.

‘Avory Milton, how can I help you?’ a sing-song voice greets me.

‘I’d like to make an appointment with Ms Smith-Sullivan,’ I say in a rush. ‘Today. As soon as possible, please.’

Avory Milton is a medium-sized law firm, off Chancery Lane, with a reception area on the fourteenth floor. It has a big floor-to-ceiling window, showing off an impressive view over London, which made my legs nearly give way when I stepped out of the lift. People should not just put terrifying windows there like that.

But somehow I made it to the front desk and got my visitor’s pass. And now I’m in the seating area, firmly turned away from the view.

As I sit there, pretending to read a magazine, I look around carefully. I study the slate-grey sofas and the people in suits striding through and even the water dispenser … but there aren’t any clues. I have no idea what this place has to do with Dan. I am also unimpressed by their timekeeping. I’ve been sitting here for at least half an hour.

‘Mrs Tilda?’

My chest seizes up in apprehension as I see a woman approaching me. It’s her. She has the same close-cropped hair that she did on LinkedIn. She’s wearing a navy jacket and a blue striped shirt I recognize from Zara. Expensive shoes. A wedding ring.

‘I’m Mary Smith-Sullivan.’ She smiles professionally and holds out a manicured hand. ‘Apologies for keeping you. How d’you do?’

‘Oh, hi.’ My voice catches, and I can only produce a squawk. ‘Hi,’ I try again, scrambling to my feet. ‘Yes. Thank you. How do you do?’

My pseudonym is Mrs Tilda. Which is not ideal, but I was so flustered as I made the appointment that I wasn’t thinking straight. When the receptionist asked ‘And the name?’ I panicked and blurted out ‘Tilda’. Then I quickly amended, ‘Mrs Tilda. Er … Mrs Penelope Tilda.’

Penelope Tilda? What was I thinking? No one’s called Penelope Tilda. But I haven’t been challenged yet. Although, as we walk along a neutral, pale-carpeted corridor, Mary Smith-Sullivan shoots me the odd appraising look. I didn’t say why I wanted the appointment on the phone. I just kept saying it was ‘highly confidential’ and ‘highly urgent’, until the receptionist said, ‘Of course, Mrs Tilda. I’ve booked you in for two thirty p.m.’

Mary Smith-Sullivan ushers me into a fairly large office – with, thankfully, quite a small window – and I sit down on a blue upholstered chair. There’s a still, unbearable pause as she pours us both glasses of water.

‘So.’ At last she faces me properly and gives one of those professional smiles again. ‘Mrs Tilda. How can I help you?’

This is exactly what I predicted she’d say, and I have my line all ready to fling at her, just like a soap-opera heroine: I want to know why my husband’s been texting you, BITCH.

(OK, not ‘bitch’. Not in real life.)

‘Mrs Tilda?’ she prompts, pleasantly.

‘I want to know …’ I break off and swallow. Shit. I promised myself I was going to be calm and steely, but my voice is already wobbling.

OK. Take a moment. No rush.

Actually, there is a rush. This woman probably costs a thousand pounds an hour and she’ll bill me even if she is Dan’s mistress. Especially then. And I haven’t even thought about how I’ll afford it. Shit. Why didn’t I find out the fee? Quick, Sylvie, talk.

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts, and glance out of the window of her door. And what I see makes me nearly pass out.

It’s Mummy.

She’s wearing a pink suit and walking quickly towards this room with a hugely fat guy in pinstripes, talking animatedly while he cocks his head to listen.

What the fuck is my mother doing here?

Already my legs are propelling me to the door of Mary Smith-Sullivan’s office. I’m grabbing the handle like a demented person.

‘Mummy?’ I demand, my voice strident. ‘Mummy?’

Both Mummy and the fat pinstriped guy stop dead and Mummy’s face freezes in a rictus of dismay.

‘So it is you,’ she says.

‘It is me?’ I look from her to the fat pinstriped guy. ‘What does that mean, “It is me”? Of course it’s me. Mummy, why are you here?’

‘I’m the one who called your mother, Sylvie,’ says Mary Smith-Sullivan behind me, and I swivel round to face her.

‘You know me?’

‘I thought it was you as soon as I saw you in reception. I’ve seen photos and your hair’s quite distinctive. Although of course, the false name …’ She shrugs. ‘But still, I was sure it was you.’

‘Darling, why are you here?’ demands Mummy almost accusingly. ‘What brought you here?’

‘Because …’ I stare at her, bewildered, then turn back to Mary Smith-Sullivan. ‘I want to know why my husband’s been texting you.’

Finally I’ve managed to get my line out. But it’s lost its sting. Everything has lost its meaning. I feel as though I’ve walked into a stage play and I don’t know my part.

‘Yes, I expect you do,’ says Mary, and she regards me with a kind of pity. The same kind of pity Dan had. ‘I always said you should know, but—’

‘Mrs Winter.’ The fat pinstriped guy speaks in a booming voice as he approaches me. ‘I do apologize, let me introduce myself. I’m Roderick Rice, and I’ve been dealing with this issue, along with Mary of course …’

‘What issue?’ I feel as though I might scream. Or kill someone. ‘What bloody issue?’ I look from Mary Smith-Sullivan, to Roderick, to Mummy, who is hovering outside the office door with one of her evasive Mummy looks. ‘What is it? What?’

I can see eyes meeting; silent consultations flying around.

‘Is anyone in touch with Dan?’ Mary says to Roderick at length.

‘He’s gone to Devon. To see what he can do down there. I tried him earlier, but …’ Roderick shrugs. ‘No signal, probably.’

Devon? Why’s Dan gone to Devon? But Mary nods as though this makes total sense.

‘Just thinking of the PS factor,’ she says quietly.

The PS factor. Again. I can’t bear it.

‘Please don’t call me that!’ My voice explodes out of me like a rocket. ‘I’m not a princess, I’m not Princess Sylvie, I wish Dan had never given me that stupid nickname.’

Both lawyers turn to survey me in what seems like genuine surprise.

‘“PS” doesn’t stand for “Princess Sylvie”,’ says Mary Smith-Sullivan at last. ‘Not in this office.’

‘But …’ I stare at her, taken aback. ‘Then what …’

There’s silence. And once again, she gives me that odd, pitying look, as though she knows far more about me than I do.

‘“Protect Sylvie”,’ she says. ‘It stands for “Protect Sylvie”.’

For an instant, I can’t speak. My mouth won’t work. Protect me?

‘From what?’ I manage at last, and turn to Mummy, who’s still standing at the doorway. ‘Mummy?’

‘Oh, darling.’ She starts blinking furiously. ‘It’s been so difficult to know what to do …’

‘Your husband loves you very much,’ says Mary Smith-Sullivan. ‘And I think he’s been acting for all the right reasons. But—’ She breaks off and looks at Roderick, then Mummy. ‘This is ridiculous. She’s got to know.’

We sit in Mary’s little seating area with cups of tea in proper cups and saucers, brought in by an assistant. I cradle mine in my hands, not drinking it, just gripping it tightly. It’s something tangible. It’s something real. When nothing else in my life seems to be.

‘Let me give you the bare facts,’ says Mary, in her measured way, when at last the assistant leaves. ‘It has been alleged that your father had an affair, many years ago, with a sixteen-year-old girl.’

I look back at her silently. I don’t know what I was expecting. Not this.

Daddy? A sixteen-year-old girl?

I glance at Mummy, who is staring at a distant corner of the room.

‘Is it … true?’ I manage.

‘Of course it’s not true,’ snaps Mummy. ‘The whole thing is falsehood. Wretched, evil falsehood.’ She starts to blink furiously again. ‘When I think of your father …’

‘The girl in question, who is now an adult,’ continues Mary impassively, ‘threatened to expose this affair in a book. This was … prevented.’

‘What book?’ I say, confused. ‘A book about my father?’

‘Not exactly, no. Have you heard of a writer called Joss Burton?’

‘Through the High Maze.’ I stare at her. ‘I’ve read it. She had a really hard time before her success. She had an eating disorder; she had to drop out of university …’ I swallow, feeling ill. ‘Did Daddy – no.’

‘It’s all lies,’ says Mummy tearfully. ‘It was all in her head. She became fixated on your father because he was so handsome.’

‘An early draft contained an account of her alleged affair with your father and its effect upon her,’ Mary resumes. ‘Obviously, at sixteen she wasn’t underage; nevertheless, it’s …’ She hesitates. ‘Not particularly easy reading.’

Not particularly easy reading. My mind registers this phrase and then veers away from it. There’s only so much I can deal with at one time.

‘Your father became aware of the book and engaged our firm. We applied for an injunction on his behalf, although in the event, the author was persuaded to excise the relevant passages.’

‘Persuaded?’

‘Dan was very helpful,’ says Mummy, wiping her nose.

‘Dan?’ I look from face to face.

‘Your father wished to keep the matter within the family, so he enlisted Dan’s help.’ There’s something about Mary’s tone that makes me look sharply at her. ‘I would say that Dan worked above and beyond for your father,’ she says. ‘He became our contact. He read every document. He attended every meeting with Joss Burton and her lawyers and managed to turn what were … fairly difficult discussions … into something more constructive. As your mother says, it was his personal intervention which, in the end, persuaded Joss Burton to retract the relevant passages.’

‘Dan was pleased to help,’ says Mummy defensively. ‘Only too pleased to help.’

My head is spinning like a kaleidoscope. Daddy. Dan. Joss Burton. That book, lying in Mummy’s kitchen. Dan’s tension. All the whispers, all the huddling … I knew there was something, I knew it …

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ My voice bursts forth in a roar. ‘Why am I the only person sitting here who doesn’t know any of this?’

‘Darling,’ says Mummy hastily, ‘Daddy was appalled by this … this vicious slander. He didn’t want you hearing salacious, invented stories. We decided to keep the whole matter under wraps.’

‘And then, just as things were settled, your father died,’ puts in Roderick in a ponderous, heavy way. ‘And everything changed again.’

‘You were so fragile, Sylvie.’ Mummy reaches out a hand and squeezes mine. ‘You were so devastated. We couldn’t tell you. Any of us. Besides which, we thought the whole thing was over.’ She starts blinking again.

‘And isn’t it? No,’ I answer myself, thinking aloud. ‘Of course it’s not, otherwise why are you here?’ I stare around at the faces again, thoughts springing up in my brain so fast I can barely get them out. ‘Why’s Dan in Devon? What’s the “one million, maybe two”?’ I round on Mummy. ‘Is that to do with this? What’s been happening?’

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ says Mummy vaguely, her eyes swivelling away, and I quell a sharp response. She’s so frustrating.

‘Joss Burton has written another memoir,’ says Mary. ‘A “prequel”, describing her earlier life. She is adamant that this time she will describe her alleged relationship with your father. Apparently it is “key” to her story. It’s due to be published in a year’s time, when the film of Through the High Maze comes out.’

‘A film,’ says Mummy in distaste. ‘Who wants to watch a film about her?’

I bite back the retort, ‘Who wants to watch a story about a woman who overcame her demons to become a massive global businesswoman? Oh, no one, I should think.’

‘The new book will be very high profile,’ continues Mary. ‘Serialized in a national newspaper, no doubt. And your father’s name with it.’

‘Her advance is a million,’ puts in Roderick. ‘Although of course she says it’s not about the money, it’s about the truth.’

‘The truth!’ says Mummy, a vicious edge to her voice. ‘If this book is published, if your father is remembered for that … after all his charity work …’ Her voice rises shrilly. ‘It’s wicked! And anyway, how could she remember after all these years?’

‘So, why is Dan in Devon?’ I’m still looking from face to face. ‘I don’t understand—’

‘He’s talking to Joss Burton again,’ says Mummy, dabbing at her nose with a tiny lace handkerchief. ‘She lives in Devon.’

‘He went down on the sleeper train last night.’ Mary gives me a kind look. ‘I think one of the biggest strains for Dan in all of this has been keeping the truth from you.’

The sleeper train. I thought he was with his lover. When all the time …

My throat is suddenly clogged as I picture Dan getting on a train, all alone. Shouldering this, all alone. I stare into my tea, my eyes getting hot, trying to stay composed.

‘He never breathed a word,’ I say at last. ‘Not a word.’

‘His biggest concern, all along, has been that you might find out and “not cope”, as he put it,’ says Mary.

‘Have another … episode,’ puts in Roderick tactfully.

‘It wasn’t an “episode”!’ My voice rockets out, and I see Roderick exchanging startled looks with Mummy. ‘It wasn’t an episode or a breakdown or whatever everyone said,’ I say more calmly. ‘It was grief. Just that. Yes, I was devastated. But just because I found Daddy’s death hard to process … it doesn’t mean I was unstable. Dan worried about me too much. He was over-protective. Far too over-protective.’

‘We were all worried, darling!’ says Mummy defensively.

‘You were just worried I might embarrass you,’ I snap, and turn to Mary, who I sense is the most receptive to what I’m saying. ‘Dan had the best possible motives, and I don’t blame him … but he got it wrong. I could have coped and he should have told me. You all should have told me.’ I put my cup down on the coffee table with a bang. ‘So now I want to know. Everything.’

I meet Mary’s eyes, and I can see her taking the measure of me. At last she nods.

‘Very well. I’ll give you access to all the files. You’ll have to look at them here, in the office, but I can give you a room to sit in.’

‘Thank you.’ I match her businesslike tone.

‘Sylvie, darling.’ Mummy makes an anguished face. ‘I really wouldn’t. You really don’t need to know—’

‘I do!’ I cut her off furiously. ‘I’ve been living in a bubble. Well, now I’m stepping out of it. I don’t need protecting. I don’t need shielding. “Protect Sylvie” is over.’ I shoot a savage look around the room. ‘Over.’

I sit alone, reading and reading. My eyes blur over. My head starts to hurt. An assistant brings me three more cups of tea, but they all sit going cold, undrunk, because I’m too wrapped up in what I’m seeing; what I’m understanding. My head is a whirl. How can all this have been happening and I had no idea? What kind of blind, oblivious moron have I been?

Joss Burton used to go on holiday to Los Bosques Antiguos. That’s where she apparently met Daddy. None of this is in doubt. Her family genuinely did have a house there, very close to ours. Her parents did socialize with Mummy and Daddy. I don’t remember them, but then again, I was only three or four at the time.

Then there’s all the stuff she alleges: stuff about Daddy giving her presents, plying her with cocktails, leading her into the woods … and I couldn’t bring myself to read that properly. Just the idea of it made me feel ill. I skimmed just a few pages, taking in phrases here and there, and felt even more sickened. My father? With a naïve, inexperienced teenage girl, who’d never even …

Mary Smith-Sullivan was right. It’s not particularly easy reading.

So I hastened on to the emails, the present-day correspondence, the actual case. There are hundreds of emails in the files. Thousands, even. Daddy to Dan, Dan back to Daddy, Roderick to both of them, Dan to Mary, Mary back to Dan … And the more I read, the more shocked I am. Daddy’s emails are so abrupt. Demanding. Entitled. Dan is resolutely polite, resolutely charming, but Daddy … Daddy pushes him around. He expects Dan to drop everything. He swears at him when things go wrong. He’s a bully.

I can’t believe I’m having these thoughts about my father. My charming, twinkly father a bully? I mean, yes, he sometimes lost it with his staff … but never with his family.

Surely?

I keep reading, hoping desperately to discover the email where he’s appreciative. Where he thanks Dan for all his efforts. Where he gushes. He was a charming person. Where’s the charm here?

After 258 emails, I haven’t yet found it and my stomach is heavy. Everything makes horrible sense. This is why Dan’s relationship with Daddy deteriorated. Because Daddy dragged him into his problems and made them Dan’s and treated him like mud.

No wonder Dan talked about an ‘ongoing nightmare’. Daddy was the nightmare.

At last I raise my head, my cheeks flaming. I’m churned up. I want to wade in. I want to confront Daddy. I want to have it out. Phrases are flying around my head: How could you? Apologize! You can’t speak to Dan like that! That’s my husband!

But Daddy’s dead. He’s dead. It’s too late. I can’t confront him, I can’t talk to him, I can’t demand why he behaved like that, or have it out, or make it right; it’s all too late, too late.

And guilt is rising in me, making my face still warmer. Because I didn’t help Dan, did I? All along, I blanked out Daddy’s flaws, I glorified him, I made it impossible for Dan ever to speak the truth. And that was the chasm.

‘Are you OK?’

I jump, shocked, at Mary’s voice, and abruptly realize I’m rocking back and forth in my chair, my jaw jutting out as though for a fight.

‘Fine!’ I hastily sit upright. ‘Fine. It’s … quite heavy stuff.’

‘Yes.’ She gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Probably a bit much to try to digest it all.’

‘I need to go, anyway.’ I glance at my watch. ‘School pick-up time.’

‘Ah.’ She nods. ‘Well, come back any time you’d like. Ask me anything you’d like to know.’

‘Have you heard from Dan?’ The question spills out before I can stop it.

‘No.’ She gives me a neutral look. ‘I’m sure he’s doing everything he can.’

I have about ten thousand questions I want to bombard her with, but as we walk to the lifts, two are circling high above the rest.

‘My father,’ I say as I press the lift button.

‘Yes?’

‘Did he … Is it … You don’t think …’ I can’t say it out loud. But Mary understands exactly.

‘Your father always maintained that Jocelyn Burton has a fertile imagination and the affair was entirely fictitious,’ she says. ‘Her full account is all there in the files for you to read. Thousands of words. Very descriptive. However, you may feel that it’s not helpful for you.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well … maybe.’ I watch the lift indicator changing: 26 – 25 – 24 – and then draw breath. ‘My father,’ I say again.

‘Yes?’

I bite my lip. I don’t know what I want to ask, exactly. I try again. ‘I’ve been reading the emails between Dan and my father. And …’

‘Yes.’ Mary meets my eye and I have a feeling that, again, she knows exactly what I’m driving at. ‘Dan is very patient. Very smart. I hope your father knew how much he did for him.’

‘But he didn’t though, did he?’ I say bluntly. ‘I’ve seen it in those emails. Daddy was awful to him. I can’t believe Dan stuck it out.’ Tears suddenly spring to my eyes as I think of Dan, uncomplainingly dealing with Daddy’s charmless missives. Never telling me a word. ‘I mean, why would he? Why would he?’

‘Oh, Sylvie.’ Mary shakes her head with an odd little laugh. ‘If you don’t know—’ She breaks off, surveying me with such a wry gaze I almost feel uncomfortable. ‘You know, I’ve been intrigued to meet you, all this time. To meet Dan’s Sylvie.’

‘Dan’s Sylvie?’ A painful laugh rises through me. ‘I don’t feel like Dan’s Sylvie right now. If I were him I would have left me ages ago.’

The doors open, and as I get in, Mary holds out her hand. ‘Very nice to meet you at last, Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Please don’t worry about this second book. I’m sure it will all be resolved. And if there’s any more information I can give you about Joss … or Lynn …’

‘What?’ I stare at her, puzzled. ‘What do you mean, Lynn?’

‘Oh, sorry. I know it’s confusing.’ Mary raises her eyes ruefully. ‘Jocelyn is her full name, but she was known as Lynn as a teenager. For legal purposes, obviously, we—’

‘Wait.’ My hand jams the Hold button before I’m even aware I’m reacting. ‘Lynn? Are you telling me … she was called Lynn?’

‘Well, we generally refer to her as Joss, obviously.’ Mary seems puzzled by my reaction. ‘But she was Lynn then. I thought you might remember her, in fact. In her account, she certainly mentions you. She used to play with you. Sing songs with you. “Kumbaya”, that kind of thing.’ Mary’s face changes. ‘Sylvie? Are you all right?’

I’ve been living inside a bubble inside a bubble. I feel surreal. As I stride along Lower Sloane Street, the same phrase keeps running through my head: What’s real? What’s real?

When I finally left the Avory Milton offices, I tried Dan’s phone about five times. But he wasn’t picking up, or didn’t have signal, or something. So at last I left a desperate, frantic voicemail: ‘Dan, I’ve just found out, I can’t believe it, I had no idea, I’m so sorry, I got it all wrong. Dan, we need to talk. Dan, please ring me, I’m so, so sorry …’ and kept on in that vein until the beep went.

Now I’m heading to Mummy’s flat. I’m in a bit of a state and should probably pause for a calming drink of something – but I’m not going to. I have to see her. I have to have this out. I’ve already phoned up the school and put the girls into after-school club. (They’re pretty good about last-minute phone calls from frazzled London working parents.)

I let myself into Mummy’s flat with my latchkey, stalk into the drawing room with no greeting, and say in unforgiving tones, ‘You lied.’

Mummy jumps and looks round from where she was sitting, staring into space, a cushion clutched to her chest. She seems suddenly small and vulnerable against the vast expanse of the sofa, but I thrust that thought from my mind.

‘Lynn,’ I say, my eyes searing into hers. ‘Lynn, Mummy. Lynn.’

To her credit, she doesn’t say, ‘What do you mean, Lynn?’ She gazes past me as though she’s looking at a ghost, her face slowly creasing up in anxiety.

‘Lynn!’ I practically yell. ‘You told me she was imaginary! You screwed me up! She was real! She was real!’

‘Oh, darling.’ Mummy’s hand nervously crushes the fabric of her jacket.

‘Why would you do that?’ My voice is perilously close to a wail, a childlike wail. ‘Why would you make me feel so terrible? You wouldn’t let me talk about her, you made me feel so guilty … and all the time you knew she was real! It’s sick! It’s messed up!’

As I’m talking, an image flashes into my head of Tessa and Anna. My gorgeous girls with their precious thoughts and dreams and ideas. The idea of messing with them, altering them, making them feel bad about anything … is just anathema.

Mummy isn’t answering. I stalk round to the front of the sofa so that I’m facing her, breathing hard. ‘Why? Why?’

‘You were so small,’ says Mummy at last.

‘Small? What’s that got to do with it?’

‘We thought it would make things simpler.’

‘Why simpler?’ I stare at her. ‘What do you mean, simpler?’

‘Because we had to leave so hurriedly. Because …’

‘Why did we have to leave so hurriedly?’

‘Because that girl was making … accusations!’ Mummy’s voice is suddenly raw and harsh and her face takes on the ugliest expression I’ve ever seen, a kind of contorted disgust which chills me to my heart.

The next moment it’s disappeared. But I saw it. I can’t unsee it. I can’t unhear that voice.

Our life was so glittery. I could never see anything but the gloss, the fun, the luxury. My handsome father and beautiful mother. My charmed, enviable family. But now I’m seeing hectoring emails. Lying parents. An ugliness lurking underneath everything.

‘Is there any …’ I swallow hard. ‘Is there any … truth in what she says?’

‘Of course not.’ Mummy’s voice is harsh again, making me flinch. ‘Of course not. Of course not.’

‘So why—’

‘We had to leave Los Bosques Antiguos.’ Mummy turns her head away, staring at the corner of the room. ‘It was all so unpleasant. Unbearable. The girl told her parents her story, and obviously they believed her lurid tale. Well, you can imagine how they reacted. And they spread such vicious rumours among our friends … We couldn’t have that kind of … We had to leave.’

‘So you sold the house.’

‘I expect we would have sold anyway.’

‘And you told me Lynn was imaginary. You messed around with the mind of a four-year-old.’ My voice is pitiless.

‘You kept asking about her, Sylvie.’ Mummy has developed a twitch in her left eye and she smooths it away repeatedly. ‘Always asking, “Where’s Lynn?” Singing that wretched song.’

‘“Kumbaya”,’ I say quietly.

‘It drove your father mad. It drove both of us mad. How could we put everything behind us? It was your father’s idea to tell you she was imaginary. And I thought, what would it matter? Real … imaginary … you were never going to see her again. It was a harmless white lie.’

‘A harmless white lie?’

I feel incandescent with rage. I’m replaying a million moments from my childhood. I’m remembering Daddy’s bristling, silent fury whenever Lynn came up. Mummy hastily glossing over the moment and changing the subject. But then, that’s been her life, hasn’t it? Glossing over the moment.

There’s silence in the room. I can’t stay but I can’t bring myself to move either. For some reason I’m fixating on Mummy’s sofa. It’s large and cream, with fringing and lots of bespoke cushions in pink velvet and damask and linen prints. It’s beautiful. And she looks so blonde and pretty, sitting there in her pink suit. The whole picture is adorable. On the surface.

And that’s what Mummy has always been to me, I realize. Surface, all surface. Shine and reflection. Bright smiles, designed to deflect. The pair of us have echoed the same lines to each other, over the years, never pausing or examining them. ‘Lovely skirt.’ ‘Delicious wine.’ ‘Daddy was a hero.’ When did we last have a deep, empathetic conversation that actually went somewhere?

Never.

‘What about Dan?’ I say flatly.

‘Dan?’ Mummy crinkles her brow as though perhaps she’s forgotten who Dan is, and I feel another flare of anger at her.

‘Dan who’s been working his socks off for you. Dan who’s in Devon right now, trying to protect Daddy’s name. Again. Dan who is the hero in all this, but you treat him like … like …’ I flounder. ‘Like … a joke.’

As I say the word, I realize it’s exactly right. Mummy has never taken Dan seriously. Never respected him. She’s been polite and charming and everything else, but there’s always been that slight curve to her mouth. That slight pitying air. Poor Dan.

‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous,’ says Mummy crisply. ‘We all feel for poor Dan.’

I don’t believe it. She’s doing it again. ‘Don’t call him “poor Dan”!’ I snap. ‘You’re so patronizing!’

‘Sylvie, darling, calm down.’

‘I’ll calm down when you treat my husband with respect! You’re as bad as Daddy. I saw his emails to Dan and they were rude. Rude. All this time, we’ve been behaving as though Daddy’s the saint. Daddy’s the star. Well, Dan’s the star! He’s the star, and he hasn’t had any recognition, any thanks …’

Anger is spilling out, but it’s anger at myself, too. I feel hot all over with self-reproach, mortification. I’m remembering the number of times I defended Daddy to Dan. The assumptions I made. The unforgivable things I said: ‘You can’t stand that Daddy was rich and successful … You’re so bloody chippy, and I’m sick of it …’

I called Dan, who patiently put up with all that shit, chippy.

I can’t bear it. I can’t bear myself. No wonder he got all tentery. No wonder he felt pinned in a corner. No wonder he couldn’t stand us watching the wedding DVD, wallowing in the Daddy show.

Shame keeps crawling over me. I thought I was so clever. I thought I was psychic Sylvie. I knew nothing.

And even now, Mummy won’t see it. She won’t acknowledge any of it. I can tell it, from her distant gaze. She’s reordering events in her mind to suit herself, like some algorithm, placing Daddy and herself in the centre and everyone else just floats to the sides.

‘You sat here in this very room,’ I continue, ‘and you said Dan’s “hardly the life and soul, is he?” Well, he is the life and soul.’ My voice gives a sudden wobble. ‘He’s the genuine life and soul. Not flashing around, not showing off … but being there for his family. You’ve underestimated him. I’ve underestimated him.’ Tears suddenly prick my eyes. ‘And I can’t believe how Daddy just took him for granted. Swore at him. Treated him like—’

‘Sylvie, enough of this!’ snaps Mummy, cutting me off. ‘You’re overreacting. Dan is very lucky to have married into this family, very lucky indeed.’

‘What?’ I stare at her, not sure I heard that right. ‘What?’

‘Your father was a wonderful, generous, remarkable man. Think what he achieved. He would be distraught to hear you talking of him this way!’

‘Well, too bad!’ I explode. ‘And what do you mean, Dan’s lucky? He hasn’t touched a penny of my family money, he’s provided for me and the girls, he’s put up with watching that bloody wedding DVD every time we come here, watching Daddy steal the show … Lucky? You and Daddy were lucky to gain such a fantastic son-in-law! Did you ever think of that?’

I break off, panting. I’m starting to lose control of myself. I don’t know what I’m going to say next. But I don’t care.

‘Don’t speak about your father like that!’ Mummy’s voice rockets shrilly through the room. ‘Do you know how much he loved you? Do you know how proud he was of you?’

‘If he’d loved me, he would have respected the man I love! He would have treated Dan like a proper family member, not like some … underling! He wouldn’t have lied about my imaginary friend because it was convenient for him!’ I stare at Mummy, my breath suddenly caught, my thoughts assembling themselves into a pattern which makes horrible sense. ‘I’m not even sure he loved me as a person in my own right. He loved me as a reflection of him. As part of the Marcus Lowe show. The princess to his king. But I’m me. I’m Sylvie.’

As I speak, I glance into one of Mummy’s gilt-framed mirrors, and see my reflection. My waist-length blonde hair, as girlish and wavy and princesslike as ever. It was Daddy who loved my hair. Daddy who stopped me cutting it.

Do I even like long hair?

Does long hair even suit me?

For a few moments I just stare at myself, barely breathing. Then, feeling heady and unreal, I walk to Mummy’s writing desk and reach for the handmade scissors I bought her for Christmas one year. I grab my hair with one hand and start to cut.

I’ve never felt so empowered in my life. In my life.

‘Sylvie?’ Mummy inhales in horror. ‘Sylvie. Sylvie!’ Her voice rises to a hysterical shriek. ‘What are you doing?’

I pause, my hand mid-snip, a length of blonde hair already on the floor. I look at it dispassionately, then raise my head to meet her eyes.

‘I’m growing up.’