Surprise Me
Page 18
‘By the way, Sylvie, I saw a piece about your father in the local paper,’ says Simon in an undertone. ‘About his fundraising achievements. You must be very proud.’
‘I am.’ I beam gratefully at him. ‘I’m very proud.’
My father spent a lot of time fundraising for liver cancer. It was his big thing. And being Daddy the super-networker, he did it spectacularly. He launched an annual ball at the Dorchester and managed to corral a load of celebrities into coming along, and even got minor royalty involved.
‘It said they’re naming a scanner suite at the New London Hospital after him?’
I nod. ‘They are. It’s amazing. They’re putting on this big opening ceremony, in a couple of weeks. Sinead Brook is unveiling the plaque, you know, the newsreader? It’s such an honour. I’m making a speech, actually.’
I must finish writing it, it occurs to me. I keep talking confidently about the speech I’m going to make, but all I’ve actually written so far is, ‘My lady mayoress, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to what is a very special occasion.’
‘Well, it sounds like he was pretty amazing,’ says Simon. ‘To raise all that money, mobilize people year after year …’
‘He also climbed Everest, twice.’ I nod eagerly. ‘And he competed in the Fastnet sailing race. He raised loads doing that.’
Simon raises his eyebrows. ‘Wow. Impressive.’
‘His best friend from school died of liver cancer,’ I say simply. ‘He always wanted to do something for people with that disease. No one at his company was allowed to raise funds for anything else!’
I laugh as though I’m joking, although it’s not really a joke. Daddy could be quite … what’s the word? Intransigent. Like the time I suggested cutting my hair, aged thirteen. He got angry that I’d even suggested it. He kept saying, ‘Your hair is your glory, Sylvie, your glory.’ And actually he was right. I would have regretted it, probably.
Instinctively, I run a hand through my long, blonde waves. I could never cut it now. I’d feel like I was betraying him.
‘You must miss him,’ says Simon.
‘I do. I really do.’ I can feel tears brightening my eyes, but manage to keep my smile going. I take a sip of wine – then I can’t help glancing over at Dan. Sure enough, he’s looking tentery. His jaw has tightened. There are frown lines on his brow. I can tell he’s waiting for the conversation about my father to pass, like you might wait for a cloud to move.
For God’s sake, is he that insecure? The thought shoots through my brain before I can stop it. Which I know is unfair. My father was always so high-octane. So impressive. It must be hard if you’re his son-in-law and keep hearing people raving about him, and you’re just …
No. Stop. I don’t mean just. Dan isn’t just anything.
But compared to Daddy …
OK, let’s be absolutely honest. Here in the privacy of my own mind, where no one else can hear, I can say it: To the outside world, Dan isn’t in the same league as my father. He doesn’t have the gloss, the money, the stature, the charitable achievements.
And I don’t want him to be. I love Dan exactly as he is. I really do. But couldn’t he just once acknowledge that my father did have these amazing qualities – and realize that this fact doesn’t threaten him?
He reacts like clockwork, every time. And now that the subject’s safely passed, I know he’ll relax and lean back in his chair and stretch up with his arms and make that little yawning-yelping sound …
I watch in slight disbelief as Dan does exactly that. Then he sips his wine, just like I knew he would. Then he reaches for a peanut, just like I knew he would.
Earlier on, he ordered a lamb burger for supper, just like I knew he would. He asked them to hold the mayo, just like I knew he would, and joked with the barman, ‘Is it genuine London lamb?’ just like I knew he would.
OK, I’m scaring myself, here. I may not know the capital of Latvia or how many feet there are in a fathom, but I know everything about Dan.
I know what he thinks and what he cares about and what his habits are. I even know what he’s about to do next, right here, sitting in this pub. He’s going to ask Toby about his work, which he does every time we see him. I know it, I know it, I know it …
‘So, Toby,’ says Dan pleasantly. ‘How’s the start-up going?’
Argh! Oh my God. I’m omniscient.
Something weird is happening in my head. I don’t know if it’s the Chardonnay or this bloody torturous quiz or my unsettling day … but I’m losing my grip on reality. It’s as though the chatter and laughter of the pub is receding. The lights are dimming. I’m staring at Dan with a kind of tunnel vision, a realization, an epiphany.
We know too much.
This is the problem. This is the issue. I know everything about my husband. Everything! I can read his mind. I can predict him. I can order food for him. I have shorthand conversations with him and never once does he have to ask, ‘What do you mean by that?’ He already knows.
We’re living in marital Groundhog Day. No wonder we can’t face our endless monotonous future together. Who wants sixty-eight more years with someone who always puts his shoes back in the same place, night after night after night?
(Actually, I’m not sure what else he would do with his shoes. I certainly don’t want him leaving them all over the place. So that’s maybe not the best example. But anyway, the point still stands.)
I take a swig of Chardonnay, my mind swirling around to a conclusion. Because it’s actually rather easy. We need surprises. That’s what we need. Surprises. We need to be jolted and entertained and challenged with lots of little surprises. And then the next sixty-eight years will whizz by. Yes. This is it!
I glance over at Dan, who is chatting with Toby, oblivious of my thoughts. He looks a bit careworn, it occurs to me. He looks tired. He needs something to ginger him up, something to make him smile, or even laugh. Something out of the ordinary. Something fun. Or romantic.
Hmm. What?
It’s too late to organize a strip-o-gram (which, by the way, he’d hate). But can’t I do something? Right now? Something to shake us out of our malaise? I take another gulp of Chardonnay, and then the answer hits me. Oh my God, brilliant. Simple but brilliant, as all the best plans are.
I pull a piece of paper towards me, and start to compose a little love poem.
You may be surprised.
Don’t be.
I want you and I always will.
Let’s find a moment.
Just be us.
Just be the two of us.
Just be
I pause, peering down at my sheet. I’m running out of steam. I always was a bit crap at poetry. How can I end it?
Just be ourselves, I write finally. I draw a love heart and some kisses for good measure. Then I fold the whole thing up into a smallish oblong.
Now to deliver it. I wait until Dan’s looking the other way, then slip it into the pocket of his suit jacket, which is hanging on the back of his chair. He’ll find it later, and he’ll wonder what it is and slowly unfold it, and at first he won’t understand, but then his heart will lift.
Well, maybe it’ll lift.
Well, it would probably have lifted more if I was better at poetry, but so what, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
‘Have a toffee,’ says Toby, offering a bag to me. ‘I made them myself. They’re awesome.’
‘I am.’ I beam gratefully at him. ‘I’m very proud.’
My father spent a lot of time fundraising for liver cancer. It was his big thing. And being Daddy the super-networker, he did it spectacularly. He launched an annual ball at the Dorchester and managed to corral a load of celebrities into coming along, and even got minor royalty involved.
‘It said they’re naming a scanner suite at the New London Hospital after him?’
I nod. ‘They are. It’s amazing. They’re putting on this big opening ceremony, in a couple of weeks. Sinead Brook is unveiling the plaque, you know, the newsreader? It’s such an honour. I’m making a speech, actually.’
I must finish writing it, it occurs to me. I keep talking confidently about the speech I’m going to make, but all I’ve actually written so far is, ‘My lady mayoress, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to what is a very special occasion.’
‘Well, it sounds like he was pretty amazing,’ says Simon. ‘To raise all that money, mobilize people year after year …’
‘He also climbed Everest, twice.’ I nod eagerly. ‘And he competed in the Fastnet sailing race. He raised loads doing that.’
Simon raises his eyebrows. ‘Wow. Impressive.’
‘His best friend from school died of liver cancer,’ I say simply. ‘He always wanted to do something for people with that disease. No one at his company was allowed to raise funds for anything else!’
I laugh as though I’m joking, although it’s not really a joke. Daddy could be quite … what’s the word? Intransigent. Like the time I suggested cutting my hair, aged thirteen. He got angry that I’d even suggested it. He kept saying, ‘Your hair is your glory, Sylvie, your glory.’ And actually he was right. I would have regretted it, probably.
Instinctively, I run a hand through my long, blonde waves. I could never cut it now. I’d feel like I was betraying him.
‘You must miss him,’ says Simon.
‘I do. I really do.’ I can feel tears brightening my eyes, but manage to keep my smile going. I take a sip of wine – then I can’t help glancing over at Dan. Sure enough, he’s looking tentery. His jaw has tightened. There are frown lines on his brow. I can tell he’s waiting for the conversation about my father to pass, like you might wait for a cloud to move.
For God’s sake, is he that insecure? The thought shoots through my brain before I can stop it. Which I know is unfair. My father was always so high-octane. So impressive. It must be hard if you’re his son-in-law and keep hearing people raving about him, and you’re just …
No. Stop. I don’t mean just. Dan isn’t just anything.
But compared to Daddy …
OK, let’s be absolutely honest. Here in the privacy of my own mind, where no one else can hear, I can say it: To the outside world, Dan isn’t in the same league as my father. He doesn’t have the gloss, the money, the stature, the charitable achievements.
And I don’t want him to be. I love Dan exactly as he is. I really do. But couldn’t he just once acknowledge that my father did have these amazing qualities – and realize that this fact doesn’t threaten him?
He reacts like clockwork, every time. And now that the subject’s safely passed, I know he’ll relax and lean back in his chair and stretch up with his arms and make that little yawning-yelping sound …
I watch in slight disbelief as Dan does exactly that. Then he sips his wine, just like I knew he would. Then he reaches for a peanut, just like I knew he would.
Earlier on, he ordered a lamb burger for supper, just like I knew he would. He asked them to hold the mayo, just like I knew he would, and joked with the barman, ‘Is it genuine London lamb?’ just like I knew he would.
OK, I’m scaring myself, here. I may not know the capital of Latvia or how many feet there are in a fathom, but I know everything about Dan.
I know what he thinks and what he cares about and what his habits are. I even know what he’s about to do next, right here, sitting in this pub. He’s going to ask Toby about his work, which he does every time we see him. I know it, I know it, I know it …
‘So, Toby,’ says Dan pleasantly. ‘How’s the start-up going?’
Argh! Oh my God. I’m omniscient.
Something weird is happening in my head. I don’t know if it’s the Chardonnay or this bloody torturous quiz or my unsettling day … but I’m losing my grip on reality. It’s as though the chatter and laughter of the pub is receding. The lights are dimming. I’m staring at Dan with a kind of tunnel vision, a realization, an epiphany.
We know too much.
This is the problem. This is the issue. I know everything about my husband. Everything! I can read his mind. I can predict him. I can order food for him. I have shorthand conversations with him and never once does he have to ask, ‘What do you mean by that?’ He already knows.
We’re living in marital Groundhog Day. No wonder we can’t face our endless monotonous future together. Who wants sixty-eight more years with someone who always puts his shoes back in the same place, night after night after night?
(Actually, I’m not sure what else he would do with his shoes. I certainly don’t want him leaving them all over the place. So that’s maybe not the best example. But anyway, the point still stands.)
I take a swig of Chardonnay, my mind swirling around to a conclusion. Because it’s actually rather easy. We need surprises. That’s what we need. Surprises. We need to be jolted and entertained and challenged with lots of little surprises. And then the next sixty-eight years will whizz by. Yes. This is it!
I glance over at Dan, who is chatting with Toby, oblivious of my thoughts. He looks a bit careworn, it occurs to me. He looks tired. He needs something to ginger him up, something to make him smile, or even laugh. Something out of the ordinary. Something fun. Or romantic.
Hmm. What?
It’s too late to organize a strip-o-gram (which, by the way, he’d hate). But can’t I do something? Right now? Something to shake us out of our malaise? I take another gulp of Chardonnay, and then the answer hits me. Oh my God, brilliant. Simple but brilliant, as all the best plans are.
I pull a piece of paper towards me, and start to compose a little love poem.
You may be surprised.
Don’t be.
I want you and I always will.
Let’s find a moment.
Just be us.
Just be the two of us.
Just be
I pause, peering down at my sheet. I’m running out of steam. I always was a bit crap at poetry. How can I end it?
Just be ourselves, I write finally. I draw a love heart and some kisses for good measure. Then I fold the whole thing up into a smallish oblong.
Now to deliver it. I wait until Dan’s looking the other way, then slip it into the pocket of his suit jacket, which is hanging on the back of his chair. He’ll find it later, and he’ll wonder what it is and slowly unfold it, and at first he won’t understand, but then his heart will lift.
Well, maybe it’ll lift.
Well, it would probably have lifted more if I was better at poetry, but so what, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
‘Have a toffee,’ says Toby, offering a bag to me. ‘I made them myself. They’re awesome.’
