Surprise Me
Page 35
Whenever I spend time with Dan and Mummy, my sympathies constantly swing back and forth between the two, like some wild pendulum. And right now, they’re with Mummy. Why can’t Dan just let Mummy reminisce? What does it matter if she’s not 100 per cent accurate? So what if she romanticizes her dead husband?
‘That’s lovely, Mummy,’ I say, ignoring Dan. I squeeze her hand, simultaneously eyeing her warily to see if she’s going to start blinking. But although her voice is a bit trembly, she seems composed.
‘Do you remember the time he took us to Greece?’ she says, her eyes lost in memory. ‘You were quite little.’
‘Of course I do!’ I turn to Dan. ‘It was incredible. Daddy chartered a yacht and we sailed round the coastline. Every night we’d have these fantastic candle-lit meals on the beach. Crabs … lobster …’
‘He invented a new cocktail every night,’ adds Mummy dreamily.
‘Sounds fantastic,’ says Dan tonelessly.
Mummy blinks at him, as though coming to. ‘Where are you going on holiday this year?’
‘Lake District,’ I say. ‘Self-catering.’
‘Lovely.’ Mummy gives a distant smile, and I sigh inwardly. I know she doesn’t mean to look disparaging, but she doesn’t really get our life. She doesn’t understand living on a budget, or keeping the girls grounded, or taking pleasure in simple things. When I showed her the brochure for a French campsite we went to once, she blanched and said, ‘But, darling, why don’t you hire a lovely villa in Provence?’
(If I’d said, ‘Because of the money,’ she’d have said, ‘But darling, I’ll give you the money!’ And then Dan would have got all prickly. So I don’t ever do that.)
‘Oh, look.’ Mummy points at the screen. ‘Daddy’s about to make that funny little joke before you go into the church. Your father was always so witty,’ she adds wistfully. ‘Everyone said his speech made the reception, absolutely made it.’
I feel a movement beside me on the sofa, and suddenly Dan has risen to his feet.
‘Sorry,’ he says, heading to the door without meeting my eye. ‘There’s an urgent work call I should make. I forgot earlier.’
Yeah, right. I kind of don’t blame him. But I kind of do blame him. Couldn’t he put up with it for once?
‘That’s fine.’ I try to sound pleasant, as though I’m not aware he’s just totally invented this call. ‘See you in a moment.’
Dan leaves the room and Mummy looks over at me.
‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘Poor Dan seems a little tense. I wonder why?’
This is how she often refers to him: ‘poor Dan’. And she sounds so patronizing – even though she doesn’t mean to – that my pendulum instantly swings the other way. I must stick up for Dan. Because he has a point.
‘I think he feels … he thinks …’ I trail off, and take a deep breath. I’m going to tackle this, once and for all. ‘Mummy, have you ever noticed that our wedding DVD is quite focused on, well, Daddy?’
Mummy blinks at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Compared to … other people.’
‘But he was the father of the bride.’ Mummy still looks perplexed.
‘Yes,’ I press on, feeling hot and bothered, ‘but there’s more of Daddy on the DVD than there is of Dan! And it’s his wedding!’
‘Oh.’ Mummy’s eyes widen. ‘Oh, I see! Is that why poor Dan is so prickly?’
‘He’s not prickly,’ I say, feeling uncomfortable. ‘You’ve got to understand his point of view.’
‘I do not,’ says Mummy emphatically. ‘The DVD represents the spirit of the wedding perfectly, and, like it or not, your father was the centre of the party. Naturally the videographers chose to focus on the most entertaining character present. Poor Dan is a lovely chap, you know I love him to bits, but he’s hardly the life and soul, is he?’
‘Yes he is!’ I retort hotly, although I know exactly what she means. Dan is really funny and entertaining when you get to know him, but he’s not out there. He’s not going to sweep three women on to the dance floor all at once while everyone cheers, like Daddy did.
‘What a ridiculous thing to mind about,’ Mummy says with just a trace of disdain in her voice. ‘But then, poor Dan is a little sensitive, especially about Marcus and all his achievements.’ She sighs. ‘Although … can one blame him?’ She’s silent for a moment, and her face becomes softer and more distant. ‘What you have to remember, Sylvie, is that your father was a remarkable man, and we were lucky to have him.’
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know we were.’
‘Of course, Dan has many fine attributes too,’ she adds after a pause. ‘He’s very … loyal.’ I know she’s making an effort to be nice, although clearly in her mind ‘loyal’ ranks several fathoms below ‘remarkable’.
We lapse into silence as the DVD plays on and a lump grows in my throat as I watch Daddy on screen, watching me marrying Dan. His face is noble and dignified. A shaft of light is catching his hair in just the right place. Then he glances at the camera and winks in that way he had.
And even though I’ve seen this DVD so many times before, I feel a sudden fresh, raw hurt. All my life, Daddy used to wink at me. At school concerts, at boring dinners, as he left the room after saying goodnight. And I know that doesn’t sound much – anyone can wink – but Daddy’s wink was special. It was like a shot in the arm. An instant spirit-lift.
My inner pendulum has stilled. I’m gazing speechlessly at the screen. Everything has fallen away to the sides of my brain, leaving only the headline news: my father died and we’ll never get him back. Everything else is irrelevant.
EIGHT
Next morning, my pendulum is haywire again. In fact, everything’s bloody haywire. I can’t possibly contemplate being married to Dan for another sixty-eight years. The last sixty-eight minutes have been bad enough.
I don’t know what got under his skin at Mummy’s place yesterday. Ever since, he’s been morose and broody and picky and just … argh. Last night in the car, on the way home, he started on a thing about how my family harks back to the past too much and it’s not good for the girls to keep dwelling. He even said did I have to mention my imaginary friend? What the hell is wrong with me mentioning my imaginary friend?
I know what Dan worries about, even though he won’t admit it. He worries that I’m unstable. Or potentially unstable. Just because I went and stood outside Gary Butler’s house that one time. And put one tiny little letter through his letter box. (Which, OK, I’ll admit I shouldn’t have done.) But the point is, that was a special case. I was in the throes of grief when I had my ‘episode’ or whatever we call it.
Whereas my invention of Lynn was long ago, when I was a child, and it was normal and healthy, because I’ve googled it, as he well knows, and what is his bloody problem?
Which is a basic summary of how I put it to him. Only I was hissing under my breath so that the girls wouldn’t hear, and I’m not sure he heard all my nuanced arguments.
Then I woke up this morning, thinking: Never mind, new day, new start, and determined to be cheerful. I even said hello to the snake, over my shoulder, with my eyes shut. But Dan seemed even more mired in gloom. He sat silently at breakfast, scrolling through his phone and then suddenly said, ‘You know, we’ve had an offer to expand into Europe.’
‘That’s lovely, Mummy,’ I say, ignoring Dan. I squeeze her hand, simultaneously eyeing her warily to see if she’s going to start blinking. But although her voice is a bit trembly, she seems composed.
‘Do you remember the time he took us to Greece?’ she says, her eyes lost in memory. ‘You were quite little.’
‘Of course I do!’ I turn to Dan. ‘It was incredible. Daddy chartered a yacht and we sailed round the coastline. Every night we’d have these fantastic candle-lit meals on the beach. Crabs … lobster …’
‘He invented a new cocktail every night,’ adds Mummy dreamily.
‘Sounds fantastic,’ says Dan tonelessly.
Mummy blinks at him, as though coming to. ‘Where are you going on holiday this year?’
‘Lake District,’ I say. ‘Self-catering.’
‘Lovely.’ Mummy gives a distant smile, and I sigh inwardly. I know she doesn’t mean to look disparaging, but she doesn’t really get our life. She doesn’t understand living on a budget, or keeping the girls grounded, or taking pleasure in simple things. When I showed her the brochure for a French campsite we went to once, she blanched and said, ‘But, darling, why don’t you hire a lovely villa in Provence?’
(If I’d said, ‘Because of the money,’ she’d have said, ‘But darling, I’ll give you the money!’ And then Dan would have got all prickly. So I don’t ever do that.)
‘Oh, look.’ Mummy points at the screen. ‘Daddy’s about to make that funny little joke before you go into the church. Your father was always so witty,’ she adds wistfully. ‘Everyone said his speech made the reception, absolutely made it.’
I feel a movement beside me on the sofa, and suddenly Dan has risen to his feet.
‘Sorry,’ he says, heading to the door without meeting my eye. ‘There’s an urgent work call I should make. I forgot earlier.’
Yeah, right. I kind of don’t blame him. But I kind of do blame him. Couldn’t he put up with it for once?
‘That’s fine.’ I try to sound pleasant, as though I’m not aware he’s just totally invented this call. ‘See you in a moment.’
Dan leaves the room and Mummy looks over at me.
‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘Poor Dan seems a little tense. I wonder why?’
This is how she often refers to him: ‘poor Dan’. And she sounds so patronizing – even though she doesn’t mean to – that my pendulum instantly swings the other way. I must stick up for Dan. Because he has a point.
‘I think he feels … he thinks …’ I trail off, and take a deep breath. I’m going to tackle this, once and for all. ‘Mummy, have you ever noticed that our wedding DVD is quite focused on, well, Daddy?’
Mummy blinks at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Compared to … other people.’
‘But he was the father of the bride.’ Mummy still looks perplexed.
‘Yes,’ I press on, feeling hot and bothered, ‘but there’s more of Daddy on the DVD than there is of Dan! And it’s his wedding!’
‘Oh.’ Mummy’s eyes widen. ‘Oh, I see! Is that why poor Dan is so prickly?’
‘He’s not prickly,’ I say, feeling uncomfortable. ‘You’ve got to understand his point of view.’
‘I do not,’ says Mummy emphatically. ‘The DVD represents the spirit of the wedding perfectly, and, like it or not, your father was the centre of the party. Naturally the videographers chose to focus on the most entertaining character present. Poor Dan is a lovely chap, you know I love him to bits, but he’s hardly the life and soul, is he?’
‘Yes he is!’ I retort hotly, although I know exactly what she means. Dan is really funny and entertaining when you get to know him, but he’s not out there. He’s not going to sweep three women on to the dance floor all at once while everyone cheers, like Daddy did.
‘What a ridiculous thing to mind about,’ Mummy says with just a trace of disdain in her voice. ‘But then, poor Dan is a little sensitive, especially about Marcus and all his achievements.’ She sighs. ‘Although … can one blame him?’ She’s silent for a moment, and her face becomes softer and more distant. ‘What you have to remember, Sylvie, is that your father was a remarkable man, and we were lucky to have him.’
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know we were.’
‘Of course, Dan has many fine attributes too,’ she adds after a pause. ‘He’s very … loyal.’ I know she’s making an effort to be nice, although clearly in her mind ‘loyal’ ranks several fathoms below ‘remarkable’.
We lapse into silence as the DVD plays on and a lump grows in my throat as I watch Daddy on screen, watching me marrying Dan. His face is noble and dignified. A shaft of light is catching his hair in just the right place. Then he glances at the camera and winks in that way he had.
And even though I’ve seen this DVD so many times before, I feel a sudden fresh, raw hurt. All my life, Daddy used to wink at me. At school concerts, at boring dinners, as he left the room after saying goodnight. And I know that doesn’t sound much – anyone can wink – but Daddy’s wink was special. It was like a shot in the arm. An instant spirit-lift.
My inner pendulum has stilled. I’m gazing speechlessly at the screen. Everything has fallen away to the sides of my brain, leaving only the headline news: my father died and we’ll never get him back. Everything else is irrelevant.
EIGHT
Next morning, my pendulum is haywire again. In fact, everything’s bloody haywire. I can’t possibly contemplate being married to Dan for another sixty-eight years. The last sixty-eight minutes have been bad enough.
I don’t know what got under his skin at Mummy’s place yesterday. Ever since, he’s been morose and broody and picky and just … argh. Last night in the car, on the way home, he started on a thing about how my family harks back to the past too much and it’s not good for the girls to keep dwelling. He even said did I have to mention my imaginary friend? What the hell is wrong with me mentioning my imaginary friend?
I know what Dan worries about, even though he won’t admit it. He worries that I’m unstable. Or potentially unstable. Just because I went and stood outside Gary Butler’s house that one time. And put one tiny little letter through his letter box. (Which, OK, I’ll admit I shouldn’t have done.) But the point is, that was a special case. I was in the throes of grief when I had my ‘episode’ or whatever we call it.
Whereas my invention of Lynn was long ago, when I was a child, and it was normal and healthy, because I’ve googled it, as he well knows, and what is his bloody problem?
Which is a basic summary of how I put it to him. Only I was hissing under my breath so that the girls wouldn’t hear, and I’m not sure he heard all my nuanced arguments.
Then I woke up this morning, thinking: Never mind, new day, new start, and determined to be cheerful. I even said hello to the snake, over my shoulder, with my eyes shut. But Dan seemed even more mired in gloom. He sat silently at breakfast, scrolling through his phone and then suddenly said, ‘You know, we’ve had an offer to expand into Europe.’
