Surprise Me
Page 42
‘Of course not!’ she says airily. ‘I’ve seen your boobs before, haven’t I?’
‘Have you?’
‘Well, haven’t I?’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘Out shopping or something? Glimpsed them in the changing room?’
I’m fairly sure Tilda hasn’t glimpsed my boobs in the changing room. And I’m still not comfortable about this idea. I mean, I’m not prudish. I’m not. Really. It’s just …
‘Are you uncomfortable?’ Tilda peers at me as though the thought is just dawning on her.
‘Well …’ I shrug awkwardly.
‘Well, how about I show you mine? Fair’s fair.’ I gape, stunned, as she whips up her top and unclasps her front-fastening bra, exposing two quite large veiny breasts. ‘Ghastly, aren’t they?’ she adds dispassionately. ‘I breastfed Toby for two years, you know, like the idiot I was. No wonder he won’t leave home.’
I’m not sure what to reply. Or where to look. Do I say, ‘They’re lovely’? What do you say about your friend’s breasts? The truth is, they’re not lovely in a conventional sense, but they’re lovely because they look exactly like Tilda. Comforting and voluminous and Tilda-ish.
Luckily she doesn’t seem to require an answer. She fastens her bra up again, drops down her shirt and grins. ‘OK, sexy Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Your turn.’
And suddenly I feel stupid for even hesitating. This is Tilda. They’re just boobs, for God’s sake.
‘OK!’ I grab the corset. ‘Let’s do it!’
‘I’m going to get my extra pack of filters,’ says Tilda. ‘Be back in a moment.’
I quickly strip off the bra I’m wearing, fit the satin corset around me and cinch it so tight I can hardly breathe. I put on my highest stripper heels, drape the pearls around my neck and survey myself in the mirror. I have to say, this corset is very flattering. I actually look quite hot. My boobs are … well, they’re OK. Bearing in mind what they’ve done. Still perkyish. As I hear Tilda returning, I sashay to the door.
‘So what do you think of this?’ I say, and fling it open, one hand on my hip.
Toby is standing in front of me. In the split second before I can react, I see his eyes fix on my nipples and his pupils dilate and his jaw slacken.
‘Argh!’ I hear myself scream before I realize I’m doing it. ‘Argh! Sorry!’ I clutch my hands over my naked breasts, which probably looks exactly like a boudoir shot.
A hoarse sound is coming from Toby, too. ‘Oh God!’ He sounds even more aghast than I do, and puts a hand up to shield his eyes. ‘Sylvie, I’m sorry! Argh! Mum …’
‘Toby!’ Tilda comes into the hall, scolding him. She tosses me a pashmina from the banister and I hastily wrap it round myself. ‘What are you doing back? I told you Sylvie was coming over!’
‘I thought you were just going to drink wine, like you normally do!’ Toby retorts defensively. ‘Not …’ He peers past me. ‘Are you taking photos?’
‘Don’t tell Dan,’ I blurt out.
‘Right.’ His eyes drift down to my stripper heels and back up again. ‘Right.’
This is mortifying. I have never felt more like a tragic suburban wife, desperately trying to keep her husband interested because otherwise he’ll shag his secretary, in fact he probably has done already and guess what, she only wears his boxer shorts to bed, but then, she’s twenty-one and a natural 34D.
(OK, that was a really unhelpful train of thought.)
‘Anyway!’ I say, in brittle tones. ‘So. Um. We’re pretty much finished up, aren’t we, Tilda? Nice to see you, Toby.’
‘Nice to see you too, Sylvie,’ says Toby politely. ‘Oh, and I got your email about your website. What kind of CMS were you thinking of?’
‘CMS?’ I echo blankly.
‘Content management system? Because you’ll need to think about scalability, plug-ins, e-commerce … Do you know what kind of functionality you’re after?’
‘You know, maybe we should discuss this another time?’ I say in a shrill voice. Like, when I’ve got clothes on? ‘That would be great.’
‘No problem,’ says Toby easily. ‘Any time.’
He thuds upstairs and Tilda and I glance at each other. Suddenly Tilda makes an exploding noise, clutches at her mouth and starts jiggling with suppressed laughter.
‘You’ve got to admit,’ she says, when she’s regained control of herself. ‘It’s quite funny.’
‘No it’s not!’ I say reproachfully. ‘I’m traumatized! Toby’s traumatized! We’ll all have to have therapy after this!’
‘Oh, Sylvie.’ Tilda gives a final gurgle. ‘Don’t be traumatized. And as for Toby, it’s good for him to see that the older generation still has a bit of oomph. Come on, let’s take a picture of you in that corset. You look great,’ she adds.
‘No.’ I wrap the pashmina more tightly around me, feeling deflated. ‘I’m not in the mood any more. I feel old and stupid and … you know. Desperate.’
Tilda’s silent for a moment, surveying me with her shrewd, kind eyes.
‘Go home,’ she says. ‘Sylvie, you don’t need a book of boudoir photos. I’m a crap photographer, anyway.’
‘No you’re not,’ I begin politely, but Tilda makes a snorting sound.
‘I could not have made you look more terrible if I’d tried! And why take pictures anyway? Just go home, wearing that.’ She nods at me. ‘Believe me, if that doesn’t make Dan’s day there’s something wrong with him.’
I glance towards the party wall and imagine Dan on the other side of it, eating his single salmon fillet, watching sports on the kitchen telly, believing sincerely that Tilda and I are discussing Flaubert.
‘You’re right.’ I feel a sudden surge of optimism and adrenaline. ‘You’re right!’
Suddenly this whole endeavour seems artificial and weird and kind of too much.
‘Leave all your stuff here,’ says Tilda. ‘Get it tomorrow.’ She hands me my handbag. ‘If I were you, I’d head home right now in that pashmina, peel it off and ravish Dan. I’ll turn up the TV loud,’ she adds with a wink. ‘We won’t hear anything.’
Dan is sitting at the kitchen table as I enter, exactly as I pictured him. Discarded plate with salmon skin. Football on. Beer open. Feet up on a chair. If Vermeer had been around, he could have made a perfect study of him: Man with Wife at Book Club.
‘Hi.’ He looks up with an absent smile. ‘You’re home early.’
I smile back. ‘We wrapped it up. There’s only so much you can say about Flaubert.’
‘Mmm.’ His attention shifts back towards the screen and he takes a slug of beer.
Isn’t he going to say, ‘Why are you dressed only in a pashmina and high heels?’
Clearly not. Clearly he thinks it’s a dress.
‘Dan.’ I plant myself in his field of vision and start to unwrap the pashmina in my most tantalizing, boudoir-photo style.
‘Come on …’
I don’t believe it. He’s peering around me at the screen, as if I’m some annoying obstacle, because something far more exciting is obviously happening on the football pitch. ‘Come on!’ He clenches a fist. ‘Come on!’
‘Have you?’
‘Well, haven’t I?’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘Out shopping or something? Glimpsed them in the changing room?’
I’m fairly sure Tilda hasn’t glimpsed my boobs in the changing room. And I’m still not comfortable about this idea. I mean, I’m not prudish. I’m not. Really. It’s just …
‘Are you uncomfortable?’ Tilda peers at me as though the thought is just dawning on her.
‘Well …’ I shrug awkwardly.
‘Well, how about I show you mine? Fair’s fair.’ I gape, stunned, as she whips up her top and unclasps her front-fastening bra, exposing two quite large veiny breasts. ‘Ghastly, aren’t they?’ she adds dispassionately. ‘I breastfed Toby for two years, you know, like the idiot I was. No wonder he won’t leave home.’
I’m not sure what to reply. Or where to look. Do I say, ‘They’re lovely’? What do you say about your friend’s breasts? The truth is, they’re not lovely in a conventional sense, but they’re lovely because they look exactly like Tilda. Comforting and voluminous and Tilda-ish.
Luckily she doesn’t seem to require an answer. She fastens her bra up again, drops down her shirt and grins. ‘OK, sexy Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Your turn.’
And suddenly I feel stupid for even hesitating. This is Tilda. They’re just boobs, for God’s sake.
‘OK!’ I grab the corset. ‘Let’s do it!’
‘I’m going to get my extra pack of filters,’ says Tilda. ‘Be back in a moment.’
I quickly strip off the bra I’m wearing, fit the satin corset around me and cinch it so tight I can hardly breathe. I put on my highest stripper heels, drape the pearls around my neck and survey myself in the mirror. I have to say, this corset is very flattering. I actually look quite hot. My boobs are … well, they’re OK. Bearing in mind what they’ve done. Still perkyish. As I hear Tilda returning, I sashay to the door.
‘So what do you think of this?’ I say, and fling it open, one hand on my hip.
Toby is standing in front of me. In the split second before I can react, I see his eyes fix on my nipples and his pupils dilate and his jaw slacken.
‘Argh!’ I hear myself scream before I realize I’m doing it. ‘Argh! Sorry!’ I clutch my hands over my naked breasts, which probably looks exactly like a boudoir shot.
A hoarse sound is coming from Toby, too. ‘Oh God!’ He sounds even more aghast than I do, and puts a hand up to shield his eyes. ‘Sylvie, I’m sorry! Argh! Mum …’
‘Toby!’ Tilda comes into the hall, scolding him. She tosses me a pashmina from the banister and I hastily wrap it round myself. ‘What are you doing back? I told you Sylvie was coming over!’
‘I thought you were just going to drink wine, like you normally do!’ Toby retorts defensively. ‘Not …’ He peers past me. ‘Are you taking photos?’
‘Don’t tell Dan,’ I blurt out.
‘Right.’ His eyes drift down to my stripper heels and back up again. ‘Right.’
This is mortifying. I have never felt more like a tragic suburban wife, desperately trying to keep her husband interested because otherwise he’ll shag his secretary, in fact he probably has done already and guess what, she only wears his boxer shorts to bed, but then, she’s twenty-one and a natural 34D.
(OK, that was a really unhelpful train of thought.)
‘Anyway!’ I say, in brittle tones. ‘So. Um. We’re pretty much finished up, aren’t we, Tilda? Nice to see you, Toby.’
‘Nice to see you too, Sylvie,’ says Toby politely. ‘Oh, and I got your email about your website. What kind of CMS were you thinking of?’
‘CMS?’ I echo blankly.
‘Content management system? Because you’ll need to think about scalability, plug-ins, e-commerce … Do you know what kind of functionality you’re after?’
‘You know, maybe we should discuss this another time?’ I say in a shrill voice. Like, when I’ve got clothes on? ‘That would be great.’
‘No problem,’ says Toby easily. ‘Any time.’
He thuds upstairs and Tilda and I glance at each other. Suddenly Tilda makes an exploding noise, clutches at her mouth and starts jiggling with suppressed laughter.
‘You’ve got to admit,’ she says, when she’s regained control of herself. ‘It’s quite funny.’
‘No it’s not!’ I say reproachfully. ‘I’m traumatized! Toby’s traumatized! We’ll all have to have therapy after this!’
‘Oh, Sylvie.’ Tilda gives a final gurgle. ‘Don’t be traumatized. And as for Toby, it’s good for him to see that the older generation still has a bit of oomph. Come on, let’s take a picture of you in that corset. You look great,’ she adds.
‘No.’ I wrap the pashmina more tightly around me, feeling deflated. ‘I’m not in the mood any more. I feel old and stupid and … you know. Desperate.’
Tilda’s silent for a moment, surveying me with her shrewd, kind eyes.
‘Go home,’ she says. ‘Sylvie, you don’t need a book of boudoir photos. I’m a crap photographer, anyway.’
‘No you’re not,’ I begin politely, but Tilda makes a snorting sound.
‘I could not have made you look more terrible if I’d tried! And why take pictures anyway? Just go home, wearing that.’ She nods at me. ‘Believe me, if that doesn’t make Dan’s day there’s something wrong with him.’
I glance towards the party wall and imagine Dan on the other side of it, eating his single salmon fillet, watching sports on the kitchen telly, believing sincerely that Tilda and I are discussing Flaubert.
‘You’re right.’ I feel a sudden surge of optimism and adrenaline. ‘You’re right!’
Suddenly this whole endeavour seems artificial and weird and kind of too much.
‘Leave all your stuff here,’ says Tilda. ‘Get it tomorrow.’ She hands me my handbag. ‘If I were you, I’d head home right now in that pashmina, peel it off and ravish Dan. I’ll turn up the TV loud,’ she adds with a wink. ‘We won’t hear anything.’
Dan is sitting at the kitchen table as I enter, exactly as I pictured him. Discarded plate with salmon skin. Football on. Beer open. Feet up on a chair. If Vermeer had been around, he could have made a perfect study of him: Man with Wife at Book Club.
‘Hi.’ He looks up with an absent smile. ‘You’re home early.’
I smile back. ‘We wrapped it up. There’s only so much you can say about Flaubert.’
‘Mmm.’ His attention shifts back towards the screen and he takes a slug of beer.
Isn’t he going to say, ‘Why are you dressed only in a pashmina and high heels?’
Clearly not. Clearly he thinks it’s a dress.
‘Dan.’ I plant myself in his field of vision and start to unwrap the pashmina in my most tantalizing, boudoir-photo style.
‘Come on …’
I don’t believe it. He’s peering around me at the screen, as if I’m some annoying obstacle, because something far more exciting is obviously happening on the football pitch. ‘Come on!’ He clenches a fist. ‘Come on!’
