Surprise Me
Page 51
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.)
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.)
