Surprise Me
Page 54
It’s more than a handkerchief.
Isn’t it?
Is it?
I pause at a set of traffic lights, my heart thumping and my brows knotted. My hands are clenched around the wheel; my entire body is engaged in this mental process.
OK, here’s the thing, I’m not saying I think he’s having an affair. Yet. What I’m saying is, he’s in that zone. He’s primed. He’s vulnerable. He may not even realize it himself, but he is.
‘Mummy! Mummeee! The cars are hooting!’ Suddenly I’m aware I’m being beeped. Shit. (And trust Tessa to notice, not me.)
I hastily move on, then start looking for a parking space, all thoughts of marriage temporarily swept from my head. Bloody London. It’s impossible to park. It’s impossible to do anything. Why are there so many people on the roads? What are they all doing?
At last I find a spot, three streets away from the school, and hustle the girls along, trailing book bags, recorders and gym kit. As I head through the playground, I wave and smile to various mums I know, all clustered in gossiping groups. They basically fall into three categories, the mums at school. There are the working mums. There are the at-home mums. And there are the exercise-is-their-work mums, who never wear anything except leggings and trainers.
What are their marriages like? I find myself wondering as I survey all the jolly, chatting faces. How many of them are hiding worries under their smiles?
‘Oh, Sylvie!’ calls Jane Moffat, our class rep, as I pass by. ‘Can I put you down for a quiche for the year-group picnic?’
‘Sure,’ I say, absently, before cursing myself. Quiches are vile. Why does anyone want quiche at a picnic anyway? It’s impossible to eat. I’ll email her later and suggest sushi instead, which has the advantage that no one expects you to make sushi.
Tessa and Anna are already at the door of their classroom, which is on the ground floor and opens straight on to the playground. I head over and help them put gym kit bags on to pegs, book bags into the basket and recorders on to the special recorder shelf.
‘Oh, Mrs Winter,’ says Mrs Pickford, their teacher. She’s a gentle, kindly woman with greying hair cut in layers, and a lot of waterfall cardigans in different colours. ‘The girls have been telling us that you have a new snake in the family! How exciting!’
Here’s the thing about five-year-old children: they tell their teachers everything.
‘That’s right!’ I try to look positive. ‘We do indeed have a snake in the family.’
‘We were wondering if you might bring it in for Show and Tell? I’m sure the children would love to see … her, is it?’
‘Maybe,’ I say, after a pause. ‘She’s really more my husband’s thing. He feeds her and everything.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Pickford nods. ‘Well, perhaps you could ask him?’ She hesitates. ‘I mean, it would be safe? It is a safe snake?’
I resist the temptation to answer, ‘No, it’s a ten-foot lethal boa constrictor, that’s why we have it in our family home.’
‘Quite safe,’ I nod reassuringly.
‘Apparently it was a complete surprise?’ Mrs Pickford adds chattily. ‘Tessa told us all that you were quite shocked! I don’t know how I’d react if my husband brought home a snake, out of the blue!’
She gives a little laugh, and I know she’s only making conversation, but I feel flicked on the raw.
‘Well, we have a very strong marriage,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘Very strong and happy. Very stable. We’re in a really good place, actually. We don’t get rocked by stuff like snakes, or other …’ I clear my throat. ‘So.’
As I stop talking I can see a slightly odd look on Mrs Pickford’s face.
Oh God. I am actually losing it.
‘Right,’ she says, her voice a little too bright. ‘Well, let me know about the Show and Tell. Girls, say goodbye to Mummy.’
I hug each of the girls in turn, then walk away, my mind churning. I smile and wave goodbye to the other mums, and I probably look relaxed and jolly, just like them, but inside, the tension is ratcheting up. What I really need, right now, is a distraction.
OK, Toby is definitely a distraction. When I arrive at work, he’s already there, wandering round the hall, peering up the staircase, looking totally incongruous in his shabby black T-shirt.
Thank God he’s here. He’s already cancelled on me twice. Always with a good excuse, but still.
‘Hi, Toby!’ I say, greeting him with a handshake – and just for a moment there’s a weird little frisson between us. The last time I saw Toby, I was half-naked, and I can tell he’s remembering that too, from the way his eyeballs are darting up and down. Then I see him gather himself, and the next instant he’s making a valiant effort at saying, ‘Hello, Sylvie.’
‘Thank you so much for coming by. I usually take the stairs, is that OK?’
‘No problem,’ he says, following me up the staircase two steps at a time. ‘This place is mad! All those suits of armour!’
I nod. ‘They’re great, aren’t they? You should see the basement.’
‘You know, I never knew about this place,’ Toby continues blithely. ‘Never even heard of it. I’ve probably walked past a million times, but I’ve never noticed it, my friends have never noticed it … Like, literally, I didn’t know it existed. If you said “Willoughby House” to me, I’d be, like, “What’s that?”’
Does he have to sound quite so emphatic? Thank God neither Robert nor Mrs Kendrick is in earshot. And also thank God we’ve already commissioned a big ‘Willoughby House Museum’ sign for the exterior of the house. It’s going to be grey painted wood and very tasteful, and it only took us a week of solid discussion to nail Mrs Kendrick on the style and font.
How are we ever going to agree on a whole website redesign?
No. Don’t think like that. Be positive.
‘I’m sure your mum must have mentioned this place to you a few times?’ I suggest. Tilda’s been to loads of events here; she’s very loyal.
‘Yeah, maybe she has,’ he says agreeably. ‘But it never stuck in my mind. It’s not famous, is it? It’s not like the V & A.’
‘Right.’ I try to find a smile. ‘Well, that’s the trouble. That’s the problem we’re trying to solve.’
Clarissa’s out this morning and Robert hasn’t shown up either, so we have the office to ourselves. I show Toby our home page saying Apply in writing and he bursts into laughter.
‘I love that,’ he says, about fifty times. ‘I love that. That is so cool.’ He takes a photo of the home page and shares it with all his techie friends and reads me out all the comments which instantly stream in. And I’m torn between feeling pride that we have something so distinctive and embarrassment that a whole group of tech whizzes are laughing at us.
‘Anyway,’ I say at last. ‘As you see, we’re behind the times. We can’t carry on like this. So … what can we do? What are the possibilities?’
‘Well,’ says Toby vaguely, still laughing at some comment on his phone. ‘There are loads. Depends what you want to achieve. Like, manage a database, an interactive experience, an e-shop, what?’
‘I don’t know!’ I say, my appetite whetted. ‘Show me!’
Isn’t it?
Is it?
I pause at a set of traffic lights, my heart thumping and my brows knotted. My hands are clenched around the wheel; my entire body is engaged in this mental process.
OK, here’s the thing, I’m not saying I think he’s having an affair. Yet. What I’m saying is, he’s in that zone. He’s primed. He’s vulnerable. He may not even realize it himself, but he is.
‘Mummy! Mummeee! The cars are hooting!’ Suddenly I’m aware I’m being beeped. Shit. (And trust Tessa to notice, not me.)
I hastily move on, then start looking for a parking space, all thoughts of marriage temporarily swept from my head. Bloody London. It’s impossible to park. It’s impossible to do anything. Why are there so many people on the roads? What are they all doing?
At last I find a spot, three streets away from the school, and hustle the girls along, trailing book bags, recorders and gym kit. As I head through the playground, I wave and smile to various mums I know, all clustered in gossiping groups. They basically fall into three categories, the mums at school. There are the working mums. There are the at-home mums. And there are the exercise-is-their-work mums, who never wear anything except leggings and trainers.
What are their marriages like? I find myself wondering as I survey all the jolly, chatting faces. How many of them are hiding worries under their smiles?
‘Oh, Sylvie!’ calls Jane Moffat, our class rep, as I pass by. ‘Can I put you down for a quiche for the year-group picnic?’
‘Sure,’ I say, absently, before cursing myself. Quiches are vile. Why does anyone want quiche at a picnic anyway? It’s impossible to eat. I’ll email her later and suggest sushi instead, which has the advantage that no one expects you to make sushi.
Tessa and Anna are already at the door of their classroom, which is on the ground floor and opens straight on to the playground. I head over and help them put gym kit bags on to pegs, book bags into the basket and recorders on to the special recorder shelf.
‘Oh, Mrs Winter,’ says Mrs Pickford, their teacher. She’s a gentle, kindly woman with greying hair cut in layers, and a lot of waterfall cardigans in different colours. ‘The girls have been telling us that you have a new snake in the family! How exciting!’
Here’s the thing about five-year-old children: they tell their teachers everything.
‘That’s right!’ I try to look positive. ‘We do indeed have a snake in the family.’
‘We were wondering if you might bring it in for Show and Tell? I’m sure the children would love to see … her, is it?’
‘Maybe,’ I say, after a pause. ‘She’s really more my husband’s thing. He feeds her and everything.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Pickford nods. ‘Well, perhaps you could ask him?’ She hesitates. ‘I mean, it would be safe? It is a safe snake?’
I resist the temptation to answer, ‘No, it’s a ten-foot lethal boa constrictor, that’s why we have it in our family home.’
‘Quite safe,’ I nod reassuringly.
‘Apparently it was a complete surprise?’ Mrs Pickford adds chattily. ‘Tessa told us all that you were quite shocked! I don’t know how I’d react if my husband brought home a snake, out of the blue!’
She gives a little laugh, and I know she’s only making conversation, but I feel flicked on the raw.
‘Well, we have a very strong marriage,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘Very strong and happy. Very stable. We’re in a really good place, actually. We don’t get rocked by stuff like snakes, or other …’ I clear my throat. ‘So.’
As I stop talking I can see a slightly odd look on Mrs Pickford’s face.
Oh God. I am actually losing it.
‘Right,’ she says, her voice a little too bright. ‘Well, let me know about the Show and Tell. Girls, say goodbye to Mummy.’
I hug each of the girls in turn, then walk away, my mind churning. I smile and wave goodbye to the other mums, and I probably look relaxed and jolly, just like them, but inside, the tension is ratcheting up. What I really need, right now, is a distraction.
OK, Toby is definitely a distraction. When I arrive at work, he’s already there, wandering round the hall, peering up the staircase, looking totally incongruous in his shabby black T-shirt.
Thank God he’s here. He’s already cancelled on me twice. Always with a good excuse, but still.
‘Hi, Toby!’ I say, greeting him with a handshake – and just for a moment there’s a weird little frisson between us. The last time I saw Toby, I was half-naked, and I can tell he’s remembering that too, from the way his eyeballs are darting up and down. Then I see him gather himself, and the next instant he’s making a valiant effort at saying, ‘Hello, Sylvie.’
‘Thank you so much for coming by. I usually take the stairs, is that OK?’
‘No problem,’ he says, following me up the staircase two steps at a time. ‘This place is mad! All those suits of armour!’
I nod. ‘They’re great, aren’t they? You should see the basement.’
‘You know, I never knew about this place,’ Toby continues blithely. ‘Never even heard of it. I’ve probably walked past a million times, but I’ve never noticed it, my friends have never noticed it … Like, literally, I didn’t know it existed. If you said “Willoughby House” to me, I’d be, like, “What’s that?”’
Does he have to sound quite so emphatic? Thank God neither Robert nor Mrs Kendrick is in earshot. And also thank God we’ve already commissioned a big ‘Willoughby House Museum’ sign for the exterior of the house. It’s going to be grey painted wood and very tasteful, and it only took us a week of solid discussion to nail Mrs Kendrick on the style and font.
How are we ever going to agree on a whole website redesign?
No. Don’t think like that. Be positive.
‘I’m sure your mum must have mentioned this place to you a few times?’ I suggest. Tilda’s been to loads of events here; she’s very loyal.
‘Yeah, maybe she has,’ he says agreeably. ‘But it never stuck in my mind. It’s not famous, is it? It’s not like the V & A.’
‘Right.’ I try to find a smile. ‘Well, that’s the trouble. That’s the problem we’re trying to solve.’
Clarissa’s out this morning and Robert hasn’t shown up either, so we have the office to ourselves. I show Toby our home page saying Apply in writing and he bursts into laughter.
‘I love that,’ he says, about fifty times. ‘I love that. That is so cool.’ He takes a photo of the home page and shares it with all his techie friends and reads me out all the comments which instantly stream in. And I’m torn between feeling pride that we have something so distinctive and embarrassment that a whole group of tech whizzes are laughing at us.
‘Anyway,’ I say at last. ‘As you see, we’re behind the times. We can’t carry on like this. So … what can we do? What are the possibilities?’
‘Well,’ says Toby vaguely, still laughing at some comment on his phone. ‘There are loads. Depends what you want to achieve. Like, manage a database, an interactive experience, an e-shop, what?’
‘I don’t know!’ I say, my appetite whetted. ‘Show me!’
