Surprise Me
Page 65
I pick up the passport, open it and stare at Dan’s impassive photo face, feeling sick. The man I thought couldn’t keep secrets from me turns out to be a pretty good liar.
And now humiliation is descending upon me like a suffocating blanket. It’s so sordid. So predictable. My husband has walked out on me for his mistress, leaving me to look after the kids. This is my reality. I thought we were different. Special. But we’re just like every other tedious messed-up marriage in south-west London. With a sudden half-sob, half-scream, I grab my phone and start texting him with stabby fingers:
Go off and enjoy yourself, then. Talk about surprising each other. You’re such a predictable, boring, fucking cliché.
I send the text, then collapse down on to the floor. I’m beyond crying. I’m beyond thought.
We were that couple. We were always that couple.
Now we’re that couple.
FIFTEEN
I remember this from when Daddy died – at first you’re numb. You function perfectly. You smile and crack jokes. You think, Wow, it’s actually all fine, I must be a really strong person, who knew? And it’s only later that the pain swallows you up and you start dry-heaving into your sink.
I’m still at the numb stage. I’ve got the girls ready for school. I’ve chatted merrily with Karen and mentioned Dan being really busy with work. I’ve waved at Professor Russell – John – through the window.
I could easily have done the school run, but Dan clearly texted Karen last night claiming a state of emergency, because she pitched up at 7 a.m., all ready to swing into action. They’ve just left, and the house has that super-silent feeling it gets whenever the children leave it. It’s just me and the snake. Which, thank God, does not need feeding for another five days. If Dan isn’t back by then, I’m giving it to the RSPCA.
I put on more make-up than usual, savagely jabbing at my eyes with the mascara wand. I step into a pair of high heels, because I feel height will help me today. I’m in my jacket, ready to leave for work, when the post rattles through the letter box, and I pick it up, thinking dazedly, What do I do if there’s post for Dan? Forward it on? Where?
But it’s just a couple of catalogues and a handwritten envelope. Creamy and expensive. Nice handwriting, slanted and elegant. I stare at it in mounting suspicion. That can’t be from … She wouldn’t have …
I rip it open and something seems to stab my stomach. It is. It’s from her. She’s written us a bloody thank-you letter. I scan the anodyne words, but I can’t digest them. I can’t focus. All I can think is: How dare you, how dare you?
Both of them.
Him.
Her.
With their texts and secret hugs. Treating me like a fool.
A new energy is suffusing me. A new, incandescent fury. Last night I played it all wrong. I was wrong-footed. I didn’t react quickly enough. I didn’t say the stuff I should have said. I keep going over the scene, wishing I had confronted Dan with those texts, that I had shoved everything out in the open. What was I thinking of, waiting for him to confess? Why was he ever going to do that?
So today, I’m taking charge. My husband’s lover may get to do a lot of things. But she does not get to write me a two-faced thank-you letter, laughing at me behind my back. She does not get to do that.
I send a text to Clarissa: Just popping to London Library for research, then google Mary’s company, Green Pear Consulting. It’s in Bloomsbury. Easy. As I emerge from the tube at Goodge Street I’m walking snappily, my legs like scissors. My fists are clenched at my sides. My jaw is tight. I feel ready for body blows.
I arrive at the address to find one of those tall London houses with about ten companies on five different floors and a rickety lift and a receptionist whose aim seems to be to misunderstand you at every turn. But at last, after an excruciating conversation between the receptionist and someone on the phone at Green Pear Consulting – ‘No, she don’t have no appointment. No. No appointment. She called Sylvie. Syl-vee Winter. For Mary. Ma-ree.’ – I’m on my way up the stairs to the fourth floor. I’m pretty fit but my heart is already pounding and my skin keeps breaking out in goosebumps. I feel unreal. Finally, finally, I’m going to get some answers. Or some payback. Or something …
I get to the top and push my way through a heavy fire door. And there’s Mary, waiting for me on a tiny landing, as beautiful as ever, in a grey linen shift dress. She looks shocked to see me, I notice with satisfaction. Not so tranquil now.
‘Sylvie!’ she says. ‘They phoned up and told me someone called Sylvie was here, but I didn’t … I mean …’
‘You didn’t know why I was here?’ I say scathingly. ‘Really? You have no idea?’
There’s silence and I can see Mary’s dark eyes flickering with thought. Then she says, ‘Maybe we should go to my office.’
She leads me to a tiny room and gestures to a chair opposite her desk. It’s quite a bare space – all pale wood and posters for environmental causes and a striking abstract painting, which I would ask her about in different circumstances.
Mary sits down, but I don’t. I want the advantage of height.
‘So,’ I say, in my most cutting tones. ‘Thanks for your letter.’ I take it out of my bag and throw it on to her desk and she flinches, startled.
‘Right.’ She picks the envelope up warily, then replaces it on her desk. ‘Is there a … Are you …’ She tries a third time. ‘Sylvie …’
‘Yes?’ I say, as unforgivingly as I can. I’m certainly not making this easy for her.
‘Is something … wrong?’
Is something wrong?
‘Oh, come on, Mary,’ I snap. ‘So you’re having a secret thing with him. An affair. He’s moved in with you. Whatever. But don’t send me a letter saying thank you for the lovely dinner, OK?’ I break off, breathing hard, and Mary stares at me, her jaw dropped.
‘Moved in with me? What on earth …?’
‘Nice try.’
‘Oh God.’ Mary clutches her head. ‘I need to unpick all this. Sylvie, I’m not having an affair with Dan and he hasn’t moved in with me. OK?’
‘Oh, right,’ I say icily. ‘I suppose he hasn’t sent you secret texts, either. I suppose he didn’t tell you he feels “pinned in a corner”. I saw you talking, Mary. I saw you hugging. So you can stop the play-acting, OK? I know.’
There’s silence, and I can see I’ve got to Mary. I’ve punctured her serene veneer. She looks quite rattled, for an angel.
‘We did talk that night,’ she says at last. ‘And yes, we did hug. But as old friends, nothing more. Dan wanted to open up to me … and I found myself listening. Talking.’ She suddenly rises from her chair, so she’s at eye-level with me. ‘But Dan and I are not having an affair. We’re really, really not. Please believe me.’
‘“Old friends”.’ I echo the words sarcastically.
‘Yes!’ Her face suddenly flushes. ‘Just that. I don’t have affairs with married men. I wouldn’t do that.’
‘What about the texts?’ I fling back at her.
‘I’ve only sent him a couple of texts. We’ve chatted. Nothing more. I promise.’
‘But you’ve met up. At Starbucks. At Villandry.’
And now humiliation is descending upon me like a suffocating blanket. It’s so sordid. So predictable. My husband has walked out on me for his mistress, leaving me to look after the kids. This is my reality. I thought we were different. Special. But we’re just like every other tedious messed-up marriage in south-west London. With a sudden half-sob, half-scream, I grab my phone and start texting him with stabby fingers:
Go off and enjoy yourself, then. Talk about surprising each other. You’re such a predictable, boring, fucking cliché.
I send the text, then collapse down on to the floor. I’m beyond crying. I’m beyond thought.
We were that couple. We were always that couple.
Now we’re that couple.
FIFTEEN
I remember this from when Daddy died – at first you’re numb. You function perfectly. You smile and crack jokes. You think, Wow, it’s actually all fine, I must be a really strong person, who knew? And it’s only later that the pain swallows you up and you start dry-heaving into your sink.
I’m still at the numb stage. I’ve got the girls ready for school. I’ve chatted merrily with Karen and mentioned Dan being really busy with work. I’ve waved at Professor Russell – John – through the window.
I could easily have done the school run, but Dan clearly texted Karen last night claiming a state of emergency, because she pitched up at 7 a.m., all ready to swing into action. They’ve just left, and the house has that super-silent feeling it gets whenever the children leave it. It’s just me and the snake. Which, thank God, does not need feeding for another five days. If Dan isn’t back by then, I’m giving it to the RSPCA.
I put on more make-up than usual, savagely jabbing at my eyes with the mascara wand. I step into a pair of high heels, because I feel height will help me today. I’m in my jacket, ready to leave for work, when the post rattles through the letter box, and I pick it up, thinking dazedly, What do I do if there’s post for Dan? Forward it on? Where?
But it’s just a couple of catalogues and a handwritten envelope. Creamy and expensive. Nice handwriting, slanted and elegant. I stare at it in mounting suspicion. That can’t be from … She wouldn’t have …
I rip it open and something seems to stab my stomach. It is. It’s from her. She’s written us a bloody thank-you letter. I scan the anodyne words, but I can’t digest them. I can’t focus. All I can think is: How dare you, how dare you?
Both of them.
Him.
Her.
With their texts and secret hugs. Treating me like a fool.
A new energy is suffusing me. A new, incandescent fury. Last night I played it all wrong. I was wrong-footed. I didn’t react quickly enough. I didn’t say the stuff I should have said. I keep going over the scene, wishing I had confronted Dan with those texts, that I had shoved everything out in the open. What was I thinking of, waiting for him to confess? Why was he ever going to do that?
So today, I’m taking charge. My husband’s lover may get to do a lot of things. But she does not get to write me a two-faced thank-you letter, laughing at me behind my back. She does not get to do that.
I send a text to Clarissa: Just popping to London Library for research, then google Mary’s company, Green Pear Consulting. It’s in Bloomsbury. Easy. As I emerge from the tube at Goodge Street I’m walking snappily, my legs like scissors. My fists are clenched at my sides. My jaw is tight. I feel ready for body blows.
I arrive at the address to find one of those tall London houses with about ten companies on five different floors and a rickety lift and a receptionist whose aim seems to be to misunderstand you at every turn. But at last, after an excruciating conversation between the receptionist and someone on the phone at Green Pear Consulting – ‘No, she don’t have no appointment. No. No appointment. She called Sylvie. Syl-vee Winter. For Mary. Ma-ree.’ – I’m on my way up the stairs to the fourth floor. I’m pretty fit but my heart is already pounding and my skin keeps breaking out in goosebumps. I feel unreal. Finally, finally, I’m going to get some answers. Or some payback. Or something …
I get to the top and push my way through a heavy fire door. And there’s Mary, waiting for me on a tiny landing, as beautiful as ever, in a grey linen shift dress. She looks shocked to see me, I notice with satisfaction. Not so tranquil now.
‘Sylvie!’ she says. ‘They phoned up and told me someone called Sylvie was here, but I didn’t … I mean …’
‘You didn’t know why I was here?’ I say scathingly. ‘Really? You have no idea?’
There’s silence and I can see Mary’s dark eyes flickering with thought. Then she says, ‘Maybe we should go to my office.’
She leads me to a tiny room and gestures to a chair opposite her desk. It’s quite a bare space – all pale wood and posters for environmental causes and a striking abstract painting, which I would ask her about in different circumstances.
Mary sits down, but I don’t. I want the advantage of height.
‘So,’ I say, in my most cutting tones. ‘Thanks for your letter.’ I take it out of my bag and throw it on to her desk and she flinches, startled.
‘Right.’ She picks the envelope up warily, then replaces it on her desk. ‘Is there a … Are you …’ She tries a third time. ‘Sylvie …’
‘Yes?’ I say, as unforgivingly as I can. I’m certainly not making this easy for her.
‘Is something … wrong?’
Is something wrong?
‘Oh, come on, Mary,’ I snap. ‘So you’re having a secret thing with him. An affair. He’s moved in with you. Whatever. But don’t send me a letter saying thank you for the lovely dinner, OK?’ I break off, breathing hard, and Mary stares at me, her jaw dropped.
‘Moved in with me? What on earth …?’
‘Nice try.’
‘Oh God.’ Mary clutches her head. ‘I need to unpick all this. Sylvie, I’m not having an affair with Dan and he hasn’t moved in with me. OK?’
‘Oh, right,’ I say icily. ‘I suppose he hasn’t sent you secret texts, either. I suppose he didn’t tell you he feels “pinned in a corner”. I saw you talking, Mary. I saw you hugging. So you can stop the play-acting, OK? I know.’
There’s silence, and I can see I’ve got to Mary. I’ve punctured her serene veneer. She looks quite rattled, for an angel.
‘We did talk that night,’ she says at last. ‘And yes, we did hug. But as old friends, nothing more. Dan wanted to open up to me … and I found myself listening. Talking.’ She suddenly rises from her chair, so she’s at eye-level with me. ‘But Dan and I are not having an affair. We’re really, really not. Please believe me.’
‘“Old friends”.’ I echo the words sarcastically.
‘Yes!’ Her face suddenly flushes. ‘Just that. I don’t have affairs with married men. I wouldn’t do that.’
‘What about the texts?’ I fling back at her.
‘I’ve only sent him a couple of texts. We’ve chatted. Nothing more. I promise.’
‘But you’ve met up. At Starbucks. At Villandry.’
