Surprise Me
Page 72
As I speak, I glance into one of Mummy’s gilt-framed mirrors, and see my reflection. My waist-length blonde hair, as girlish and wavy and princesslike as ever. It was Daddy who loved my hair. Daddy who stopped me cutting it.
Do I even like long hair?
Does long hair even suit me?
For a few moments I just stare at myself, barely breathing. Then, feeling heady and unreal, I walk to Mummy’s writing desk and reach for the handmade scissors I bought her for Christmas one year. I grab my hair with one hand and start to cut.
I’ve never felt so empowered in my life. In my life.
‘Sylvie?’ Mummy inhales in horror. ‘Sylvie. Sylvie!’ Her voice rises to a hysterical shriek. ‘What are you doing?’
I pause, my hand mid-snip, a length of blonde hair already on the floor. I look at it dispassionately, then raise my head to meet her eyes.
‘I’m growing up.’
SIXTEEN
I get through the rest of the day on autopilot. I pick the girls up from after-school club and try to laugh off their dismayed exclamations:
‘Mummy, what’s happened to your hair?’
‘Where’s your hair gone?’
‘When will you put it back?’ (Anna, blinking anxiously at me.) ‘Will you put it back now, Mummy? Now?’
And my first instinct is somehow to protect them. Soften the blow. I even find myself thinking, Should I buy a long blonde wig? Until reality hits me. I can’t protect the girls forever, and I shouldn’t. Stuff will happen in their lives that they don’t like. Shit happens. And they will have to cope. We all have to cope.
We eat supper and I put them to bed and then just sit on my bed – our bed – staring at the wall, until the events of the last few days overcome me like a wave over my head and I succumb to crying. Deep, heaving sobbing, my head buried in a pillow, as though I’m grieving all over again.
And I suppose I am grieving, in a way. But for what? For my lost real/imaginary friend Lynn? For the heroic father I thought I knew? For Dan? For our battered marriage? For the Sylvie I used to be, so blithe and innocent, tripping about the world with no bloody idea about anything?
My thoughts keep veering towards Daddy and Lynn and that whole issue … fabrication … whatever it was, but then I mentally jump away. I can’t deal with thinking about it. The whole thing is just surreal. Surreal.
And what I really care about – what I’m really fixating on, like a crazy obsessed person – is Dan. As evening turns into night and I finally get into bed, I can’t sleep. I’m staring up at the ceiling, words and phrases churning round my brain. I’m so sorry … I didn’t understand … You should have told me … If I’d known … If I’d only known …
He hasn’t replied to my voicemail. He hasn’t been in touch at all. I don’t blame him.
By morning I’ve dozed for a couple of hours and my face is deathly pale, but I get up as soon as the alarm goes, feeling wired. As I’m getting dressed for work, I automatically reach for one of my Mrs Kendrick-friendly sprigged dresses. Then I pause, my mind working hard. I push all my dresses aside and reach for a black suit with slim trousers and a well-cut jacket. I haven’t worn it for years. It’s very much not a Mrs Kendrick sort of outfit. Which is exactly what I want.
My head has clarified overnight. I can see everything differently in the pale morning light. Not just me and Dan … and Daddy … and our marriage … but work. Who I am. What I’ve been doing.
And it needs changing. No more ladylike steps. No more convention. No more caution. I need to stride. I need to grab life. I need to make up for lost time.
I drop the girls at school and nod, smiling tightly, as everyone who didn’t see me last night gasps over my new chopped hair. Parents, teachers – even Miss Blake the headmistress as she passes by – all of them blanch in shock, then rearrange their faces hastily as they greet me. The truth is, it does look quite brutal. Even I was shocked anew when I saw myself in the mirror this morning. I say pleasantly, ‘Yes, I fancied a change,’ and ‘It needs a bit of tidying up,’ about six hundred times, and then escape.
I must book a proper haircut. I will do. But I have other things to do first.
As I arrive at Willoughby House, Clarissa’s jaw drops in horror.
‘Your hair, Sylvie!’ she exclaims. ‘Your hair!’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘My hair. I cut it off.’
‘Right. Gosh.’ She swallows. ‘It looks … lovely!’
‘You don’t have to lie.’ I smile, touched by her efforts. ‘It doesn’t look lovely. But it looks right. For me.’
Clarissa clearly has no idea what I mean – but then why should she?
‘Robert was wondering what you were up to yesterday,’ she says, eyeing me warily. ‘In fact, we were all wondering.’
‘I was cutting my hair off,’ I say, and head to the computer desk. The Books are stacked neatly in a pile and I grab them. They go back twelve years. That should be enough. Surely?
‘What are you doing?’ Clarissa is watching me curiously.
‘It’s time for somebody to take action,’ I say. ‘It’s time for one of us to do something.’ I swivel to face her. ‘Not just safe little actions … but big actions. Risky actions. Things we should have done a long time ago.’
‘Right,’ says Clarissa, looking taken aback. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘I’ll be back later.’ I put the Books carefully into a tote bag. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck,’ echoes Clarissa obediently. ‘You look very businesslike,’ she adds suddenly, peering at me as though this is a new and alien idea. ‘That trouser suit. And the hair.’
‘Yes, well.’ I give her a wry smile. ‘It’s about time.’
I arrive at the Wilson–Cross Foundation with twenty minutes to spare. It’s an office in a white stucco house in Mayfair and has a staff of about twenty people. I have no idea what they all do – apart from have coffee with idiots like me at Claridge’s – but I don’t care. It’s not their staff I’m interested in. It’s their money.
The Trustees’ Meeting begins at eleven o’clock, as I know from consulting the Diary of Events that Susie Jackson sent me at the beginning of the year. I’ve heard her describe Trustees’ Meetings many times, over coffee, and she’s quite funny about them. The way the trustees won’t get down to business but keep chatting about schools and holidays. The way they misread figures but then pretend they haven’t. The way they’ll make a decision about a million pounds in a heartbeat, but then argue for half an hour about some tiny grant of five hundred pounds and whether it ‘fulfils the brief of the Foundation’. The way they gang up on each other. The trustees of the Wilson–Cross Foundation are very grand and important people – I’ve seen the list and it’s all Sir This and Dame That – but apparently they can behave like little children.
So, I know all this. I also know that today, the trustees are making grants of up to five million pounds. And that they’ll be listening to recommendations, including from Susie Jackson herself.
And what I know, above all, is that she owes us.
I’ve told the girl at the front desk that I have an appointment, and as Susie comes into the reception area, holding a thick white folder, she looks confused.
Do I even like long hair?
Does long hair even suit me?
For a few moments I just stare at myself, barely breathing. Then, feeling heady and unreal, I walk to Mummy’s writing desk and reach for the handmade scissors I bought her for Christmas one year. I grab my hair with one hand and start to cut.
I’ve never felt so empowered in my life. In my life.
‘Sylvie?’ Mummy inhales in horror. ‘Sylvie. Sylvie!’ Her voice rises to a hysterical shriek. ‘What are you doing?’
I pause, my hand mid-snip, a length of blonde hair already on the floor. I look at it dispassionately, then raise my head to meet her eyes.
‘I’m growing up.’
SIXTEEN
I get through the rest of the day on autopilot. I pick the girls up from after-school club and try to laugh off their dismayed exclamations:
‘Mummy, what’s happened to your hair?’
‘Where’s your hair gone?’
‘When will you put it back?’ (Anna, blinking anxiously at me.) ‘Will you put it back now, Mummy? Now?’
And my first instinct is somehow to protect them. Soften the blow. I even find myself thinking, Should I buy a long blonde wig? Until reality hits me. I can’t protect the girls forever, and I shouldn’t. Stuff will happen in their lives that they don’t like. Shit happens. And they will have to cope. We all have to cope.
We eat supper and I put them to bed and then just sit on my bed – our bed – staring at the wall, until the events of the last few days overcome me like a wave over my head and I succumb to crying. Deep, heaving sobbing, my head buried in a pillow, as though I’m grieving all over again.
And I suppose I am grieving, in a way. But for what? For my lost real/imaginary friend Lynn? For the heroic father I thought I knew? For Dan? For our battered marriage? For the Sylvie I used to be, so blithe and innocent, tripping about the world with no bloody idea about anything?
My thoughts keep veering towards Daddy and Lynn and that whole issue … fabrication … whatever it was, but then I mentally jump away. I can’t deal with thinking about it. The whole thing is just surreal. Surreal.
And what I really care about – what I’m really fixating on, like a crazy obsessed person – is Dan. As evening turns into night and I finally get into bed, I can’t sleep. I’m staring up at the ceiling, words and phrases churning round my brain. I’m so sorry … I didn’t understand … You should have told me … If I’d known … If I’d only known …
He hasn’t replied to my voicemail. He hasn’t been in touch at all. I don’t blame him.
By morning I’ve dozed for a couple of hours and my face is deathly pale, but I get up as soon as the alarm goes, feeling wired. As I’m getting dressed for work, I automatically reach for one of my Mrs Kendrick-friendly sprigged dresses. Then I pause, my mind working hard. I push all my dresses aside and reach for a black suit with slim trousers and a well-cut jacket. I haven’t worn it for years. It’s very much not a Mrs Kendrick sort of outfit. Which is exactly what I want.
My head has clarified overnight. I can see everything differently in the pale morning light. Not just me and Dan … and Daddy … and our marriage … but work. Who I am. What I’ve been doing.
And it needs changing. No more ladylike steps. No more convention. No more caution. I need to stride. I need to grab life. I need to make up for lost time.
I drop the girls at school and nod, smiling tightly, as everyone who didn’t see me last night gasps over my new chopped hair. Parents, teachers – even Miss Blake the headmistress as she passes by – all of them blanch in shock, then rearrange their faces hastily as they greet me. The truth is, it does look quite brutal. Even I was shocked anew when I saw myself in the mirror this morning. I say pleasantly, ‘Yes, I fancied a change,’ and ‘It needs a bit of tidying up,’ about six hundred times, and then escape.
I must book a proper haircut. I will do. But I have other things to do first.
As I arrive at Willoughby House, Clarissa’s jaw drops in horror.
‘Your hair, Sylvie!’ she exclaims. ‘Your hair!’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘My hair. I cut it off.’
‘Right. Gosh.’ She swallows. ‘It looks … lovely!’
‘You don’t have to lie.’ I smile, touched by her efforts. ‘It doesn’t look lovely. But it looks right. For me.’
Clarissa clearly has no idea what I mean – but then why should she?
‘Robert was wondering what you were up to yesterday,’ she says, eyeing me warily. ‘In fact, we were all wondering.’
‘I was cutting my hair off,’ I say, and head to the computer desk. The Books are stacked neatly in a pile and I grab them. They go back twelve years. That should be enough. Surely?
‘What are you doing?’ Clarissa is watching me curiously.
‘It’s time for somebody to take action,’ I say. ‘It’s time for one of us to do something.’ I swivel to face her. ‘Not just safe little actions … but big actions. Risky actions. Things we should have done a long time ago.’
‘Right,’ says Clarissa, looking taken aback. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘I’ll be back later.’ I put the Books carefully into a tote bag. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck,’ echoes Clarissa obediently. ‘You look very businesslike,’ she adds suddenly, peering at me as though this is a new and alien idea. ‘That trouser suit. And the hair.’
‘Yes, well.’ I give her a wry smile. ‘It’s about time.’
I arrive at the Wilson–Cross Foundation with twenty minutes to spare. It’s an office in a white stucco house in Mayfair and has a staff of about twenty people. I have no idea what they all do – apart from have coffee with idiots like me at Claridge’s – but I don’t care. It’s not their staff I’m interested in. It’s their money.
The Trustees’ Meeting begins at eleven o’clock, as I know from consulting the Diary of Events that Susie Jackson sent me at the beginning of the year. I’ve heard her describe Trustees’ Meetings many times, over coffee, and she’s quite funny about them. The way the trustees won’t get down to business but keep chatting about schools and holidays. The way they misread figures but then pretend they haven’t. The way they’ll make a decision about a million pounds in a heartbeat, but then argue for half an hour about some tiny grant of five hundred pounds and whether it ‘fulfils the brief of the Foundation’. The way they gang up on each other. The trustees of the Wilson–Cross Foundation are very grand and important people – I’ve seen the list and it’s all Sir This and Dame That – but apparently they can behave like little children.
So, I know all this. I also know that today, the trustees are making grants of up to five million pounds. And that they’ll be listening to recommendations, including from Susie Jackson herself.
And what I know, above all, is that she owes us.
I’ve told the girl at the front desk that I have an appointment, and as Susie comes into the reception area, holding a thick white folder, she looks confused.
