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.
‘Sylvie! Hi! Your hair.’ Her eyes widen in revulsion, and I mentally allot her two out of ten in the Tactful Response category. (Ten out of ten goes to the girls’ headmistress, Miss Blake, who caught sight of me and was clearly shocked, but almost instantly said, ‘Mrs Winter, what dramatic hair you have today, most inspiring.’)
‘Yes. My hair. Whatever.’
‘Did we have an appointment?’ Susie’s brow furrows as she consults her phone. ‘I don’t think we did. Oh, I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your email yet—’
‘Don’t worry about the email.’ I cut her off. ‘And no, we didn’t have an appointment. I just want to borrow you quickly and ask how much of a grant you’re planning to give Willoughby House today.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Susie looks perplexed.
‘It was so great to see you at Claridge’s for our meeting, and I do hope you enjoyed your cake,’ I say meaningfully, and a pink tinge comes over her face.
‘Oh. Yes.’ She addresses the floor. ‘Thank you.’
‘I do believe in quid pro quo, don’t you?’ I add sweetly. ‘Cashing in favours. Payback.’
‘Look, Sylvie, this isn’t a good time,’ begins Susie, but I press on.
‘And what I’ve realized is, we’ve been waiting quite a long time for our payback.’ I reach into my bag and pull out the Books. I marked them up with sticky notes before I came here, and I now flick to an old entry written in faded fountain pen. ‘We first had a meeting with one of your predecessors eleven years ago. Eleven years ago. She was called Marian and she said that Willoughby House was exactly the sort of cause you should be supporting, but unfortunately the time wasn’t quite right. She said that for three years.’ I flick to another of the Books. ‘Then Fiona took over from Marian. Look, on the twelfth of May 2011, Mrs Kendrick treated her to lunch at the Savoy.’ I run a finger down the relevant handwritten entry. ‘They had three courses and wine and Fiona promised that the Foundation would support us. But of course, it never happened. And then you took over from Fiona and I’ve had, what, eight meetings with you? You’ve been treated to coffee, cakes, parties and receptions. We apply every year for a grant. And not a penny.’
‘Right,’ says Susie, her manner becoming more formal. ‘Well. As you know, we have many demands upon us, and we treat each application with great care …’
‘Don’t give me the bloody spiel!’ I say impatiently. ‘Why have you donated constantly to the V & A, the Wallace Collection, Handel House, the Museum Van Loon in Amsterdam … and never Willoughby House?’
I’ve done my homework, and I can see I’ve hit home. But instantly Susie rallies.
‘Sylvie,’ she says, a little pompously. ‘If you think there’s some kind of vendetta against Willoughby House—’
‘No. I don’t think that,’ I cut her off. ‘But I think we’ve been too polite and unassuming. We’re as deserving as any other museum and we’re about to go bust.’
I can feel my inner Mrs Kendrick wincing at that word: ‘bust’. But the time has come to be blunt. Blunt hair, blunt talk.
‘Bust?’ Susie stares at me, looking genuinely shocked. ‘How can you be going bust? I thought you were rolling in it! Didn’t you have some huge private donation?’
‘Long gone. We’re about to be sold off to be condos.’
‘Oh my God.’ She seems aghast. ‘Condos? I didn’t – I thought – We all thought—’
‘Well. So did we.’ I shrug.
There’s a long silence. Susie seems truly chastened. She looks at the folder in her hand, then up at me, her face troubled.
‘There’s nothing I can do today. All the budgets are worked out. The recommendations have been made. Everything’s been planned out to the last penny.’
‘But it hasn’t been agreed.’ I gesture at her white folder. ‘These are just recommendations. You could un-plan. Un-recommend.’
‘No I couldn’t!’
‘You could make an amendment. An extra proposal.’
‘It’s too late.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘It’s too late.’
‘The meeting hasn’t begun yet!’ I suddenly flip out. ‘How can it be too late? All you need to do is walk in there and say, “Hey, trustees, guess what, I’ve just heard some terrible news about Willoughby House going bust and I think we’ve somewhat overlooked them, so let’s make a donation, hands up who agrees?”’
I can see this idea lodging in Susie’s brain, although she still looks resistant.
‘That would be the right thing to do,’ I say, for emphasis. ‘And you know it. Here’s a document with some useful information.’ I hand her a sheet with a few bullet points about Willoughby House written neatly on it. ‘I’m going to leave this with you, Susie, and wait to hear from you, because I trust you. Have a good meeting.’
Somehow I force myself to turn and leave, even though there are hundreds more arguments I could make. Less is more, and if I stay, I’ll only launch into some rant which will piss Susie off.
Besides, I’m on a mission today. That was only part one. Now on to parts two, three and four.
By five o’clock I’m exhausted. But I’m on a roll, too. In all the time I’ve worked for Willoughby House, I’ve never put myself out like I have today. I’ve never pitched so much, or cajoled so much or talked so passionately to so many people. And now I’m wondering: what have I been doing, all this time?
I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking for years. Doing everything according to Mrs Kendrick’s Way. Even in these last few weeks, even knowing we were under threat, I didn’t strike out boldly enough. I didn’t challenge anything; I didn’t change anything.
Well, today I have. Today it’s been Sylvie’s Way. And Sylvie’s Way is quite different, it turns out.
I’ve never called the shots here before. But today, I’ve summoned Mrs Kendrick and Robert for a meeting and I’ve stipulated the time and place and I’ve drawn up the agenda and basically I’m in charge. I’m on it. I’ve been steely and focused all day.
OK, not ‘all day’. It would be more truthful to say I’ve been steely and focused ‘in patches’. Sometimes I’ve been concentrating on Willoughby House. And sometimes I’ve been checking my phone five hundred times to see if Dan has texted, and trying his number another five hundred times, and imagining what he must think of me, and imagining worst-case scenarios while my eyes fill with tears.
But I can’t afford tears now. So I’ve somehow put Dan from my mind. As I walk into the library, my chin is firm and my gaze is stern, and I can tell from the expressions of Mrs Kendrick and Robert that they’re both shocked at my appearance.
‘Sylvie!’ Mrs Kendrick gasps in horror. ‘Your—’
‘I know.’ I pre-empt her. ‘My hair.’
‘Looks good,’ says Robert, and I shoot him a suspicious glance, but his face is impassive. Without any further niceties, I get out my scribbled notes and take up a position by the fireplace.
‘I’ve brought you both here,’ I say, ‘to discuss the future. Willoughby House is a valuable, uniquely educational museum, full of potential. Full of assets. Full of capability.’ I put my notes down and look each of them in the eye. ‘We need to realize that capability, tap into that potential and monetize those assets.’ ‘Monetize’ is so not a Mrs Kendrick word that I repeat it, for emphasis: ‘We need to monetize our assets if we’re to survive.’
‘Hear hear,’ says Robert firmly, and I shoot him a brief, grateful smile.
‘I have a number of ideas, which I would like to run past you,’ I continue. ‘First: the basement has been criminally overlooked. I suggest an Upstairs Downstairs exhibition, tapping into the fascination that people have with how the different classes used to live and work. Second: in the kitchen is an old housemaid’s diary, itemizing her day. I rang up two publishers today, and both expressed interest in publishing the diary. This could link in with the exhibition. Perhaps we find the diary of her employer of the time and publish the two together?’
‘That’s inspired!’ exclaims Robert, but I carry on without pausing.
‘Third, we need to get more schools in and develop the educational side. Fourth, we need to get this whole place online. Fifth, we rent it out as a party venue.’
Mrs Kendrick’s face drops. ‘A party venue?’
‘Sixth, we hire it out as a movie set.’
‘Yes.’ Robert nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Seventh, we put on the erotica exhibition and make a media splash. And eighth, we focus our fundraising more tightly, because at the moment it’s all over the place. That’s it.’ I look up from my list.
‘Well.’ Robert raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘I know the condo merchants are circling.’ I appeal to him directly. ‘But can’t we at least give this place a chance to become a modern, functioning museum?’
‘I like it,’ says Robert slowly. ‘I like all your ideas. Although again, money. Do not commit any money, Aunt Margaret,’ he adds quickly to Mrs Kendrick as she opens her mouth. ‘You have done enough.’
‘I agree,’ I reply. ‘She has. And we don’t need it.’ I can’t help smiling at them both. ‘Because today we were awarded a grant of thirty thousand pounds from the Wilson–Cross Foundation.’
Susie texted me with the good news an hour ago. And I’ll be honest, my initial reaction was: Great. But … is that all? I’d been secretly hoping for a magical, problem-solving, fairy-godmother amount, like another half-million.
But you have to be thankful for what you can get.
‘Well done, Sylvie!’ Mrs Kendrick claps her hands together.
‘Good work,’ agrees Robert.
‘It’ll tide us over,’ I say, ‘until some of these projects start generating income.’
Robert holds out his hand for the list and I pass it to him. He runs his eyes down it and nods a few times. ‘You’ll spearhead all of this?’
I nod vigorously. ‘Can’t wait.’
And I mean it: I can’t wait to get cracking. I want to kick-start these projects and see them into fruition. More than that, I want to see them saving Willoughby House.
But at the same time, there’s a weird feeling inside me that’s been growing all day. A sense that my time here might be nearing its final stage. That I might, some time in the not-too-distant future, move on to a new environment. Challenge myself even more. See what I’m capable of.
I catch Robert’s eye and have the strangest conviction that he can tell what I’m thinking. So I hastily look away. Instead I focus on the Adam fireplace, with the two huge shells brought back by Sir Walter Kendrick from Polynesia. It’s where we gather every year for Mrs Kendrick’s Staff Christmas Stockings. She wraps up little gifts and makes special marzipan cakes …
I feel a sudden wrench. God, this place gets under your skin, with all its quirks and traditions. But you can’t stay somewhere just for the sake of tradition, can you? You can’t stay put, just for a few sentimental reasons.
Is that how Dan feels about me?
Am I a sentimental reason?
My eyes start to feel hot again. It’s been such a day, I’m not sure I can hold it together.
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll be going,’ I say, my voice husky. ‘I’ll send you an email summarizing everything we’ve discussed. It’s just … I think I need to get home.’
‘Of course, Sylvie!’ says Mrs Kendrick. ‘You go and have a lovely evening. And well done!’ She claps her hands together again.
I head out of the library, and Robert comes along with me.
‘Are you OK?’ he says in a low voice, and I curse him for being so perceptive.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Kind of. I mean, not really.’
I pause by the stairs and Robert stares at me as though he wants to say something else.
‘What did he do?’ he says at last.
And this is all so upside down, I’d want to laugh. Except it’s not funny. What did Dan do? He worked tirelessly for my family with no credit while I called him ‘chippy’ and a ‘fucking cliché’ and drove him away.
‘Nothing. He did nothing wrong. Nothing. Sorry.’ I start to walk again. ‘I have to go.’
As I walk along our street I feel numb. Flat. All the adrenaline of the day has dissipated. For a while I was distracted by the stimulation of doing stuff and achieving change and making decisions. But now that’s all faded away. It doesn’t seem important. Only one thing seems important. One person. And I don’t know where he is or what he’s thinking or what the future holds.
I don’t even have my girls waiting for me at home. If I did, I could hug them tightly to me and hear their little stories and jokes and troubles, read their books, cook their suppers and distract myself that way. But they’re at a birthday party with Karen.
I’m walking along in a mist of preoccupation, unaware of my surroundings – but as I near home I focus in dismay. There’s an ambulance outside John and Owen’s house and two paramedics are lifting Owen out of it in a wheelchair. He looks frailer than ever and there’s a small plastic tube running into his nose.
‘Oh my God.’ I hurry over to John, who keeps trying to put a hand on Owen’s arm and is being firmly but gently batted away by the paramedics. ‘What happened?’
‘Owen is not well,’ says John simply. There’s almost a warning note to his voice, and I sense he doesn’t want to be quizzed on what? How? When?
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’ Even as I say the words, they sound hollow. We all say them, but what do they mean?
‘You’re very kind.’ John nods, his face almost, but not quite, breaking into a smile. ‘Very kind indeed.’
He follows Owen and the paramedics into the house and I watch them, stricken, not wanting to be the nosy neighbour who stares, but not wanting to be the callous neighbour who turns away, either.
And as I’m standing there, it occurs to me: there is something I could do. I hurry home, dash into the empty, silent kitchen, and start rooting around in the fridge. We had a supermarket order recently and it’s pretty full, and to be honest, I’ve never felt less like eating.
I load up a tray with a packet of ham, a pot of guacamole, a bag of ‘perfectly ripe pears’, two frozen baguettes that just need eight minutes in the oven, a jar of nuts left over from Christmas, a packet of dates also left over from Christmas and a bar of chocolate. Then, balancing it on one hand, I head outside and along to John and Owen’s house. The ambulance has gone. Everything seems very silent.
Should I leave the tray on the doorstep and not disturb them? No. They might not realize it’s there until it’s tomorrow and the foxes have ripped it to bits.
Cautiously I ring the bell, and form my face into an apologetic expression as John answers. His eyes are red-rimmed, I instantly notice. They weren’t before. I feel a jab through my heart and want to back away instantly; leaving him in his private space. But I’m here now. And so I clear my throat a couple of times and say awkwardly, ‘I just thought you might like … You might not have thought about food …’
‘My dear.’ His face crinkles. ‘My dear, you are too kind.’
‘Shall I bring it in?’
Slowly I proceed through the house, afraid of disturbing Owen, but John nods towards the closed sitting-room door and says, ‘He’s resting.’
I put the tray on the kitchen counter and the cold items in the fridge, noticing how bare it is. I’m going to get Tilda in on this, too. We’ll make sure they’re permanently stocked up.
As I finish, I turn to see that John seems lost in a reverie. I wait in wary silence, not wanting to break his thoughts.
‘Your daughter.’ He suddenly comes to. ‘I believe she left … a small rabbit. Small … white … large ears …’ He describes vaguely with his hands. ‘Not a breed I recognize …’
‘Oh! You mean her Sylvanian Families. I’m sorry. She leaves them everywhere.’
‘I’ll fetch it for you.’
‘Let me!’
I follow him out to his greenhouse, where sure enough one of Tessa’s Sylvanian rabbits is standing incongruously by the rows of frondy plants. As I pick it up, John seems lost again, this time transfixed by one of the plants, and I remember something Tilda told me the other day. She said she’d googled John and apparently his research on plants has led to a breakthrough in gene therapy, which could help millions of people. (I have no idea how that works, but there you go.)
‘It’s an amazing life’s work you’ve achieved,’ I venture, wanting to say something positive.
‘Oh, my work will never be done,’ he says, almost as though amused. His face softens and he rubs a leaf between his fingers lovingly. ‘These wonders will never reveal all their secrets. I’ve been learning about them ever since I was a boy. Every time I look at them I learn a little more. And as a result I love them a little more.’ He moves a pot tenderly, patting its fronds. ‘Tiny miracles. Much like people.’
I’m not quite sure if he’s talking to me or to himself, but every word he says feels like a drop of Wise Potion. I want to hear more. I want him to tell me all the answers to life.
‘I don’t know how you—’ I break off, rubbing my nose, inhaling the earthy, greeny smell of the plants. ‘You’re very inspiring. Dan and I have …’ I swallow hard. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter about us. I just want you to know, you’re inspiring. Fifty-nine years.’ I look straight at him. ‘Fifty-nine years, loving one person. It’s something. It’s an achievement.’
John is silent for a few moments, his hands moving absently around his plants, his eyes far off with thought.
‘I am an early riser,’ he says at last. ‘So I watch Owen wake up every morning. And each morning reveals something new. The light catches his face in a particular way, he has a fresh thought, he shares a memory. Love is finding one person infinitely fascinating.’ John seems lost in thought again – then comes to. ‘And so … not an achievement, my dear.’ He gives me a mild, kind smile. ‘Rather, a privilege.’
I stare back at him, feeling choked up. John’s hands are trembling as he rearranges his pots. He knocks one over, then rights it, and I can tell he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. I recall Owen just now, pale and shrunken, the tube in his nose, and have a sudden, horrible fear that it’s bad, really bad.
On impulse I grab John’s shaky hands and hold them in mine till they’re still.
‘If you ever want company,’ I say. ‘Help. Lifts in the car. Anything. We’re here.’
He nods and squeezes my hands. And we go back into the house, and I make two cups of tea, because that’s something else I can do. And as I leave, promising to return tomorrow, all I can think is: Dan. I need to talk to Dan. I need to communicate. Even if he’s still in Devon. Even if he has no signal. Even if it’s a one-sided conversation.
As I get inside our house I’m already reaching for the phone. I dial his number, sinking down on to the bottom step of the stairs, desperate to let him know, desperate to make him understand … what?
‘Dan,’ I say as the phone beeps. ‘It’s me. And I’m so sorry.’ I swallow, my throat all lumpy. ‘I just … I wish … I just …’
Oh God. Terrible. Why am I so bloody inarticulate? John, with all his worries, manages to sound like some elegiac poet, whereas I flounder around like an idiot. I click off, dial again and start another voicemail.
‘Dan.’ I swallow the lumps down. ‘It’s me. And I just called to say …’ No. I sound like Stevie Wonder. Bad. I click off and try again.
‘Dan, it’s me. I mean, you knew that, right? Because you saw Sylvie pop up on your screen. Which means you’re listening to a message from me. Which I suppose is a good sign …’
What am I going on about? I click off before I can sound any more like a rambling moron and dial a fourth time.
‘Dan. Please ignore all those other messages. Sorry. I don’t know what I was trying to say. What I am trying to say is …’ I pause, trying to untangle my thoughts. ‘Well. I suppose it’s that all I can think about is you. Where you are. What you’re doing. What you’re thinking. Because I have no idea any more. None.’ My voice wobbles and I take a few seconds to calm myself. ‘It’s ironic, I guess, because I used to think I knew you too well. But now …’ A tear suddenly runs down my cheek. ‘Anyway. Above all, Dan … and I don’t know if you’re even still listening … but above all, I wanted to say …’
The door opens and I’m so startled, I drop my phone in shock, thinking, Dan? Dan?
But it’s Karen, wearing sneakers and earbuds and her cycling backpack.
‘Oh, hi,’ she says, looking surprised to see me sitting on the stairs. ‘I forgot my iPad. Shit, Sylvie, your hair.’
‘Yes. My hair.’ I peer at her in confusion. ‘But wait, aren’t you supposed to be with the girls?’
‘Dan’s with them,’ she says casually – then, at my reaction, her expression changes. ‘Oh. Wasn’t I supposed to say? He just turned up and said he’d do the party.’
‘Dan’s here?’ My heart is thudding so hard, I can hardly breathe. ‘He’s here? Where? Where?’
‘Battersea Park,’ says Karen, eyeing me weirdly. ‘Climb On? You know, the climbing place?’
My legs are already moving. I’m scrambling to my feet. I need to get there.