Surprise Me by Kinsella, Sophie (13)

THIRTEEN

I’ve never stolen anything before. I feel so guilty I don’t know what to do with myself. I swiped Dan’s keys while he was in the shower and put them at the back of my underwear drawer. Now I’m hovering round the kitchen, wiping things that don’t need wiping, talking to the girls in a false, high-pitched voice and dropping spoons every five minutes.

‘Where are my keys?’ Dan comes, scowling, into the kitchen. ‘They aren’t anywhere. Tessa? Anna? Have you taken Daddy’s keys?’

‘Of course they haven’t!’ I exclaim defensively. ‘You probably just … misplaced them. Have you checked your jacket pockets?’

I turn hastily away before he can see the tell-tale blush in my cheeks. I would so not make an arch-criminal.

‘I had them.’ Dan is rummaging through the fruit bowl. ‘I had them.’

‘Yes, but we were all distracted by the guests, weren’t we?’ I say, deftly inserting a plausible reason for him to have lost them. ‘Just use your spares for now. I’m sure your proper set will turn up.’

‘I’m not using my spares,’ says Dan in horror. ‘I need to find my keys.’

‘It’s only for now,’ I say soothingly. ‘Look, here are your spares, in the cupboard.’

I double-checked the spares before I pinched his proper keys. So in some ways, I would make a good arch-criminal.

I can see Dan is torn between two huge yet opposing principles: Never admit defeat when something’s lost; and, Don’t be late for work. At last, making an impatient noise, he grabs the spares. Between us we chivvy the girls into their school sweatshirts and check their book bags and at last all three of them are out of the house. As Dan is closing the car door, I call out, ‘I’ll have another look for your keys before I leave,’ which is a genius stroke, because 1. if Dan unexpectedly returns, it explains why I’m in his study, 2. it deflects suspicion away from me, and 3. I can now ‘find them’ and leave them on the kitchen table, job done.

Let’s face it, I would make an excellent arch-criminal.

I watch as the car pulls away. I wait another five minutes, just in case. Then, feeling totally surreal, I tiptoe upstairs, not even sure why I’m tiptoeing. I hesitate for a moment on the landing, trying to stay calm, then slowly venture into Dan’s study.

I know exactly where I’m heading, but I pretend to myself that I’m just having a general look round. I shuffle through some papers about a planning decision. I examine a brochure from a rival office-construction company. I discover an old school report of Anna’s, in Dan’s in-tray, and find myself reading comments on her handwriting.

Then, at last, my pulse beating quickly, I find the little key on his key ring. I stare at it for a moment, thinking, Do I really want to do this? What if I find …?

The truth is, I don’t know what I’ll find. My mind won’t even go there.

But I’m here. I’m on a mission. I’m going to see it through. At last, swiftly, I bend down and unlock his secret desk drawer, my hand trembling so much that I have to try three times. But then I’ve got it open and I’m staring at what’s inside.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to find – but it’s the phone. The Samsung phone I saw last night. Just that, nothing else. I take it out, thinking wildly, Wait, what about fingerprints? and then, Don’t be ridiculous, this isn’t CSI. I press in Dan’s usual passcode and get straight in. Clearly he never expected me to find it. Which kind of comforts me. And kind of doesn’t.

It’s a pretty new phone. There are only twenty-four texts on it, back and forth. As I scroll down, I see they’re all to the same person – Mary. And I just stare, unable to process the enormity of what I’m seeing. It’s the nightmare, worst-case scenario.

My shoulders are rising and falling. My brain is shouting panicky messages at me, like: What? And: Does that mean …? And: Please. No. This is wrong. This has to be wrong.

And, almost worst of all: Was Tilda right, all along? Did I bring this on myself?

I can feel rising tears, mixed with rising incredulity. And rising dread. I’m not sure yet which is winning. Actually, yes I am. Incredulity is winning and it’s joining forces with anger. ‘Really?’ I feel like shouting. ‘Really, Dan?’

Everything else, I could rationalize. The moods … the familiar vibe between Dan and Mary … even the hug. But not this. Not these messages in black and white.

I read all twenty-four messages twice. I take photos of everything with my phone, because … just because. Might come in useful. Then I put the Samsung back with my fingertips, feeling as though it’s contaminated. I shut the desk drawer, lock it carefully, check it again and back away, as though from the crime scene.

On the landing, I look around, feeling dazed, as though seeing our house for the first time. Our home. Our little nest, with its wedding presents and prints we bought on holiday and photos of the girls everywhere. All this time I’ve spent trying to make it cosy, make it hygge, create a place for us as a couple to retreat from the world. Now I look at my stupid candles and throws and carefully placed cushions … and I want to shred them all. I want to destroy them and throw them on to the street and yell, ‘OK, well, fuck you, then, Dan, FUCK YOU.’

Dan doesn’t want to escape with me. He wants to escape from me. Maybe it was our session in the secret garden that triggered a sudden latent passion for Mary. Maybe this is all really new and exciting for him. Or maybe she’s the latest in a long line of extra-curricular affairs that I’ve been too blind to see. Either way: sixty-eight more years of marriage? Sixty-eight more years of me and Dan together? It’s a joke, a terrible, horrible joke, and I’m not laughing, I’m crying.

For a while I stand motionless, watching dust motes float by. Then I blink and half an hour has gone by, and I really should be getting to work. Not that this is the biggest priority in my life, quite frankly.

Like an automaton, I get my things together, double-check the hob is turned off (OCD) and even leave a jaunty Post-it for Dan with his keys, saying Found them!

Because what else am I going to say? Found them, and found your secret texts to Mary too, you cheating bastard?

As I shut the front door, I see Toby emerging from Tilda’s house in black jeans and a trilby. He’s holding a massive great laundry bag, spilling over with things, and has a magazine in his mouth, like a dog.

‘Toby, can I help you?’ I say.

Toby shakes his head cheerfully and heads down the street, unaware that he’s leaving a trail behind him of T-shirts, underwear and vinyl records.

‘Toby!’ Despite everything, I can’t help smiling. ‘Your stuff! It’s all falling out!’

I gather his things up and follow him along the street to where a white van is parked. He dumps the laundry bag in the back, where I see several more laundry bags, plus a desk, chair and computer.

‘Wow,’ I say in astonishment. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m moving out,’ he says, his eyes gleaming. ‘Mooooo-ving out. Oh yeah.’

‘Oh my God!’ I stare at him. ‘That’s incredible! Where to?’

‘Hackney. My new job’s in Shoreditch, so. Makes sense.’

I gape at him. ‘You’ve got a job?’

‘Job, flat, cat,’ he says in satisfaction. ‘Shared cat,’ he amends. ‘It’s called Treacle. It belongs to Michi.’

‘Michi?’

‘Michiko. My girlfriend.’

Toby has a girlfriend? Since when?

‘Well … congratulations!’ I say, stuffing his pants into the laundry bag and zipping it up. ‘But what about the start-up?’

‘It never did start up,’ says Toby frankly. ‘That was the trouble with it.’

We walk back from the van just as Tilda emerges from her front door and I wave to get her attention. She texted me last night, I suddenly remember, and told me her commute to Andover had finished for now, but I never texted back.

As I get near, I can see that she’s bright pink in the face and has a kind of suppressed energy about her. She’s actually quivering. Which makes sense. She must be so jubilant. At last. At last he’s going! And he has a job! And a girlfriend! No more noise, no more rows, no more midnight pizza deliveries … I mean, I feel quite relieved, let alone Tilda.

‘This is amazing news!’ I greet her. ‘Toby seems so together all of a sudden.’

‘Oh, I know.’ Tilda nods vigorously. ‘He just announced it, over supper two nights ago, “I’m moving out.” No warning, no build-up, just “Boom, I’m off.”’

‘I’m so pleased for you! God, it’s been a long time coming!’ I lean forward to hug Tilda – then look more closely. Is she quivering with jubilation? Or …

Her eyes are bloodshot, I suddenly notice. Oh my God.

‘Tilda?’

‘I’m fine. Fine. Stupid.’ She bats away my concerned look.

‘Oh, Tilda.’ I peer anxiously into her kind, crumpled face and of course now I can see it, beneath her bustly, energetic, Tilda-ish manner. Grief. Because she’s losing him. Finally.

‘It just hit me,’ she says in a low voice, perching on the garden wall. ‘Ridiculous! I’ve been begging him to move out, but …’

‘He’s your baby,’ I say quietly, sitting down next to her, and we both watch as Toby makes another journey to the white van, carrying a kettle, a sandwich toaster and a NutriBullet, all trailing wires along the street.

‘That’s my NutriBullet,’ says Tilda, and I can’t help laughing at her expression. ‘I know he has to move out,’ she adds, her eyes not moving from him. ‘I know he has to grow up. I know I pushed him to do all this. But …’ Tears start spilling from her eyes and she pulls a tissue from her pocket. ‘Stupid,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Stupid.’

I watch Toby returning to the house, oblivious of his mother’s grief, bouncing up and down in his hipster trainers, humming a happy tune, ready to start his proper life.

‘The girls will move out,’ I say, suddenly stricken. ‘They’ll move out one day, without looking back.’

I can suddenly see a grown-up Tessa and Anna. Beautiful, leggy women in their twenties. Brisk. Checking their phones constantly. Discounting everything I say because I’m their mother, what do I know?

I’m half hoping Tilda will say something comforting, like, ‘Don’t worry, your girls will be different,’ but she just shakes her head.

‘It’s not even that simple. They’ll try you. Hate you. Scream at you. Need you. Tangle your heart up in theirs. Then they’ll move out without looking back.’

There’s silence for a while. She’s right. And I don’t know how I can dodge it.

‘Some people make it look so easy,’ I say at last, exhaling hard. But Tilda shakes her head wryly.

‘If love is easy, then you’re not doing it right.’

We both watch as Toby carts a double duvet out of the front door.

‘Hey, did you want to talk any more about your website, Sylvie?’ he says as he nears us, and I shake my head.

‘We’re not ready just yet. Thanks, though.’

‘Sure,’ says Toby and carries on down the street, the corners dragging on the dusty pavement.

‘Mind the corners!’ Tilda yells after him – then she shakes her head. ‘Whatever. He’s got a washing machine.’

‘I think Dan’s having an affair,’ I say, staring straight ahead, my voice oddly calm. ‘I found texts. Secret texts. A locked drawer. The whole bit.’

‘Oh fuck.’ Tilda grabs my arm. ‘Fuck. Sylvie, you should have said—’

‘No. It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m going to …’ As I say the words, I realize I don’t have the first idea what I’m going to do. ‘It’s fine,’ I say again. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Oh, love.’ Tilda’s arm clamps around my shoulders and squeezes hard. ‘It’s shitty. You two seemed so … Of all the couples, I would have said …’

‘I know!’ I give a tremulous laugh. ‘We were that couple. In fact, you know the really funny thing about Dan and me? I thought I knew him too well.’ I give a mirthless laugh. ‘I thought we were too close. I wanted him to surprise me. Well, guess what, he did. He did.’

‘Look …’ Tilda sighs. ‘Are you sure about this? Could there be any other … Have you talked about it with Dan?’

‘No. Not yet.’ The very thought of ‘talking about it with Dan’ makes my stomach turn over. ‘I guess you just don’t ever know the truth about people.’

‘But Dan.’ Tilda is shaking her head incredulously. ‘Dan. The most loving, thoughtful … I remember him coming over to ours after your father died. He was so worried about you. Obsessed by keeping the noise down so you could sleep. Asked us to walk around in our socks. Which we did,’ she adds with a grin.

I wince. ‘Sorry about that.’ A depressing new thought hits me and I sag. ‘Maybe that’s Dan’s problem. My breakdown was all too much for him.’

There’s a long, heavy silence between us. I can see Tilda’s brow knitting.

‘Hmm,’ she says at last. ‘Your “breakdown”.’

‘Episode,’ I amend awkwardly. ‘However you describe it.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard you talk about your “episode”. But …’ Tilda’s brow is still deeply knitted. ‘I mean … weren’t you just going through grief?’

‘Well yes, of course I was,’ I say, puzzled. ‘But I didn’t cope well.’

‘That’s what you’ve always said. And I’ve never wanted to contradict you, but …’ Tilda sighs and turns to face me. ‘Sylvie, I don’t know if this will help right now, but here goes anyway. I don’t think you had a breakdown. I think you went through grief like any normal person.’

I stare back at her, discomfited, not knowing how to respond.

‘But I wrote that letter,’ I say at last. ‘I went to Gary Butler’s house.’

‘So what? A couple of erratic moments.’

‘But … Dan. My mother. They both said … they called a doctor …’

‘I wouldn’t say your mother is any great judge of anything,’ Tilda cuts me off crisply. ‘And Dan … Dan was always very protective of you. Maybe too much so. Has he ever lost anyone? Been bereaved?’

‘Well … no,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘No, he hasn’t. No one close.’

‘So he doesn’t know. He wasn’t prepared. He couldn’t bear to see you suffering and he wanted to cure you. Sylvie, grief is long and messy and horrible … but it’s not an illness. And you cope how you cope. There’s no “well” about it.’

She links her arm in mine and we sit there silently for a while. And despite everything, I feel strengthened by what she’s just said. It feels true.

‘I don’t know if that helps,’ she says at last. ‘Probably not.’

‘No, it does,’ I say. ‘It does. You always help.’ I squeeze her tight and give her an impulsive kiss, then get to my feet. ‘I have to go. I’m late.’

‘Shall I walk with you?’ offers Tilda at once and I feel another wave of affection for her.

‘No, no.’ I pat her shoulder. ‘Stay. Say a proper goodbye to Toby. He’ll be back,’ I add over my shoulder as I set off. ‘He’ll be back to see you. You wait.’