Surprise Me(13)

Yet is Toby’s watchword. Anything he hasn’t done in life, he was totally planning to, he just hasn’t done it yet. I’ve even heard him bellowing it, through the party wall: ‘I haven’t cleared up the kitchen yet! Yet! Jeez, Mum!’

He hasn’t found funding for his start-up yet. He hasn’t considered any other careers yet. He hasn’t thought about moving into a flat yet. He hasn’t learned how to make lasagne yet.

Tilda has an older daughter, too, called Gabriella, and by the age of twenty-four she was working for a bank, living with her boyfriend and giving Tilda advice on useful gadgets from the Lakeland catalogue. Which goes to show. Something.

But what I’ve learned with Tilda is: when she starts on a Toby-rant, you have to quickly change the subject. And actually, there’s something I want to ask her. I want someone else’s opinion on this whole marriage thing.

‘Tilda, when you got married,’ I say casually, ‘how long did you imagine it would last? I mean, I know, “forever”.’ I make quote marks in the air. ‘And I know you got divorced anyway, so …’ I hesitate. ‘But on your wedding day, when you couldn’t see any of that coming, how long did you think “forever” would be?’

‘The honest truth?’ Tilda says, shaking out her wrist. ‘Shit. My Fitbit’s stopped working.’

‘Er … yes. I suppose.’

‘Is it the battery?’ Tilda clicks with annoyance. ‘How many steps have we done?’ She bangs her Fitbit. ‘It doesn’t count unless it goes on my Fitbit. I might as well not have bothered.’

Tilda’s Fitbit is her latest obsession. For a while it was Instagram and our daily walk was punctuated by her taking endless photos of raindrops on leaves. Now it’s steps.

‘Of course it counts! I’ll tell you how many we’ve done when we reach the station, OK?’ I’m trying to haul her back on track. ‘So, when you got married …’

‘When I got married,’ Tilda repeats, as though she’s forgotten the question.

‘How long did you think “forever” would be? Like, thirty years?’ I venture. ‘Or … fifty?’

‘Fifty years?’ Tilda makes a sound which is half-snort, half-laugh. ‘Fifty years with Adam? Believe me, fifteen was quite enough, and we did well to last that long.’ She shoots me a sharp look. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say vaguely. ‘Just thinking about marriage, how long it goes on for, that kind of thing.’

‘If you really want my opinion,’ says Tilda, striding more briskly, ‘the whole system is flawed. I mean, forever? Who can commit to forever? People change, lives change, circumstances change …’

‘Well …’ I trail off. I don’t know what to say. I have committed to forever with Dan.

I mean, haven’t I?

‘What about wanting to grow old together?’ I say at last.

‘I’ve never understood that,’ says Tilda emphatically. ‘It’s the most gruesome life aim I can think of. “Grow old together”. You might as well say you want to “keep your own teeth together”.’

‘It’s not the same thing!’ I object, laughing, but she doesn’t hear me. Tilda often gets on a bit of a roll.

‘All this nonsensical emphasis on “forever”. Well, maybe. But isn’t “till death us do part” a bit over-ambitious? Isn’t it a bit of a gamble? There are a lot more likely scenarios. “Till growing our separate ways us do part”. “Till boredom us do part”. In my case: “Till thy husband’s wandering penis thee do part”.’

I give a wry smile. Tilda doesn’t often talk about Adam, her ex-husband, but she once gave me the whole story, which was funny and lacerating and just really sad.

He’s married again, Adam. Has three small children with his new wife. Apparently he looks exhausted all the time.

‘Well, here we are.’ As we arrive at the tube station, Tilda bashes her Fitbit against her wrist. ‘Stupid bloody thing. What have you got on this morning?’

‘Oh. Just a coffee with a supporter.’ I show her my phone, which is open on my pedometer app. ‘There you go: 4,458 steps.’

‘Yes, but you probably ran up and down the stairs six times before we started,’ retorts Tilda. ‘Where are you going for coffee?’ she adds, giving me such a raised-eyebrow, sardonic look that I laugh. ‘Where?’ she persists. ‘And don’t pretend it’s Starbucks.’

‘Claridge’s,’ I admit.

‘Claridge’s!’ exclaims Tilda. ‘I knew it.’

‘See you tomorrow.’ I grin at her and head into the station. And as I’m reaching for my Oyster card, I can still hear her voice behind me:

‘Only you, Sylvie! Claridge’s! I mean, Claridge’s!’

I do have quite a jammy job. I can’t deny it.

Literally jammy. I’m sitting at a table in Claridge’s, surveying a plate of pastries and croissants with apricot jam. Opposite me is a girl called Susie Jackson. I’ve met her quite a few times now, and I’m telling her about our upcoming exhibition, which is of fans from the nineteenth century.

I work for a very small charity called Willoughby House. It’s been owned by the Kendrick family for years, and is a Georgian townhouse in Marylebone, stuffed full of art and treasures and – slightly bizarrely – harpsichords. Sir Walter Kendrick had a fascination for them, and he began a collection in 1894. He also loved ceremonial swords and his wife loved miniatures. In fact, basically the whole family was a load of compulsive hoarders. Except we don’t call their stuff a ‘hoard’. We call it a ‘priceless collection of artwork and artefacts of national and historical interest’, and put on exhibitions and talks and little concerts.