Surprise Me(30)

‘Exchange it?’ suggests Tilda.

‘Oh, but …’ I wince. ‘I can’t say, “Dan, darling, that’s amazing, it’s perfect, now I’m going to exchange it.”’

‘Shall I say something to Dan?’

‘Would you?’ I collapse in relief.

‘I’ll say I caught sight of it and I know the company and there’s something that would suit you much better. Just a friendly suggestion.’

‘Tilda, you’re a star.’

‘So what shall I suggest?’

‘Ooh! Dunno. I’ve never looked at this website before.’

I’m quite impressed, actually, that Dan headed there. It’s not discount cashmere, it’s posh, high-end Scottish cashmere.

I flick through a few of the pages and suddenly come across a cardigan called the Nancy. It’s stunning. Long-line and flattering, with a belt. It’ll look fantastic over jeans.

‘Hey, look at the Nancy cardigan,’ I say, in excitement.

‘OK, just clicking …’ There’s a pause, then Tilda exclaims, ‘Oh, that’s perfect! I’ll tell Dan to order you that instead. Not in vile blue. What colour do you like?’

I scroll down the colour options, feeling like a child in a sweetie shop. Choosing your own surprise present is fun.

‘Sea foam,’ I say at last.

‘Gorgeous. What size?’

‘Ah.’ I stare at the website uncertainly. ‘Maybe ten. Maybe twelve. What size is the jumper?’

‘It’s size ten,’ reports Tilda. ‘But it’s a bit small-looking. Tell you what, I’ll get Dan to order both and then I’ll look at them and judge. He can send the other one back. I mean, if you’re going to get it right, you might as well get it right.’

‘Tilda, thank you!’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble. It’s quite fun, secret packages arriving like this …’ She hesitates, then adds, ‘Very nice of Dan to order you a cashmere jumper out of the blue. Is it in honour of anything?’

‘Er …’ I’m not sure how to reply. I haven’t told anyone else about our little project. But maybe I’ll confide in Tilda. ‘Kind of,’ I say at last. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

I’m not expecting to hear any more from Tilda that day, but two hours later, as I’m in the middle of typing out a newsletter, she rings again.

‘They’re here!’

‘What are here?’ I say, confused.

‘Your cardigans! Dan changed the order, they biked them over and took the jumper back. It’s a good delivery service, I must say.’

‘Wow. Well, what do you think?’

‘Gorgeous,’ says Tilda emphatically. ‘My only issue is, which size? I can’t tell. And so I was wondering, why don’t you pop over quickly and try them on?’

Try them on? I stare uncertainly at the phone. Choosing my own surprise present was one thing. But is trying it on going too far?

‘Shouldn’t I keep some of the mystery?’ I say.

‘Mystery?’ Tilda sounds scoffing. ‘There is no mystery! Try them on, choose the one that fits, job done. Otherwise, I’m bound to pick the wrong one and it’ll be a great big hassle.’

She sounds so matter-of-fact, I’m convinced.

‘OK.’ I glance at my watch. ‘It’s time for lunch, anyway. I’m on my way.’

As I arrive at Tilda’s house I can hear thumping noises coming from upstairs. Tilda opens the front door, scoops me in for a hug, then yells, ‘What are you doing?’ over her shoulder.

A moment later, Toby appears on the stairs. He’s in an old white T-shirt and black jeans and is holding a hammer.

‘Hello, Sylvie, how are you?’ he says politely. Then he turns to Tilda, before I have time to reply. ‘What do you mean, “What am I doing?” You know what I’m doing. We discussed it.’

I can see Tilda breathing in and out again, slowly.

‘I mean,’ she says, ‘why are you making so much noise?’

‘I’m putting up speakers,’ says Toby, as though it’s obvious.

‘But why is it taking so long?’

‘Mum, have you ever put up speakers?’ Toby sounds irritated. ‘No. So. This is how long it takes. This is what it sounds like. Bye, Sylvie, nice to see you,’ he adds, in his polite-Toby manner, and I can’t help smiling. He turns and marches back upstairs and Tilda glowers after him.

‘Don’t damage the wall!’ she calls. ‘That’s all I ask. Don’t damage the wall.’

‘I’m not going to damage the wall,’ Toby shouts back, as though highly offended. ‘Why would I damage the wall?’

There’s the sound of a door shutting, and Tilda clutches her head. ‘Oh God, Sylvie. He has no idea what he’s doing, he’s got some set of power tools from somewhere …’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say soothingly. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Yes.’ Tilda seems unconvinced. ‘Yes, maybe. Anyway.’ She focuses on me as though for the first time. ‘Cardigans.’

‘Cardigans!’ I echo with a tweak of glee. I follow Tilda into her office, which is yellow-painted and lined with books and has French windows into the garden. She reaches below her desk and pulls out a flat, expensive-looking box.