Surprise Me(34)

‘You haven’t eaten anything yet!’ I say, handing Dan a spherical dumpling-like object. ‘This is an idli. It’s Indian. Made from fermented batter.’

‘Right.’ Dan looks at the idli, then puts it down. ‘Wow. This is really …’

‘It’s different, right?’ I say eagerly. ‘Not what you were expecting.’

‘Absolutely not,’ says Dan, sounding heartfelt. ‘Very much not what I was expecting.’

‘So, dive in!’ I spread my hands wide. ‘It’s all yours!’

‘I will! I will!’ He nods lots of times, almost as though he’s having to convince himself. ‘It’s just hard to know where to start. It all looks so—’ He breaks off. ‘What’s this one?’ He prods the German meat dish.

‘Leberk?se,’ I read from the menu. ‘It literally means, “liver cheese”.’

Dan makes a sort of gulpy sound, and I give him a bright, encouraging smile, even though I’m slightly regretting having said ‘liver cheese’ out loud. It’s not necessarily what you want to hear first thing in the morning, is it, ‘liver cheese’?

‘Look,’ I continue. ‘You love rye bread, so why not start with that?’

I push the Scandinavian dish towards him. It’s marinated fish with rye bread and sour cream. Perfect. Dan loads up his fork, and I watch expectantly as he takes a mouthful.

‘Oh my God.’ He claps his hand to his mouth. ‘I can’t …’ To my dismay, he’s gagging. He’s retching. ‘I’m going to …’

‘Here.’ In panic, I thrust a napkin at him. ‘Just spit it out.’

‘I’m sorry, Sylvie.’ As Dan finally mops his mouth, he’s shuddering. His face has gone pale, and I notice a bead of sweat on his brow. ‘I just couldn’t. It tasted like some kind of decaying, putrefying … what is that?’

‘Have some liver cheese to take away the taste,’ I say, desperately pushing the plate towards him, but Dan looks like he might retch again.

‘Maybe in a minute,’ he says, looking a little wildly around the tray. ‘Is there anything … you know. Normal?’

‘Er … er …’ Frantically I scan the menu. I’m sure I ordered some strawberries. Where the hell are they?

Then I notice a tiny box at the bottom of the menu: Please accept our apologies. The strawberry platter is unavailable, so we have substituted Egyptian foul medames.

Foul medames? I don’t want foul bloody medames. I look at the tray and feel a crash of despair. This whole breakfast is foul. It’s gloopy and weird. I should have bought croissants. I should have made pancakes.

‘I’m sorry.’ I bite my lip miserably. ‘Dan, I’m so sorry. This is a horrible breakfast. Don’t eat it.’

‘It’s not horrible!’ says Dan at once.

‘It is.’

‘It’s just …’ He pauses to choose a word. ‘Challenging. If you’re not used to it.’ The colour has returned to his face and he gives me a reassuring hug. ‘It was a lovely thought.’ He picks up an idli and nibbles it. ‘And you know what? This is good.’ He takes a sip of the artichoke tea and winces. ‘Whereas that’s vile.’ He pulls such a comical expression that I can’t help laughing.

‘Shall I make you some coffee?’

‘I would love some coffee.’ He pulls me tight to him again. ‘And thank you. Really.’

It takes me five minutes to make some coffee and spread marmalade on two slices of toast. As I get back upstairs, Tessa and Anna have joined Dan in bed and the tray of food has been discreetly placed in the far corner of the room, where no one has to look at it.

‘Coffee!’ exclaims Dan, like a man on a desert island seeing a ship. ‘And toast, too!’

‘Surprise!’ I waggle the plate of toast at him.

‘Well, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ rejoins Dan with a grin.

‘It’s a box,’ puts in Tessa, in a rush. ‘We’ve seen it. It’s a box with ribbons on. It’s under the bed.’

‘You’re not supposed to tell Mummy!’ Anna immediately looks distraught. ‘Daddy! Tessa told!’

Tessa turns defiantly pink. She may be only five, but she has mettle, my daughter. She never explains, apologizes or surrenders, unless under severe duress. Whereas Anna, poor Anna, crumples at first glance.

‘Well, Mummy knew already,’ Tessa asserts boldly. ‘Mummy knew what it was. Didn’t you, Mummy?’

My heart flips over, before I realize this is just Tessa being Tessa and inventing an instant, plausible defence. (How are we going to cope with her when she’s fifteen? Oh God. Better park that thought for now.) ‘Know about what?’ I sound totally fake to my own ears. ‘My goodness, a box? What could that be?’

Thankfully Dan has leaned under the bed and can’t see my substandard acting face. He hauls out the box and I unwrap it, trying to pace my reactions, trying to look genuine, aware of Tessa watching me beadily. Somehow my children’s little penetrating eyes are a lot more unnerving than Dan’s trusting ones.

‘Oh my GOD!’ I exclaim. ‘Wow! Cashmere? Is this a … cardigan? It’s just … Oh my God. And the colour’s perfect, and the belt …’