Surprise Me(5)

But nothing gets through. He seems totally wrapped up in his own thoughts. So at last I resort to doing the thing I never do, which is to say: ‘What are you thinking about?’

Almost immediately, I regret it. I’ve never been that wife who keeps asking, ‘What are you thinking about?’ Now I feel needy and cross with myself. Why shouldn’t Dan think in silence for a while? Why am I prodding him? Why can’t I give him space?

On the other hand: what the hell is he thinking about?

‘Oh.’ Dan sounds distracted. ‘Nothing. I was thinking about loan agreements. Mortgages.’

Mortgages!

I almost want to laugh out loud. OK, this just shows the difference between men and women. Which is something I don’t like saying, because I’m very much not a sexist – but honestly. There I am, thinking about our marriage, and there he is, thinking about mortgages.

‘Is there an issue with the mortgage or something?’

‘No,’ he says absently, glancing at the satnav. ‘Jeez, this route is going nowhere.’

‘So why were you thinking about mortgages?’

‘Oh, er …’ Dan frowns, preoccupied by his satnav screen. ‘I was just thinking about how before you sign up for one …’ He swings the wheel round, doing a U-turn and ignoring the angry beeps around him. ‘… you know exactly how long the loan period is for. I mean, yes, it’s twenty-five years, but then it’s done. You’re out. You’re free.’

Something clenches my stomach and before I can think straight, I blurt out, ‘You think I’m a mortgage?’

I’m no longer the love of his life. I’m an onerous financial arrangement.

‘What?’ Dan turns to me in astonishment. ‘Sylvie, we’re not talking about you. This isn’t about you.’

Oh my God. Again, I’m really not being sexist, but … men.

‘Is that what you think? Do you not hear yourself?’ I put on my Dan-voice to demonstrate. ‘“We’re going to be married for a massive long time. Shit. Hey, a mortgage is really good because after twenty-five years, you’re out. You’re free.”’ I resume my normal Sylvie-voice. ‘Are you saying that was a random thought process? Are you saying the two are unrelated?’

‘That is not—’ Dan breaks off as realization catches up with him. ‘That is not what I meant,’ he says with renewed vigour. ‘I’d actually forgotten all about that conversation with the doctor,’ he adds for good measure.

I shoot him a sceptical look. ‘You’d forgotten it?’

‘Yes. I’d forgotten it.’

He sounds so unconvincing, I almost pity him.

‘You’d forgotten about the sixty-seven more years we’ve got together?’ I can’t help laying a little trap.

‘Sixty-eight,’ he corrects instantly – then a tell-tale flush comes to his face. ‘Or whatever it is. As I say, I really don’t remember.’

He’s such a liar. It’s etched on his brain. Just like it is on mine.

We arrive back in Wandsworth, find a parking spot not too far from the house and let ourselves in. We live in a smallish three-bedroomed terraced house with a path up to the front door and a garden at the back which used to contain herbs and flowers, but now is mostly filled with the two massive Wendy houses my mother bought the girls for their fourth birthday.

Only my mother would buy two socking great identical Wendy houses. And deliver them in the middle of their birthday party as a surprise. All our guests were speechless as three delivery men manhandled in the candy-striped wall panels and roofs and cute little windows, and made them up while we all gawped.

‘Wow, Mummy!’ I exclaimed after we’d said our fulsome thank yous. ‘I mean, they’re wonderful … absolutely amazing … but … two? Really?’ And she just blinked at me with her clear blue eyes and replied, ‘So they don’t have to share, darling,’ as though it was perfectly obvious.

Anyway. That’s my mum. She’s adorable. Adorably annoying. No, maybe annoyingly adorable is a better way to put it. And actually, the second Wendy house is pretty useful for storing my gym mat and weights. So.

As we enter the house, neither of us seems to have much to say. While I’m leafing through the post, I catch Dan looking around our kitchen as though he’s seeing the house for the first time. As though he’s getting to know his prison cell, I find myself thinking.

Then I chide myself: Come on, he doesn’t really look like that.

Then I exonerate myself, because in fact, he really does. He’s pacing around like a tiger, eyeing the blue-painted cabinets morosely. Next he’ll be scratching a mark on the wall. Starting the tallies to mark our ceaseless, weary march down the next sixty-eight years.

‘What?’ says Dan, feeling my eyes on him.

‘What?’ I counter.

‘Nothing.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Nor did I.’

Oh God. What’s happened to us? We’re both irritable and wary. And it’s all that bloody doctor’s fault for giving us such good news.

‘Look, so we’re going to live practically forever,’ I burst out. ‘We have to deal with it, OK? Let’s just talk this out.’