Surprise Me(55)

‘Well, OK … probably not,’ I allow. ‘We’d have to get someone to do it.’

‘How much income would it generate? Or publicity?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admit, losing faith in the idea even as I’m talking. ‘But it’s just the first idea of many. Many, many ideas,’ I reiterate, as though to reassure myself.

‘Good,’ says Robert, sounding unconvinced. ‘I look forward to your many ideas.’

‘Great.’ I try to sound bullish. ‘Well … you’ll be impressed.’





NINE


Everything’s got so stressful. It’s three days later, and I’ve just about had enough. Why is life like this? Just as you relax and start enjoying yourself, smiling, having fun … life looms up like a mean teacher in the playground, shouting, ‘Playtime is over!’ and everyone trails off to be miserable and bored again.

Dan is constantly strained but he won’t tell me why. He got home at midnight the other night and smelled of whisky. He sits gazing into the snake tank quite a lot, and his default expression has become a frown.

I joked yesterday morning, ‘Don’t worry, only another sixty-seven years and fifty weeks to go,’ and he just looked up blankly as though he didn’t get it. Then, when I said more gently, ‘Come on, Dan, what’s the matter?’ he sprang up and left the room, replying, ‘Nothing,’ over his shoulder.

How many divorces are caused by the word ‘nothing’? I think this would be a very interesting statistic. When Dan says, ‘Nothing,’ I get this jab of total frusture, like a little twisty knife. Frusture is my word for the exquisite fury that only your husband can give you. Not only are you furious, you feel like he’s doing it all on purpose, in order to torment you.

I raised this theory with Dan, once. I was – in hindsight – a bit stressed out. The babies had been up all night, in my defence. And I yelled, ‘Do you deliberately find the most annoying thing to say to me, Dan? Is this your plan?’ Whereupon he looked all hunted and said, ‘No. I don’t know. I wasn’t quite following what you said. You look really nice in that dress.’

Which kind of appeased me and didn’t appease me, all at once. I mean, I had gone off-topic. I will admit that. I sometimes do. But couldn’t he see that our holiday plans and the problem with the recycling bins and his mother’s birthday present was all the same issue?

(Also, it wasn’t a dress, it was a nondescript breastfeeding tunic top that I’d worn fifty times before. So how on earth could he say I looked nice in it?)

Probably we should have agendas for our arguments. Probably we should decide to have an argument every Thursday evening and buy in snacks and hire a mediator. We should take ownership of the arguing process. But until we do, we’re stuck with Dan saying ‘nothing’ and me seething and the air all crackly with static resentment.

Anyway, I’m hoping my boudoir pictures will change everything. Or change some things, at least.

Meanwhile, the office is pretty stressful, too. Robert has been hanging around every day, going through figures and files and basically insulting everything we’ve ever done. He isn’t scary, exactly, but he’s businesslike. He asks short, brusque questions. He expects short, brusque answers. Poor Clarissa can’t cope at all, and communicates in whispers. I’m more resilient – but doesn’t he realize? We don’t make the big decisions. It wasn’t our idea to commission a special Willoughby House Christmas Pudding last year as a gift to supporters (total loss: ￡379), it was Mrs Kendrick’s.

Shamed by Mrs Kendrick’s positive and adaptable attitude, I’ve done some research on websites and online shops and all the things I think we should be doing. I’ve spent every waking moment trying to think of creative ideas other than a ghost story podcast. (The trouble is, once you try to have an idea, they all fly away.) I’ve also been round to see Toby, but he wasn’t in, so I emailed him and haven’t heard back yet.

Meanwhile, Mummy keeps phoning me about the opening ceremony. She’s nearly as bad as Esme, with her endless questions. Today she wanted to know: 1. What colour shoes should she wear? And 2. How will she remember everyone’s name? (Answers: 1. No one will be looking at her shoes and 2. name badges.) Esme, on the other hand, wanted to know: 3. Do I require a radio microphone? And 4. What kind of snacks would I like in the ‘green room area’? (Answers: 3. I’m really not bothered and 4. a bowl of M&M’s with all the blue ones taken out. Joke.)

Just to add to the fraught atmosphere, Tilda and Toby had a massive shouting match last night. I could hear them through the wall and it made me wince. (I also decided it would be tactless for me to pop straight round and say, ‘Oh, Toby, you’re in, did you get my email?’ So I left it half an hour and by then he’d gone out again. Typical.)

I know it’s tough for Toby and that his generation have it hard. I know all that. But I think Tilda’s going to have to be firm. He needs to get a job. A place to live. A life, basically.

I’m actually quite apprehensive as I knock on her door on Thursday evening, in case I come across her and Toby mid-row again. But as she opens the door she looks quite calm – mellow, even, and there’s music playing in the background.

‘He’s out,’ she says succinctly. ‘Staying over with friends. We’re fine. All ready?’