Surprise Me(59)

‘Hi.’ He looks up with an absent smile. ‘You’re home early.’

I smile back. ‘We wrapped it up. There’s only so much you can say about Flaubert.’

‘Mmm.’ His attention shifts back towards the screen and he takes a slug of beer.

Isn’t he going to say, ‘Why are you dressed only in a pashmina and high heels?’

Clearly not. Clearly he thinks it’s a dress.

‘Dan.’ I plant myself in his field of vision and start to unwrap the pashmina in my most tantalizing, boudoir-photo style.

‘Come on …’

I don’t believe it. He’s peering around me at the screen, as if I’m some annoying obstacle, because something far more exciting is obviously happening on the football pitch. ‘Come on!’ He clenches a fist. ‘Come on!’

‘Dan!’ I say sharply, and let the pashmina fall to the ground in one go.

OK, now I’ve got his attention.

There’s silence, except for the roar of the football crowd. Dan is goggling up at me. He’s actually speechless. He lifts a hand to caress one of my boobs, as though he’s never seen it before.

‘Well,’ he says at last, his voice a little thick. ‘This is interesting.’

I shrug nonchalantly. ‘Surprise.’

‘So I see.’

Slowly he starts playing with the pearl necklace. He presses the pearls into my cleavage, rubs my nipples with them, runs them up and down my skin, his eyes fixed on mine. And I know the pearl necklace is a boudoir photo cliché or whatever, but actually this is pretty sexy. It’s all pretty sexy. The stripper heels, the corset – and Dan’s expression in particular. He hasn’t looked like this in a long time: as though something huge and powerful is overcoming him and no one can stop it.

‘The children are asleep,’ I say huskily, reaching for the remote and snapping off the TV. ‘We can do anything. Try anything. Go anywhere. Be anyone.’

Dan is already eyeing up a nearby barstool with intent. He’s very keen on doing it on those barstools. Me, not so much. They always end up digging into my thighs.

‘Maybe something different,’ I say quickly. ‘Something we’ve never done. Something adventurous. Surprise me.’

There’s another tense silence, broken only by the clicking of the pearls in Dan’s fingers. His eyes are distant. I can tell he’s hugely preoccupied. My own mind is ranging around various delicious possibilities and fixing on that chocolate body paint I bought once for Valentine’s Day … hmm, I wonder where it is … when Dan’s eyes seem to snap.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Get your coat on. I’m asking Tilda to babysit.’

‘What are we doing?’

‘You’ll find out.’ He flashes me a gaze that makes me shiver in anticipation.

‘Do I need clothes on?’

‘Just put a coat on.’ His eyes drop to my lacy black pants. ‘You won’t need those.’

OK, this totally beats a book of boudoir photos. By the time I’ve removed my pants, selected my sexiest coat and made sure that passers-by won’t get an X-rated view of me as I walk along, Dan is back, with Tilda in tow.

‘Going out to supper, I hear, Sylvie?’ says Tilda in super-innocent tones. ‘Or is it more like dessert al fresco?’ She eyes my stripper heels so comically, I bite my lip.

‘Dan’s in charge.’ I match her innocent tone. ‘So. Who knows?’

‘Good man.’ Her eyes sparkle wickedly at me. ‘Well, have a good time. Don’t rush back.’

Dan hires a taxi and gives an address to the driver that I can’t hear. We travel along in silence, my pulse rising as Dan’s hand roams idly up inside my coat. I’m feeling almost faint with lust. We haven’t done anything like this for ages. Maybe ever. And I’m not even sure what ‘this’ is yet.

After a short drive, we get out on a street corner in Vauxhall. Vauxhall? This is all very unlikely.

‘What?’ I begin, looking around. ‘Where are we—’

‘Ssh.’ Dan cuts me off. ‘This way.’

He leads me briskly through an unfamiliar garden square, just as though he’s been here a million times. He ushers me past the church in the corner. We walk through the little graveyard and approach an old wooden gate, set in a brick wall, with a keypad next to it.

‘OK,’ says Dan to himself as we come to a halt. ‘The only question is, have they changed the code?’

I’m too bemused to answer. Where the hell are we?

Dan punches in a code, and I hear an unlocking sound from the gate. Then he slowly pushes it open. And I don’t believe it: it’s a garden. A totally deserted little garden. I stare ahead, open-mouthed, and Dan surveys me with a twinkle of satisfaction.

‘Surprise,’ he says.

I follow him in, looking around in wonderment. What is this place? There are raised beds. Trellises. Pleached apple trees. Roses. It’s a little haven in the heart of London. And in the centre of it all is an arrangement of five abstract modern sculptures – all twisting, sinuous, hardwood curves.

It’s towards these that Dan is leading me, authoritatively, as though he owns the place. Without speaking, he pushes me up against a sculpture and starts to kiss me with determination, peeling off my coat, cupping my naked breasts, not saying a word. The smooth sweep of the sculpture melds to me perfectly. The air is fresh against my skin. I can smell roses in the air; hear the laughter of passers-by on the other side of the wall. They’ve got no idea what we’re up to. This is surreal.