Surprise Me(74)

The minute the words are out of my mouth, I realize their ghastly significance. Is Dan ‘trying different things’? Is Mary a ‘different thing’?

I don’t quite know what’s happened to me. I feel like a pinball machine. Suspicions and worries and theories are careering around my brain in a way they never have before. I trusted Dan. I knew Dan. We were us. Solid. So what’s changed?

Or am I inventing problems for myself? The idea hits me as I head into a snarl of traffic, all heading to school. It’s entirely possible. Maybe I’m Othello, obsessing over a handkerchief. Dan is totally innocent, yet my irrational jealousy is an unstoppable force and I’ll only realize it, in anguish, once I’ve killed him. (Divorced him and got the children and the house. It’s the Wandsworth equivalent.)

My head is spinning more than ever. What would Tilda say? She’d say, ‘Focus on what you actually know.’ So. OK. Here goes. I know that I encouraged Dan to be adventurous. (Huge mistake; what was I thinking?) I know that something ‘woke up inside him’. I know that he’s cooking Mary his flashest lamb recipe and suggested that I be out of the house for the evening. I know he googled Mary Holland husband. And, of course, now I know he ‘wants to escape’.

It’s more than a handkerchief.

Isn’t it?

Is it?

I pause at a set of traffic lights, my heart thumping and my brows knotted. My hands are clenched around the wheel; my entire body is engaged in this mental process.

OK, here’s the thing, I’m not saying I think he’s having an affair. Yet. What I’m saying is, he’s in that zone. He’s primed. He’s vulnerable. He may not even realize it himself, but he is.

‘Mummy! Mummeee! The cars are hooting!’ Suddenly I’m aware I’m being beeped. Shit. (And trust Tessa to notice, not me.)

I hastily move on, then start looking for a parking space, all thoughts of marriage temporarily swept from my head. Bloody London. It’s impossible to park. It’s impossible to do anything. Why are there so many people on the roads? What are they all doing?

At last I find a spot, three streets away from the school, and hustle the girls along, trailing book bags, recorders and gym kit. As I head through the playground, I wave and smile to various mums I know, all clustered in gossiping groups. They basically fall into three categories, the mums at school. There are the working mums. There are the at-home mums. And there are the exercise-is-their-work mums, who never wear anything except leggings and trainers.

What are their marriages like? I find myself wondering as I survey all the jolly, chatting faces. How many of them are hiding worries under their smiles?

‘Oh, Sylvie!’ calls Jane Moffat, our class rep, as I pass by. ‘Can I put you down for a quiche for the year-group picnic?’

‘Sure,’ I say, absently, before cursing myself. Quiches are vile. Why does anyone want quiche at a picnic anyway? It’s impossible to eat. I’ll email her later and suggest sushi instead, which has the advantage that no one expects you to make sushi.

Tessa and Anna are already at the door of their classroom, which is on the ground floor and opens straight on to the playground. I head over and help them put gym kit bags on to pegs, book bags into the basket and recorders on to the special recorder shelf.

‘Oh, Mrs Winter,’ says Mrs Pickford, their teacher. She’s a gentle, kindly woman with greying hair cut in layers, and a lot of waterfall cardigans in different colours. ‘The girls have been telling us that you have a new snake in the family! How exciting!’

Here’s the thing about five-year-old children: they tell their teachers everything.

‘That’s right!’ I try to look positive. ‘We do indeed have a snake in the family.’

‘We were wondering if you might bring it in for Show and Tell? I’m sure the children would love to see … her, is it?’

‘Maybe,’ I say, after a pause. ‘She’s really more my husband’s thing. He feeds her and everything.’

‘I see.’ Mrs Pickford nods. ‘Well, perhaps you could ask him?’ She hesitates. ‘I mean, it would be safe? It is a safe snake?’

I resist the temptation to answer, ‘No, it’s a ten-foot lethal boa constrictor, that’s why we have it in our family home.’

‘Quite safe,’ I nod reassuringly.

‘Apparently it was a complete surprise?’ Mrs Pickford adds chattily. ‘Tessa told us all that you were quite shocked! I don’t know how I’d react if my husband brought home a snake, out of the blue!’

She gives a little laugh, and I know she’s only making conversation, but I feel flicked on the raw.

‘Well, we have a very strong marriage,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘Very strong and happy. Very stable. We’re in a really good place, actually. We don’t get rocked by stuff like snakes, or other …’ I clear my throat. ‘So.’

As I stop talking I can see a slightly odd look on Mrs Pickford’s face.

Oh God. I am actually losing it.

‘Right,’ she says, her voice a little too bright. ‘Well, let me know about the Show and Tell. Girls, say goodbye to Mummy.’

I hug each of the girls in turn, then walk away, my mind churning. I smile and wave goodbye to the other mums, and I probably look relaxed and jolly, just like them, but inside, the tension is ratcheting up. What I really need, right now, is a distraction.