Surprise Me(76)

‘Maybe it is.’ I sigh. ‘But it doesn’t bring in any customers. It doesn’t make any money.’

‘So how do you get customers?’

‘Lots of ways. Little adverts here and there. Or word of mouth.’

‘Oh, word of mouth.’ Toby perks up. ‘That’s the Holy Grail. That’s what you want.’

‘Yes, but there aren’t enough words. Or mouths.’ I look at the American website longingly for a few more moments. ‘So, basically we need money in order to afford the website which we need to make money.’

Toby nods sagely. ‘Golden goose. No, I mean, chicken and egg. So, did you think about a platform yet?’

I rub my face, feeling my energy ebbing away. Why is it that everything in life is just a bit harder than you think it’ll be? Icing cakes, having children, keeping marriages together, saving museums, building websites. All hard. The only thing that’s ever turned out easier than I expected was my Italian GCSE. (Oh, and lasering my legs, that was a doddle.)

‘I think I’d better put a budget together,’ I say at last. ‘Then we can talk about platforms or whatever.’

‘Put a budget together.’ It’s such a euphemism. It sounds as if I just need to collect the bits together from where they’ve been scattered and assemble them. But I don’t have any bits. I have nothing.

We could sell off some pieces of art, it crosses my mind. But would Mrs Kendrick ever agree to that?

‘Sure thing, Sylvie, whenever you’re ready,’ says Toby, and a wave of sympathy passes over his face. ‘It’s tough, isn’t it?’ he adds, suddenly sounding more serious, as if he gets it.

Well, of course he gets it. He’s trying to launch a start-up. He’s got enough struggles and obstacles of his own.

I give him a wry smile in return and shut his laptop. ‘Yes. Yes it is. It’s all pretty tough.’





TWELVE


It’s all pretty tough. And it hasn’t got any easier.

It’s the following Tuesday and the most positive development in my life right now is the ‘Willoughby House Museum’ sign, which arrived yesterday, and is gorgeous. Far better than we expected. We all keep going outside to gaze adoringly at it, and the volunteers are convinced it’s bringing in more visitors already, and even Robert gave a kind-of-impressed grunt when he saw it.

But at home, forget it. I’m not sure who’s most stressed out right now, me or Dan. He’s permanently taut, stroppy, tentery and generally hard to live with. When his phone rings, he grabs for it so fast it makes me wince. I’ve got home twice to find him striding around the kitchen having intense phone conversations which he immediately breaks off from. And when I ask, ‘What was that?’ he replies, ‘Nothing,’ in discouraging tones, as though I’m somehow trespassing on his privacy. Whereupon I feel such a surge of frusture that I want to hit something.

I feel as if I don’t know anything any more. I don’t know what Dan’s thinking; I don’t know what he wants; I still don’t know what this ‘million pounds, maybe two’ is. I don’t know why he’s been huddling with my mother. If it was to arrange a surprise, then where is that surprise?

I used to think our marriage was a solid entity. Firm and dense, with maybe just the odd little fault line. But are those fault lines bigger than I thought? Are they chasms? And if so, why can’t I see them?

Sometimes, honestly and truly, I feel like a colour-blind person. It’s as if everyone else can see something I can’t. Even Mummy. Sometimes she takes a breath to speak, then stops herself and says, ‘Oh, I’ve lost my train of thought,’ in an unconvincing way, and her eyes slide away from mine and I think, What? What?

On the other hand, I may be being paranoid. It’s possible.

I could really do with a sensible friend to talk to, but the only person who knows all the ins and outs is Tilda, and she’s still commuting to Andover. Yesterday I felt so desperate, I found myself googling How to keep your husband, and the answer that came back was essentially: You can’t. If he wants to leave you, he will. (I hate the internet.)

The infamous dinner party is tonight, and Dan is totally obsessed – about the food, the wine, even the coffee cups. (When has he ever taken any notice of coffee cups?)

Meanwhile, I’m ratty and snappy and dying for the whole thing to be over. I keep telling myself: It can’t be that bad. Then: Yes it can. And then: Actually it can be worse. (I’m not sure what worse might consist of, but it won’t be good, surely?)

Dan’s picked up on my tension; how could he not? Although – silver lining – I’ve blamed it on my problems at work, which are still massive, despite the sign. My non-existent website budget is still non-existent. I’ve made approaches to every single supporter, patron and philanthropist I can think of. But so far we’ve received nothing except a hundred pounds in cash pushed anonymously through the letter box in an envelope (I totally suspect Mrs Kendrick) and a big crate of Fortnum’s biscuits. One of our volunteers apparently ‘pulled some strings’. (Robert’s face when he saw them was quite funny; in fact it’s the only thing I’ve laughed at for ages.)

And now I’ve got to get ready to confront my nemesis over Ottolenghi slow-cooked lamb.

No. I don’t have any proof she’s my nemesis. I have to remember this.