Surprise Me(77)

As I enter the kitchen, I’m wearing my most casually elegant outfit – slim white trousers and a print top with a flash of cleavage – and wafting perfume. I’m hoping Dan will turn from the stove and his eyes will light up and maybe we’ll sink into each other’s arms in a bonding, imprinting way which will inoculate him against Mary.

But he’s not by the stove. I can see him through the window, out in the garden, picking some mint from our straggly bush which grows by one of the Wendy houses. (I do know mint. Mint and rosemary. Any other herbs, forget it: I’d need to see them in a Tesco packet to identify them.)

I head through the back door and make my way over our crappy grass, picking my brains for something to say. As I reach him, I blurt out, ‘Mint is lovely, isn’t it?’

Which is such a bland comment I instantly regret it – but then, I’m not sure Dan even heard. He’s rubbing a mint leaf in his fingers and his eyes have got that faraway look again. Where is he now? Back in his youth? With her?

And yet again, I feel a stab of anxiety. OK, I have no proof of anything, but that’s not the point. The point is, Dan is vulnerable. I believe it more than ever. Something happened in that garden. Something was stirred up in him. And now this woman is going to arrive (and if she’s anything like she looks in her photo, will still be totally gorgeous) and remind him of how it all used to be before marriage and kids and stretch marks. (I mean, she might have stretch marks. But I doubt it.)

I help Dan gather some more mint and we head back inside, and somehow I keep making innocuous conversation – but my mind is whirring.

‘So, tell me about your friends,’ I say as he washes the mint. ‘Tell me about …’ I make a heroic effort to sound casual. ‘… Mary.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen Jeremy or Adrian for years,’ Dan says, and my brain gives a squeal of frustration.

I don’t want to know about bloody Jeremy or Adrian, didn’t you hear me say Mary? Mary?

‘Jeremy’s in tax law, as far as I know,’ Dan continues, ‘and Adrian’s in teaching, I think, but it wasn’t clear on LinkedIn …’

My brain tunes out as he tells me all about Jeremy and Adrian and how much fun they used to be and the walk they once did in the Brecon Beacons.

‘And Mary?’ I say, as soon as I get a chance. ‘What’s she like? Do I need to be worried? Old girlfriend and all that? Ha ha!’ I try, unsuccessfully, to give an airy, natural laugh.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snaps Dan, and there’s a defensive flare to his voice that makes me stare at him in sudden, genuine fear. He clearly realizes that he’s overreacted, because the next moment he’s looking up from his mint and smiling like any loving husband would and saying, ‘I don’t worry about you seeing Nick Reese every day, do I?’

I keep on smiling, but inside I’m seething. Nick Reese is a totally different case. Yes, he is my ex-boyfriend and yes, I run into him a fair amount but that’s because he has a daughter in the girls’ class at school. I run into him at school events, because I have to. Not because I’ve invited him to my house for a special Ottolenghi dinner and taken special care over my outfit. (Yes, I have noticed that Dan’s wearing his nicest, most flattering shirt. I have noticed.)

I shrug casually. ‘I just wondered what she was like.’

‘Oh, she’s …’ Dan pauses and his eyes become distant. ‘She’s a life-enhancer. She’s wise. Calm. Some people just have that quality, you know? A kind of goodness. A kind of down-to-earth … soothing … She’s like a tranquil lake.’

I stare at him, stricken. Mary’s a tranquil lake. Whereas I’m what? Some burbling, frantic river with white-water rapids round every corner?

Is he simply tired of me? Does he want a lake, not a river? Is that the massive great chasm in our marriage that I can’t see? Tears suddenly prick my eyes and I look away. I have to get a grip. What would Tilda say? She’d say, ‘Stop overthinking, you silly idiot, and have a glass of wine.’

‘I’m having a glass of wine,’ I say, opening the fridge. ‘You want one?’

‘I’ll just finish this mint,’ says Dan, glancing at his watch. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

I pour myself a glass of Sauvignon and check the table, trying to calm myself down. And as I walk round, straightening napkins that didn’t need to be straightened, something new occurs to me. I’ve been focusing entirely on him. What about her? From her photo, she looks like a good person. She looks like a person who wouldn’t steal her friend’s husband. So maybe my best bet is to become her friend. Bond with her. Show her that I’m a really nice person. Show her that even if Dan says, ‘My wife doesn’t understand me’ – which, to be fair, sometimes I don’t – I’m still doing my best.

(I mean, he is quite hard to understand, in my defence. That mania he has for turning radiators down: I will never get that.)

I’m just telling myself that this is a good strategy and there’s no need to be anxious when the doorbell rings and I start so hard, my Sauvignon nearly spills out of my glass.

‘She’s here!’ I say shrilly. ‘I mean … they’re here. Someone’s here.’

Dan goes to get the front door and I soon hear the boom of cheery male voices from the hall.