Surprise Me(88)

He stares at me. ‘Yes, calls.’

‘What kind of calls?’

‘Just calls.’

I’m breathing hard. My thoughts are skittering around. I need to gather myself.

‘I just think … we should be … honest with each other,’ I say, feeling my way. ‘Really, really honest. Let’s have a new project where we confess everything. Project Clean Slate.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Dan mutters. ‘I need a drink.’ He looks as if Project Clean Slate is the last thing he wants in his life, but I press on determinedly as he gets a beer from the fridge.

‘We need to connect. And to connect you need to be totally straightforward and not hide anything. Like …’ I scrabble hastily around. ‘Like, I found a Post-it that I’d written for myself the other day. Your mum had called and I totally forgot to tell you. Sorry.’

There’s silence, and I look at Dan expectantly.

‘What?’ he says.

‘Your turn! Project Clean Slate! There must be something you … something you haven’t told me … it could be anything …’

I trail off, my heart beating even faster. Already I know this isn’t going to work. It was a stupid idea. I confess a missed phone message and he confesses an entire affair?

‘Sylvie, I really don’t have time for this,’ Dan says, and something about his terse, dismissive tone makes me see red.

‘You don’t have time for your marriage?’ I explode. ‘You don’t have time to talk about the hiccups in our relationship?’

‘What hiccups?’ Dan sounds irritable. ‘Why are you always inventing problems?’

Inventing? I want to scream. Did I invent your texts?

There’s silence in the kitchen, apart from the ticking of our wall clock. We bought it together in Ikea, before we were married. We didn’t even need to discuss it. We were both instantly drawn to the same one, with a big black rim and no numerals. I remember thinking, God, we’re so in sync.

What a joke.

Dan pulls up a chair and sits down and he looks exactly like the husband I’ve known and loved all these years, except, he’s not, is he? He’s stuffed full of secrets.

I’m bubbling over again. I need to confront him. If I can’t bring myself to brandish his texts to Mary, I can brandish something else.

‘I know you’re cooking up something at work,’ I fling out at him. ‘I heard you at the hospital, talking to my mother. “A million pounds, maybe two,” huh, Dan? Is that what you’re borrowing? Without telling me? Is this for that Copenhagen business?’

Dan’s eyes widen. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

‘I heard you!’ I know my voice is shrill but I can’t help it. ‘“One million, maybe two!” Jesus, Dan! This is our future you’re gambling on! And I know exactly what it’s about really—’

‘Oh yes?’ Dan says in ominous tones. ‘What’s it about really?’

Seriously? He’s asking this?

‘My father!’ I almost yell. ‘What do you think? It’s always about my father! You can’t stand that Daddy was rich and successful, you can’t stand that he was admired, you look miserable any time anyone says anything nice about him—’

‘I do not,’ snaps Dan.

‘Oh my God, Dan, are you for real?’ I almost want to laugh, except it’s not funny. ‘Have you seen yourself? It’s completely obvious. And that’s why you want to expand your company, not because it’s good for us, as a family, but because you’ve got to compete with my father, who by the way, is dead. Dead. You’re so bloody chippy, and I’m sick of it.’

I break off, panting, tears rising, half-terrified. I can’t believe I called Dan ‘chippy’. It’s a word I vowed never, ever to use. But now I have. I’ve crossed a line.

A vein is twitching in Dan’s forehead. He stares at me for a few silent moments and I can see a million thoughts passing through his eyes, but I can’t read any of them.

‘I can’t do this,’ he says abruptly, pushing back his chair.

‘Can’t do what?’ I throw after him, but he doesn’t answer, just strides into the hall and up the stairs.

‘Dan!’ I hurry after him furiously. ‘Come back! We need to talk!’

‘Jesus, Sylvie!’ Dan pauses halfway up the stairs and wheels round. ‘Are you for real? We do not need to talk. I’m fucking talked out. I need to have some space. Some space. To think. To … I need space. Space.’ He clutches his head. ‘Space.’

‘Oh, space,’ I say, as scathingly as I can, because inside my heart is beating a tattoo of panic.

This has all gone far worse than I expected, far more quickly. I want to pull it back. I want to say, ‘Please. Please, Dan. Tell me you don’t love her.’ But I’m petrified of what he might say. So much for knowing him inside out; for being psychic; for finishing off his sentences. I have no idea what he’s about to say any more.

I feel almost faint with fear, standing here in my familiar hall, staring up at my unfamiliar husband. He’s gazing at me with a wry expression that makes my hair stand on end, because it’s not one of our looks. It’s the kind of look he might give to a stranger.