Surprise Me(90)

I arrive at the address to find one of those tall London houses with about ten companies on five different floors and a rickety lift and a receptionist whose aim seems to be to misunderstand you at every turn. But at last, after an excruciating conversation between the receptionist and someone on the phone at Green Pear Consulting – ‘No, she don’t have no appointment. No. No appointment. She called Sylvie. Syl-vee Winter. For Mary. Ma-ree.’ – I’m on my way up the stairs to the fourth floor. I’m pretty fit but my heart is already pounding and my skin keeps breaking out in goosebumps. I feel unreal. Finally, finally, I’m going to get some answers. Or some payback. Or something …

I get to the top and push my way through a heavy fire door. And there’s Mary, waiting for me on a tiny landing, as beautiful as ever, in a grey linen shift dress. She looks shocked to see me, I notice with satisfaction. Not so tranquil now.

‘Sylvie!’ she says. ‘They phoned up and told me someone called Sylvie was here, but I didn’t … I mean …’

‘You didn’t know why I was here?’ I say scathingly. ‘Really? You have no idea?’

There’s silence and I can see Mary’s dark eyes flickering with thought. Then she says, ‘Maybe we should go to my office.’

She leads me to a tiny room and gestures to a chair opposite her desk. It’s quite a bare space – all pale wood and posters for environmental causes and a striking abstract painting, which I would ask her about in different circumstances.

Mary sits down, but I don’t. I want the advantage of height.

‘So,’ I say, in my most cutting tones. ‘Thanks for your letter.’ I take it out of my bag and throw it on to her desk and she flinches, startled.

‘Right.’ She picks the envelope up warily, then replaces it on her desk. ‘Is there a … Are you …’ She tries a third time. ‘Sylvie …’

‘Yes?’ I say, as unforgivingly as I can. I’m certainly not making this easy for her.

‘Is something … wrong?’

Is something wrong?

‘Oh, come on, Mary,’ I snap. ‘So you’re having a secret thing with him. An affair. He’s moved in with you. Whatever. But don’t send me a letter saying thank you for the lovely dinner, OK?’ I break off, breathing hard, and Mary stares at me, her jaw dropped.

‘Moved in with me? What on earth …?’

‘Nice try.’

‘Oh God.’ Mary clutches her head. ‘I need to unpick all this. Sylvie, I’m not having an affair with Dan and he hasn’t moved in with me. OK?’

‘Oh, right,’ I say icily. ‘I suppose he hasn’t sent you secret texts, either. I suppose he didn’t tell you he feels “pinned in a corner”. I saw you talking, Mary. I saw you hugging. So you can stop the play-acting, OK? I know.’

There’s silence, and I can see I’ve got to Mary. I’ve punctured her serene veneer. She looks quite rattled, for an angel.

‘We did talk that night,’ she says at last. ‘And yes, we did hug. But as old friends, nothing more. Dan wanted to open up to me … and I found myself listening. Talking.’ She suddenly rises from her chair, so she’s at eye-level with me. ‘But Dan and I are not having an affair. We’re really, really not. Please believe me.’

‘“Old friends”.’ I echo the words sarcastically.

‘Yes!’ Her face suddenly flushes. ‘Just that. I don’t have affairs with married men. I wouldn’t do that.’

‘What about the texts?’ I fling back at her.

‘I’ve only sent him a couple of texts. We’ve chatted. Nothing more. I promise.’

‘But you’ve met up. At Starbucks. At Villandry.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘At your house we talked about meeting up, possibly … That’s all. He just wanted to talk to me. Download. That’s all.’

‘Download about what?’ There’s an edge to my voice. ‘About how I’m “nuts”?’

‘What?’ She blinks at me in shock. ‘No!’

‘Stop denying it!’ I erupt. ‘I’ve seen the texts! “Running late”. “It’s ok have distracted S”.’ I make jabbing, quotey gestures at her. ‘“Remember PS factor”. I’ve read them! There’s no point lying!’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ She appears baffled. ‘What’s the PS factor? And he’s never been “running late” because we’ve never met up.’

I’m breathing hard. Seriously?

‘Look.’ I summon up the photos I took of Dan’s secret phone and thrust them in front of her. ‘Remember these?’

Mary looks down, her forehead delicately wrinkled, then shakes her head. ‘I’ve never seen these texts in my life.’

‘What?’ I’m almost shouting. ‘But they’re to “Mary”! Look! “Mary”!’

‘I don’t care. They’re not to me.’

For a moment we just stare at each other. My mind is scrabbling around and around, trying to find an explanation. Then Mary grabs the phone. She flicks through the photos until she comes to a text from “Mary” reading New mobile no. from tomorrow, followed by a string of digits.