Surprise Me(93)

As I sit there, pretending to read a magazine, I look around carefully. I study the slate-grey sofas and the people in suits striding through and even the water dispenser … but there aren’t any clues. I have no idea what this place has to do with Dan. I am also unimpressed by their timekeeping. I’ve been sitting here for at least half an hour.

‘Mrs Tilda?’

My chest seizes up in apprehension as I see a woman approaching me. It’s her. She has the same close-cropped hair that she did on LinkedIn. She’s wearing a navy jacket and a blue striped shirt I recognize from Zara. Expensive shoes. A wedding ring.

‘I’m Mary Smith-Sullivan.’ She smiles professionally and holds out a manicured hand. ‘Apologies for keeping you. How d’you do?’

‘Oh, hi.’ My voice catches, and I can only produce a squawk. ‘Hi,’ I try again, scrambling to my feet. ‘Yes. Thank you. How do you do?’

My pseudonym is Mrs Tilda. Which is not ideal, but I was so flustered as I made the appointment that I wasn’t thinking straight. When the receptionist asked ‘And the name?’ I panicked and blurted out ‘Tilda’. Then I quickly amended, ‘Mrs Tilda. Er … Mrs Penelope Tilda.’

Penelope Tilda? What was I thinking? No one’s called Penelope Tilda. But I haven’t been challenged yet. Although, as we walk along a neutral, pale-carpeted corridor, Mary Smith-Sullivan shoots me the odd appraising look. I didn’t say why I wanted the appointment on the phone. I just kept saying it was ‘highly confidential’ and ‘highly urgent’, until the receptionist said, ‘Of course, Mrs Tilda. I’ve booked you in for two thirty p.m.’

Mary Smith-Sullivan ushers me into a fairly large office – with, thankfully, quite a small window – and I sit down on a blue upholstered chair. There’s a still, unbearable pause as she pours us both glasses of water.

‘So.’ At last she faces me properly and gives one of those professional smiles again. ‘Mrs Tilda. How can I help you?’

This is exactly what I predicted she’d say, and I have my line all ready to fling at her, just like a soap-opera heroine: I want to know why my husband’s been texting you, BITCH.

(OK, not ‘bitch’. Not in real life.)

‘Mrs Tilda?’ she prompts, pleasantly.

‘I want to know …’ I break off and swallow. Shit. I promised myself I was going to be calm and steely, but my voice is already wobbling.

OK. Take a moment. No rush.

Actually, there is a rush. This woman probably costs a thousand pounds an hour and she’ll bill me even if she is Dan’s mistress. Especially then. And I haven’t even thought about how I’ll afford it. Shit. Why didn’t I find out the fee? Quick, Sylvie, talk.

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts, and glance out of the window of her door. And what I see makes me nearly pass out.

It’s Mummy.

She’s wearing a pink suit and walking quickly towards this room with a hugely fat guy in pinstripes, talking animatedly while he cocks his head to listen.

What the fuck is my mother doing here?

Already my legs are propelling me to the door of Mary Smith-Sullivan’s office. I’m grabbing the handle like a demented person.

‘Mummy?’ I demand, my voice strident. ‘Mummy?’

Both Mummy and the fat pinstriped guy stop dead and Mummy’s face freezes in a rictus of dismay.

‘So it is you,’ she says.

‘It is me?’ I look from her to the fat pinstriped guy. ‘What does that mean, “It is me”? Of course it’s me. Mummy, why are you here?’

‘I’m the one who called your mother, Sylvie,’ says Mary Smith-Sullivan behind me, and I swivel round to face her.

‘You know me?’

‘I thought it was you as soon as I saw you in reception. I’ve seen photos and your hair’s quite distinctive. Although of course, the false name …’ She shrugs. ‘But still, I was sure it was you.’

‘Darling, why are you here?’ demands Mummy almost accusingly. ‘What brought you here?’

‘Because …’ I stare at her, bewildered, then turn back to Mary Smith-Sullivan. ‘I want to know why my husband’s been texting you.’

Finally I’ve managed to get my line out. But it’s lost its sting. Everything has lost its meaning. I feel as though I’ve walked into a stage play and I don’t know my part.

‘Yes, I expect you do,’ says Mary, and she regards me with a kind of pity. The same kind of pity Dan had. ‘I always said you should know, but—’

‘Mrs Winter.’ The fat pinstriped guy speaks in a booming voice as he approaches me. ‘I do apologize, let me introduce myself. I’m Roderick Rice, and I’ve been dealing with this issue, along with Mary of course …’

‘What issue?’ I feel as though I might scream. Or kill someone. ‘What bloody issue?’ I look from Mary Smith-Sullivan, to Roderick, to Mummy, who is hovering outside the office door with one of her evasive Mummy looks. ‘What is it? What?’

I can see eyes meeting; silent consultations flying around.

‘Is anyone in touch with Dan?’ Mary says to Roderick at length.

‘He’s gone to Devon. To see what he can do down there. I tried him earlier, but …’ Roderick shrugs. ‘No signal, probably.’