I Owe You One(125)

Dan’s grin widens. Got him.

‘By the way,’ I add, shaking my napkin out, ‘I spoke to—’

‘Oh good! What did she—’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Great.’ Dan sips his water, and I mentally tick that topic off the list.

A lot of our conversations are like this. Overlapping sentences and half-thoughts and shorthand. I didn’t need to spell out ‘I spoke to Karen, our nanny, about babysitting’. He knew. It’s not that we’re psychic exactly, but we do tend to sense exactly what each other is going to say next.

‘Oh, and we need to talk about my mum’s—’ he says, sipping his drink.

‘I know. I thought we could go straight on from—’

‘Yes. Good idea.’

Again: we don’t need to spell out that we need to talk about his mum’s birthday gathering and how we could go straight on from the girls’ ballet lesson. We both know. I pass him the bread basket knowing that he’ll take the sourdough, not because he likes it particularly, but because he knows I love focaccia. That’s the kind of man Dan is. The kind who lets you have your favourite bread.

Our drinks arrive and we clink glasses. We’re both pretty relaxed this lunchtime, because we’ve got the afternoon off. We’re renewing our health insurance, and so we both need a medical, which is slated for later on today.

‘So, ten years.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘Ten years.’

‘Unbelievable.’

‘We made it!’

Ten years. It’s such an achievement. It feels like a mountain that we’ve scrambled to the top of. I mean, it’s a whole decade. Three house moves, one wedding, one set of twins, about twenty sets of Ikea shelves … it’s practically a lifetime.

And we’re very lucky to be here, still together. I know that. A few other couples we know who started off around the same time as us weren’t so fortunate. My friend Nadia was married and divorced within three years. Just didn’t take.

I look lovingly at Dan’s face – that face I know so well, with its high cheekbones, sprinkling of freckles and healthy glow from all the cycling he does. His sandy, springy hair. His blue eyes. His air of dynamism, even sitting here at lunch.

He’s looking at his phone now, and I glance at mine, too. We don’t have a no-phone rule on dates because who can go a whole meal without looking at their phone?

‘Oh, I got you something,’ he says suddenly. ‘I know it’s not a real anniversary, but whatever …’

He produces a gift-wrapped oblong and I already know it’s that book about tidying your house that I’ve been meaning to read.

‘Wow!’ I exclaim as I unwrap it. ‘Thanks! And I got you a little something, too …’

He’s already smiling knowingly as he feels the heft of the package. Dan collects paperweights, so whenever he has a birthday or a special thing, I get him one. (As well as a jar of pesto, obviously.) It’s safe. No, not safe, that sounds boring and we’re definitely not boring. It’s just … Well. I know he’ll like it and why waste money on taking a chance?

‘Do you love it?’

‘I love it.’ He leans over to kiss me, and whispers, ‘I love you.’

‘Love that Dan,’ I whisper back.

—

By 3.45 p.m. we’re sitting in a doctor’s surgery, feeling pretty marvellous about everything, in the way you only can when you’ve got the afternoon off work, your children are at a play date after school, and you’re stuffed with amazing food.

We’ve never met Dr Bamford before – the insurance company chose him – and he’s quite a character. He brings us both into the room together, for a start, which seems unconventional. He does our blood pressure, asks us a bunch of questions and looks at the results of the fitness tests we did earlier. Then, as he writes on our forms, he reads aloud in a rather theatrical voice.

‘Mrs Winter, a charming lady of thirty-two, is a non-smoker with healthy eating habits …’

Dan shoots me a comical look at ‘healthy eating habits’ and I pretend not to notice. Today’s our anniversary – it’s different. And I had to have that double chocolate mousse. I notice my reflection in a glass cupboard door and immediately sit up straighter, pulling in my stomach.

I’m blonde, with long, wavy hair. I mean really long. Waist-length. Rapunzel style. It’s been long ever since I was a child, and I can’t bear to cut it. It’s kind of my defining feature, my long blonde hair. It’s my thing. And my father adored it. So.

Our twin girls are also blonde, and I make the most of it by putting them in adorable Scandi stripy tops and pinafores. At least I did until this year, when they both decided they love football more than anything, and want to live in their lurid blue nylon Chelsea shirts. I’m not blaming Dan. Much.

‘Mr Winter, a powerful man of thirty-two …’ Dr Bamford begins on Dan’s medical form and I stifle a snort. ‘Powerful’. Dan will love that.

I mean, he works out; we both do. But you wouldn’t call him massive. He’s just … he’s right. For Dan. Just right.

‘… and there we are. Well done!’ Dr Bamford finishes writing and looks up with a toothy grin. He wears a toupee, which I noticed as soon as we walked in, but have been very careful not to look at. My job involves raising funds for Willoughby House, a very tiny, niche museum in central London. I often deal with wealthy older patrons, and I come across a lot of toupees: some good, some bad.