Surprise Me

‘You’re right!’ she says hotly. ‘It’s not! I started to smell herbs every time I opened the airing cupboard. Like oregano. I thought: Well, it must be our new fabric conditioner. But today it started to smell rancid and quite vile, so I investigated further and what did I find?’

‘Pizza boxes?’ I venture.

‘Exactly! Pizza boxes.’ She fixes a reproachful gaze on Toby, who sits down and dumps three packets of crisps on the table. ‘He was disposing of them in the airing cupboard because he couldn’t be bothered to go downstairs.’

‘I was not disposing of them,’ Toby responds laconically. ‘Mum, I’ve explained this to you. It was a holding system. I was going to take them to recycling.’

‘No you weren’t!’

‘Of course I was.’ He gives her a rancorous glare. ‘I just hadn’t taken them yet.’

‘Well, even if it was a holding system, you can’t have a holding system for pizza boxes in an airing cupboard!’ Tilda’s voice pitches upwards in outrage. ‘An airing cupboard!’

‘So, on with the Space and Time round.’ Dave’s chirpy tones boom through the microphone. ‘And the first question is: Who was the third man on the moon? I repeat: Who was the third man on the moon.’

There’s a rustling and muttering throughout the room. ‘Anyone?’ says Olivia, looking round the table.

‘The third man on the moon?’ I pull a face at Tilda.

‘Not Neil Armstrong.’ Tilda counts briskly off on her fingers. ‘Not Buzz Aldrin.’

We all look at each other blankly. Around the room, I can hear about twenty people whispering to each other, ‘Not Neil Armstrong …’

‘We know it wasn’t them!’ snaps Olivia. ‘Who was it? Toby, you’re into maths and science. Do you know?’

‘The moon landings were faked, so the question’s invalid,’ says Toby without missing a beat, and Tilda emits an exasperated squeak.

‘They were not faked. Ignore him, Olivia.’

‘You can live in denial if you like.’ Toby shrugs. ‘Live in your bubble. Believe the lies.’

‘Why do you think they were faked?’ I ask curiously and Tilda shakes her head at me.

‘Don’t get him started,’ she says. ‘He’s got a conspiracy theory about everything. Lip balm, Paul McCartney …’

‘Lip balm?’ I stare at her.

‘Lip balm causes your lips to crack,’ says Toby dispassionately. ‘It’s addictive. It’s designed to make you buy more. You use lip balm, Sylvie? Big Pharma’s using you like a puppet.’ He shrugs again, and I gaze back, feeling a bit unnerved. I always have lip balm in my bag.

‘And Paul McCartney?’ I can’t help asking.

‘Died in 1966,’ Toby says succinctly. ‘Replaced by a lookalike. There are clues in Beatles songs everywhere if you know where to look for them.’

‘You see?’ Tilda appeals to me. ‘You see what I have to live with? Pizza boxes, conspiracy theories, everything in the house rewired …’

‘It wasn’t rewired,’ says Toby patiently, ‘it was rerouted.’

‘Question two!’ says Dave into the microphone. ‘Harrison Ford played Han Solo in Star Wars. But what character did he play in the 1985 film Witness?’

‘He was the Amish chap!’ says Simon, coming to life and tapping his pen thoughtfully on his fingers. ‘Or … wait. He wasn’t Amish, the girl was Amish.’

‘Oh God.’ Olivia gives a groan. ‘That film is ancient. Does anyone remember it?’ She turns to Toby. ‘It was before your time, Toby. It’s about … what’s it about?’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘The witness protection scheme. Something like that.’

‘The “witness protection scheme”,’ echoes Toby sardonically, doing quote marks with his fingers.

‘Toby, do not start about the witness protection scheme,’ says Tilda ominously. ‘Do not start.’

‘What?’ I say, my curiosity fired up. ‘Don’t tell me you have a conspiracy theory about the witness protection scheme, too.’

‘Does anyone know the answer to the actual question?’ Olivia demands crossly, but none of us is paying attention.

‘You want to know?’ Toby turns his gaze on me.

‘Yes! Tell me!’

‘If they ever offer you a place in the witness protection scheme, run for your life,’ says Toby without batting an eyelid. ‘Because they’re going to get rid of you.’

‘What do you mean?’ I demand. ‘Who is?’

‘The government kills everyone in the witness protection scheme.’ He shrugs. ‘It makes economic sense.’

‘Kills them?’

‘They could never afford to “protect” that number of people.’ He does his little quotey fingers again. ‘It’s a myth. A fairy-tale. They get rid of them instead.’

‘But they can’t just “get rid” of people! Their families would—’ I stop mid-stream. ‘Oh.’

‘You see?’ He raises his eyebrows at me, significantly. ‘Either way, they disappear forever. Who knows the difference?’

‘Absolute nonsense,’ snaps Tilda. ‘You spend far too much time on the internet, Toby. I’m off to the loo.’

As she pushes her chair back, I fold my arms and survey Toby. ‘You don’t really believe all this rubbish, surely? You’re just winding up your mum.’

‘Maybe.’ He winks. ‘Or maybe not. Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean there isn’t a conspiracy against you. Hey, do your girls like origami?’ He pulls a piece of paper towards him and starts folding it swiftly. A moment later he’s created a bird, and I gasp.

‘Amazing!’

‘Give it to Anna. Here’s one for Tessa.’ He’s making a cat now, with little pointed ears. ‘Tell them they’re from Tobes.’ He flashes me a sudden smile and I feel a pang of affection for him. I’ve known Toby since he was a teenager in a school uniform and used to lug a trombone to school every morning.

‘Harrison Ford!’ Olivia bangs the table to get our attention. ‘Concentrate, everyone! What character did he play?’

‘Actually, I’ve just seen Dan arriving.’ I get to my feet, desperate to escape. ‘I’ll just go and … er … Back in a second!’

OK, I’m never doing a pub quiz again, ever. They’re pure evil, sent from Satan. There’s a conspiracy theory for you.

It’s nearly two hours later. We’ve had about a hundred more rounds (it feels like) and now we’re finally on to the answers. Everyone’s getting very tired and bored. But proceedings have stalled, because a row has broken out. The question was: How do you spell ‘Rachmaninov’? and some Russian girl at another table wrote it down in Cyrillic. Now Dave is trying to manage a dispute between her and the purple-polo-shirt team, who are arguing: if no one else in the room understands Cyrillic, how can anyone judge if she’s right or not?

I mean for God’s sake, what does it matter? Give her the point. Give her ten points. Whatever. Let’s just move on.

It’s not just our marriage which is going to last forever. This quiz is going to last forever. We’re going to be trapped at this table for eternity, drinking terrible Chardonnay and trying to remember who won Wimbledon in 2008, until our hair goes white and we shrivel up like Miss Havisham.