Surprise Me

‘But he is king of our jungle!’ I say in frustration. ‘Or at least … he’s joint king with me,’ I amend, because our marriage is definitely an equal partnership, which is something I really try to get across to the girls in a positive, feminist-role-model way. (When I’m not arguing with Dan and neglecting their spelling test, that is.) ‘We’re both the king,’ I clarify.

‘Maybe he doesn’t feel like he’s king.’ Tilda shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask David Attenborough.’ She walks a few more steps in silence, then adds, ‘Or else, you know, Dan should just suck it up and get over himself. Sorry to be harsh,’ she adds. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ I say, nodding. We’ve reached the station by now, and there’s the usual stream of commuters and schoolchildren heading inside. ‘Anyway,’ I say to Tilda above the hubbub. ‘I’ve come up with a new plan, and it’ll definitely make Dan feel like the king of the jungle. It’s another surprise,’ I add, and Tilda groans.

‘No! Not more of this nonsense! I thought you were cured. You’ll end up with another snake. Or worse.’

‘No we won’t,’ I say defiantly. ‘This one is a good idea. It’s related to sex, and sex is crucial to everything, agreed?’

‘Sex?’ Tilda seems simultaneously appalled and fascinated. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come up with some new sexual manoeuvre to make Dan feel like the king of the jungle. Frankly, the mind boggles.’

‘It’s not a sexual move. It’s a sexual gift.’ I pause dramatically for effect. ‘It’s boudoir photos.’

‘What?’ Tilda looks totally blank. ‘What’s that?’

‘Boudoir photos! It’s a thing. You do it before you get married. You have sexy photos taken of you in stockings or whatever and you give it to your husband in a special book. So you can look back in future years and remember how hot you were.’

‘And then look at yourself in the mirror and compare and contrast?’ Tilda sounds aghast. ‘No thanks! Keep it all in the misty memory, that’s what I say.’

‘Well, anyway, I’m doing it,’ I rejoin, a bit defiantly. ‘I’m going to google it today. There are special companies who do it.’

‘How much do they charge?’

‘Don’t know,’ I admit. ‘But what’s the price of a happy marriage?’

Tilda just rolls her eyes sardonically. ‘I’ll do it, if you like,’ she says. ‘And I won’t charge anything. You can buy me a bottle of wine. Nice wine,’ she clarifies.

‘You’ll do it?’ I give an incredulous gasp of laughter. ‘You just said you hated the idea!’

‘For me. But for you, why not? Be fun.’

‘But you’re not a photographer!’ As I say it, I suddenly remember all her Instagram efforts. ‘I mean, not a real photographer,’ I add carefully.

‘I have an eye,’ says Tilda confidently. ‘That’s the main thing. My camera’s good enough and we can hire lighting or whatever. I’ve been wanting to get more into photography. As for props … I’ve got a riding crop somewhere around.’ She waggles her eyebrows at me and I dissolve into laughter.

‘OK. Maybe. I’ll think about it. I must go!’

And I give her a hug and dash into the station, still giggling at the idea.

Although in fact … she’s got a point. By ten o’clock, I’ve spent a good hour peering at ‘boudoir photo’ websites on the office computer. (I sent Clarissa off to interview the volunteers on their levels of job satisfaction, to get her out of the way.) First of all, the sessions all cost hundreds of pounds. Second of all, some of them make me cringe: Kevin our photographer will use years of experience (Playboy, Penthouse) to guide you sensitively into a series of erotic poses, including advice on hand placement. (Hand placement?) And thirdly, wouldn’t it be more fun and relaxed with Tilda?

I’m getting some ideas, though. There’s a great picture of a girl in a white negligee, arching her leg through a chair which is just like one of our kitchen chairs. I could do that. I’m peering at the screen, trying to work out her exact position, when I hear a heavy tread coming up the stairs.

Shit. It’s him. The nephew. Robert. Shit.

I have literally about thirty windows open on my screen, each one containing a boudoir photo of a woman in a corset and fishnets, or lying on a bed, wearing nothing but ten sets of false eyelashes and a wedding veil.

Heart thumping, I start closing the images down, but I’m all flustered and keep mis-clicking. The wretched women won’t stop pouting at me, with their red lips and lacy bras and hands placed provocatively over their thongs. (Actually, I can see the point of advice on hand placement.)

As I’m frantically closing down the final photo, I’m aware that the tread on the staircase has stopped. He’s here. But it’s OK: I closed everything down in time. I’m sure I did. He didn’t see anything.

Did he?

My back is prickling with embarrassment. I can’t bring myself to turn round. Shall I pretend to be so engrossed in work that I haven’t noticed he’s here? Yes. Good plan.

I pick up the phone and dial a random number.

‘Hello?’ I say stagily. ‘It’s Sylvie from Willoughby House calling to talk about our event. Can you call me back? Thanks.’

I put down the phone, turn round and do an exaggerated double take at the sight of Robert standing there in his monolithic dark suit, holding a briefcase.

‘Oh, hi!’ I exclaim gushingly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’

His face remains impassive, but his eyes flicker to my computer screen, to the phone and back to me. They’re so dark and impenetrable I can’t read them. In fact, his whole face has a kind of off-putting, closed-up air. As though what you see is the tip of the iceberg.

Not like Dan. Dan is open. His eyes are clear and true. If he frowns, I can usually guess why. If he smiles, I know what the joke is. This guy looks as if the joke might be that no one will ever guess it was him who severed all those heads and hid them in the coal pit.

Then, instantly, I chide myself. Stop exaggerating. He’s not that bad.

‘Most telephone numbers begin with a zero,’ he says matter-of-factly.

Damn.

And bloody hell. He was watching my fingers deliberately, to catch me out. That shows how sneaky he is. I need to be on my guard.

‘Some don’t,’ I say vaguely, and call up a random document on my screen. It’s a budget for a harpsichord concert we did last year, I belatedly realize, but if he queries it I’ll say I’m doing an audit exercise. Yes.

I feel all fake and self-conscious, sitting here under his gaze – and it’s his fault, I decide. He shouldn’t have such a forbidding air. It’s not conducive to … anything. At that moment, I hear Clarissa on the stairs – and as she enters she actually gives a little squeak of dismay at the sight of him.

‘Good, you’re here,’ he says to her. ‘I want a meeting with both of you. I want a few answers about a few things.’

That’s exactly what I mean. How aggressive does that sound?

‘Fine,’ I say coolly. ‘Clarissa, why don’t you make some coffee? I’ll just finish up here.’