Surprise Me

‘Where are my keys?’ Dan comes, scowling, into the kitchen. ‘They aren’t anywhere. Tessa? Anna? Have you taken Daddy’s keys?’

‘Of course they haven’t!’ I exclaim defensively. ‘You probably just … misplaced them. Have you checked your jacket pockets?’

I turn hastily away before he can see the tell-tale blush in my cheeks. I would so not make an arch-criminal.

‘I had them.’ Dan is rummaging through the fruit bowl. ‘I had them.’

‘Yes, but we were all distracted by the guests, weren’t we?’ I say, deftly inserting a plausible reason for him to have lost them. ‘Just use your spares for now. I’m sure your proper set will turn up.’

‘I’m not using my spares,’ says Dan in horror. ‘I need to find my keys.’

‘It’s only for now,’ I say soothingly. ‘Look, here are your spares, in the cupboard.’

I double-checked the spares before I pinched his proper keys. So in some ways, I would make a good arch-criminal.

I can see Dan is torn between two huge yet opposing principles: Never admit defeat when something’s lost; and, Don’t be late for work. At last, making an impatient noise, he grabs the spares. Between us we chivvy the girls into their school sweatshirts and check their book bags and at last all three of them are out of the house. As Dan is closing the car door, I call out, ‘I’ll have another look for your keys before I leave,’ which is a genius stroke, because 1. if Dan unexpectedly returns, it explains why I’m in his study, 2. it deflects suspicion away from me, and 3. I can now ‘find them’ and leave them on the kitchen table, job done.

Let’s face it, I would make an excellent arch-criminal.

I watch as the car pulls away. I wait another five minutes, just in case. Then, feeling totally surreal, I tiptoe upstairs, not even sure why I’m tiptoeing. I hesitate for a moment on the landing, trying to stay calm, then slowly venture into Dan’s study.

I know exactly where I’m heading, but I pretend to myself that I’m just having a general look round. I shuffle through some papers about a planning decision. I examine a brochure from a rival office-construction company. I discover an old school report of Anna’s, in Dan’s in-tray, and find myself reading comments on her handwriting.

Then, at last, my pulse beating quickly, I find the little key on his key ring. I stare at it for a moment, thinking, Do I really want to do this? What if I find …?

The truth is, I don’t know what I’ll find. My mind won’t even go there.

But I’m here. I’m on a mission. I’m going to see it through. At last, swiftly, I bend down and unlock his secret desk drawer, my hand trembling so much that I have to try three times. But then I’ve got it open and I’m staring at what’s inside.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to find – but it’s the phone. The Samsung phone I saw last night. Just that, nothing else. I take it out, thinking wildly, Wait, what about fingerprints? and then, Don’t be ridiculous, this isn’t CSI. I press in Dan’s usual passcode and get straight in. Clearly he never expected me to find it. Which kind of comforts me. And kind of doesn’t.

It’s a pretty new phone. There are only twenty-four texts on it, back and forth. As I scroll down, I see they’re all to the same person – Mary. And I just stare, unable to process the enormity of what I’m seeing. It’s the nightmare, worst-case scenario.

My shoulders are rising and falling. My brain is shouting panicky messages at me, like: What? And: Does that mean …? And: Please. No. This is wrong. This has to be wrong.

And, almost worst of all: Was Tilda right, all along? Did I bring this on myself?

I can feel rising tears, mixed with rising incredulity. And rising dread. I’m not sure yet which is winning. Actually, yes I am. Incredulity is winning and it’s joining forces with anger. ‘Really?’ I feel like shouting. ‘Really, Dan?’

Everything else, I could rationalize. The moods … the familiar vibe between Dan and Mary … even the hug. But not this. Not these messages in black and white.

Gd to talk in 5.

10 am Starbucks?

It’s ok have distracted S.

Today was a bit tricky.

At home can’t talk

Remember PS factor

Going insane today she is NUTS

11 am Villandry

Running late, sorry

Thank God for you

I read all twenty-four messages twice. I take photos of everything with my phone, because … just because. Might come in useful. Then I put the Samsung back with my fingertips, feeling as though it’s contaminated. I shut the desk drawer, lock it carefully, check it again and back away, as though from the crime scene.

On the landing, I look around, feeling dazed, as though seeing our house for the first time. Our home. Our little nest, with its wedding presents and prints we bought on holiday and photos of the girls everywhere. All this time I’ve spent trying to make it cosy, make it hygge, create a place for us as a couple to retreat from the world. Now I look at my stupid candles and throws and carefully placed cushions … and I want to shred them all. I want to destroy them and throw them on to the street and yell, ‘OK, well, fuck you, then, Dan, FUCK YOU.’

Dan doesn’t want to escape with me. He wants to escape from me. Maybe it was our session in the secret garden that triggered a sudden latent passion for Mary. Maybe this is all really new and exciting for him. Or maybe she’s the latest in a long line of extra-curricular affairs that I’ve been too blind to see. Either way: sixty-eight more years of marriage? Sixty-eight more years of me and Dan together? It’s a joke, a terrible, horrible joke, and I’m not laughing, I’m crying.

For a while I stand motionless, watching dust motes float by. Then I blink and half an hour has gone by, and I really should be getting to work. Not that this is the biggest priority in my life, quite frankly.

Like an automaton, I get my things together, double-check the hob is turned off (OCD) and even leave a jaunty Post-it for Dan with his keys, saying Found them!

Because what else am I going to say? Found them, and found your secret texts to Mary too, you cheating bastard?

As I shut the front door, I see Toby emerging from Tilda’s house in black jeans and a trilby. He’s holding a massive great laundry bag, spilling over with things, and has a magazine in his mouth, like a dog.

‘Toby, can I help you?’ I say.

Toby shakes his head cheerfully and heads down the street, unaware that he’s leaving a trail behind him of T-shirts, underwear and vinyl records.

‘Toby!’ Despite everything, I can’t help smiling. ‘Your stuff! It’s all falling out!’

I gather his things up and follow him along the street to where a white van is parked. He dumps the laundry bag in the back, where I see several more laundry bags, plus a desk, chair and computer.

‘Wow,’ I say in astonishment. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m moving out,’ he says, his eyes gleaming. ‘Mooooo-ving out. Oh yeah.’

‘Oh my God!’ I stare at him. ‘That’s incredible! Where to?’

‘Hackney. My new job’s in Shoreditch, so. Makes sense.’

I gape at him. ‘You’ve got a job?’

‘Job, flat, cat,’ he says in satisfaction. ‘Shared cat,’ he amends. ‘It’s called Treacle. It belongs to Michi.’