Surprise Me

It’s taken a while to work out what to do next, but I’ve finally found the perfect thing. I’m masterminding the campaign for the new children’s wing at the New London Hospital. I saw the advert for the post and instantly I thought: Yes. It’s a big job, and I had to persuade Cedric and his board that my skills would transfer from the world of art history, but every time I think about it I feel a surge of adrenaline. I’ll be helping children. I’ll be achieving a whole new level of fundraising. And someone else can take on my work here – someone with fresh eyes and energy.

Sometimes you need to poke things with a stick. If I hadn’t poked our marriage with a stick, what would have happened, long-term? I don’t like thinking this much, because it’s irrelevant now, everything did come out and we’re OK. But let’s just say … I don’t think it would have been great.

When I look back at ourselves, I feel that the Dan and Sylvie who were married for all those years, were so pleased with each other, who thought life was such a breeze … they’re different people. They had no idea.

‘Congratulations!’ A booming voice greets us and I see Dr Bamford approaching, glass in hand. ‘How nice to see you again, and thank you for the invitation! I’ve always meant to visit this place but never have. Wonderful collection of books. And the basement kitchen! Fascinating!’

‘You probably think it’s strange that we invited you today.’ I smile up at him. ‘But as I think I said in my letter, you really started something when we saw you, all those months ago.’

‘Oh dear!’ exclaims Dr Bamford, and I can tell, he doesn’t remember at all.

‘No, it was good,’ Dan reassures him. ‘In the end.’

I nod. ‘In the end. You told us we would have another sixty-eight years of marriage and it kind of kick-started … Well, we didn’t react brilliantly …’

‘We freaked out,’ says Dan honestly. ‘I mean, sixty-eight years. That’s a lot of box sets.’ He laughs at his own joke, but Dr Bamford doesn’t seem to hear. He’s peering thoughtfully at Dan. He transfers his gaze to me, then back to Dan.

‘Sixty-eight years?’ he says at last. ‘Dear me. Hmm. I may possibly have overestimated a tad. I tend to do that. My colleague Alan McKenzie is forever chiding me on the matter.’

Overestimated?

‘What do you mean, “overestimated”?’ I say, staring at him.

‘What do you mean, “overestimated”?’ Dan echoes, only half a second behind me.

‘Dr McKenzie recently advised me to shave a good half per cent off my calculations. Which would mean you have closer to, let’s say … sixty-four years.’ He beams cheerfully, then notices a tray of canapés passing by. ‘Ah, smoked salmon! Excuse me a moment …’

As Dr Bamford pursues the canapés, Dan and I stare at each other, stricken. I feel cheated. I had sixty-eight years and now I only have sixty-four.

‘Sixty-four years?’ I gulp at last. ‘Sixty-four? That’s no time!’

Dan looks equally traumatized. He seizes me to him as though we’re counting every second, crushing me against him. ‘OK, so we only have sixty-four years,’ he says. ‘Let’s make them count.’

‘No more wasting time,’ I agree fervently.

‘No more petty arguments.’

‘Live every moment.’

‘Set the alarm earlier,’ says Dan urgently. ‘Ten minutes a day. We can claw back some time that way.’ And he looks so worked up that something inside me says, Wait a minute. We’re overreacting again.

‘Dan …’ I say more gently. ‘No one actually knows. We could have seventy-two more years together. Or two. Or two days.’

My gaze travels around the room, suddenly seeing everyone here in a different light. There’s Mummy with her brittle smile, who thought she would be with Daddy for a lot longer. John, facing a future without Owen, his eyes sad even as he talks to Tilda – who herself had to cope with a life that didn’t pan out the way she hoped. Dan’s parents, still dancing, faces determined, making it work. Mary and Robert, chatting closely with shy smiles, maybe at the start of something? And my girls, dancing joyously in their Chelsea top and Gruffalo costume. Out of all of us, they’ve got the right idea.

‘Come on.’ I put a hand on his arm and squeeze it fondly. ‘Come on, Dan. Let’s just get on with life.’

And I lead him on to the dance floor, where everyone breaks off to applaud us. Dan throws some shapes and Tilda whoops and the girls spin round and round with me, laughing.

And we get on with life.