I’m gazing with satisfaction at my Surprise Me: Masterplan page, when Mrs Kendrick’s tread becomes audible on the stairs. I hastily shut my notebook, turn to the office computer and resume typing out captions for the Fabulous Fans brochure. We’ll print the brochure on creamy paper and then write all the labels out by hand in blue-black fountain pen. (Rollerballs are very much not a Mrs Kendrick thing.)
Nineteenth-century fan, hand-painted by Parisian artist (unattributed).
‘Good morning, Mrs Kendrick.’ I look up with a smile.
‘Good morning, Sylvie.’
Mrs Kendrick is wearing a pale-blue suit, her cameo brooch and her customary worried frown. Customary as of the evil nephew arriving, that is. Apparently he’s staying with her at the moment, which explains why she looks so downtrodden. I expect he lectures her about modern working practices over the toast every morning. She gives the room her usual anxious sweeping gaze, as though to say ‘something’s wrong here but I don’t know what’. Then she turns to me.
‘Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Have you heard of “Museum Selfie Day”?’ She utters the words with care, as though they’re a foreign language.
‘Yes,’ I say warily. ‘I have. Why?’
‘Oh, just that Robert mentioned it. He thinks we should participate.’
‘Well.’ I shrug. ‘We could. But I’m not sure the patrons would really go for it, do you? I think it’s for a certain demographic. I think, to be honest, taking selfies might put some of our patrons off.’
‘Ah.’ Mrs Kendrick nods. ‘Quite. Quite. Good point.’ Then she pauses, looking still more worried. ‘Sylvie, may I ask you …’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘What is a “selfie”? I keep hearing this word, everywhere, but I’ve never quite … and I couldn’t ask Robert what it meant …’
Oh God. I bite my lip at the thought of poor old Mrs Kendrick having some long conversation about ‘Selfie Day’ with no idea what a selfie is.
‘It’s a photo,’ I say kindly. ‘Just a photo of yourself somewhere. You take it with your phone.’
I know this won’t mean much to Mrs Kendrick. In her world, a phone is something that lives on a side table and has a curly wire. She meanders out of the office, probably to go and look dolefully at the Tesco Value biscuits we now offer, and I type another caption.
Feathered fan.
As I type, I feel a bit conflicted. Obviously I still resent this Robert character for trampling into our world and freaking out his aunt. But on the more positive side, if he’s suggesting we do Museum Selfie Day, maybe he’s not going to turn us into condos? Maybe he actually wants to help?
Should we do Museum Selfie Day?
I try to imagine any of our regular patrons taking a selfie – and fail. I can see where Robert’s coming from, I really can, but hasn’t he picked up the vibe? Hasn’t he looked at our clientele?
Even so, I write Museum Selfie Day? on a Post-it and sigh. It’s the kind of forward-thinking idea I would have been really excited about when I first joined Willoughby House. I actually wrote a whole Digital Strategy document when I arrived, in my spare time. I dug it out last night, to see if there was anything useful in it. But when I read it through, all I could do was wince. It felt so old. It referred to websites that don’t even exist any more.
Mrs Kendrick, needless to say, responded to it at the time with a charming ‘I don’t think so, dear’. So we didn’t use any of my ideas. Willoughby House just went on its own sweet, quirky way. And we’re fine. We’re happy. Do we need to change? Isn’t there room for one place in the world that isn’t like everywhere else?
With another sigh, I consult the typed notes which one of Mrs Kendrick’s pet experts compiled for us – but he hasn’t added anything about this fan. Honestly. Is there nothing else to say about it? I’m not just putting Feathered fan. It sounds totally lame. The V & A wouldn’t just put Feathered fan, I’m sure of it.
I peer at the photo of the fan, which is large and rather flamboyant, then add probably used by a courtesan.
Which I expect is true. Then my phone buzzes and I see Tilda on the display.
‘Hiya!’ I fit my phone under my ear and carry on typing. ‘What’s up?’
‘I have a hypothetical for you,’ says Tilda without preamble. ‘Suppose Dan bought you a piece of clothing as a surprise and you didn’t like it?’
At once my mind zigzags like lightning. Dan’s bought me something! Tilda knows about it. How? Because he asked her advice, maybe. What’s wrong with it? What could be wrong with it?
What is it?
No. I don’t want to know. It’s supposed to be a surprise. I’m not going to ruin his surprise.
And anyway, I’m not the type of person to pick holes in a present, just because it’s not ‘perfect’, whatever that is. I’m not some kind of mean-spirited control freak. I love the idea that Dan has gone off to choose me something, and I’m sure it’s wonderful, whatever it is.
‘I’d appreciate it, whatever it was,’ I say, a little sanctimoniously. ‘I’d be really grateful he’d bought me something and value his effort and thought. Because that’s what presents are all about. It’s not the things themselves which matter, but the emotions behind those things.’
I finish typing my sentence with a flourish, feeling rather noble for being so unmaterialistic.
‘OK,’ says Tilda, not sounding convinced. ‘Fair enough. But suppose it was really expensive and really hideous?’
My fingers stop, midway through typing the word embroidered. ‘How expensive?’ I say, at length. ‘How hideous?’
‘Well, I don’t want to give anything away,’ says Tilda cautiously. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’
‘Give a little bit away,’ I suggest, lowering my voice instinctively. ‘I won’t let on.’
‘OK.’ Tilda lowers her voice too. ‘Suppose it was cashmere, but a really odd colour?’
Again, my mind does lightning zigzags. Cashmere! Dan bought me cashmere! But oh God, what colour? Tilda is actually quite adventurous with colour, so if she thinks it’s bad …
‘How do you know what colour it is?’ I can’t help asking.
‘Dan asked me to take delivery, and the box was already a bit open, so I peeked inside the tissue paper and …’ She exhales. ‘I don’t know for sure … but I don’t think you’re going to like it.’
‘What colour is it?’
Tilda sighs again. ‘It’s this weird petrol blue. It’s horrible. Shall I send you the link?’
‘Yes!’
I wait anxiously for her email to arrive, click on the link and then blink in horror. ‘Oh my God.’
‘I know,’ comes Tilda’s voice. ‘Awful.’
‘How did they even create that colour?’
‘I don’t know!’
The jumper itself is quite nice, if a little dull in shape. But that blue. On the website, they’ve put it on this stunning Asian girl, and given her blue lipstick to match, and she can carry it off, just about. But me? With my pale skin and blonde hair? In that?
‘They talked Dan into it,’ asserts Tilda. ‘I’m sure they did. He told me they were “very helpful” on the phone. Like hell they were. They had a shedload of vile blue jumpers to sell, and along comes Dan like an innocent lamb, with his credit card and no idea …’
‘What am I going to do, Tilda?’ My voice jerks in slight panic. ‘What am I going to do?’