In a flash, a door in my mind seems to open. Through it, I can see a glittering, beckoning chain of events, starting right now. Dinner. More drinks. Laughter and a blurred head and a screw you, Dan kind of exhilaration. A hand on my arm, murmurings in my ear … dancing? A taxi? The dimly lit corridor of a hotel … unfamiliar lips on mine … hands peeling off my clothes … a new body against mine …
It would be good.
And it would be terrible.
It would screw me up. I’m just not in that place. I don’t know what place I am in … but it’s not that one.
‘No thanks,’ I say at last, my breath a little jagged. ‘I’d better go and … But thanks. Thanks. Really. Thanks.’
I get home before Dan, say goodbye to Karen with a cheery smile, put the children to bed and then just wait in the kitchen, feeling like a Bond villain.
I’ve been expecting you, Mr Winter. That’s my line. Except it’s not true. Until last night I didn’t expect any of this. Extramarital affairs? Secret drawers? Little messages? Are you kidding? I’ve looked at the photos on my phone about a thousand times today. I’ve read Dan’s texts, over and over. They’re so familiar-sounding. So Dan-like. Just like the kind of texts he’d send to me … but not to me.
The one that really makes my stomach clench is Remember PS factor. The ‘Princess Sylvie’ factor. I’m not his beloved wife, I’m a factor. Not to mention the fact that Princess Sylvie is a very private little nickname that makes me flinch for all sorts of reasons, and now he’s using it with her.
I just don’t get it. The Dan I know is caring and solicitous. Protective of us: of what we’ve made together. Our home. Our family. Our world. Can you really not know someone you’ve been so close to? Can you really be so blind?
I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say. What I do know is, I’m not going to greet him by waving the evidence in his face. Because what do I gain by doing that? Nothing, except a momentary flash of vindictive glee. (Which, actually, is fairly appealing right now.)
But then what happens? I’ve caught him out. I win. Except it doesn’t feel like winning.
Winning would be: he decides to confess everything, totally spontaneously, and is really sorry and has some explanation which makes everything right. (What explanation? Don’t know. Not my job.)
Or even better, we go back in time, and none of this ever happened.
The sound of his key in the lock makes me jump. Fuck. I’m not ready. I hastily smooth down my hair and take a few deep breaths. My heart is pounding so hard, I feel like it must be audible – but as Dan comes in, he doesn’t seem to hear it. Or notice anything. He looks knackered and his brow is screwed up as though he can’t escape his thoughts. As he drops his briefcase he exhales with a weary sigh. Any other night, I’d say, ‘Are you OK?’ and get him a cup of tea or a drink.
But not tonight. If he’s knackered, maybe he shouldn’t make so many complicated arrangements in his private life. I spit the words out in the privacy of my own brain, and almost wish he could hear them.
‘All right?’ I say shortly.
‘I’ve had better days.’ Dan rubs his brow and I feel a flare of fury which I quell.
‘I think we need to talk,’ I say.
‘Sylvie …’ Dan looks up as though this is the last straw. ‘I’m shattered, it’s been a fuck of a day, I have calls I need to make …’
‘Oh, calls,’ I retort sarcastically before I can stop myself.
He stares at me. ‘Yes, calls.’
‘What kind of calls?’
‘Just calls.’
I’m breathing hard. My thoughts are skittering around. I need to gather myself.
‘I just think … we should be … honest with each other,’ I say, feeling my way. ‘Really, really honest. Let’s have a new project where we confess everything. Project Clean Slate.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Dan mutters. ‘I need a drink.’ He looks as if Project Clean Slate is the last thing he wants in his life, but I press on determinedly as he gets a beer from the fridge.
‘We need to connect. And to connect you need to be totally straightforward and not hide anything. Like …’ I scrabble hastily around. ‘Like, I found a Post-it that I’d written for myself the other day. Your mum had called and I totally forgot to tell you. Sorry.’
There’s silence, and I look at Dan expectantly.
‘What?’ he says.
‘Your turn! Project Clean Slate! There must be something you … something you haven’t told me … it could be anything …’
I trail off, my heart beating even faster. Already I know this isn’t going to work. It was a stupid idea. I confess a missed phone message and he confesses an entire affair?
‘Sylvie, I really don’t have time for this,’ Dan says, and something about his terse, dismissive tone makes me see red.
‘You don’t have time for your marriage?’ I explode. ‘You don’t have time to talk about the hiccups in our relationship?’
‘What hiccups?’ Dan sounds irritable. ‘Why are you always inventing problems?’
Inventing? I want to scream. Did I invent your texts?
There’s silence in the kitchen, apart from the ticking of our wall clock. We bought it together in Ikea, before we were married. We didn’t even need to discuss it. We were both instantly drawn to the same one, with a big black rim and no numerals. I remember thinking, God, we’re so in sync.
What a joke.
Dan pulls up a chair and sits down and he looks exactly like the husband I’ve known and loved all these years, except, he’s not, is he? He’s stuffed full of secrets.
I’m bubbling over again. I need to confront him. If I can’t bring myself to brandish his texts to Mary, I can brandish something else.
‘I know you’re cooking up something at work,’ I fling out at him. ‘I heard you at the hospital, talking to my mother. “A million pounds, maybe two,” huh, Dan? Is that what you’re borrowing? Without telling me? Is this for that Copenhagen business?’
Dan’s eyes widen. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘I heard you!’ I know my voice is shrill but I can’t help it. ‘“One million, maybe two!” Jesus, Dan! This is our future you’re gambling on! And I know exactly what it’s about really—’
‘Oh yes?’ Dan says in ominous tones. ‘What’s it about really?’
Seriously? He’s asking this?
‘My father!’ I almost yell. ‘What do you think? It’s always about my father! You can’t stand that Daddy was rich and successful, you can’t stand that he was admired, you look miserable any time anyone says anything nice about him—’
‘I do not,’ snaps Dan.
‘Oh my God, Dan, are you for real?’ I almost want to laugh, except it’s not funny. ‘Have you seen yourself? It’s completely obvious. And that’s why you want to expand your company, not because it’s good for us, as a family, but because you’ve got to compete with my father, who by the way, is dead. Dead. You’re so bloody chippy, and I’m sick of it.’
I break off, panting, tears rising, half-terrified. I can’t believe I called Dan ‘chippy’. It’s a word I vowed never, ever to use. But now I have. I’ve crossed a line.
A vein is twitching in Dan’s forehead. He stares at me for a few silent moments and I can see a million thoughts passing through his eyes, but I can’t read any of them.
‘I can’t do this,’ he says abruptly, pushing back his chair.
‘Can’t do what?’ I throw after him, but he doesn’t answer, just strides into the hall and up the stairs.
‘Dan!’ I hurry after him furiously. ‘Come back! We need to talk!’