‘Mummy, what’s happened to your hair?’
‘Where’s your hair gone?’
‘When will you put it back?’ (Anna, blinking anxiously at me.) ‘Will you put it back now, Mummy? Now?’
And my first instinct is somehow to protect them. Soften the blow. I even find myself thinking, Should I buy a long blonde wig? Until reality hits me. I can’t protect the girls forever, and I shouldn’t. Stuff will happen in their lives that they don’t like. Shit happens. And they will have to cope. We all have to cope.
We eat supper and I put them to bed and then just sit on my bed – our bed – staring at the wall, until the events of the last few days overcome me like a wave over my head and I succumb to crying. Deep, heaving sobbing, my head buried in a pillow, as though I’m grieving all over again.
And I suppose I am grieving, in a way. But for what? For my lost real/imaginary friend Lynn? For the heroic father I thought I knew? For Dan? For our battered marriage? For the Sylvie I used to be, so blithe and innocent, tripping about the world with no bloody idea about anything?
My thoughts keep veering towards Daddy and Lynn and that whole issue … fabrication … whatever it was, but then I mentally jump away. I can’t deal with thinking about it. The whole thing is just surreal. Surreal.
And what I really care about – what I’m really fixating on, like a crazy obsessed person – is Dan. As evening turns into night and I finally get into bed, I can’t sleep. I’m staring up at the ceiling, words and phrases churning round my brain. I’m so sorry … I didn’t understand … You should have told me … If I’d known … If I’d only known …
He hasn’t replied to my voicemail. He hasn’t been in touch at all. I don’t blame him.
By morning I’ve dozed for a couple of hours and my face is deathly pale, but I get up as soon as the alarm goes, feeling wired. As I’m getting dressed for work, I automatically reach for one of my Mrs Kendrick-friendly sprigged dresses. Then I pause, my mind working hard. I push all my dresses aside and reach for a black suit with slim trousers and a well-cut jacket. I haven’t worn it for years. It’s very much not a Mrs Kendrick sort of outfit. Which is exactly what I want.
My head has clarified overnight. I can see everything differently in the pale morning light. Not just me and Dan … and Daddy … and our marriage … but work. Who I am. What I’ve been doing.
And it needs changing. No more ladylike steps. No more convention. No more caution. I need to stride. I need to grab life. I need to make up for lost time.
I drop the girls at school and nod, smiling tightly, as everyone who didn’t see me last night gasps over my new chopped hair. Parents, teachers – even Miss Blake the headmistress as she passes by – all of them blanch in shock, then rearrange their faces hastily as they greet me. The truth is, it does look quite brutal. Even I was shocked anew when I saw myself in the mirror this morning. I say pleasantly, ‘Yes, I fancied a change,’ and ‘It needs a bit of tidying up,’ about six hundred times, and then escape.
I must book a proper haircut. I will do. But I have other things to do first.
As I arrive at Willoughby House, Clarissa’s jaw drops in horror.
‘Your hair, Sylvie!’ she exclaims. ‘Your hair!’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘My hair. I cut it off.’
‘Right. Gosh.’ She swallows. ‘It looks … lovely!’
‘You don’t have to lie.’ I smile, touched by her efforts. ‘It doesn’t look lovely. But it looks right. For me.’
Clarissa clearly has no idea what I mean – but then why should she?
‘Robert was wondering what you were up to yesterday,’ she says, eyeing me warily. ‘In fact, we were all wondering.’
‘I was cutting my hair off,’ I say, and head to the computer desk. The Books are stacked neatly in a pile and I grab them. They go back twelve years. That should be enough. Surely?
‘What are you doing?’ Clarissa is watching me curiously.
‘It’s time for somebody to take action,’ I say. ‘It’s time for one of us to do something.’ I swivel to face her. ‘Not just safe little actions … but big actions. Risky actions. Things we should have done a long time ago.’
‘Right,’ says Clarissa, looking taken aback. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘I’ll be back later.’ I put the Books carefully into a tote bag. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck,’ echoes Clarissa obediently. ‘You look very businesslike,’ she adds suddenly, peering at me as though this is a new and alien idea. ‘That trouser suit. And the hair.’
‘Yes, well.’ I give her a wry smile. ‘It’s about time.’
I arrive at the Wilson–Cross Foundation with twenty minutes to spare. It’s an office in a white stucco house in Mayfair and has a staff of about twenty people. I have no idea what they all do – apart from have coffee with idiots like me at Claridge’s – but I don’t care. It’s not their staff I’m interested in. It’s their money.
The Trustees’ Meeting begins at eleven o’clock, as I know from consulting the Diary of Events that Susie Jackson sent me at the beginning of the year. I’ve heard her describe Trustees’ Meetings many times, over coffee, and she’s quite funny about them. The way the trustees won’t get down to business but keep chatting about schools and holidays. The way they misread figures but then pretend they haven’t. The way they’ll make a decision about a million pounds in a heartbeat, but then argue for half an hour about some tiny grant of five hundred pounds and whether it ‘fulfils the brief of the Foundation’. The way they gang up on each other. The trustees of the Wilson–Cross Foundation are very grand and important people – I’ve seen the list and it’s all Sir This and Dame That – but apparently they can behave like little children.
So, I know all this. I also know that today, the trustees are making grants of up to five million pounds. And that they’ll be listening to recommendations, including from Susie Jackson herself.
And what I know, above all, is that she owes us.
I’ve told the girl at the front desk that I have an appointment, and as Susie comes into the reception area, holding a thick white folder, she looks confused.
‘Sylvie! Hi! Your hair.’ Her eyes widen in revulsion, and I mentally allot her two out of ten in the Tactful Response category. (Ten out of ten goes to the girls’ headmistress, Miss Blake, who caught sight of me and was clearly shocked, but almost instantly said, ‘Mrs Winter, what dramatic hair you have today, most inspiring.’)
‘Yes. My hair. Whatever.’
‘Did we have an appointment?’ Susie’s brow furrows as she consults her phone. ‘I don’t think we did. Oh, I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your email yet—’
‘Don’t worry about the email.’ I cut her off. ‘And no, we didn’t have an appointment. I just want to borrow you quickly and ask how much of a grant you’re planning to give Willoughby House today.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Susie looks perplexed.
‘It was so great to see you at Claridge’s for our meeting, and I do hope you enjoyed your cake,’ I say meaningfully, and a pink tinge comes over her face.
‘Oh. Yes.’ She addresses the floor. ‘Thank you.’
‘I do believe in quid pro quo, don’t you?’ I add sweetly. ‘Cashing in favours. Payback.’
‘Look, Sylvie, this isn’t a good time,’ begins Susie, but I press on.
‘And what I’ve realized is, we’ve been waiting quite a long time for our payback.’ I reach into my bag and pull out the Books. I marked them up with sticky notes before I came here, and I now flick to an old entry written in faded fountain pen. ‘We first had a meeting with one of your predecessors eleven years ago. Eleven years ago. She was called Marian and she said that Willoughby House was exactly the sort of cause you should be supporting, but unfortunately the time wasn’t quite right. She said that for three years.’ I flick to another of the Books. ‘Then Fiona took over from Marian. Look, on the twelfth of May 2011, Mrs Kendrick treated her to lunch at the Savoy.’ I run a finger down the relevant handwritten entry. ‘They had three courses and wine and Fiona promised that the Foundation would support us. But of course, it never happened. And then you took over from Fiona and I’ve had, what, eight meetings with you? You’ve been treated to coffee, cakes, parties and receptions. We apply every year for a grant. And not a penny.’