‘Anyway!’ I say briskly. ‘I must go and get ready. Thanks, Karen!’
I take a quick shower before dressing in capri pants and my new cardigan. Sure enough, a minicab soon pulls up outside our house, and I feel a tweak of glee. Dan will be so surprised! In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s him I can hear, arriving home. I’d better get a move on.
It only takes me four minutes to do my make-up and a minute more to put my hair in a knot. I hurry downstairs and pause halfway down, glancing through the landing window. To my surprise, there’s a second cab parked next to the first one.
Two?
Oh my God. Please don’t say …
As I’m staring at the cabs, Dan comes out of the sitting room. He’s wearing a smart blue shirt and linen jacket and his eyes are gleaming.
‘You look lovely!’ he says. ‘Which is good news, because … drum roll … we’re not having pasta at home!’
‘Dan,’ I say slowly. ‘Have you done something? Because I’ve done something, too.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dan says, puzzled.
‘Look outside,’ I say, coming all the way down the stairs. Dan opens the front door and I see him blink at the sight of the two cabs. I’m pretty sure they both come from Asis Taxis, the firm we always use.
‘What the hell?’
‘One of them’s mine,’ I say. ‘Don’t tell me the other one’s yours. Have we both organized a treat?’
‘But …’ Dan is staring at the cabs, looking totally scrubcious, his brow furrowed. ‘But I was organizing lunch,’ he says at last.
‘No you weren’t, I was!’ I retort, almost crossly. ‘It was a surprise. I ordered the cab, I booked Karen …’
‘I booked Karen too!’ says Dan, hotly. ‘I booked her days ago.’
‘You both booked me!’ Karen’s voice comes from behind and the two of us swivel round. She’s gazing at the pair of us and seems a bit freaked out. ‘You both sent me these texts, saying could I work on Saturday and “keep it secret”. I didn’t know what was going on. So I thought I’d just turn up and … see.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Fair enough.’
We should have known this would happen. We should have made a plan. Only then it wouldn’t have been a surprise.
‘Well, we obviously can’t do both …’ Dan suddenly focuses on me. ‘What’s your surprise?’
‘I’m not telling you! It’s a surprise.’
‘Well, I’m not telling you mine,’ he says adamantly. ‘It would ruin it.’
‘Well.’ I fold my arms, equally adamant.
‘So what do we do? Toss a coin?’
‘I’m not tossing a coin!’ I retort. ‘I think we should just do my surprise. It’s really good. We can do yours another day.’
‘No we can’t!’ Dan seems offended. ‘What, you’re assuming your idea is better than mine?’
‘Tickets to Tim Wender’s sold-out lunchtime event at the Barbican Comedy Festival?’ I want to say. ‘Our favourite stand-up comedian and lunch? You think you can beat that?’
But obviously I have manners, so I don’t. I just give him a little smile and shrug and say, ‘Mine’s pretty good.’
‘Well, so’s mine.’ Dan glares at me.
‘Let me decide!’ suggests Karen suddenly. ‘You tell me the plans and I’ll decide which one you should go with.’
What? That’s a stupid idea.
‘Great idea!’ says Dan. ‘I’ll go first.’ And there’s something about his ebullient demeanour that makes me wonder for the first time: What’s he planned? ‘We’ll go into the sitting room,’ he adds to Karen, ‘and I’ll pitch you my idea there, where Sylvie can’t hear. No listening at the door!’ he adds to me.
Pitch? What is this, Dragon’s bloody Den?
As he disappears into the sitting room with Karen, I shoot him a mistrustful look. Then I wander disconsolately into the kitchen, where the girls are hoovering up pasta with pesto and studiously ignoring their carrot sticks.
‘What does “virgin” mean?’ says Tessa at once.
I stare at her. ‘Virgin?’
‘Virgin.’ She raises her eyes to mine. ‘I don’t know what it means.’
‘Oh. Goodness. Right.’ I swallow, my mind scurrying around. ‘Well, it means … it’s a person who hasn’t yet … er …’ I trail off and reach for a carrot stick, playing for time.
‘It can’t be a person,’ objects Tessa. ‘How would they fit in?’
‘They would be too big,’ agrees Anna. She measures the width of herself with her hands, then squeezes them together tight. ‘You see?’ She looks at me as though making an obvious point. ‘Too big.’
‘Fit in?’ ‘Too big?’ My mind is ranging uneasily over various interpretations of these remarks. And why is Tessa talking about virgins, anyway?
‘Tessa,’ I say carefully. ‘Have children been talking in the playground, about … grown-up things?’
Do I have to have the whole chat, right here, right now? What is the chat, anyway? Oh God. I know you’re supposed to start early and be all frank like the Dutch, but I’m not saying the word ‘condom’ to my five-year-old, I’m just not …
‘I think it means tomato,’ volunteers Anna.
‘It’s not tomato,’ says Tessa scathingly. ‘It’s green. Green.’
Suddenly I realize what they’re both looking at. The bottle of extra virgin olive oil sitting on the table.
‘Oh, this!’ I say, my voice almost giddy with relief. ‘Extra virgin oil! That just means … very new. Nice new olives. Mm. Yummy. Eat up, girls.’
I will be frank when the time comes, I promise myself. I’ll be Dutch. I’ll even say ‘condom’. Just not today.
‘All done!’ Dan comes striding into the kitchen, exactly like someone who just went on Dragon’s Den and won a million pounds’ investment. ‘Your turn.’
I head to the sitting room, to find Karen sitting on a high-backed chair in the middle of the room, holding a pen and an A4 writing pad.
‘Hello, Sylvie,’ she says in formal, pleasant tones. ‘And welcome. Begin whenever you’re ready.’
I’m already prickling. Welcome to my own sitting room? And, by the way, what’s she writing? I haven’t even started yet.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ repeats Karen, and I hastily marshal my thoughts.
‘Right,’ I begin. ‘Well, I’m planning to whisk Dan off for a fabulous, once-in-a-lifetime treat. We’re seeing our favourite comedian, Tim Wender, in a special lunchtime performance at the Barbican Comedy Festival. Lunch and wine are included.’
I sound like a competition from daytime TV, I realize. Next I’ll be promising him five hundred pounds’ spending money in London’s exclusive West End.
‘Very nice,’ says Karen, in the same pleasant, ambivalent tone. ‘Is that it?’
Is that it? I’m about to retort ‘Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get those tickets?’ but that might not help my case. (And actually, it was Clarissa who pulled the strings, because she used to work at the Barbican.)