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.)
‘Yes. That’s it,’ I say.
‘All right. I’ll let you know my thoughts presently.’ She smiles a dismissal and I head back out into the hall, feeling all cross and bothered. This is ridiculous.
Dan comes out of the kitchen, crunching a carrot stick. ‘How did it go?’
I shrug. ‘Fine.’
‘Great!’ He gives me his ebullient smile again, just as the door opens. Karen emerges and looks from me to Dan, her face serious.
‘I have come to my decision.’ She pauses momentously, exactly like a judge on TV. ‘And today … you will be carrying out Dan’s plan. I’m sorry, Sylvie,’ she adds to me, ‘but Dan’s plan just had that extra something.’
Dan’s plan did?
Dan’s plan did?
I can’t believe it. In fact, I don’t believe it. Mine had the extra something. But, just like a TV contestant, I manage to squash my real feelings beneath a vivacious smile.
‘Well done!’ I kiss Dan. ‘I’m sure you deserve it.’
‘I wish we could both have won,’ he says generously.
‘You did really well, Sylvie,’ says Karen kindly. ‘But Dan just had that extra attention to detail.’
‘Of course!’ My smile becomes even brighter. ‘Well, I can’t wait to see it all in action!’
No pressure. But I have set the bar preeeeetty high.
‘Sylvie surprised me with breakfast this morning,’ Dan is telling Karen. ‘So really it’s only fair that I should surprise her with lunch.’
‘Hey, you haven’t mentioned my other surprise,’ I say in sudden realization. Dan was in the kitchen just now. He saw the makeover. So why hasn’t he exclaimed over it?
‘What other surprise?’
‘The kitchen …?’ I prompt, but Dan still looks blank. ‘The kitchen!’ I snap. ‘Kitchen!’
‘Sorry, was I supposed to find something in the kitchen?’ Dan seems bewildered.
I take a deep breath in and a deep breath out.
‘The curtains?’ I say calmly.
I see a look of panic flash through Dan’s eyes. ‘Of course,’ he says quickly. ‘The curtains. I was just going to mention them.’
‘What else?’ I grasp his arm tightly, so he can’t move. ‘Tell me what else I did in there.’
Dan gulps. ‘The … uh … cupboards?’
‘No.’
‘Table … er … tablecloth?’
‘Lucky guess.’ I glare at him. ‘You didn’t notice any of it, did you?’
‘Let me have another look,’ pleads Dan. ‘I was distracted by this lunch business.’
‘OK.’ I follow him into the kitchen, where I have to say, my makeover looks amazing. How could he not have noticed it?
‘Wow!’ he duly exclaims. ‘Those curtains are great! And the tablecloth …’
‘What else?’ I press him relentlessly. ‘What else is different?’
‘Um …’ Dan’s eyes are darting around, baffled. ‘This!’ He suddenly seizes a Nigella cookbook lying on the table. ‘This is new.’
Tessa breaks into laughter. ‘That’s not new, Daddy!’
‘It’s the candlesticks,’ I tell him. ‘The candlesticks.’
‘Of course!’ Dan’s eyes focus on them, and I can tell he’s scrabbling for something to say. ‘Absolutely! I should’ve … They’re so bright!’
‘They’re a pop of colour,’ I explain.
‘Definitely,’ Dan says uncertainly, as though he’s not quite sure what ‘pop of colour’ means but doesn’t dare ask.
‘Anyway, I just thought I’d brighten the place up a bit. I thought you’d like it …’ I allow a slightly martyred tone to creep into my voice.
‘I love it. Love it,’ Dan repeats emphatically. ‘And now, my lady …’ He gives a little bow. ‘Your carriage awaits.’
Luckily the man on the phone at the Barbican Comedy Festival was really sympathetic and had another couple on standby, who were thrilled to get the Tim Wender tickets. (I bet they were.) The second cab wasn’t so thrilled to be cancelled, but it’s a firm we use a lot, so at least they let us off the fare.
On the plus side, Dan’s enthusiasm is infectious, and as we travel along in the cab that he booked, I’m really starting to feel excited. He has something major to spring on me, I know it.
Although weirdly, we’re not heading into town, which is what I would have expected. We’re heading to an unfamiliar part of Clapham. What goes on here?
The car pulls up outside a small restaurant in a side street. It’s called Munch, and I peer out doubtfully. Munch? Should I have heard of that? Is it one of these amazing tiny places where you sit on an uncomfortable bench but the food is award-winning?
‘So.’ As Dan turns to me, he looks all shiny-faced with anticipation. ‘You wanted to be surprised, right?’
‘Yes,’ I say, laughing at his expression. ‘Yes!’
OK, I’m properly excited now. What’s this all about? What?
Our driver opens the door and Dan gestures for me to get out. As he’s paying the cab driver, I scan the menu board on the pavement and see that it’s a vegan restaurant. Interesting. Not what I would have expected. Unless—
‘Oh my God.’ I turn to Dan in sudden alarm. ‘Are you turning vegan? Is that your surprise? I mean, if so, great!’ I hastily add. ‘Well done!’
Dan laughs. ‘No, I’m not turning vegan.’
‘Oh, right. So … you just felt like being healthy?’
‘Not that either.’
Dan ushers me to the entrance, and I push open the door. It’s one of those earthy, worthy places, I can see at once. Lots of terracotta. Wooden ceiling fans. A ‘Pick your own Mint Tea’ planter. (Actually, that’s quite fun. Maybe I’ll steal that idea for dinner parties.)
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘This is—’