‘Well, OK … probably not,’ I allow. ‘We’d have to get someone to do it.’
‘How much income would it generate? Or publicity?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit, losing faith in the idea even as I’m talking. ‘But it’s just the first idea of many. Many, many ideas,’ I reiterate, as though to reassure myself.
‘Good,’ says Robert, sounding unconvinced. ‘I look forward to your many ideas.’
‘Great.’ I try to sound bullish. ‘Well … you’ll be impressed.’
NINE
Everything’s got so stressful. It’s three days later, and I’ve just about had enough. Why is life like this? Just as you relax and start enjoying yourself, smiling, having fun … life looms up like a mean teacher in the playground, shouting, ‘Playtime is over!’ and everyone trails off to be miserable and bored again.
Dan is constantly strained but he won’t tell me why. He got home at midnight the other night and smelled of whisky. He sits gazing into the snake tank quite a lot, and his default expression has become a frown.
I joked yesterday morning, ‘Don’t worry, only another sixty-seven years and fifty weeks to go,’ and he just looked up blankly as though he didn’t get it. Then, when I said more gently, ‘Come on, Dan, what’s the matter?’ he sprang up and left the room, replying, ‘Nothing,’ over his shoulder.
How many divorces are caused by the word ‘nothing’? I think this would be a very interesting statistic. When Dan says, ‘Nothing,’ I get this jab of total frusture, like a little twisty knife. Frusture is my word for the exquisite fury that only your husband can give you. Not only are you furious, you feel like he’s doing it all on purpose, in order to torment you.
I raised this theory with Dan, once. I was – in hindsight – a bit stressed out. The babies had been up all night, in my defence. And I yelled, ‘Do you deliberately find the most annoying thing to say to me, Dan? Is this your plan?’ Whereupon he looked all hunted and said, ‘No. I don’t know. I wasn’t quite following what you said. You look really nice in that dress.’
Which kind of appeased me and didn’t appease me, all at once. I mean, I had gone off-topic. I will admit that. I sometimes do. But couldn’t he see that our holiday plans and the problem with the recycling bins and his mother’s birthday present was all the same issue?
(Also, it wasn’t a dress, it was a nondescript breastfeeding tunic top that I’d worn fifty times before. So how on earth could he say I looked nice in it?)
Probably we should have agendas for our arguments. Probably we should decide to have an argument every Thursday evening and buy in snacks and hire a mediator. We should take ownership of the arguing process. But until we do, we’re stuck with Dan saying ‘nothing’ and me seething and the air all crackly with static resentment.
Anyway, I’m hoping my boudoir pictures will change everything. Or change some things, at least.
Meanwhile, the office is pretty stressful, too. Robert has been hanging around every day, going through figures and files and basically insulting everything we’ve ever done. He isn’t scary, exactly, but he’s businesslike. He asks short, brusque questions. He expects short, brusque answers. Poor Clarissa can’t cope at all, and communicates in whispers. I’m more resilient – but doesn’t he realize? We don’t make the big decisions. It wasn’t our idea to commission a special Willoughby House Christmas Pudding last year as a gift to supporters (total loss: £379), it was Mrs Kendrick’s.
Shamed by Mrs Kendrick’s positive and adaptable attitude, I’ve done some research on websites and online shops and all the things I think we should be doing. I’ve spent every waking moment trying to think of creative ideas other than a ghost story podcast. (The trouble is, once you try to have an idea, they all fly away.) I’ve also been round to see Toby, but he wasn’t in, so I emailed him and haven’t heard back yet.
Meanwhile, Mummy keeps phoning me about the opening ceremony. She’s nearly as bad as Esme, with her endless questions. Today she wanted to know: 1. What colour shoes should she wear? And 2. How will she remember everyone’s name? (Answers: 1. No one will be looking at her shoes and 2. name badges.) Esme, on the other hand, wanted to know: 3. Do I require a radio microphone? And 4. What kind of snacks would I like in the ‘green room area’? (Answers: 3. I’m really not bothered and 4. a bowl of M&M’s with all the blue ones taken out. Joke.)
Just to add to the fraught atmosphere, Tilda and Toby had a massive shouting match last night. I could hear them through the wall and it made me wince. (I also decided it would be tactless for me to pop straight round and say, ‘Oh, Toby, you’re in, did you get my email?’ So I left it half an hour and by then he’d gone out again. Typical.)
I know it’s tough for Toby and that his generation have it hard. I know all that. But I think Tilda’s going to have to be firm. He needs to get a job. A place to live. A life, basically.
I’m actually quite apprehensive as I knock on her door on Thursday evening, in case I come across her and Toby mid-row again. But as she opens the door she looks quite calm – mellow, even, and there’s music playing in the background.
‘He’s out,’ she says succinctly. ‘Staying over with friends. We’re fine. All ready?’
‘I guess!’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘Ready as I ever will be.’
‘And Dan?’ She peers round to next door, as though he might suddenly pop up.
‘He thinks I’m at book group.’ I grin. ‘You might have to bullshit about our interesting discussion on Flaubert.’
‘Flaubert!’ She gives a short laugh. ‘Well come on in, Madame Bovary.’
I’ve been googling ‘boudoir photos’ pretty solidly over the last three days, and as a result, I’m equipped. More than equipped. I have procured: a spray tan, a manicure, a pedicure, blow-dried hair, false eyelashes, a bag of pretty underwear, a bag of racy underwear, a bag of super-racy/trashy-whore underwear and a massive long string of fake pearls from Topshop. I also have a few accessories which arrived in a plainly packaged box – I told Dan they were new ballet shoes for the girls – but I’m not sure about those. (In fact, I’m thinking the ‘vintage fur rabbit mask’ was a definite mistake.)
Every chance I’ve got, I’ve been posing in the mirror, squinting at my bum to see how big it looks and practising an alluring expression. Although I think I’ll need a glass of Prosecco beforehand to loosen up. (I’ve brought that, too.)
‘What do you think?’ Tilda bustles me into her sitting room, and I gasp. She’s moved half the furniture out and it looks like a photographer’s studio. There are big lights on stands, and a white umbrella-type thing and a single sofa in the centre of the room, plus a folding screen and a full-length mirror.
‘Amazing!’
‘Isn’t it?’ Tilda looks pleased. ‘If this goes well, I thought I might go into the business properly. It’s quite a racket, this boudoir photography.’
‘Have you ever used equipment like this before?’ I ask, curiously touching the umbrella-type thing.
‘No, but it’s all fairly obvious.’ Tilda waves an airy hand. ‘I’ve been googling. Is the house warm enough for you?’
‘It’s sweltering!’ I’ve never known Tilda’s house so hot. Usually she’s of the ‘heating is for wimps’ mentality.
‘You want to be nice and warm and relaxed. Nice eyelashes, by the way,’ adds Tilda admiringly. ‘And what have you brought?’ She reaches into one of my bags and pulls out the string of pearls. ‘Ah, very good. A boudoir classic. The “draping shot”, as we boudoir photographers call it.’
She sounds so expert, I want to laugh. I’m also quite touched she’s taking it so seriously.
‘You can change behind the screen,’ Tilda continues, opening up the Prosecco and pouring it out. ‘And then we’ll go into the first pose.’ She hands me a glass and consults a handwritten list headed Sylvie – Poses. ‘Sit on the sofa, then gradually slide off. Your head should be thrust upwards, right leg bent, left leg relaxed, back arched, shoe dangling …’
‘Uhuh,’ I say doubtfully. ‘Can you show me?’
‘Show you?’ Tilda looks aghast. ‘Well, I can try, but I’m not very supple.’
She sits on the sofa, then slides off. Halfway towards the floor she freezes, one leg pinned to the floor, the other swinging akimbo, and her head thrust back in a painful-looking rictus. She looks like she’s giving birth. That can’t be right.
‘Ow.’ She flops to the floor. ‘You see?’
‘Er … kind of,’ I say, after a pause.
‘It’ll be fine!’ she says breezily. ‘I’ll direct you. Now, what are you going to wear?’
Choosing the first outfit is a lot of fun, and takes us nearly half an hour. I went a bit overboard with the underwear shopping so we have lots of choice and eventually get it down to a white lace set with white seamed stockings and suspenders. As I emerge from behind the screen, I feel genuinely sexy and excited. Dan won’t believe his eyes!
‘Amazing!’ says Tilda, who is fiddling with her light counter. ‘Now, if you get into position …’
I sit on the sofa, slide down and freeze in the same way that Tilda did. Almost at once, my thighs start burning. I should have done the boudoir workout.
‘Ready?’ I say, after what seems like ten minutes.
‘Sorry,’ says Tilda, glancing up. ‘Oh, you look gorgeous. Lovely!’
She takes a few pictures, peering at me between shots.
‘Really? Are you sure?’
I want to say, ‘Do I look like I’m giving birth?’ only that might sound weird.
‘Try putting your hands behind your head,’ suggests Tilda, snapping away. ‘Oh, yes! Now sweep your hair back. Lovely! Do it again!’