‘Something up?’ he says at last.
‘Bit of a drama,’ I say. ‘Let’s get out of the way for a few moments.’ As we walk to the green room, it occurs to me again that Sue and Neville have been married for thirty-eight years. And I know Dan says they’re ‘hardly a good example’, and I know they went through that dicey patch … but they’re together, aren’t they? They must be doing something right. Maybe we can learn from them.
But, oh God.
I’d forgotten. I always forget. The atmosphere of Dan’s parents. It’s like a crackly, invisible veil of just … tension. It’s not that they don’t smile and laugh and make jokes. But everything is so barbed. There are so many little flashes of resentment and simmering fury. It’s exhausting. They’re talking about their recent trip to Switzerland, which you’d think would be innocuous enough. But, no.
‘Then we got out at Lausanne,’ Neville is saying to Tessa (as though Tessa has the first idea what Lausanne is), ‘and we started climbing the mountain, but then Granny Sue suddenly changed her mind. So that was a shame, wasn’t it? Grandpa had to go up all alone.’
‘Granny Sue didn’t “suddenly change her mind”.’ Sue prickles all over. ‘Grandpa’s remembering everything wrong, as usual. Granny Sue was never supposed to be climbing the mountain. Granny Sue had a bad foot, which Grandpa kept forgetting about!’ She flashes an unnerving smile at Anna. ‘Poor Granny!’
The girls are both silenced by their grandparents’ double act. They can pick up on the hostile undertones, even if they don’t know what Lausanne is. Even Dan’s spirits are descending, and you’d think he’d be used to it. His shoulders look cowed and he glances at me as though for rescue.
‘Well!’ I say brightly. ‘Maybe we should head along to the reception. It must have started by now. Girls, finish your biscuits.’
Mummy’s already left the green room – she had one nibble of a grape and then said she was going to visit the Ladies. The truth is, she can’t really connect with Neville and Sue. She doesn’t understand their concerns and they don’t understand hers. Sue, in particular, got in a real huff after she came to one of Mummy’s jewellery parties, all the way from Leicester, and there was a misunderstanding over the pricing of a necklace.
Unfortunately, it was the one party I couldn’t make, so I couldn’t smooth things over. I’m sure it was Mummy’s fault. Sue isn’t married to an accountant for nothing – she would have clocked the price exactly. But Mummy would just think: Well, what’s twenty pounds? and not even notice there was a problem, because she’s infuriating that way.
‘Lovely outfit, Sylvie,’ says Sue as I slip on my powder-blue jacket. ‘Really super. And your hair …’ She shakes her head admiringly. ‘Your dad would be proud, love. I know he always loved your hair. Your “glory”.’
The thing about Sue is, when she’s talking to anyone but her spouse, she’s charming. Neville, too.
‘Thanks, Sue,’ I say gratefully. ‘You look gorgeous, too.’ I stroke her creamy silk shirtsleeve. ‘This is pretty.’
‘You do look good, Mum,’ Dan joins in, and I see Sue’s face pinken with pleasure.
‘Very nice,’ says Neville, his gaze sweeping over her without really looking. ‘All right. Into the fray.’
He never properly looks at her, I think to myself idly. Then this thought hits me again, with more vigour. Or maybe it’s a theory. A hypothesis. Neville never properly looks at Sue. His gaze always seems to skate past her, like a magnet being repelled. I can’t picture them making proper eye contact. I don’t think it ever happens. Neville, the man who surveys everything so carefully, doesn’t look at his wife. Isn’t that a bit weird? A bit sad?
And now I’m stricken by a new thought: Will Dan and I be like that one day? Raging silently against each other as we trudge up Swiss mountains?
No.
No. Definitely not. We won’t let that happen.
But isn’t that what every young couple thinks, and then suddenly, boom, they’re old and bitter and not looking at each other properly? According to Dan, Neville and Sue used to have a great relationship. They made jokes and did ballroom dancing and all sorts.
Oh God. How can we prevent it happening? What do we do? Clearly surprising each other isn’t the answer. So, what is?
As we walk to the reception area, hospital staff are gathering and waitresses are handing out drinks. I glimpse a lady in a purple jacket and a heavy gold chain decorating her shoulders, who is chatting to Mummy and must be the mayoress. There’s also a loud sound of drilling, as a guy in overalls, on a stepladder, fixes screws into the wall. The plaque is at his feet, propped against the wall, but everyone is politely ignoring it and trying to make conversation above the din. Esme is standing at the foot of the ladder, saying, ‘Hurry! Hurry!’ and I shoot her a sympathetic smile.
I take a glass of water, have a sip, and unfold my speech. I must concentrate. I must do this occasion justice and stop obsessing about my marriage, because today isn’t about that, it’s about Daddy. The workman has finally finished screwing the plaque to the wall, and there’s an excited hubbub in the corridor, which must be Sinead Brook arriving. I’ll be on, any moment.
I skim over the words I wrote, wondering if they’re OK, knowing they’re not, and realizing I could never do justice to Daddy in a six-minute speech, anyway. It’s all so arbitrary. Three sides of A4. Such a tiny sliver of a man and his life and all he did.
Should I have mentioned his childhood? Or the story about the horses?
Too late now. A familiar, celebrity-type woman in a red clingy dress is suddenly in front of me, shaking my hand and Esme is saying, ‘Sylvie, I’m delighted to introduce Sinead Brook,’ in awestruck tones, and we barely have time to exchange a word before Cedric mounts the podium and taps the microphone.
‘My lady mayoress, ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins, ‘welcome to what is a very special occasion.’
Hmph. He’s pinched my opening.
‘A lot of you here today knew Marcus Lowe,’ he continues, more sombrely. ‘Some, sadly, did not. Marcus was known to all of us here at the New London Hospital as a man of commitment, charm, great intelligence and an inability to take no for an answer.’ His eyes glint, and a lot of the guests laugh knowingly. ‘He masterminded the fundraising for this scanner suite with tremendous tenacity, and quite simply it would not exist today without him. I’m now going to hand you over to his daughter, Sylvie Winter, who will say a few words.’
I mount the podium and look at the faces – some familiar but most not – and take a breath.
‘Hello, everyone,’ I say simply. ‘Thank you for coming today to celebrate both this wonderful scanner suite, and my father, who was so determined to make it happen. Those of you who met my father know that he was a remarkable man. He had the looks of Robert Redford … the dash of Errol Flynn … and the persistence of Columbus. Or maybe I mean Columbo. Or both.’
Even as I’m finishing my speech, I know it was crap.
No, I’m being too hard on myself. It wasn’t crap, but it wasn’t what it could have been. People nodded and smiled and even laughed, but they didn’t look fired up. They didn’t get who Daddy was. I have a sudden urge to take a week off and rewrite my thoughts until I get to the real, real essence of him … and then invite everyone back and tell them properly.
But everyone’s clapping and smiling approvingly, and Mummy looks all misty-eyed and the honest truth is, no one cares about the real essence of Daddy, do they? They just want to swig champagne and start using the scanners and saving lives. The world moves on. As I’ve been told about 56,000 times.
I think I need a drink. As soon as the curtains have been opened, I’m having a drink.
We all watch as the mayoress takes the podium and introduces Sinead Brook, mispronouncing her name twice. (It’s obvious she doesn’t really know who Sinead Brook is.) Sinead Brook gives what is clearly a standard-issue speech about the hospital, then pulls the cord and the plaque is there this time. There’s another round of applause and a few photos. Then, at last, the glasses of champagne start coming around again, and everyone disperses into groups.
The children are being entertained by some younger members of hospital staff blowing up disposable gloves. Cedric is telling me about the new children’s wing campaign, which does sound like an amazing project, and I find myself drinking three glasses in quick succession. Dan’s promised to drive home. It’s fine.
Where is Dan, come to that?
I glance around the gathering and notice him with Mummy, huddled right over in the corner. At once I stiffen. Why are they huddled together? What are they talking about?
I can’t escape Cedric’s constant stream of facts on children’s hospital beds in London, and I am genuinely interested in what he’s saying. But, by reaching for a canapé, I’m also able to move subtly towards Dan and Mummy. I’m also able to tilt my head, and just about pick up snippets of their conversation.
‘… certain that’s the right course?’ she’s saying in a sharpish, anxious sort of tone.
‘… this is the reality of the …’ I can’t hear the end of the sentence, but Dan sounds fairly tense, too.
‘… really don’t understand why …’
‘… discussed this …’
‘… so, what exactly …’
The conversation seems to die out, and I turn, just in time to see Dan mouthing, ‘A million pounds, maybe two?’ at my mother.
My lungs seem to freeze. The next moment I’m choking on my champagne. A million pounds, maybe two? What does that mean? What ‘million pounds, maybe two’?
‘Sylvie!’ Cedric halts his flood of statistics. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine!’ I swivel back. ‘Sorry! Just went down the wrong way. Please do carry on.’ I smile at Cedric, but my head is whirring in a nasty, ominous way.