And I don’t want him to be. I love Dan exactly as he is. I really do. But couldn’t he just once acknowledge that my father did have these amazing qualities – and realize that this fact doesn’t threaten him?
He reacts like clockwork, every time. And now that the subject’s safely passed, I know he’ll relax and lean back in his chair and stretch up with his arms and make that little yawning-yelping sound …
I watch in slight disbelief as Dan does exactly that. Then he sips his wine, just like I knew he would. Then he reaches for a peanut, just like I knew he would.
Earlier on, he ordered a lamb burger for supper, just like I knew he would. He asked them to hold the mayo, just like I knew he would, and joked with the barman, ‘Is it genuine London lamb?’ just like I knew he would.
OK, I’m scaring myself, here. I may not know the capital of Latvia or how many feet there are in a fathom, but I know everything about Dan.
I know what he thinks and what he cares about and what his habits are. I even know what he’s about to do next, right here, sitting in this pub. He’s going to ask Toby about his work, which he does every time we see him. I know it, I know it, I know it …
‘So, Toby,’ says Dan pleasantly. ‘How’s the start-up going?’
Argh! Oh my God. I’m omniscient.
Something weird is happening in my head. I don’t know if it’s the Chardonnay or this bloody torturous quiz or my unsettling day … but I’m losing my grip on reality. It’s as though the chatter and laughter of the pub is receding. The lights are dimming. I’m staring at Dan with a kind of tunnel vision, a realization, an epiphany.
We know too much.
This is the problem. This is the issue. I know everything about my husband. Everything! I can read his mind. I can predict him. I can order food for him. I have shorthand conversations with him and never once does he have to ask, ‘What do you mean by that?’ He already knows.
We’re living in marital Groundhog Day. No wonder we can’t face our endless monotonous future together. Who wants sixty-eight more years with someone who always puts his shoes back in the same place, night after night after night?
(Actually, I’m not sure what else he would do with his shoes. I certainly don’t want him leaving them all over the place. So that’s maybe not the best example. But anyway, the point still stands.)
I take a swig of Chardonnay, my mind swirling around to a conclusion. Because it’s actually rather easy. We need surprises. That’s what we need. Surprises. We need to be jolted and entertained and challenged with lots of little surprises. And then the next sixty-eight years will whizz by. Yes. This is it!
I glance over at Dan, who is chatting with Toby, oblivious of my thoughts. He looks a bit careworn, it occurs to me. He looks tired. He needs something to ginger him up, something to make him smile, or even laugh. Something out of the ordinary. Something fun. Or romantic.
Hmm. What?
It’s too late to organize a strip-o-gram (which, by the way, he’d hate). But can’t I do something? Right now? Something to shake us out of our malaise? I take another gulp of Chardonnay, and then the answer hits me. Oh my God, brilliant. Simple but brilliant, as all the best plans are.
I pull a piece of paper towards me, and start to compose a little love poem.
You may be surprised.
Don’t be.
I want you and I always will.
Let’s find a moment.
Just be us.
Just be the two of us.
Just be
I pause, peering down at my sheet. I’m running out of steam. I always was a bit crap at poetry. How can I end it?
Just be ourselves, I write finally. I draw a love heart and some kisses for good measure. Then I fold the whole thing up into a smallish oblong.
Now to deliver it. I wait until Dan’s looking the other way, then slip it into the pocket of his suit jacket, which is hanging on the back of his chair. He’ll find it later, and he’ll wonder what it is and slowly unfold it, and at first he won’t understand, but then his heart will lift.
Well, maybe it’ll lift.
Well, it would probably have lifted more if I was better at poetry, but so what, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
‘Have a toffee,’ says Toby, offering a bag to me. ‘I made them myself. They’re awesome.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile at him, take a toffee and put it in my mouth. A few moments later I regret it. My teeth are locked together. I can’t chew. I can’t speak. My whole face feels immobilized. What is this stuff?
‘Oh, they’re quite chewy,’ says Toby, noticing me. ‘They’re called “lockjaws”.’
I shoot him a glare, which is supposed to mean: ‘Thanks for the heads-up, not.’
‘Toby!’ says Tilda crossly. ‘You have to warn people about those things. Don’t worry,’ she adds to me. ‘It’ll melt in about ten minutes.’
Ten minutes?
‘All right, people!’ says Dave the quizmaster, tapping his microphone to get everyone’s attention. His cheerful manner has somewhat faded over the course of the evening; in fact, he looks like he’s desperate for it to end. ‘Moving on, the next question was: How many actors have played Doctor Who? And the answer is: thirteen.’
‘No it’s not,’ calls out a fattish guy in a purple polo shirt, promptly. ‘It’s forty-four.’
Dave eyes him warily. ‘It can’t be,’ he says. ‘That’s too many.’
‘Doctor Who doesn’t just feature in the BBC series,’ says the purple-polo-shirt guy pompously.
‘It’s fourteen,’ volunteers a girl at an adjoining table. ‘There was an extra doctor. The War Doctor. John Hurt.’
‘Right,’ says Dave, looking beleaguered. ‘Well, that’s not what I’ve got on my answer sheet …’
‘It’s none of them,’ says Toby loudly. ‘It’s a trick question. “Doctor Who” isn’t the name of the character, the name of the character is “the Doctor”. Boom kanani,’ he adds, looking pleased with himself. ‘Booyah. In your face, everyone who wrote down a number.’
‘That’s a common misunderstanding,’ says the man in the purple polo shirt, giving Toby a baleful look. ‘The answer’s forty-four, as I said. You want the full list?’
‘Did anyone put thirteen?’ Dave perseveres, but no one’s paying attention.
‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ retorts a man in a flowery shirt, who is quite red in the face. He waves a belligerent hand at the purple-polo-shirt team. ‘This is supposed to be a local friendly quiz, but you come marching in with your matching bloody shirts, picking fights …’
‘Oh, don’t like strangers, do you?’ The purple-polo-shirt guy glowers at him. ‘Well sorry, Adolf.’
‘What did you call me?’ The man in the flowery shirt kicks back his chair and stands up, breathing hard.
‘You heard.’ The purple-polo-shirt guy gets up too and takes a menacing step towards the flowery-shirt man.
‘I can’t bear this,’ says Olivia. ‘I’m going out for a cigarette.’ She reaches for Dan’s jacket and puts it on – then looks at Simon’s, which is almost identical, and back at the one she’s wearing. ‘Wait. Simon, is this your jacket?’
‘You’re wearing Simon’s,’ says Dan easily. ‘We swapped chairs. He prefers a lower back.’
It’s about five seconds before the significance of this hits me. Simon’s jacket? That’s Simon’s jacket? I’ve put a love poem in Simon’s jacket?
‘Have you got a lighter?’ Olivia reaches in the pocket and pulls out my oblong of paper. ‘What’s this?’ she says, unfolding it. As she sees the love heart her whole face blanches.
No. Nooo. I need to explain. I try to wrench my teeth apart to speak, but the stupid bloody toffee is too strong. I can’t manage it. I wave my hands frantically at Olivia, but she’s staring at my poem with a look of utter revulsion.
‘Again, Simon?’ she says at last.
‘What do you mean, again?’ says Simon, who’s watching the purple-polo-shirt guy and flowery-shirt man trade insults.
‘You promised!’ Olivia’s voice is so scorching, I feel quite bowled over. ‘You promised, Simon, never again.’ She brandishes the poem at Simon, and as he reads it, his face blanches, too.
I try to grab at the paper and get their attention but Olivia doesn’t even notice me. Her eyes are blazing and quite scary.
‘I’ve never seen that before!’ Simon is stuttering. ‘Olivia, you must believe me! I have no idea what – who—’
‘I think we all know who,’ Olivia says savagely. ‘It’s obvious, from this piece of illiterate trash, that it’s your previous “friend”. I want you and I always will,’ she declaims in a syrupy voice. ‘Let’s find a moment. Just be us. Did she get it from a Hallmark card?’
She’s so mocking, my face flames bright red. At last, with a final wrench, I get my teeth apart, and grab the paper from her hand.
‘Actually, that’s my poem!’ I say, trying to sound bright and nonchalant. ‘It was meant for Dan. Wrong jacket. So. It was … it’s ours. Mine. Not Simon’s. You don’t need to worry about— Or anything. So. Anyway.’
I finally manage to stop babbling and realize that everyone around the table is watching, dumbstruck. The look of horror on Olivia’s face is so priceless I’d laugh, if I didn’t feel so totally embarrassed.
‘Um, so, here you are, Dan,’ I add awkwardly, and give him the paper. ‘You could read it now … or later … It’s quite short,’ I add, in case he’s expecting six verses and metaphors about war, or something.
Dan doesn’t look very thrilled to be handed a love poem, to be fair. He glances at it and clears his throat and shoves it in his pocket without reading it.