Surprise Me

EIGHT

Next morning, my pendulum is haywire again. In fact, everything’s bloody haywire. I can’t possibly contemplate being married to Dan for another sixty-eight years. The last sixty-eight minutes have been bad enough.

I don’t know what got under his skin at Mummy’s place yesterday. Ever since, he’s been morose and broody and picky and just … argh. Last night in the car, on the way home, he started on a thing about how my family harks back to the past too much and it’s not good for the girls to keep dwelling. He even said did I have to mention my imaginary friend? What the hell is wrong with me mentioning my imaginary friend?

I know what Dan worries about, even though he won’t admit it. He worries that I’m unstable. Or potentially unstable. Just because I went and stood outside Gary Butler’s house that one time. And put one tiny little letter through his letter box. (Which, OK, I’ll admit I shouldn’t have done.) But the point is, that was a special case. I was in the throes of grief when I had my ‘episode’ or whatever we call it.

Whereas my invention of Lynn was long ago, when I was a child, and it was normal and healthy, because I’ve googled it, as he well knows, and what is his bloody problem?

Which is a basic summary of how I put it to him. Only I was hissing under my breath so that the girls wouldn’t hear, and I’m not sure he heard all my nuanced arguments.

Then I woke up this morning, thinking: Never mind, new day, new start, and determined to be cheerful. I even said hello to the snake, over my shoulder, with my eyes shut. But Dan seemed even more mired in gloom. He sat silently at breakfast, scrolling through his phone and then suddenly said, ‘You know, we’ve had an offer to expand into Europe.’

‘Really?’ I glanced up from the girls’ spelling test words. ‘Took.’

‘Tuh – oh – oh – kuh,’ Anna began intoning.

‘There are these guys based out of Copenhagen, who do similar stuff to us. They have a load of projects they want us to team up on, all in Northern Europe. We could end up trebling our turnover.’

‘Right. And would that be a good thing?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. It would be a bit of a punt.’ Dan had a knotted, unhappy look that set warning bells off in my brain. ‘But we’ve got to do something.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The business won’t grow unless we—’

He broke off and sipped his coffee and I gazed at him, feeling troubled. As I’ve mentioned, I know Dan pretty well. I know when his brain is cantering along happily with new, do-able ideas, and I know when it’s got stuck. Right then, it seemed stuck. He didn’t look pleased about expanding. He looked beleaguered.

‘Look,’ I said to Tessa, and she started sounding out:

‘Luh – oh – oh – kuh.’

‘When you say “grow”,’ I began, over the sound of her chanting, ‘what exactly—’

‘We should be five times the size we are.’

‘Five?’ I echoed, in astonishment. ‘Says who? You’re doing really well! You have lots of projects, a great income …’

‘Oh, come on, Sylvie,’ he almost growled. ‘The girls’ room is tiny. We’ll want to move to a new house before long.’

‘Says who? Dan, what’s brought all this on?’

‘It’s simply about looking forward,’ said Dan, not meeting my eye. ‘It’s simply about making a plan.’

‘Right, and what would this plan entail?’ I shot back, feeling more and more scratchy. ‘Would you have to travel?’

‘Of course,’ he said tetchily. ‘It would be a whole new level of commitment, of investment …’

‘“Investment”.’ I seized on the word. ‘So you’d have to borrow money?’

He shrugged. ‘We’d need more leverage.’

‘Leverage’. I hate that word. It’s a weasel word. It sounds so simple. You picture a lever and think: Oh, that makes sense. It took me ages to realize what it actually means is ‘borrowing stacks of money at a scary interest rate’.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It seems like a risky thing. When did these Copenhagen guys approach you?’

‘Two months ago,’ said Dan. ‘We turned them down. But I’m reconsidering.’

And something furious immediately erupted inside me. Why is he reconsidering now? Because we went to my mother’s yesterday and she talked about holidays on yachts in Greece?

‘Dan.’ I fixed his eyes with mine. ‘We have a great life. We have a great work–leisure balance. Your business doesn’t need to be five times bigger. The girls like having you around. We don’t want you in Copenhagen. And I love this house! We’ve made it our home! We don’t need to move, we don’t need more money …’

I was on quite a roll. I could probably have talked for twenty minutes, except that Anna’s little voice piped up, saying, ‘Seven fifty-two.’ She was reading the clock on the oven, which is her new hobby. I broke off mid-stream and exclaimed, ‘What time? Sh-ugar!’ and it was a total scramble to get the girls ready for school.

I never finished testing the girls’ spellings either. Great. They’ll probably get three out of ten in the test. And when the teacher asks, ‘What happened this week?’ Tessa will say in that clear little voice of hers, ‘We couldn’t learn our words because Mummy and Daddy were arguing about money.’ And the teachers will bitch about us in the staff room.

Sigh.

Double sigh.

‘Sylvie!’ exclaims Tilda as she joins me at her gate. ‘What’s wrong? I’ve said hello three times. You’re miles away!’

‘Sorry.’ I greet her with a kiss and we start on our usual walk.

‘What’s up, honey?’ she says, studying her Fitbit. ‘Just the Monday morning blues?’

‘You know.’ I heave another sigh. ‘Marriage.’

‘Oh, marriage.’ She makes a snorting sound. ‘Did you not read the disclaimers? “May cause headache, anxiety, mood swings, sleep disturbance or general feelings of wanting to stab something?”’ Her expression is so comical, I can’t help laughing. ‘Or hives,’ Tilda adds. ‘Brought me out in hives.’

‘I don’t have hives,’ I allow. ‘That’s a plus.’

‘And another plus, I’m assuming, would be your lovely new cashmere cardigan …?’ Tilda prompts, her eyes twinkling. ‘Did everything go to plan?’

‘Oh God.’ I clap a hand to my forehead. ‘That feels ages ago now. To be honest, nothing went to plan. Dan found out I tried the cardigan on. And we double-booked lunch. And we’ve ended up with a snake.’

‘A snake?’ She stares at me. ‘Did not see that one coming.’

I regale Tilda with all the events of Saturday, and we both get fits of the giggles, and I feel really quite cheerful again. But then I remember Dan’s scratchiness, and my mood sinks once more.

‘So, why the blues this morning?’ enquires Tilda, who is one of those friends who likes to know for sure you’re OK and can’t be brushed off and never gets offended. The best kind of friend, in fact. ‘Is it the snake?’

‘No, it’s not the snake,’ I say fairly. ‘I might get used to the snake. It’s just …’ I spread my arms and let them fall.

‘Dan?’

I walk a few paces, marshalling my thoughts. Tilda is wise and loyal. We’ve both shared some sensitive stuff, along the way. She might see the situation a different way.

‘I’ve told you before about Dan and my father,’ I say at last. ‘And that whole …’

‘Financial prickliness?’ Tilda suggests tactfully.

‘Exactly. Financial prickliness. Well, I thought it would get better, but it’s getting worse.’ I lower my voice, even though the street is empty. ‘Dan’s come up with a plan to expand his company. I know it’s because he’s trying to compete with Daddy, but I don’t want him to!’ I look up, meeting Tilda’s shrewd eyes. ‘I don’t want him to work himself into the ground, just to be some version of my father. He’s not my father, he’s Dan! That’s why I love him. Because he’s Dan, not because …’ I trail off, not quite sure where I’m going.

We walk in silence, and I can see that Tilda is mulling.

‘I watched a documentary about lions a while ago,’ she says presently. ‘About the young lions taking over the pride from the older generation. They’re vicious to each other. They get horribly injured. But they have to fight it out. They have to establish who’s boss.’

‘So, what, Dan’s a lion?’

‘Maybe he’s a young lion with no one to fight,’ says Tilda, shooting me a cryptic look. ‘Think about it. Your father died in his prime. He won’t ever get old and frail. He won’t ever make way for Dan. Dan wants to be king of the jungle.’

‘But he is king of our jungle!’ I say in frustration. ‘Or at least … he’s joint king with me,’ I amend, because our marriage is definitely an equal partnership, which is something I really try to get across to the girls in a positive, feminist-role-model way. (When I’m not arguing with Dan and neglecting their spelling test, that is.) ‘We’re both the king,’ I clarify.

‘Maybe he doesn’t feel like he’s king.’ Tilda shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask David Attenborough.’ She walks a few more steps in silence, then adds, ‘Or else, you know, Dan should just suck it up and get over himself. Sorry to be harsh,’ she adds. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ I say, nodding. We’ve reached the station by now, and there’s the usual stream of commuters and schoolchildren heading inside. ‘Anyway,’ I say to Tilda above the hubbub. ‘I’ve come up with a new plan, and it’ll definitely make Dan feel like the king of the jungle. It’s another surprise,’ I add, and Tilda groans.

‘No! Not more of this nonsense! I thought you were cured. You’ll end up with another snake. Or worse.’

‘No we won’t,’ I say defiantly. ‘This one is a good idea. It’s related to sex, and sex is crucial to everything, agreed?’

‘Sex?’ Tilda seems simultaneously appalled and fascinated. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come up with some new sexual manoeuvre to make Dan feel like the king of the jungle. Frankly, the mind boggles.’

‘It’s not a sexual move. It’s a sexual gift.’ I pause dramatically for effect. ‘It’s boudoir photos.’

‘What?’ Tilda looks totally blank. ‘What’s that?’

‘Boudoir photos! It’s a thing. You do it before you get married. You have sexy photos taken of you in stockings or whatever and you give it to your husband in a special book. So you can look back in future years and remember how hot you were.’

‘And then look at yourself in the mirror and compare and contrast?’ Tilda sounds aghast. ‘No thanks! Keep it all in the misty memory, that’s what I say.’

‘Well, anyway, I’m doing it,’ I rejoin, a bit defiantly. ‘I’m going to google it today. There are special companies who do it.’

‘How much do they charge?’

‘Don’t know,’ I admit. ‘But what’s the price of a happy marriage?’

Tilda just rolls her eyes sardonically. ‘I’ll do it, if you like,’ she says. ‘And I won’t charge anything. You can buy me a bottle of wine. Nice wine,’ she clarifies.

‘You’ll do it?’ I give an incredulous gasp of laughter. ‘You just said you hated the idea!’

‘For me. But for you, why not? Be fun.’

‘But you’re not a photographer!’ As I say it, I suddenly remember all her Instagram efforts. ‘I mean, not a real photographer,’ I add carefully.

‘I have an eye,’ says Tilda confidently. ‘That’s the main thing. My camera’s good enough and we can hire lighting or whatever. I’ve been wanting to get more into photography. As for props … I’ve got a riding crop somewhere around.’ She waggles her eyebrows at me and I dissolve into laughter.

‘OK. Maybe. I’ll think about it. I must go!’

And I give her a hug and dash into the station, still giggling at the idea.

Although in fact … she’s got a point. By ten o’clock, I’ve spent a good hour peering at ‘boudoir photo’ websites on the office computer. (I sent Clarissa off to interview the volunteers on their levels of job satisfaction, to get her out of the way.) First of all, the sessions all cost hundreds of pounds. Second of all, some of them make me cringe: Kevin our photographer will use years of experience (Playboy, Penthouse) to guide you sensitively into a series of erotic poses, including advice on hand placement. (Hand placement?) And thirdly, wouldn’t it be more fun and relaxed with Tilda?

I’m getting some ideas, though. There’s a great picture of a girl in a white negligee, arching her leg through a chair which is just like one of our kitchen chairs. I could do that. I’m peering at the screen, trying to work out her exact position, when I hear a heavy tread coming up the stairs.

Shit. It’s him. The nephew. Robert. Shit.

I have literally about thirty windows open on my screen, each one containing a boudoir photo of a woman in a corset and fishnets, or lying on a bed, wearing nothing but ten sets of false eyelashes and a wedding veil.

Heart thumping, I start closing the images down, but I’m all flustered and keep mis-clicking. The wretched women won’t stop pouting at me, with their red lips and lacy bras and hands placed provocatively over their thongs. (Actually, I can see the point of advice on hand placement.)

As I’m frantically closing down the final photo, I’m aware that the tread on the staircase has stopped. He’s here. But it’s OK: I closed everything down in time. I’m sure I did. He didn’t see anything.

Did he?

My back is prickling with embarrassment. I can’t bring myself to turn round. Shall I pretend to be so engrossed in work that I haven’t noticed he’s here? Yes. Good plan.

I pick up the phone and dial a random number.

‘Hello?’ I say stagily. ‘It’s Sylvie from Willoughby House calling to talk about our event. Can you call me back? Thanks.’

I put down the phone, turn round and do an exaggerated double take at the sight of Robert standing there in his monolithic dark suit, holding a briefcase.

‘Oh, hi!’ I exclaim gushingly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’

His face remains impassive, but his eyes flicker to my computer screen, to the phone and back to me. They’re so dark and impenetrable I can’t read them. In fact, his whole face has a kind of off-putting, closed-up air. As though what you see is the tip of the iceberg.

Not like Dan. Dan is open. His eyes are clear and true. If he frowns, I can usually guess why. If he smiles, I know what the joke is. This guy looks as if the joke might be that no one will ever guess it was him who severed all those heads and hid them in the coal pit.

Then, instantly, I chide myself. Stop exaggerating. He’s not that bad.

‘Most telephone numbers begin with a zero,’ he says matter-of-factly.

Damn.

And bloody hell. He was watching my fingers deliberately, to catch me out. That shows how sneaky he is. I need to be on my guard.

‘Some don’t,’ I say vaguely, and call up a random document on my screen. It’s a budget for a harpsichord concert we did last year, I belatedly realize, but if he queries it I’ll say I’m doing an audit exercise. Yes.

I feel all fake and self-conscious, sitting here under his gaze – and it’s his fault, I decide. He shouldn’t have such a forbidding air. It’s not conducive to … anything. At that moment, I hear Clarissa on the stairs – and as she enters she actually gives a little squeak of dismay at the sight of him.

‘Good, you’re here,’ he says to her. ‘I want a meeting with both of you. I want a few answers about a few things.’

That’s exactly what I mean. How aggressive does that sound?

‘Fine,’ I say coolly. ‘Clarissa, why don’t you make some coffee? I’ll just finish up here.’

I’m not going to jump when he says jump. We have busy lives. We have agendas. What does he think we do all day? I close down the harpsichord concert budget, file a couple of stray documents which are littering the screen (Clarissa leaves everything on the desktop) and then thoughtlessly click on some JPEG which has been minimized.

At once the screen is filled with the image of a woman with a massive trout pout and a see-through bra, her fingers splayed over her breasts (excellent hand placement). My stomach heaves in horror. Shit. I’m an IDIOT. Close down, close down … My face is puce as I dementedly click my mouse, trying to get rid of the picture for good. At last it disappears, and I swivel round in my chair with a shrill laugh.

‘Ha ha! You’re probably wondering why I had that picture up on the screen! It was actually …’ My mind casts around desperately. ‘… research. For a possible exhibition of … erotica.’

Now my face is flaming even harder. I should never have attempted to say ‘erotica’ out loud. It’s a bad word, ‘erotica’, almost as bad as ‘moist’.

‘Erotica?’ Robert sounds a bit stunned.

‘Historical. Through the ages. Victorian, Edwardian, compared to modern … er … It’s only at the early planning stages,’ I finish lamely.

There’s a bit of a silence.

‘Does Willoughby House contain any erotica?’ says Robert at last, frowning. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was my aunt’s thing.’

Of course it isn’t her bloody thing! But I have to say something, and from the depths of my memory I pluck an image.

‘There’s a picture of a girl on a swing in one of the archived print collections,’ I tell him.

‘A girl on a swing?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t sound very …’

‘She’s naked,’ I elaborate. ‘And fairly … you know. Fulsome. I guess for a Victorian man, she’d be quite alluring.’

‘What about for a modern man?’ His dark eyes gleam at me.

Is that appropriate, for his eyes to gleam? I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice. Or hear the question. Or start this conversation.

‘Shall we begin the meeting?’ I say instead. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

‘I want to know what the hell you do all day,’ he says pleasantly, and at once I bristle.

‘We run Willoughby House’s administration and fundraising,’ I say with a slight glare.

‘Good. Then you’ll be able to tell me what that is.’

He’s pointing to the Ladder. It’s a wooden library ladder, set against the wall, with boxes of cards on the three steps. As I follow his gaze, I gulp inwardly. I have to admit, the Ladder is idiosyncratic, even by our standards.

‘It’s our Christmas card system,’ I explain. ‘Christmas cards are a big deal for Mrs Kendrick. The top step is for the cards we received last year. The middle step is for this year’s cards, unsigned. The bottom step is for this year’s cards, signed. We each sign five a day.’

‘This is what you spend your days doing?’ He turns from me to Clarissa, who has brought over three cups of coffee and almost jumps in alarm. ‘Signing Christmas cards? In May?’

‘It’s not all we do!’ I say, nettled, as I take my coffee.

‘What about social media, marketing strategy, positioning?’ he suddenly fires at me.

‘Oh,’ I say, caught off-guard. ‘Well. Our social media presence is … subtle.’

‘Subtle?’ he echoes incredulously. ‘That’s what you call it?’

‘Discreet,’ puts in Clarissa.

‘I’ve looked at the website,’ he says flatly. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes.’

‘Ah.’ I try to think of a comeback to this. I was rather hoping he wouldn’t look at the website.

‘Do you have any explanation?’ he asks, in tones that say, ‘I’m trying to be reasonable here.’

‘Mrs Kendrick didn’t really like the idea of a website,’ I say defensively. ‘She was the one who came up with the eventual … concept.’

‘Let’s have a look at it again, shall we?’ Robert says in ominous tones. He pulls a spare office chair towards him and sits down. Then he takes out a laptop from his briefcase, opens it, types in the web address – and after a few seconds our home page appears. It’s a beautiful, black-and-white line drawing of Willoughby House and on the front door is a very small notice, which reads: Enquiries: please apply in writing to Willoughby House, Willoughby Street, London W1.

‘You see, what I’m wondering …’ says Robert in the same studiedly calm tone, ‘is where the information pages are, the gallery of photos, the FAQ, the subscription form and, in fact, the whole bloody website?’ He suddenly erupts. ‘Where’s the website? This …’ He jabs at the page. ‘This looks like a classified ad from The Times, 1923! “Apply in writing”? “Apply in writing”?’

I can’t help wincing. He’s right. I mean, he’s right. It’s a ridiculous website.

‘Mrs Kendrick liked “Apply in writing”,’ volunteers Clarissa, who has perched on the corner of the computer desk. ‘Sylvie tried to get her to have an email form, but …’ She glances at me.

‘We tried,’ I affirm.

‘You didn’t try hard enough,’ Robert shoots back, unrelenting. ‘What about Twitter? You have a handle, I’ve seen that, but where are the tweets? Where are the followers?’

‘I’m in charge of Twitter,’ says Clarissa, almost in a whisper. ‘I did tweet once, but I didn’t know what to say, so I just said “hello”.’

Robert looks like he doesn’t even know how to respond to this.

‘I don’t think our clientele are on Twitter,’ I say, coming to Clarissa’s defence. ‘They prefer letters.’

‘Your clientele are dying out,’ says Robert, looking unimpressed. ‘Willoughby House is dying out. This entire concern is dying out and you can’t even see it. You all live in a bubble, my aunt included.’

‘That’s not fair!’ I say hotly. ‘We don’t live in a bubble. We interact with a lot of external organizations, benefactors … And we’re not dying out! We’re a thriving, vibrant, exciting …’

‘You are not thriving!’ Robert suddenly erupts. ‘You are not thriving.’ His voice is huge in the low-ceilinged office and we both gape at him. He rubs the back of his neck, wincing, not looking either of us in the eye. ‘My aunt’s been desperate to keep the truth from you,’ he continues in a calmer voice. ‘But you need to know. This place is in big financial trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ echoes Clarissa, with a little gasp.

‘For the last few years my aunt’s been subsidizing it out of her own money. It can’t go on. And that’s why I’ve stepped in.’

I stare at him, so flabbergasted that I can’t speak. My throat has actually closed up in shock. Mrs Kendrick’s been subsidizing us?

‘But we raise funds!’ says Clarissa, looking pink and distressed, her voice practically a squeak. ‘We’ve done really well this year!’

‘Exactly.’ I find my voice. ‘We raise funds all the time!’

‘Not enough,’ says Robert flatly. ‘This place costs a fortune to run. Heating, lighting, insurance, biscuits, salaries …’ He gives me a pointed look.

‘But Mrs Pritchett-Williams!’ says Clarissa. ‘She donated half a million!’

‘Exactly!’ I say. ‘Mrs Pritchett-Williams!’

‘Long gone,’ says Robert, folding his arms.

Long gone?

I feel shaken to my core. I had no idea. No idea.

I suppose Mrs Kendrick has been rather cagey about the financial situation of the charity. But then she’s cagey about so many things. (Like, for example, she won’t let us have the address of Lady Chapman, one of our supporters, for the database. She says Lady Chapman ‘wouldn’t like it’. So we have to write By hand on the envelope every time we want to send Lady Chapman anything, and Mrs Kendrick delivers it personally to her house.)

As I stare at Robert, I realize I’ve never once doubted the financial strength of Willoughby House. Mrs Kendrick has always told us that we’re doing well. We’ve seen the headline figure for the year and it’s always been great. It never occurred to me that Mrs Kendrick might have contributed to it.

And now suddenly everything makes sense. Robert’s suspicious frown. Mrs Kendrick’s anxious, defensive manner. Everything.

‘So you are going to shut us down and build condos.’ I blurt the thought out before I can stop myself and Robert gives me a long look.

‘Is that what you’ve been expecting?’ he says at last.

‘Well, are you?’ I challenge him and there’s a long silence. My stomach is becoming heavy with foreboding. This is feeling like a real threat. I don’t know what to worry about first: Mrs Kendrick, the art collection, the volunteers, the patrons, or my job. OK, I’ll admit it, it’s my job. I may not have as big as income as Dan does – but we need it.

‘Maybe,’ says Robert at last. ‘I won’t pretend it’s not an option. But it’s not the only option. I would love this place to work. The whole family would. But …’

He gestures around the office, and I can suddenly see the situation from his point of view. An old-fashioned, idiosyncratic yet successful charity is one thing. An old-fashioned, idiosyncratic failing money-pit is something else.

‘We can save it,’ I say, trying to sound robust. ‘It has stacks of potential. We can turn it around.’

‘That’s a good attitude,’ says Robert. ‘But we need more than that. We need practical, solid ideas to start the cash flow. Your erotica exhibition might be a start,’ he adds to me. ‘That’s the first good idea I’ve heard in this place.’

‘Erotica exhibition?’ Clarissa gapes at me.

I try to backtrack. ‘It was only a thought.’

‘I found Sylvie conducting some pretty thorough research on erotic images,’ puts in Robert. He sounds so deadpan that I glance up at him in suspicion – and instantly know: he saw the ‘boudoir photos’ on my screen. All thirty of them.

Great.

‘Well.’ I clear my throat. ‘I like to do things thoroughly.’

‘Evidently.’ His eyebrows raise, and I hastily look away. I fumble in my pocket for my lip-balm case, and pretend to be engrossed in that. It was Dan who gave me my pink leather lip-balm case, because I am, truthfully, addicted to lip balm. (Which, if Toby is correct, is due to evil Big Pharma. I must google that, one day. Maybe there’ll be some class action suit and we’ll all win millions.)

‘P.S.’ Robert reads aloud the gold-embossed letters on my lip-balm case. ‘Why P.S.?’

‘It stands for “Princess Sylvie”,’ says Clarissa brightly. ‘That’s Sylvie’s nickname.’

I feel an instant surge of embarrassment. Why did she have to blab that little detail?

‘“Princess Sylvie”?’ echoes Robert in an amused tone that flicks me on the raw.

‘It’s just my husband’s nickname for me,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s silly. It’s … nothing.’

‘Princess Sylvie,’ repeats Robert, as though I haven’t spoken. He surveys me for a few moments. I can feel his eyes running over my sprigged silk top and my pearl necklace and waist-length blonde hair. Then he nods his head. ‘Yup.’

‘Yup’? What does he mean, yup? I want to know. But I also want not to know. So I say, ‘How long have we got? I mean, when will you make a decision about Willoughby House?’

Even as I’m speaking, my thoughts are circling uneasily. What would I do if I lost my job? Where would I apply? I haven’t even looked to see what’s out there at the moment. I haven’t wanted to. I’ve been safe in my haven.

‘I don’t know,’ says Robert. ‘Let’s see what you come up with. Maybe you’ll perform a miracle.’

But he sounds unconvinced. He’s probably mentally choosing kitchen fittings for his luxury condos already. I see him glancing at our hand-drawn home page again, his eyes expressionless, and feel a fresh wave of mortification.

‘You know, we have tried to modernize,’ I say. ‘But Mrs Kendrick just wouldn’t do it.’

‘I’m afraid my aunt has the commercial nous of a teapot,’ says Robert flatly. ‘That’s not your fault, but it hasn’t helped matters.’

‘Where is Mrs Kendrick?’ asks Clarissa timidly, and Robert’s face creases slightly. I can’t tell if he’s amused or exasperated.

‘She’s hired a full-time computer teacher.’

‘What?’ I exclaim before I can stop myself – and I can see Clarissa’s jaw has dropped. ‘What’s she learning, exactly?’ I add, and Robert’s face creases again. I think he wants to laugh.

‘I was there when he arrived,’ he says. ‘She said, “Young man, I wish to be modern.”’

I feel simultaneously amused and chastened. Mrs Kendrick has been more proactive than any of us. If I’d known things were this bad, I wouldn’t have sat here defending our non-existent website and our quirky charming ways. I would have …

What, exactly?

I bite my lip, trying to think. I’m not sure yet. I need to get on top of this, quickly. I need to have ideas. If Mrs Kendrick can modernize, we all can.

Toby, I think suddenly. I’ll ask Toby, he’ll know.

‘So that’s my aunt’s contribution to the situation.’ Robert surveys first Clarissa, then me. ‘What about you? Any specific ideas other than erotica?’

‘Well.’ I rack my brains feverishly. ‘Obviously the website is an issue.’

‘We all know that,’ says Robert heavily. ‘Anything else?’

‘We need a decent sign outside.’ I pluck an old, buried thought out of my brain. ‘People walk past the house and have no idea what it is. We did try to suggest it to Mrs Kendrick, but—’

‘I can imagine.’ Robert rolls his eyes.

‘And we could do something creative?’ I’m feeling my way now. ‘Like … a podcast set in Willoughby House? A ghost story?’

‘A ghost story.’ He looks quizzical. ‘Are you going to write a ghost story?’

‘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.’