Surprise Me

EIGHTEEN

The house is all alone on a cliff, with huge glass windows framing the sea view and a vast linen wrap-around sofa, and beautifully scented air. I’m sitting on one end of the sofa and Lynn is sitting facing me.

Jocelyn, I mean. I know she’s Joss. That’s what I call her, to her face. But as I stare at her, all I can think is: Lynn.

It’s like looking at a Magic Eye picture. There’s Joss. Famous Joss Burton, founder of Maze, whom I’ve seen on book covers and in magazine articles, with her trademark white streak of hair and dark, intelligent eyes. And then, glimmering underneath, there’s Lynn. Traces of my Lynn. In her smile, especially. Her laugh. The way she crinkles up her nose in thought. The way she uses her hands when she talks.

She’s Lynn. My made-up Lynn, come to life, never imaginary at all. It’s like seeing Father Christmas and my fairy godmother, all wrapped up in one elegant, real-life woman.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen her as an adult. We met up for the first time a month ago. But I’m still finding it surreal, being here; being with her.

‘I used to talk to you every day,’ I say, my hands wrapped around a cup of Maze chamomile tisane. ‘I used to tell you my problems. I used to lie in bed and conjure you up and just … talk to you.’

‘Was I helpful?’ Joss smiles in that way I remember: warm and just a little bit teasing.

‘Yes.’ I smile back. ‘You always made me feel better.’

‘Good. More tea?’

‘Thanks.’

As Joss pours fresh tisane into my cup, I glance towards the stunning view of a cliff top giving way to endless pale-grey December sky with churning sea beneath. I’m deliberately testing myself and, to my own satisfaction, my heart remains quite steady. I’ve had a full course of therapy and lots of practice – and while I’ll never be the type to dance merrily across a tightrope, I’m a lot better with heights now. A lot better.

And I still see the counsellor who helped me. Once a week, I knock on her door, looking forward to the session, knowing I should have done this years ago. Because it turns out she’s pretty good at talking about issues other than heights. Like fathers. Imaginary friends. Old alleged affairs. That kind of thing.

Of course, I’ve read everything now. First I read Through the High Maze, cover to cover, twice over, searching for clues; reading between the lines. Then I went into Avory Milton and read Joss’s whole account of the episode with Daddy. It took a morning, because I kept breaking off. I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. I did believe it. I hated myself for believing it.

It was weeks before everything properly shook down in my head. And now I think …

What do I think?

I exhale as my thoughts describe the same circle they have done constantly, ever since that day I went to see Mary Smith-Sullivan.

I think Joss is a truthful person. That’s what I think. Whether every single detail is accurate, I can’t know. But she’s truthful. Mary Smith-Sullivan isn’t as convinced. She keeps saying to me: ‘It’s her word against his.’ Which is right, and it’s her job as a lawyer to protect her client and I understand that.

But the thing is, it’s Joss’s words which feel true. As I read her story, little details of what he’d said and how he’d behaved kept jumping out at me. I kept thinking: That’s Daddy. And: Yes, that’s just how it was. And then I found myself thinking: How would our sixteen-year-old holiday neighbour know Daddy so well? And it led me logically to one place.

I came to that conclusion four months ago and went to bed feeling numb. I couldn’t even talk to Dan about it. But the next day I woke up with my mind totally clear, and before I’d even left for work, I’d written a letter to Joss. She phoned me up as soon as she got it and we spoke for an hour. I cried. I’m not sure if she did, because she’s one of those very tranquil people who has found their way through the maelstrom. (That’s a quote from Through the High Maze.) But her voice shook. Her voice definitely shook. She said she’d thought of me a lot, over the years.

Then we met in London and had a cup of tea together. We were both nervous, I think, although Joss hid it better than I did. Dan said he was happy to come as moral support, but I said ‘no’. And actually, if he’d been there, I would never have had that amazing chat I did with Joss. She told me that Dan, all along, had been the one positive force in the whole matter. She said he’d persuaded her that the affair with my father wasn’t necessary to the powerful story she was telling in Through the High Maze, and it might even detract.

‘Do you know?’ she said then, her eyes shining. ‘He was right. I know he was trying to defend your father, but he made a good point, too. I’m glad I didn’t make that book about my teenage self.’

There was a pause, and I wondered if she was about to say she wouldn’t ever tell that part of her story and I needn’t worry any more. But then she pulled out a huge bound sheaf of papers, and I could see the wary look in her eye and I instantly knew. ‘This is the proof of the new book,’ she said. ‘I want you to read it.’

And so I read it.

I don’t know how I did it so calmly. If I’d read it a few months ago, with no warning, it would have freaked me out. I probably would have thrown it across the room. But I’ve changed. Everything’s changed.

‘Sylvie, your last email troubled me,’ Joss says as she puts down the teapot. She has a way of talking which is very calming. She says something and then pauses and lets the words breathe, so you actually think about them.

‘Why – what exactly?’

Joss cradles her own cup and gazes out to sea for a moment. She’s calling her new book Into the Wide Open Air and right now I can’t think of a better title.

‘You seemed to be assuming culpability. Feeling guilt.’ She turns and fixes me with a clear look. ‘Sylvie, I am not saying and I never will say that your father caused my eating disorders.’

‘Well, maybe you’re not.’ My stomach twists up in a familiar gnarl of bad feelings. ‘But surely—’

‘It’s far more complex than that. He was part of my story, but he wasn’t the cause of anything. You must understand that.’ She sounds quite firm, and just for a moment she’s sixteen and I’m four, and she’s Lynn, magical Lynn, who knows everything.

‘But he didn’t exactly help.’

‘Well, no. But you could say that of so many things, including my own personality quirks.’ Joss’s eyes crease in that kind way she has. ‘It’s hard for you. I know. It’s all new. But I’ve been processing all these events for years.’

My eyes travel around the room, looking at the huge, flickering candles everywhere. Those candles cost a fortune – they’re big-ticket presents in south-west London – yet she has eight of them on the go. I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes and already I feel almost hypnotized by the scent. I feel soothed. I feel finally able to address the subject looming between us.

‘So, as I said in my email … I’ve read the whole thing now,’ I say slowly. ‘The new book.’

‘Yes,’ says Joss. And it’s only one syllable but I can hear the increased alertness in her voice and see how her head has tilted, like a bird’s.

‘I think it’s … powerful. Empowering. No …’ I can’t find the right word. ‘I think I can see why you wanted to write it. I think women will read it and see how you can fall into a trap and maybe it’ll stop them falling into that trap.’

‘Exactly.’ Joss leans forward, her eyes glowing intensely. ‘Sylvie, I’m so glad you realize … this isn’t supposed to be a sensationalist book. And I’m not trying to expose your father. If I’m exposing anyone, it’s me, my sixteen-year-old self, my hang-ups and my misconceptions, and the wrong thought patterns I had. And I hope a new generation of girls can learn from them.’

‘I think you should publish it.’

There. The words are out. We’ve been dancing around this for weeks. I’ve been dealing with Mummy and the lawyers and Dan and my own terrible confusion. I’ve been trying, first, to have my voice heard – then trying to work out what I really think.

It was only when I actually read the proof that I realized what Joss was doing; what she was saying; how she was trying to set out her story as a tale to help others. Mummy couldn’t see beyond the mention of Daddy. Dan couldn’t see beyond wanting to protect me. The lawyers couldn’t see beyond doing their jobs. But I could see Lynn. Wise, kind, humorous, talented Lynn, taking a negative situation and turning it into something inspiring. How can I silence Lynn?

I know Mummy thinks I’m a traitor. She’ll always believe that Joss is a liar; that the whole story is malicious fiction designed to upset our family and nothing more. When I asked her if she’d actually read Joss’s words, she just started ranting at me: ‘How can it be true? How can it be true?’

I wanted to retort, ‘Well, how can my imaginary friend be real?’ But I didn’t.

Joss bows her head. ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly, and for a while we’re both silent.

‘Do you remember going out on the Mastersons’ boat?’ I say at last.

‘Of course.’ She looks up, her eyes shining. ‘Oh, Sylvie, you were so sweet in your little life jacket.’

‘I so wanted to see a dolphin,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I never did, though.’

I’ve always kept snatches of that day in my memory. Blue sky, glittering water, sitting on Lynn’s lap, hearing her sing ‘Kumbaya’. Then of course it turned into an ‘imaginary’ memory, and I clung to it all the harder. I invented conversations and games. I built up our secret friendship. I created a whole fantasy world of Lynn and me; a place where I could escape.

The irony is, if my parents had never told me Lynn was imaginary, I probably would have forgotten all about her.

‘I’d love to meet your children,’ says Joss, breaking the silence. ‘Please bring them to visit.’

‘Of course I will.’

‘We sometimes get dolphins here,’ she adds, twinkling. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘I ought to go.’ I get to my feet reluctantly. Devon’s a long way from London and I need to be back tonight.

‘Come again, soon. Bring the family. And good luck on Saturday,’ she adds.

‘Thanks.’ I smile. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t invite you …’

Seeing Joss on my own is one thing. Having her in the same room as Mummy would be a step too far. Mummy does know that I’ve been in touch with Joss, but it’s firmly in the category of things she won’t acknowledge.

Joss nods. ‘Of course. I’ll be thinking of you, though,’ she says, and draws me in for a tight hug, and I feel that, out of all of this, something good came. A new friendship. Or a new-old one.

A real one.

And then, in a blink, it’s Saturday and I’m getting ready. Make-up: done. Dress: on. Hair: sprayed. There’s nothing else I can do with it. Even flowers or a jewelled comb would look ridiculous.

My hair is even shorter than it was when I first hacked it off. I went to the hairdresser and after gaping in shock, my regular stylist Neil pointed out how jagged it was, and how he’d need to ‘really go in there’ to even it up. He calls it my ‘Twiggy’ look, which is sweet of him because I don’t look anything like Twiggy. On the other hand, it does suit my face. That’s the general view. Everyone who blanched when they first saw it is now saying, ‘You know, I actually prefer it this way.’ Apart from Mummy, of course.

I’ve tried to talk to Mummy a lot, over the last six months. Many times, I’ve sat on that sofa of hers and tried to bring up different subjects. I’ve tried to explain why I cut my hair off. And why I flipped out. And why I can’t be treated like a child any more: shut out while the grown-ups confer. I’ve tried to explain how wrong the whole ‘Lynn’ thing was. I’ve tried to explain how mixed up my feelings are about Daddy. I’ve tried over and over to have a proper, empathetic conversation, the kind I feel we should be having.

But everything bounces off. Nothing lands. She won’t meet my eyes or acknowledge the past or shift position an inch. For her, Daddy is still the golden, untouchable hero of our family, Joss is the villain, and I’m the turncoat. She’s locked in a kind of ossified reality, surrounded by her photos of Daddy and the wedding DVD, which she still plays when the girls visit. (I won’t watch it any more. I’m done with it. Maybe I’ll revisit it, in ten years’ time or so.)

So the last time I went round for brunch – just me – we didn’t even talk about any of it. We talked about where Mummy might go on holiday with Lorna, and she made Bellinis and I bought a set of stacking rings – so versatile – at the special one-off price of £39.99 (normal price for all five items: £120.95). And at the end, she said, ‘Darling this has been so lovely,’ and I think she really meant it. She likes the bubble. She’s happy there. She’s not interested in bursting it.

‘Mummy!’ Tessa comes running into my room, dressed in her chosen outfit – Chelsea top, tutu skirt and glittery trainers. There was just a nano-second when I considered laying down the law and forcing her into the adorable, dusty pink Wild & Gorgeous dress I’d seen online. But then I stopped myself. I’m not going to force my girls into dresses, or hairstyles, or thoughts that aren’t theirs. Let everyone be who they want to be. Let Tessa wear her Chelsea top and Anna her Gruffalo costume. They’ll make perfect bridesmaids. Or whatever they are.

‘Daddy says, “See you there,”’ she announces.

‘OK.’ I beam at her. ‘Thanks.’

We haven’t done the whole ‘spend the night apart’ thing – I mean, this is a renewal of vows, not a wedding – but we decided to arrive at the venue separately. Keep some magic, at least.

And Dan hasn’t seen my dress, either, so he doesn’t know that I’ve splashed out on the most elegant, strapless pale-grey Vera Wang concoction. At least, it wasn’t me who splashed out. Mummy offered to buy me a big-ticket dress for the occasion and I agreed without hesitation. It’s Daddy’s money that’s paid for it. I reckoned he owed us.

Dan and I had a bit of a money conversation, a few weeks after I cut my hair off. I admitted I’d thought for a long time that he was prickly about my father’s wealth, and he shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘It’s fair to say I was prickly about a lot of things regarding your father.’ Then he confessed that he does have a bit of a hang-up about providing for the family, and I said, ‘Like your dad,’ and he didn’t contradict me.

So then I tried to prove that we could in fact live on my income (if we made a lot of changes) so the old stereotypes were dead. And if he was a real feminist he wouldn’t feel the need to be the breadwinner but could support the family unit in other ways. And Dan listened politely and agreed with everything and then said, ‘Actually, we’ve got a big new order coming in, so is it OK if I carry on contributing financially, just for the moment?’

Thank God.

I spray myself with Maze lily-of-the-valley perfume – a gift from Joss – then step into my shoes and head downstairs to find the girls peering at Dora.

‘I want her to talk,’ says Tessa, who has just seen Harry Potter for the first time. ‘Dora, talk.’ She addresses the snake bossily. ‘Talk.’

‘Talking snakes are not in real life,’ says Anna, glancing at me for confirmation. ‘Made-up things are not in real life, are they, Mummy?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re not.’

I’m never going to tell them that my made-up friend came to life. They don’t need that kind of complicated, weird stuff in their heads. When they meet Joss, she’ll be Joss.

‘See you, Dora,’ I say, shepherding the girls out of the kitchen. I won’t say I’ve got fond of Dora, exactly, but I can look at her. I can kind of appreciate that she’s an amazing creature. Especially as I know she’s moving out of the kitchen. (Yes! Result!)

Basically, our whole garden is being revamped. The Wendy houses have already gone, and the girls barely noticed. Instead, we’re having a new outdoor room for Dan, all glass and wood, in which he’ll have his office and a special space for Dora. And we’re starting a vegetable patch.

‘If you’re such a bloody gardening expert,’ I said to Dan one night, ‘why aren’t we eating home-grown rocket every day?’ And he laughed and phoned up his mate Pete who does landscaping, and together they drew up a whole garden design. They even planned to put in some hardy annuals. Whereupon Dan suddenly remembered me trying to interest him in the garden before, and apologized for having been so distracted. He didn’t need to. I get it; he had a few other things on his mind.

Then we invited Mary Holland round to have lunch and help plan the herb garden. (Partly to show her – and each other – that there are no hard feelings or misunderstandings left.) It was great, because John looked over the fence from next door and started joining in the discussion. So then he came over, too. And we ended up with this rather high-powered gardening forum, all to discuss a tiny herb bed.

Since then, Mary’s been back to visit us a few times – she gets on well with Tilda, too. (‘I can see why you were worried,’ Tilda breathed in my ear, about five seconds after meeting her.) Meanwhile, Dan has taken to popping over to see John and talking about his work (whilst quietly making sure the fridge is full) and I do feel as though our existence has opened up a bit. We’re doing a bit less watching our past life on DVDs. A bit more building our own present life.

The girls can even have their own bedrooms now that Dan won’t need the study. (Except of course they don’t want their own bedrooms and wept when we mentioned it and Tessa wailed, ‘But I will miss Anna!’, clinging to her as though we’d suggested Anna go and sleep in the gulag.)

The car is waiting in the road, and as I shut the front door, I have a flashback to our wedding. Daddy leading me out of the house. Me looking like a Disney princess. Like so many things, it seems a lifetime ago. A different me. Today, there’s no one to lead me and the girls out of the house. There’s no one to ‘give me away’. I’m not a thing to be handed over, I’m a person. And I want to commit to another person. And that’s the end of it.

Quite nice to be in a posh car, though. As we glide along, the girls wave at passers-by, and I redo my lip gloss several times and run over what I’m going to say. Then, before I feel quite ready, we’re pulling up in front of Willoughby House. And even though I know this isn’t my actual wedding and I’m not a bride, and it’s really not a big deal … I still feel a whoosh of sudden nerves.

The driver opens the door and I emerge as elegantly as I can, and passers-by stop to point and take pictures, especially when Anna gets out in her Gruffalo costume, holding her bouquet. We’ve all got winter bouquets of eucalyptus wound round with ivy, which Mary dropped round this morning, together with a buttonhole for Dan. All from the St Philip’s Garden. She gave me a massive hug, and said, ‘I’m so, so pleased for you,’ and I could tell she genuinely meant it.

‘Come on, girls,’ I say when we’re all in place. ‘Let’s do it.’ And I push open the door to Willoughby House.

It looks phenomenal. There are flowers and greenery everywhere, cascading down the banisters and arranged in sprays. Guests are seated on gold chairs in rows, in the hall and through into the drawing room. Music begins and I process slowly between the chairs, up what is almost an aisle.

I can see lots of volunteers, watching with misty smiles, all wearing pastel hats. Dan’s parents are dressed up smartly and I beam at Sue. I had lunch with her a couple of weeks ago and apparently she and Neville have taken up ballroom dancing again. She seemed quite excited about it. Certainly they look a lot more relaxed today than they have for ages.

There’s Mary, looking gorgeous in a pale-aquamarine dress … Tilda, in a jewelled shawl … Toby and Michi … Mummy in a new pink suit, talking animatedly to Michi (probably selling her stacking rings). My heart catches as I see John, with his distinctive white, tufty hair, sitting on his own at the end of a row. He came. Even though Owen’s really not well these days, he still came.

Clarissa is standing to one side, capturing everything on video, and Robert is at the other side, recording from that angle. He meets my eye as I pass and nods. He’s a good guy, Robert.

And there, ahead of me, standing on a small carpeted platform, is Dan. He’s dressed in an elegant blue suit which brings out his eyes. His hair is glowing in the sunshine, filtered through the famous golden stained-glass window. And as he stands there proudly, watching me and the girls approach, he suddenly reminds me of a lion. A victorious lion. Happy and noble. Head of his pride.

(At least, joint head with me, obviously. I think that’s understood.)

The inspiration to use Willoughby House as a wedding venue came originally from me. Dan and I had decided to renew our vows and I was googling places, and they all promised elegant rooms, and reception space ‘steeped in history’ and I thought: Hang on, hang on, hang on …

Talk about monetizing Willoughby House. It’s made for weddings!

It took a bit of time for the licence to come through, but since then we’ve already had three weddings (all daughters of supporters), and there are more enquiries every day. It’s changed the whole nature of the house. We have constant influxes of flowers and visiting brides and all the hope and excitement that weddings bring. It’s fun. It makes it feel like a proper, living space again.

Not just that, the website is up and running! A proper, functioning website where you can book tickets and read about events and everything. (The online shop will come.) And it makes me feel joyful every time I log on, because it’s not like every other website, it’s us. We couldn’t afford 3-D spinning pictures or celebrity audio tours, but what we’ve got is beautiful line drawings on every page. There are drawings of the house and artefacts, and even a sketch of Mrs Kendrick on the History of the Family page. Every page is more charming than the last and it feels like the perfect alchemy of old and new. Just like Willoughby House. (And indeed, just like Mrs Kendrick, who has recently discovered texting and now sends Clarissa and me emojis pretty much on the hour.)

‘Welcome everybody.’ Mrs Kendrick steps forward and I stifle a giggle, because she’s gone and bought a robe. A kind of high-school-graduation robe, in deep purple, with trailing arms and a square neck.

I mean, actually, it quite suits her.

When it came to the question of who would be the officiant at our renewal, it occurred to us that this isn’t a legal ceremony, so anyone could do it. And actually, I couldn’t think of anyone I would rather have than Mrs Kendrick. She was very touched. Then she asked me about a hundred questions a day about it, until I wished I’d asked anyone else.

But now she’s standing, beaming around as though she owns the place – which of course she does – saying, ‘Today we are delighted to welcome Dan and Sylvie to this historic house, to renew their marriage vows. Which is an honourable estate, not to be undertaken lightly,’ she adds, making dramatic gestures with her capacious robe sleeves. ‘Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.’

OK … what? This all sounds very random. But she seems to be having a good time, swirling her robe sleeves, so what does it matter?

‘Now!’ she continues. ‘Sylvie and Dan have written their own vows, so I will pass you over to them.’ She steps to one side, and I turn to face Dan.

My Dan. He’s haloed in the golden light. His eyes are all crinkly and loving. And I thought I was on top of this, no problem … but suddenly I can’t speak.

As though sensing this, Dan draws breath, and I can tell he’s choked up, too. Why the hell did we decide to make emotional vows to each other in front of other people? Why did we think this was a good idea?

‘Sylvie,’ he says, his voice a little crackly. ‘Before I make my vows, I want to tell you one thing.’ He leans forward and whispers in my ear, ‘We’re going to St Lucia tomorrow, it’s all fixed up. All four of us. Familymoon. Surprise.’

What? What? I thought we were done with surprises. He was not supposed to do that. Although, oh my God, St Lucia! I blink a couple of times, then lean forward and whisper in his ear.

‘I’m not wearing any knickers. Surprise.’

Ha! His expression!

Dan seems temporarily to have forgotten about making his vows, so I’m about to launch in with my own set, when there’s a slight kerfuffle from the entrance hall. The next moment, Dr Bamford is making his way into the room. He waves at us cheerily and takes his place on a chair.

‘Surprise,’ I say to Dan. ‘I thought he ought to be here. He started this all off, after all.’

‘Good call.’ Dan nods, his eyes softening. ‘Good call.’

And then somehow we’ve said all our vows and not cried or tripped up, and everyone has applauded and we’re all on the champagne. Clarissa is playing jazz records on the old gramophone and some of the volunteers are dancing in a makeshift dancing space. I can see Robert talking intently to Mary – hmm, there’s an idea – and Dan’s parents are doing a rather flashy quickstep. Neville’s eyes are fixed on Sue’s, and the sight of them moving in perfect time with each other makes me blink. Then, as if she can sense me watching, Sue meets my eye and smiles over Neville’s shoulder and I wave back.

I catch Clarissa’s eye as she changes a record on the gramophone and give her a fond smile. Clarissa has been another revelation. Three months ago she stunned us by revealing she’d written a ghost story set in Willoughby House and recorded it as a podcast! Without telling anyone! She said she’d heard me suggesting it and it had stuck in her mind and had thought she’d ‘have a bash’. It’s up on the website now, and keeps being downloaded, and we all know that Clarissa will end up going into writing full time one day. She just doesn’t seem to know it herself, yet.

As I’m standing there with Dan, watching everyone, he leans over and murmurs, ‘Have you told Mrs Kendrick yet? Or Clarissa?’

I know what he means and shake my head. ‘Not the time,’ I say quietly. ‘After we get back.’

I’m so proud of everything we’ve achieved at Willoughby House. And I love the place more than ever now it has a new lease of life. But nothing changes if nothing changes. I saw that slogan on a T-shirt the other day, and it really resonated. I’ve changed. My horizons have shifted. And if I want to keep on growing and changing, I need to challenge myself.

It’s taken a while to work out what to do next, but I’ve finally found the perfect thing. I’m masterminding the campaign for the new children’s wing at the New London Hospital. I saw the advert for the post and instantly I thought: Yes. It’s a big job, and I had to persuade Cedric and his board that my skills would transfer from the world of art history, but every time I think about it I feel a surge of adrenaline. I’ll be helping children. I’ll be achieving a whole new level of fundraising. And someone else can take on my work here – someone with fresh eyes and energy.

Sometimes you need to poke things with a stick. If I hadn’t poked our marriage with a stick, what would have happened, long-term? I don’t like thinking this much, because it’s irrelevant now, everything did come out and we’re OK. But let’s just say … I don’t think it would have been great.

When I look back at ourselves, I feel that the Dan and Sylvie who were married for all those years, were so pleased with each other, who thought life was such a breeze … they’re different people. They had no idea.

‘Congratulations!’ A booming voice greets us and I see Dr Bamford approaching, glass in hand. ‘How nice to see you again, and thank you for the invitation! I’ve always meant to visit this place but never have. Wonderful collection of books. And the basement kitchen! Fascinating!’

‘You probably think it’s strange that we invited you today.’ I smile up at him. ‘But as I think I said in my letter, you really started something when we saw you, all those months ago.’

‘Oh dear!’ exclaims Dr Bamford, and I can tell, he doesn’t remember at all.

‘No, it was good,’ Dan reassures him. ‘In the end.’

I nod. ‘In the end. You told us we would have another sixty-eight years of marriage and it kind of kick-started … Well, we didn’t react brilliantly …’

‘We freaked out,’ says Dan honestly. ‘I mean, sixty-eight years. That’s a lot of box sets.’ He laughs at his own joke, but Dr Bamford doesn’t seem to hear. He’s peering thoughtfully at Dan. He transfers his gaze to me, then back to Dan.

‘Sixty-eight years?’ he says at last. ‘Dear me. Hmm. I may possibly have overestimated a tad. I tend to do that. My colleague Alan McKenzie is forever chiding me on the matter.’

Overestimated?

‘What do you mean, “overestimated”?’ I say, staring at him.

‘What do you mean, “overestimated”?’ Dan echoes, only half a second behind me.

‘Dr McKenzie recently advised me to shave a good half per cent off my calculations. Which would mean you have closer to, let’s say … sixty-four years.’ He beams cheerfully, then notices a tray of canapés passing by. ‘Ah, smoked salmon! Excuse me a moment …’

As Dr Bamford pursues the canapés, Dan and I stare at each other, stricken. I feel cheated. I had sixty-eight years and now I only have sixty-four.

‘Sixty-four years?’ I gulp at last. ‘Sixty-four? That’s no time!’

Dan looks equally traumatized. He seizes me to him as though we’re counting every second, crushing me against him. ‘OK, so we only have sixty-four years,’ he says. ‘Let’s make them count.’

‘No more wasting time,’ I agree fervently.

‘No more petty arguments.’

‘Live every moment.’

‘Set the alarm earlier,’ says Dan urgently. ‘Ten minutes a day. We can claw back some time that way.’ And he looks so worked up that something inside me says, Wait a minute. We’re overreacting again.

‘Dan …’ I say more gently. ‘No one actually knows. We could have seventy-two more years together. Or two. Or two days.’

My gaze travels around the room, suddenly seeing everyone here in a different light. There’s Mummy with her brittle smile, who thought she would be with Daddy for a lot longer. John, facing a future without Owen, his eyes sad even as he talks to Tilda – who herself had to cope with a life that didn’t pan out the way she hoped. Dan’s parents, still dancing, faces determined, making it work. Mary and Robert, chatting closely with shy smiles, maybe at the start of something? And my girls, dancing joyously in their Chelsea top and Gruffalo costume. Out of all of us, they’ve got the right idea.

‘Come on.’ I put a hand on his arm and squeeze it fondly. ‘Come on, Dan. Let’s just get on with life.’

And I lead him on to the dance floor, where everyone breaks off to applaud us. Dan throws some shapes and Tilda whoops and the girls spin round and round with me, laughing.

And we get on with life.