solid entity. Firm and dense, with maybe just the odd little fault line. But are those fault lines bigger than I thought? Are they chasms? And if so, why can’t I see them?
Sometimes, honestly and truly, I feel like a colour-blind person. It’s as if everyone else can see something I can’t. Even Mummy. Sometimes she takes a breath to speak, then stops herself and says, ‘Oh, I’ve lost my train of thought,’ in an unconvincing way, and her eyes slide away from mine and I think, What? What?
On the other hand, I may be being paranoid. It’s possible.
I could really do with a sensible friend to talk to, but the only person who knows all the ins and outs is Tilda, and she’s still commuting to Andover. Yesterday I felt so desperate, I found myself googling How to keep your husband, and the answer that came back was essentially: You can’t. If he wants to leave you, he will. (I hate the internet.)
The infamous dinner party is tonight, and Dan is totally obsessed – about the food, the wine, even the coffee cups. (When has he ever taken any notice of coffee cups?)
Meanwhile, I’m ratty and snappy and dying for the whole thing to be over. I keep telling myself: It can’t be that bad. Then: Yes it can. And then: Actually it can be worse. (I’m not sure what worse might consist of, but it won’t be good, surely?)
Dan’s picked up on my tension; how could he not? Although – silver lining – I’ve blamed it on my problems at work, which are still massive, despite the sign. My non-existent website budget is still non-existent. I’ve made approaches to every single supporter, patron and philanthropist I can think of. But so far we’ve received nothing except a hundred pounds in cash pushed anonymously through the letter box in an envelope (I totally suspect Mrs Kendrick) and a big crate of Fortnum’s biscuits. One of our volunteers apparently ‘pulled some strings’. (Robert’s face when he saw them was quite funny; in fact it’s the only thing I’ve laughed at for ages.)
And now I’ve got to get ready to confront my nemesis over Ottolenghi slow-cooked lamb.
No. I don’t have any proof she’s my nemesis. I have to remember this.
As I enter the kitchen, I’m wearing my most casually elegant outfit – slim white trousers and a print top with a flash of cleavage – and wafting perfume. I’m hoping Dan will turn from the stove and his eyes will light up and maybe we’ll sink into each other’s arms in a bonding, imprinting way which will inoculate him against Mary.
But he’s not by the stove. I can see him through the window, out in the garden, picking some mint from our straggly bush which grows by one of the Wendy houses. (I do know mint. Mint and rosemary. Any other herbs, forget it: I’d need to see them in a Tesco packet to identify them.)
I head through the back door and make my way over our crappy grass, picking my brains for something to say. As I reach him, I blurt out, ‘Mint is lovely, isn’t it?’
Which is such a bland comment I instantly regret it – but then, I’m not sure Dan even heard. He’s rubbing a mint leaf in his fingers and his eyes have got that faraway look again. Where is he now? Back in his youth? With her?
And yet again, I feel a stab of anxiety. OK, I have no proof of anything, but that’s not the point. The point is, Dan is vulnerable. I believe it more than ever. Something happened in that garden. Something was stirred up in him. And now this woman is going to arrive (and if she’s anything like she looks in her photo, will still be totally gorgeous) and remind him of how it all used to be before marriage and kids and stretch marks. (I mean, she might have stretch marks. But I doubt it.)
I help Dan gather some more mint and we head back inside, and somehow I keep making innocuous conversation – but my mind is whirring.
‘So, tell me about your friends,’ I say as he washes the mint. ‘Tell me about …’ I make a heroic effort to sound casual. ‘… Mary.’
‘Well, I haven’t seen Jeremy or Adrian for years,’ Dan says, and my brain gives a squeal of frustration.
I don’t want to know about bloody Jeremy or Adrian, didn’t you hear me say Mary? Mary?