My wife occasionally monitors my email account, in order, she says, to make sure I’m engaging with the world in a competent manner. This is how she came across a long chain of correspondence grouped under the subject heading “Band Camp”.
“I see you’re planning to go off with your little friends on a jolly to Devon next month,” she says.
“A period of intensive rehearsal,” I say. “With a gig at the local village hall in the middle.”
“On the same weekend as my birthday,” she says.
I examine the backs of my hands for a long moment. “I was going to speak to you about that,” I say, “because I could always leave early, or even…”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I really don’t care about my birthday. Birthdays are stupid.”
I take her at her word, but as the weekend approaches, I begin to doubt the wisdom of this.
“It’s my birthday next week,” she says to the middle one at supper one evening. “And I’m going to be all alone.”
“Why, where am I?” he says.
“I don’t know,” she says, sighing. “Somewhere.”
“I’m here,” he says.
“So am I,” the youngest says.
“Me, too,” the oldest says.
“Everybody’s here,” the middle one says.
“Dad’s away,” my wife says.
“Him?” he says, flapping a hand in my direction. “He’s never here.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. “I’m always here.”
“All alone,” my wife says.
“No, you’re not,” the oldest one says.
“Seriously, I haven’t left the house in four days,” I say.
In the run-up to my departure, my wife refuses to say what she wants for her birthday. I know from experience that when it comes to presents, she is not receptive to surprises. It is customary for her to escort me to a particular shop, point to the thing she desires, then watch me pay for it, but this year there has been no such excursion.
The day before my wife’s birthday, I am fretting my way through central London with time on my hands before my train leaves. Suddenly, a plan begins to develop in my mind. I locate a card shop. enter and select a birthday card: it has an alligator in high heels on the front. I convince myself my wife will not think the alligator is meant to be her. The woman at the till also sells me a stamp.
Outside, on the pavement, I scribble an appropriate sentiment inside the card, seal the envelope and drop it into the nearest postbox. It’s a small gesture, but it’s so unlike me – consideration, aforethought, allied with timely execution; what I believe marriage counsellors call a “caring action” – that my wife will be genuinely shocked. She’ll probably think I’m having an affair.
I call my wife from Devon late the next afternoon.
“Happy birthday,” I say.
“I can’t talk now,” she says. “Everyone’s here.”
“Who’s everyone?” I say.
She begins listing people. “We’re having a drink, then we’re going to a pop-up restaurant on the roof of a car park.”
“Oh,” I say. “Sounds fun.”
“Yes, bad luck,” she says. “And I got your card, which was lovely.”
“The alligator isn’t supposed to be you.”
“I couldn’t figure out who it was from,” she says.
“There you are,” I say. “A caring action.”
There is a pause at the other end. “What did you say?” my wife says.
“Nothing,” I say.
“A caring action? I’m going to put the phone down on you.”
“Anyway, I’ll let you go,” I say.
She doesn’t hear me, because she’s holding the phone away from her ear while she tells everyone what I’ve just said.
