The note said "Your birthday present is at Fizzog. Be there at four. I love you, Simon."
Simon loves mystery and surprises. I knew this was going to be fun. He'd told me to be home from work by three thirty and I had been slightly piqued on walking through the door to discover the house cold and empty. It was only when I went to the coat cupboard after calling "Hello, Hello" that I discovered the piece of paper stuck there with blu tack.
I changed quickly into my favourite jeans and a white shirt, and put on my camel blazer and good coat, just in case. Fizzog was the shop where I went to buy my cosmetics and to have my legs waxed and my wrinkles massaged. Sarah was pink with excitement when I went through the door.
"God, you are so lucky to have Simon. Just do me a favour and give me first refusal if you decide you don't want him anymore. In there!" she commanded, opening the door to her treatment room.
I went in.
"Well, where's my present then?" I asked, with mock impatience.
She consulted her diary.
"Full body massage, deluxe facial and make-up. You don't know you're born, Ms Topliss. Take your clothes off, lie down and lay this towel over you. I'll be back in a minute."
The modesty of the beauty therapy industry always tickles me. They'll rip hair from close to your most intimate body parts, and manipulate your cellulite and blackheads, but they won't stay in the room while you take off your trousers. As I undressed and wrapped myself in the soft white scented towel, I reflected with pleasure on the thought Simon had put into this. I hoped he hadn't got Camilla to book it for him.
I lapsed into silence while Sarah was working on me. She's good, she chatters during the operations which require your mind to be distracted, such as waxing and eyebrow trims, but she recognises that facials and massages should be enjoyed in silence and she allows me the luxury of my thoughts while she expertly oils and rubs. Then comes that wonderful time when she's finished and she gently lifts her hands off me and leaves the room, turning down the lights, and I breathe slowly and inhale the aromatherapy oils which coat my body.
When she'd finished and I'd dressed and emerged into the reception area, she handed me an envelope. Inside was a note: "Go to the balloon shop. Be there at five-thirty."
The man at the balloon shop smiled and handed me a six foot balloon, already blown up, with the legend "I LOVE YOU!" on the side, and a note saying "Turn left. Go next door."
Next door was a dress hire shop. I was kitted out with a little black sequinned number. They took my clothes with assurances that I would get them back the following day. I was allowed to keep the coat. The shop assistant was loving it all - she threw in the tights for free. Satisfied that I looked, as she put it, "the business", she handed me the next instructions. "Turn right. Walk to the corner of the street. Be there at six thirty."
I felt self-conscious emerging into the street in the dress, which was shorter than I would normally have chosen, and carrying the mighty balloon. People smiled at me indulgently and with traces of jealousy. As I approached the lamppost on the corner of the street he emerged from the side road, checking his watch. He was dressed in his evening suit and a long coat and carried an armful of roses and lilies, a copy of my wedding bouquet. He smiled with sheepish satisfaction at my approach and, for once, allowed me to kiss him in public.
An older couple walked by, shoulders in a permanent shrug against the autumn chill, pulling on their cigarettes.
"Steady on there, mate!" the man called out and his wife tittered gently.
When we came up for air Simon smiled self-consciously.
"I just wanted you to be absolutely confident that I hadn't forgotten your birthday."
"You've convinced me, darling. Thank you. I love it all."
He led me by the arm along the street to the floating restaurant in the harbour. After drinks at the bar we sat at a table laid with crisp white linen and heavy silver cutlery.
"I love you, Simon.
“Good,” he said, “I sometimes wonder.”
His tone was just the right side of humorous, but only just. I smiled sheepishly back at him.
"I’m sorry. I know that sometimes I'm completely unreasonable, honey. I can't help it."
"I know. And for some reason I love you and I will always put up with it."
He squeezed my hand.
"Look I know I'm a boring old fart sometimes. I can't help it. It's probably in my genes. After all, as you've pointed out more than once, when your Dad reads the Telegraph and your Mum's a big cheese in the Mother's Union, it's sort of expected of you. Sometimes I know you love me but please remember that I love you all the time. Every moment. Sometimes I jump on you and sometimes I don't. That doesn't mean anything. Imagine, though, if in response to one of your bursts of criticism I told you that was just the way I was. How well would that go down?"
I looked at his soft face and could only smile ingratiatingly. He was right. So far from perfect myself, I nevertheless expected perfection from him. I praised him constantly when I was feeling generous and therefore expected that he'd take my virulent attacks in his stride. But he was vulnerable and it hurt him. I would have to try harder to remember that.
It was a balmy evening and we walked home, slightly drunk, along the harbour and cuddled and laughed. I was loved and cherished and special and I wanted to make a fuss of him when we got to bed. We fell asleep sweaty in each other's arms, clinging together as we very rarely did.
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