Out of the Blue
Out of the Blue
Isabel Wolff
A sparkling novel by the bestselling author of THE VERY PICTURE OF YOU and A VINTAGE AFFAIR.Faith has arranged a surprise party at a West London restaurant to celebrate fifteen years of marriage to her publisher husband Peter. They have a lot to be thankful for – including two teenage children and the knowledge that, at thirty-five, they’ve hammered out an enduring partnership that, at this age, many of their contemporaries are only just themselves embarking upon.But something is niggling at Faith. A casual, barbed comment by her bitchy magazine editor friend Lily makes her wonder whether her world is as wonderful as it seems on the surface. Peter has been behaving slightly oddly recently – but is this purely because of stress at work?As the kernel of unease swells and begins to burgeon inside her, Faith finds herself on a quest that leads to a shake-up of everything she holds dear – but which, in the end, enables her to reforge her life.
Out of the Blue
Isabel Wolff
For my godchildren Nadia, Raphael and Laurie
No dogs were harmed in the writing of this book.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ub2813029-69a8-5fa2-9c4f-f6bccd5e9872)
Title Page (#u6fa0faec-0136-52af-815e-19a1041bda59)
Epigraph (#u81c09ab1-773a-5433-aefc-6deff34bdea4)
January (#uaf0df96d-fcb7-5d47-801a-0c640ba8b778)
February (#u182011f1-a753-5d35-84f1-6ec6de95daa7)
February Continued (#ua41d0611-5893-5831-9880-b980fc097f99)
March (#litres_trial_promo)
March Continued (#litres_trial_promo)
April (#litres_trial_promo)
May (#litres_trial_promo)
June (#litres_trial_promo)
July (#litres_trial_promo)
July Continued (#litres_trial_promo)
August (#litres_trial_promo)
September (#litres_trial_promo)
October (#litres_trial_promo)
November (#litres_trial_promo)
December (#litres_trial_promo)
January (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Permissions (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
January (#ulink_f8edb686-74ec-5423-8c52-b4d05d69e197)
It’s funny how things can suddenly change, isn’t it? They can alter in a heartbeat, in a breath. I think that’s what happened tonight because, well, I don’t really know how to explain it except to say that nothing feels quite the same. The evening started out well. In fact it felt like quite a success. There we were, in the restaurant, enjoying ourselves. Talking and laughing. Eating and drinking. Just eight of us. Just a small party. I wanted to cheer Peter up, because he’s got his problems right now. So I’d planned this evening as a surprise. He hadn’t suspected a thing. In fact, he’d even forgotten that it was our anniversary, and he’s never done that before. But when he came home it was obvious that today’s date had passed him by.
‘Oh, Faith, I’m sorry,’ he sighed as he opened my card. ‘It’s the sixth today, isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘I’m afraid I completely … forgot.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said brightly. ‘Honestly, darling. Because I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.’ He’s having a bad time at work, you see. He’s publishing director at Fenton & Friend, a job he used to love, but a year ago a new chairwoman called Charmaine arrived and she’s been giving him serious grief. She and her creepy sidekick, Oliver. Or rather ‘Oiliver’ as Peter calls him, though not to his face, of course. But, between the two of them, Charmaine and Oliver are making Peter’s life hell.
‘How was it today?’ I asked him cautiously as he hung up his coat.
‘Awful,’ he said wearily, running his hand through his sandcoloured hair. ‘The old bat was going on at me about the bloody sales figures,’ he said as he loosened his tie. ‘She went on and on. In front of everyone. It was hideous. And Oliver just stood there, with a smirk on his fat face, oozing sycophancy from every pore. I tell you, Faith,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I’m for the chop. It can’t be long.’
‘Well, leave it to Andy,’ I said.
A faraway look came into Peter’s eyes and he said, ‘Yes. I’ll put my faith in Andy.’ That’s Andy Metzler, by the way. He’s a headhunter. American. One of the best in town. Peter seems to think the world of him. It’s ‘Andy this’ and ‘Andy that’, so I really hope Andy delivers the goods. But it’ll be hard for Peter if he does have to leave Fenton & Friend, because he’s been there for thirteen years. It’s been a bit like our marriage, really – a stable and happy relationship, based on affection, loyalty and trust. But now it looks as though it might be coming to an end.
‘I suppose nothing stays the same,’ Peter added ruefully as he fixed us both a drink. ‘I’m not joking, Faith,’ he added as I took the last baubles off the Christmas tree. ‘I’ll be getting the old heave-ho, because Oiliver’s after my job.’
Peter tries to be philosophical about it all, but I know he’s very depressed. For example, he’s not quite his normal genial self, and he’s finding it hard to sleep. So for the past six months or so, we’ve been in separate rooms. Which is no bad thing as I have to get up at three thirty a.m. for my job at breakfast TV. I do the weather, at AM-UK! I’ve been there six years now, and I love it, despite the hideously early start. Normally, I let the alarm pip twice, slip out of bed, and Peter goes straight back to sleep. But at the moment he can’t stand being disturbed, so he’s in the spare room on the top floor. I don’t mind. I understand. And sex isn’t everything, you know. And in some ways I quite like it, because it means I can sleep with Graham instead. I love Graham. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and he’s incredibly bright. He snores a bit, which annoys me, but I poke him in the ribs and say, ‘Darling – shhh!’ And he opens his eyes, looks at me lovingly, then drops off again – just like that. He’s lucky. He sleeps very well, though sometimes he has nightmares and starts twitching violently and kicking his legs. But he doesn’t mind being disturbed in the dead of night when I get up to go to work; in fact – and this is really sweet – he likes to get up too. He sits outside the bathroom while I have my shower. Then I hear the cab pull up, I put on my coat, and hug him goodbye.
Some of our friends think that Graham’s a slightly odd name for a dog. And I suppose it is compared to Rover, say, or Gnasher, or Shep. But we decided on Graham because I found him in Graham Road, in Chiswick, where we live. That was two years ago. I’d been to the dentist for a filling, and when I came out there was this mongrel – very young, and terribly thin – looking at me expectantly as though we’d known each other for years. And he followed me all the way home, just trotting along gently behind, then sat down outside the front gate and wouldn’t move. So eventually I invited him in, gave him a ham sandwich and that was that. We phoned the police, and the dogs’ home, but no-one ever claimed him, and I’d have been distraught if they had because, to be honest, it was love at first sight, just like it was with Peter. I adore him. Graham, I mean. We just clicked. We really get on. And I think the reason why I love him so much is because of the sweet way he put his faith in me.
Peter was fine about it – he likes dogs too – and of course the children were thrilled, though Katie, who wants to be a psychiatrist, thinks I ‘mother’ Graham too much. She says I’m projecting my frustrated maternal desires for another child onto the dog. I know … ridiculous! But you have to take teenagers very seriously, don’t you, otherwise they get in a strop. Anyway, Graham’s the baby of the family. He’s only three. He doesn’t have a pedigree, but he’s got bucketloads of class. He’s a collie cross of some sort, with a feathery red-gold coat, a white blaze on his chest and a foxy, elegant charm. We take him almost everywhere with us, though not to restaurants, of course. So this evening Peter settled him on his beanbag, put on the telly for him – he likes Food and Drink – and said, ‘Don’t worry, old boy, Mummy and I are just going out for a quick bite.’
But Peter had no idea what I’d really planned. He thought we’d just be having an impromptu dinner, tête à tête. I’d told him I’d booked a table, but he’d assumed it was just for two. So when we got to the restaurant, and he saw the children sitting there, with his mother, Sarah, he looked so surprised and pleased. And I’d invited Mimi, an old college friend of ours, with her new husband, Mike.
‘It’s like This Is Your Life!’ Peter exclaimed with a laugh, as we took off our coats. ‘What a great idea, Faith,’ he said. To be honest, I didn’t do it just for him. I did it for myself, too, because I felt like marking the occasion in some way. I mean, fifteen years. Fifteen years. That’s nearly half our lives.
‘Fifteen years,’ I said with a smile as we sat down. ‘And it hasn’t been a day too long.’
I’ve been very happy in my marriage, you see. And believe me, I still am. For example, I’m never, ever bored. There’s always loads to do. We don’t have much money, of course – we never have had – but we still have lots of fun. Well, we would do if it wasn’t for the fact that Peter’s working so hard: Charmaine’s got him reading manuscripts most nights, and I have to be in bed by half past nine. But at weekends, that’s when we catch up and really enjoy ourselves. The children come home – they’re weekly boarders at a school in Kent – and we do, ooh, all sorts of things. We go for walks along the river, and we garden. We go to Tesco for the weekly shop. Sometimes we pop down to Ikea – the one in Brent Cross, though occasionally, for a bit of a change, we’ll try the one in Croydon. And we might take out a video, or watch a bit of TV, and the children go and see their friends. Well, they would do if they had any. They’re both what you’d call loners, I’m afraid. It worries me a bit. For example, Matt – he’s twelve – just loves being on his computer. He’s an addict, always has been; he was mouse-trained very young. I remember when he was five and I’d be putting him to bed, he’d say, ‘Please can you wake me up at six o’clock tomorrow, Mummy, so I can go on the computer before I go to school?’ And that struck me as rather sad, really, and he’s still just like that now. But he’s as happy as Larry with all his computer games and his CD Roms, so we don’t like to interfere. As I say, he’s not what you’d call an all rounder. For example, his written skills are dire. But as well as the computers he’s brilliant at maths – in fact we call him ‘Mattematics’. And that’s why we sent him to Seaworth, because he wasn’t coping well where he was. But he wouldn’t go without Katie, and it suits her very well too because, look, don’t think I’m being disloyal about my children – but they’re not quite like other kids. For one thing Katie’s far too old for her years. She’s only fourteen now, but she’s so serious-minded. She does nothing but read. I guess she takes after Peter, because for her it’s books, not bytes. She’s not at all fashion-conscious, like other girls of her age. There’s no hint of any teenage rebellion, either; she seems to be just as ‘sensible’ as me. And because I never kicked over the traces, somehow I wish that she would. I keep hoping that she’ll come home one weekend with a lime-green mohican or at the very least with a stud in her nose. But no such luck – all she ever does is read. As I say, she’s dead keen on psychology, she’s got lots of books on Jung and Freud, and she likes to practise her psychotherapeutic skills on all of us. And when we sat down at the table this evening, that’s what she was doing.
‘So, Granny, how did you feel about your divorce?’ I heard her ask my mother-in-law. I made a sympathetic face at Sarah, but she just looked at me and smiled.
‘Well, Katie, I felt fine about it,’ she said. ‘Because when two people are unhappy together, then it’s sometimes better for them to part.’
‘What were the chief factors, would you say, in the breakdown of your relationship with Grandpa?’
‘Well, darling,’ she said as she lowered her menu, ‘I think we just married too young.’
People sometimes say that about Peter and me. We married at twenty, you see; and so people do sometimes ask me – and to be honest I wish they wouldn’t – if I ever have any regrets about that. But I don’t. I never, ever wonder, ‘What if … ?’ because I’ve been happy really, in every way. Peter’s a decent and honest man. He’s very hard-working, he’s great with the kids, and he’s kind and considerate to his mum. He’s quite handsome, too, though he needs to lose a little weight. But then, funnily enough, this evening I noticed that he is looking a bit more trim. I expect he’s shed a few pounds recently because of all his stress. He’s well turned out at the moment, too – I’ve noticed he’s got a couple of lovely new ties. He says he has to be ready to slip out to interviews at the drop of a hat, so he’s been dressing very smartly for work. So despite his present anxieties, he’s looking pretty good. And after such a long time with Peter I could never fancy anyone else. People sometimes ask me if I do fantasy – sorry, fancy, anyone else – after fifteen years with the same man, and the answer is absolutely, categorically, definitively hardly ever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m made of flesh and blood. I can see when a man’s attractive. For example, that chap who came round last week to mend the washing machine. He got my delicates cycle going again. And yes, objectively, I could see that he was a handsome sort of chap. Yes, I admit it – he was a bit of a hunk. And to be honest, I have been having some rather strange dreams about him recently. Quite vivid ones, featuring all sorts of peculiar items like a mobile phone for example, a TV remote control, and – this is really odd – a tub of blackcurrant sorbet! God knows what it means. I asked Katie actually, and she gave me this rather peculiar look and said it’s just my id, running wild. As I say, I always humour her. No doubt my dreams are just the product of my rather fertile imagination. So no, I don’t look at anyone else, although I do meet lots of attractive men at work. But I never fancy them, because I’m a very happily married woman, and sex isn’t everything, you know. And of course Peter’s very preoccupied right now. But yes, to answer your question, my marriage is in great shape, which is why I wanted to celebrate our fifteen happy years. So I booked a table at Snows, just down the road at Brook Green. We don’t eat out very often. Peter has to go out to dinner with authors and agents sometimes, he’s been doing quite a bit of that of late, but we don’t do much ourselves. We can’t afford it; what with the school fees – though luckily Matt got a scholarship – and of course publishing doesn’t pay well. And my job’s only part-time because I’m home by eleven every day. But I thought Peter needed a bit of a treat, so I decided on a party at Snows. It’s actually called Snows on the Green, which was rather appropriate because today the snow was on the green. More than an inch of it. It started to fall this morning, and by late afternoon it had built into gentle drifts. And I love it when it snows because there’s this eerie hush, and the world falls silent as though everyone’s dropped off to sleep. And I just want to rush outside, clap my hands and shout, ‘Come on! Wake up! Wake up!’ And snow always reminds me of our wedding, because it snowed on that day too.
So I was sitting there in the restaurant, looking out of the window for a minute, watching the flakes batting gently against the panes and idly wondering what the next fifteen years of my life would bring. And I was feeling the slightly dizzying effects of the champagne. Not real champagne, obviously – just the Italian sparkling, but it’s very good, and only half the price. I glanced round the table, listening to the low babble of conversation.
‘Are your parents coming, Faith?’ Sarah asked me as she nibbled on an olive.
‘Oh no, they’re on holiday again. I think they’re scuba diving in St Lucia,’ I said vaguely. ‘Or maybe they’re heli-skiing in Alaska. Or are they bungee-jumping in Botswana … ’ Mum and Dad are pensioners, or rather what you might call Silver Foxes or Glamorous Greys. They seem to stagger from cruise to safari to adventure holiday in a variety of increasingly exotic locations. Well, why not? After all, they’ve worked hard all their lives and so now’s the time to have some fun.
‘No, Sarah,’ I said, ‘I really can’t remember where they are, they go away so much.’
‘That’s because they have classic avoidant personalities,’ announced Katie with mild contempt. ‘The incessant holidays are the means by which they avoid spending any time with us. I mean, the second Grandpa retired from Abbey National, that was it – they were off!’
‘Oh, I know darling, but they send us lots of lovely postcards,’ I said. ‘And they phone up from time to time. And Granny loves chatting to you, doesn’t she, Matt?’
‘Er … yes,’ he said slightly nervously as he looked up from his menu. ‘Yes, I suppose she does.’ Lately I’ve noticed that my mother often asks to speak to Matt on the phone. She loves chewing the fat with him, even ringing him at school, and I think it’s great that they’re developing such a nice bond.
‘I do envy your parents,’ said Sarah ruefully. ‘I’d love to go away, but it’s impossible because I’m tied to the shop.’ Sarah owns a second-hand book shop in Dulwich. She bought it twenty years ago with her alimony after her husband, John, left her for an American woman and moved to the States. ‘Oh, I’ve a small anniversary gift,’ Sarah added as she handed me a beribboned parcel, inside which – Peter helped me open it – were two beautiful crystal glasses.
‘What lovely tumblers, Sarah – thank you!’
‘Yes, thanks Mum,’ Peter said.
‘Well, you see the fifteenth anniversary is the crystal one,’ she explained as I noticed the red sticker on the box marked ‘Fragile’. ‘Anyway, are we all present and correct, now?’ she added pleasantly.
‘All except for Lily,’ I replied. ‘She says she’s going to be a bit late.’ At this I noticed Peter roll his eyes.
‘Lily Jago?’ said Mimi. ‘Wow! I remember her at your wedding, she was your bridesmaid – she’s famous now.’
‘Yes,’ I said proudly, ‘she is. But she deserves every bit of it,’ I added, ‘because she’s worked so incredibly hard.’
‘What’s she like?’ asked Mimi.
‘Like Lady Macbeth,’ said Peter with a hollow laugh. ‘But not as nice.’
‘Darling!’ I said reprovingly. ‘Please don’t say that – she’s my best and oldest friend.’
‘She treats staff like disposable knickers,’ he added, ‘and treads on heads as though they’re stepping stones.’
‘Peter, that’s not fair,’ I said. ‘And you know it. She’s very dedicated and she’s brilliant, she deserves her tremendous success.’ It used to grieve me that Peter didn’t like Lily, but I got used to it years ago. He can’t understand why I keep up with her and I’ve given up trying to explain. The fact is, Lily matters to me. I’ve known her for twenty-five years – since our convent days – so we have an unbreakable bond. But I mean, I’m not blind – I know that Lily’s no angel. For example, she’s a little bit touchy, and she’s got a wicked tongue. She’s also a ‘bit of a one’ with the boys – but then why shouldn’t she be? She’s single, and she’s beautiful. Why shouldn’t she play the field? Why shouldn’t a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old woman, in her prime, have lots of lovers and lots of fun? Why shouldn’t a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old woman be made to feel desirable and loved? Why shouldn’t a thirty-five-year-old woman have romantic weekends in country house hotels with jacuzzis and fluffy towels? Why shouldn’t any thirty-five-year-old woman have flowers and champagne and little presents? I mean, once you’re married, that’s that; romance flies out the window, and you’re with the same old body every night. So I don’t blame Lily at all, though I don’t think her choice of boyfriends is great. Every week, it seems, we see her staring at us out of the pages of Hello! or OK! with this footballer, or that rock star, or some actor from that new soap on Channel 4. And I think, mmm. Mmmm. Lily could do better, I think. So, no, she hasn’t got brilliant taste in men, although at least these days – praise the Lord! – she’s stopped going for the married ones. Yes, I’m afraid to say she used to be a little bit naughty like that. And I did once remind her that adultery is forbidden by the seventh commandment.
‘I didn’t commit adultery,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m single, so it was only fornication.’ Lily’s not interested in marriage herself, by the way; she’s totally dedicated to her career. ‘I’m footloose and fiancé free!’ she always likes to exclaim. I must say, she’d be a bit of a challenge to any man. For a start, she’s very opinionated, and she bears interminable grudges. Peter thinks she’s dangerous, but she’s not. She’s simply tribal; by which I mean she’s loyal to her friends but ruthless to her foes, and I know exactly which category I’m in.
‘Lily had twelve other invitations tonight,’ I said. ‘She knows so many people!’
‘Yes, Mum,’ said Katie matter-of-factly. ‘But you’re her only friend.’
‘Well, maybe that’s true, darling,’ I said with a tiny stab of pride, ‘but I still think it’s sweet of her to come.’
‘Very gracious,’ said Peter wryly. He’d had a couple of drinks by then. ‘I can’t wait for the dramatic entrance,’ he added sarcastically.
‘Darling,’ I said patiently, ‘Lily can’t help making an entrance. I mean, it’s not her fault she’s so stunning.’ She is. In fact she’s jaw-dropping. Everybody stares. She’s terribly tall for a start, and whippety thin, and she’s always exquisitely dressed. Unlike me. I get a small allowance from work for the things I wear on TV and I tend to spend it in Principles – I’ve always liked their stuff. Just recently I’ve started to get quite interested in Next, and Episode. But Lily gets a huge clothing allowance, and the designers send her things too, so she always looks amazing – in fact, she’s amazing full stop. And even Peter will admit that she has huge talent, and guts and drive. You see, she had a very tough start in life. I remember the day she arrived at St Bede’s. I have this vivid picture in my mind of Reverend Mother standing on stage in the main hall one morning after Mass; and next to her was this new girl – we were all agog to know who she was.
‘Girls,’ said Reverend Mother as a hush descended. ‘This is Lily. Lily Jago. Now, we must all be kind to Lily,’ she went on benignly, ‘because Lily is very poor.’ I will never forget, to my dying day, the look of fury on Lily’s face. And of course the girls weren’t kind to her at all. Far from it. They teased her about her accent and they laughed at her lack of finesse; they disparaged her evident poverty and they made terrible fun of her folks. They called her ‘Lily White’, which she loathed. Then, when they realised how clever she was, they hated her for that as well. But I didn’t hate her. I liked her and I felt drawn to her, perhaps because I was an outsider too. I got laughed at a lot at school. My nickname was ‘Faith Value’, because they all said I was very naive. I was impossible to tease, apparently, because I could never get the joke. I thought it was obvious that the chicken’s reason for crossing the road was to reach the other side. I couldn’t see why that was funny, really. I mean, why else would the chicken cross the road? And of course a bell is necessary on a bicycle – otherwise you could have a very nasty accident. It’s obvious. So why’s that funny? Do you see what I mean? The other girls all said I was a credulous sap. Ridiculous! I’m not. But I am trusting. Oh yes. I want to have faith in people and I do. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and I tend to believe what they say. Because that’s how I want to be. I decided, a long time ago, that I didn’t want to be cynical like Lily. She’s the suspicious sort, and though I’m desperately fond of her, I could never be like that myself. That’s probably why my purse is full of foreign coins, for example, because I never, ever check my change. Shopkeepers are constantly palming off on me their dimes and their pfennigs and their francs. But I don’t care, because I don’t want to be the kind of woman who’s always on her guard. I guess I’m a natural optimist – I always trust that things will work out. I’m trusting in my marriage, too. I simply don’t think that Peter would ever stray. And he hasn’t – so I was right. And I believe you can make your own destiny, by the strength of your mental attitude. Anyway, I rather liked the fact that Lily was naughty, because I knew it was something I could never be. I remember, once, when we were thirteen, making a dash for the town. We’d lied to Sister St Wilfred, and said we were going for a walk. But we got the bus to Reading instead – using my pocket money, of course – and we bought sweets and Lily bought cigarettes, and she got talking to some boys. Then, on the way back, she did something awful – she went into a newsagent and nicked a copy of Harpersand Queen. I wanted her to return it but she refused, though she promised to mention it in confession. But I remember her poring over it in the dormitory later, utterly entranced; she was fingering it reverentially, as though it were a holy text. Then she swore out loud that one day she’d be the editor of a magazine like that; and the girls all fell about laughing. But now she is.
‘Lily’s been in New York for a long time, hasn’t she?’ said Mimi as she broke into her bread roll. ‘I’ve seen lots of stuff about her in the press.’
‘Six years,’ I said. ‘She was working on Mirabella and Vanity Fair.’ And as we ate our anti pasti I told them about her career, and about how single-minded she’d been. Because I’m very proud of my friendship with her. And I told them about the way she’d even left Cambridge early because she was offered some lowly job at Marie Claire. But it was the start of her long climb up the greasy pole, or rather shiny cover. She was determined to reach the top – and now she has. Three months ago she became the first black woman to edit Moi!
That’s Moi-Même! magazine, of course, commonly known as Moi! Or perhaps ‘Mwaaah, mwaaah!’ as Peter always likes to say. He’s a bit of a snob about magazines, he thinks they’re utterly trite. He calls Lily the ‘High Priestess of Gloss’. But chacun à son goût, I say, and Lily’s brilliant at what she does. Mind you, some of the stories are pretty silly. Not my kind of thing at all. It’s all this, ‘What’s Hot What’s Not!’ kind of stuff, and ‘Grey – the new black! Fat – the new thin! Old – the new young!’ But the magazine always looks beautiful because the photography’s out of this world. And the writing’s good too, because Lily says she can sort out ‘the wit from the chaff’. Oh yes, Lily’s seriously successful. And yes, she’s got a wicked tongue. But she would never do anything to hurt me. I know that for a fact.
Anyway, by nine Lily still hadn’t arrived, and we’d all finished our starters and were waiting for the main course which in my case was chump of lamb. And the conversation had turned back to marriage, and to Peter and me.
‘Fifteen years!’ Mimi exclaimed with a laugh. ‘I just can’t believe it! I remember your wedding day so well. In the university chapel. We all froze to death, it was snowing, just like today.’
‘That’s because it was a white wedding!’ I quipped. Peter laughed.
‘But how amazing that this is your fifteenth anniversary,’ Mimi added. ‘Good God! I haven’t even had my first!’ We all smiled at that, and she gave her husband, Mike, a gooey look and said, ‘I’ve only just had my happy ending!’
‘New beginning, you mean,’ he replied. And I felt very strange when he said that; very strange indeed. But at the same time I thought, yes, he’s right. It is a new beginning. That’s exactly what it is. They only got married last May. They both peeped at their six-week-old baby, Alice, who was asleep in her car seat on the floor. I looked across the table at my two ‘babies’, who are fourteen and twelve. And it struck me again, as it has done recently, that Peter and I are completely out of step with our peers. Most of them are like Mimi, they’re marrying and having kids now. But we did that fifteen years ago, and it won’t be long before our children leave home.
‘You two got married when you were still at college, didn’t you?’ Mike asked.
‘In our second year,’ I said. ‘We just couldn’t wait,’ I explained. ‘Isn’t that right, darling?’ And Peter looked at me, through the flickering candles, and gave me a little smile. ‘We were madly in love,’ I went on, emboldened by the sparkling wine. ‘And good Catholics don’t live in sin!’ Actually I’m not a very good Catholic, though I was, then. I’m a sort of Christmas Catholic now. I go to church no more than three or four times a year.
‘I remember when you two met,’ said Mimi. ‘It was in our first term at Durham, at the freshers’ ball. You looked at Peter, Faith, and you whispered to me, “That’s the man I’m going to marry,” – and you did!’
‘We were like Superglue,’ I giggled. ‘We bonded in seconds!’ At that Peter’s mother, Sarah, smiled. I like Sarah. We’ve always got on well. And yes, she did have misgivings at the time because she thought we’d end up divorced, like her. But we didn’t do that, and I’m sure we won’t. As I say, I have faith in the future. Anyway, Sarah was chatting away to the children – she hadn’t seen them for a while – and Peter was beginning to unwind a bit as we talked to Mimi and Mike. We’d had a bit to drink by now, and were all feeling mellow and warm, when suddenly there was an icy blast – the door had opened: Lily had finally arrived.
It’s always fun watching Lily entering a room. You can almost hear the clunk of jawbones hitting the floor. That’s what it was like tonight. She’s so used to it, she claims never to notice, but it always makes me smile.
‘Darlings, I’m so sorry!’ she called out as she swept in on a cloud of Obsession, oblivious to the collective male stares. ‘So sorry,’ she reiterated as her floor-length arctic fox slid from her shoulders and was quickly gathered up by the maitre d’. ‘You see Gore’s in town – Vidal not Al – so we had a quick drink at the Ritz, then I had to go down Cork Street where there was this tedious private view … ’ She removed her fur hat and I could see snowflakes on her shoulder-length, raven-black hair. ‘And Chanel were launching their new scent,’ she went on, ‘so of course I had to show my face there … ’ She handed the waiter an assortment of exquisite little bags. ‘But I only stayed ten minutes at Lord Linley’s Twelfth Night party because I just wanted to be here with you.’ I glanced at Mimi – she was speechless.
‘Happy anniversary, Faith, darling!’ Lily exclaimed, handing me a Tiffany bag. Inside, in a silk-lined presentation box, was a small cylinder made of sterling silver.
‘It’s a telescope,’ I said wonderingly, holding it up to my left eye. ‘Oh! No it isn’t, it’s a … ooh how lovely.’ As I rotated the end with my right hand, a thousand sequins – red and purple and green – arranged themselves into dazzling patterns, like the fractals of a technicolour snowflake.
‘How wonderful,’ I murmured. ‘A kaleidoscope. I haven’t seen one of these for years.’
‘I couldn’t decide what to get you,’ said Lily, ‘but I thought this might be fun. It’s for Peter as well,’ she added, giving him a feline smile.
‘Thank you, Lily,’ he replied.
‘What a fantastic present,’ I said, hugging her. ‘Hey, great outfit, too!’ Today she was wearing a viridian green cashmere twin-set, a knee-length gaberdine skirt, and a pair of what I think were probably Jimmy Choo snakeskin boots.
‘The cashmere’s only Nicole Farhi,’ she said. ‘But I’m getting so bored of Voyage. Jil Sander sent me the skirt. Wasn’t that sweet? The cut’s so sharp it ought to be classed as an offensive weapon. When I’ve finished with it, Faith, it’s yours.’
‘Thanks, Lily,’ I said ruefully. ‘But it wouldn’t go past my knees.’ Lily’s a size ten, and I’m a fourteen. She’s almost six foot – more in her heels – and I’m only five foot four. Which is funny, because when we were nine we were both exactly the same size. She used to have my cast-offs then, but now she gives me hers. She used to be the one who was penniless, but now it’s me. Still, we all make our choices in life, and as I say, I’m quite happy with mine.
The waiter poured Lily a glass of Chablis, and then he looked at the large, Louis Vuitton carrier on her lap and said, ‘May I take that for you, madam?’
‘Oh, no thank you,’ she replied, looking slightly furtive. ‘This is my handbag, you see.’
‘Really, madam?’ he said suspiciously.
‘Absolutely,’ Lily shot back with a dazzling smile, her refulgent teeth sparkling like frost against the rich, dark bronze of her skin. ‘I always hang on to this one,’ she explained. I knew why. She’s very naughty like that. But then, as I say, Lily has always broken rules. As the waiter retreated she put the bag under the table and quickly undid the zip. Then she looked at me, grinned, and swiped the last bit of meat from my plate.
‘Here, darling!’ she whispered as her beautifully manicured hand shot down below. ‘Auntie Faith wants you to have this.’ We could hear snuffling, snorty little sounds, followed by a tinny whine. Katie, Sarah and I lifted the cloth and peered under the table where Lily’s Shih Tzu, Jennifer, had just scoffed the last of my lamb. A pink tongue shot out and wrapped itself around her furry little face; then she stared at us blankly with a pair of huge, bulging, black eyes.
‘What a sweet hairstyle,’ said Sarah with a laugh. Jennifer’s flowing locks had been gathered into a top knot and secured with a sparkling clip.
‘Oh yes, she’s so gorgeous,’ Lily replied with a sigh. ‘Isn’t she, Faith? Isn’t she just the prettiest little thing in the world?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I lied, looking at Jennifer’s undershot jaw, her crooked teeth, her bearded chin and flat little face. ‘Jennifer’s just … great,’ I added with a hypocritical smile. Again, some people might think that Jennifer’s an unusual choice of name for a dog. In fact her full name is Jennifer Aniston. This is because of her long, silky blonde hair, and because she’s ‘worth it’. At least I hope so, because Lily spends half her salary on that pooch. The Louis Vuitton doggy bag, for example – that’s at least five hundred pounds’ worth. She’s also got eight Gucci dog collars, five Chanel leads, two Burberry coats, three Paul Smith bowls, and you should see her bed! It’s like an oriental tent, complete with Chinese wall-hangings and a silk rug. The purpose of this, apparently, is to remind Jennifer of her ancient origins in Imperial Peking. Shih Tzus were temple dogs, and Lily worships hers. But between you and me, Jennifer Aniston is simply not my type. She’s not Graham’s, either. He tends to stare at her, slightly incredulously, as though he’s not entirely sure she’s a dog.
‘How’s magland?’ I asked brightly, changing the subject.
‘Fabulous,’ Lily replied. ‘Here’s the February issue – look! It’s just come in from the printers, I’m having them biked all over town.’ The magazine felt heavy in my hands, and shone under the spotlights like ice. Moi! it proclaimed on the masthead, above a photo of Kate Moss. I glanced at the headlines: ‘Pees and Queues – Five Star Loos!’ ‘Prolier Than Thou – the REAL New Labour!’ ‘It Girls – Just Lamé Ducks?’ and ‘Pulling Power – Our Top Ten Tweezers!’
‘Hype springs eternal!’ muttered Peter, rolling his eyes.
I gave him a discreet kick, then Sarah and I flicked through the magazine, careful to admire, aloud, the wonderful photos, the features, and the fashion. And the ads, of course. There were lots of those. Some of them, I happen to know, cost thirty thousand pounds a page, which is more than I earn in a year. There was one particular ad for an expensive face cream, with a photo of a Persian kitten, and though I’m a doggy sort of person, I just couldn’t help going, ‘Aaaaah!’
‘That’s the “classical conditioning” reflex, Mum,’ said Katie knowledgeably. ‘Extremely effective for selling. It works by establishing an association between a product and a pleasant feeling. Stayman and Batra did a fascinating study in 1991 which proved that emotional states affect consumer choice.’ As I say, she’s not like other girls. In the meantime Lily had been rattling on about circulation and pagination and subscription rates and God knows what. ‘We’ve got a hundred and twenty advertising pages,’ she explained happily, ‘and a hundred and thirty editorial. This is our biggest issue yet. We’re on a roll.’
At the front was an article about dieting and a profile of Sharon Stone. There was an extract from the new Ian McEwan novel, and the society diary section, ‘I Spy’. There were pages on lotions and potions, and a competition to win a car. Now, I love competitions. I do quite a lot of them, though obviously I couldn’t enter this one because friends of the editor are barred. But whenever I’ve got time I send off the forms. I actually won something recently – I was really chuffed – a year’s supply of Finish rinse aid. I’ve never won anything big though, but maybe one day I will.
By now, Mimi, who works at Radio 4, had plucked up her courage and was talking to Lily about her career.
‘Other women’s magazines have falling circulations,’ Mimi said, ‘but yours seems to be soaring.’
‘It’s gone up by twenty per cent since I took over,’ said Lily triumphantly. ‘They’re all quaking in their Manolos at Vogue!’
‘Would you like to come on Woman’s Hour?’ Mimi asked. ‘When I’m back from maternity leave? You’d be talking about Moi!, of course, and about your innovatory editing style. But I think the listeners would also like to know about you – your background, and your convent days.’ Lily snorted with laughter.
‘I wasn’t exactly a model pupil. Ask Faith!’ I smiled and nodded. It was true. But there are reasons for that. There are very good reasons why Lily, though obviously gifted, was rather difficult at school. For a start, she was just plucked from her home: it was done with the best of intentions, but she was taken away and placed in an environment where she was bound to feel she didn’t fit in. At eight, her exceptional brain was spotted by a teacher, who told the local priest, who then contacted the bishop, who wrote to Reverend Mother who agreed to take her on as a scholarship girl. And that was how Lily left the Caribbean to be educated at St Bede’s.
‘Lily was a brilliant pupil,’ I said. ‘She wanted to be top in everything, and she was!’
‘Except good behaviour,’ Lily pointed out with a throaty laugh. This was absolutely true. We had to go to confession every Saturday morning, and she used to spend hours in there. I was convinced she must be making things up, so I remember once telling her that inventing transgressions was, in itself, a mortal sin.
‘It’s a bit like wasting police time,’ I explained, ‘so you really shouldn’t fabricate sins.’
‘I wasn’t fabricating anything,’ she retorted, rolling her huge brown eyes.
I’m afraid Lily wasn’t what you’d call popular. She could be very sharp, for example, and the girls feared her razor tongue. When we were sixteen, Sister St Joseph gave us a career talk and she looked at Dinah Shaw, who was terribly dim, and said, ‘Dinah, what are you going to be when you leave St Bede’s?’ And Lily shouted, ‘Twenty-five!’
But if, as I say, Lily was naughty, it was because of all the appalling snobbery and spite. Venetia Smedley was the worst. She came from the Channel Islands and was known as the Jersey Cow. At breakfast one morning – I’ll never forget it – Venetia announced, in a very loud voice, ‘My parents are off to St Kitts next week. They always stay at the Four Winds in Banana Bay. Isn’t that a coincidence, Lily? Perhaps your mother will be cleaning their room.’ Lily just looked at her, lowered her spoon and said, ‘Yes, Venetia. Perhaps she will.’ But a few months later she exacted a dreadful revenge. Venetia had had bridgework, having fallen off her pony two years before. She was very embarrassed about this and would never let anyone see her cleaning her teeth. Lily made some toffee; it was unbelievably sticky because – I only learned this afterwards – she’d adulterated it with glue. Then she offered some to Venetia, and the look of triumph on Lily’s face when Venetia’s three false teeth came out … ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Venetia,’ she said sweetly. ‘I forgot that you wore dentures.’ Afterwards, I found her in the grounds, rocking with laughter. And she looked at me gleefully and whispered, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay!’ And she did.
She’s still calling in her debts to this day.
‘I had Camilla Fanshawe on the phone this morning,’ she said to me with a snigger as she spooned up her guacamole. ‘She’s marrying some squitty banker and she was begging me, Faith, begging me to cover her wedding in “I Spy”. But she was only saying that because Letty Brocklebank got hers into Tatler. And Camilla was practically blubbing and saying how she always liked me so much at school and how she knew I’d be a success because I was so clever, and what about it? Old school tie and all that? And I let her go on and on and then I said, very sweetly, “Well I’m terribly sorry, Camilla; I’m afraid we don’t cover small, provincial weddings in Moi!”’
Yes, Lily’s had the last laugh, all right. She’s outsmarted them all – in every way. Intellectually, of course, though that was easy enough – but she outsmarted them socially, too. Her mind was like a radar, and she quickly cracked the code. Her table manners changed, her deportment improved and within two years her voice was transformed. Gone was her rich, Caribbean inflection and in its place was cut glass. Peter says she has ‘irritable vowel syndrome’, but, as I say, he’s not really a fan.
Mimi, clearly fascinated by Lily, was asking us about St Bede’s. So we explained that there was Mass every morning, benediction on Wednesdays, the rosary on Thursdays, confession on Saturdays, and sung Latin Mass on Sundays.
‘Was there time for any lessons with all that?’ Mike enquired.
‘Oh yes,’ I said tipsily, ‘and Lily was jolly good at them! She got twelve “O” levels, four A-grade A levels, and an exhibition to Cambridge at seventeen.’
‘What about sports?’
‘We had hockey and netball.’
‘I was useless,’ said Lily with a laugh. ‘All that running and jumping – such a bore – I really couldn’t be fagged. I was no good at music, either,’ she giggled. I kept quiet; it was perfectly true. In fact she had a voice like a corncrake and standing next to her during ‘Faith of Our Fathers’ was not a musically rewarding experience. ‘As for dancing,’ she went on. ‘I was appalling at that! I had two left feet – I still have.’
‘There was lots of drama,’ I went on enthusiastically. ‘It was great. Especially the annual school play … ’ Suddenly I saw the smile slide off Lily’s face and she gave me a censuring stare. And then I remembered. Drama’s a sore point. We don’t talk about that. You see, Lily wasn’t very good at acting, and without sounding conceited, I was. The awful thing was that she loved it, but she was always so over the top. I mean, she couldn’t even make the sign of the cross without looking as though she was directing traffic. So acting was not her forté and this spoiled our friendship for a while. When we were in the Lower Sixth, Reverend Mother was casting the school play. She decided to do Othello and, as the only non-white girl at St Bede’s, Lily presumed the title role would be hers. She prepared hard for the part, and I helped her to go through her lines. But when, after auditions, the list went up, the lead had gone not to Lily, but to me. She didn’t take it well, I’m afraid. In fact she stormed into Reverend Mother’s office – I was there at the time – and shouted, ‘It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?’
‘No, Lily,’ said Reverend Mother calmly. ‘It’s because you are not a good enough actress. You have many gifts,’ she went on calmly. ‘I know you are going to be a huge success in life. But I confidently predict that your future triumphs will not take place on the stage.’ There was silence. Then Lily left. She wouldn’t speak to me for a month. But what was I supposed to do? Refuse the part? It was a wonderful role, and everyone said I did it well; I can still remember those marvellous lines to this day: ‘I had been happy … so I had nothing known. So now, forever, farewell the tranquil mind!’
Lily gradually got over her disappointment, though she refused to come to the play; and we never, ever spoke of it again – until tonight. I don’t think it was tactless of me to mention it, given that it was eighteen years ago and our roles have long since been reversed. I mean, she’s the star now. Not me. She’s the celebrated and successful one. She’s the one with the huge flat in Chelsea, and the fridge full of champagne and foie gras. I’m the boring suburban housewife with two children and sensible shoes, who thinks a trip to Ikea’s a treat. So I appreciate the fact that Lily’s kept in touch all this time, when you consider how our lives have diverged.
At this point – it must have been almost ten thirty – we’d gone on to pudding. The candles had almost burned down, and the bottles of wine had been drunk. I thought Peter had had one too many; I could tell that he was quite well oiled. He and Matt were talking about the Internet, and Katie was doing some psychometric tests on Lily – Lily’s her godmother, so she claimed not to mind. Meanwhile Mimi, still clearly struck by the novelty of being married, was asking me if I had any wisdom to impart.
‘Tell me, Faith,’ she whispered, ‘what’s the secret of a successful marriage?’
‘I don’t know,’ I murmured, lifting a spoonful of poached autumn fruits to my mouth. ‘I only know that after fifteen years together Peter and I have this unbreakable bond. We’re like the wisteria growing up the front of our house – we’re completely intertwined.’
‘What quality do you admire in him most?’ Mimi added.
‘His ability to find my contact lenses whenever I lose one,’ I giggled. ‘He’s brilliant at it.’
‘No, seriously,’ Mimi pressed me. ‘What do you like about him best?’
‘His decency,’ I replied, ‘and his truthfulness. Peter always tells the truth.’
Mike thought that was such a nice thing to say that he said he thought Peter ought to make a little speech.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Oh no,’ groaned Peter.
‘Please,’ Mimi insisted. ‘This is an occasion, after all.’
‘Oh, all right,’ Peter conceded after another sip of wine. ‘Er … I just want to say … ’ he began, getting unsteadily to his feet, ‘that Faith was my first love, and that my fifteen years with her feel like a millstone … ’
‘Freudian slip!’ said Katie.
‘I mean, a milestone,’ he corrected himself. ‘A milestone. That’s what I mean. An incredible achievement, in fact. When you consider. And I just can’t believe where the last fifteen years of my life have gone.’ That was it. He’d finished. I tried to smile. As I say, he’s very preoccupied at work, so he’s not quite his usual relaxed and happy self.
‘He’s rather tired,’ I whispered diplomatically to Mimi and Mike.
‘He does seem distracted,’ Lily agreed.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘no doubt because, well, he’s got a lot on his mind right now.’
‘I must say, he’s looking good though,’ Lily murmured as our coffee arrived. ‘Hasn’t he lost a bit of weight?’
‘Er, yes, he has. He’s looking pretty trim, you’re right.’
‘Nice tie he’s wearing,’ she whispered appreciatively.
‘Yes. Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Nice tie.’
Then Lily reached into her bag, took out a box of Pandora matches and struck one. It hissed and flared as it ignited, then died down to a steady yellow flame. She lifted a cheroot to her lips, lit it and inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke away. Then she looked at me seriously and said, very, very softly, ‘I think you’re marvellous to trust him.’
This struck me as a very strange remark, because of course I trust Peter – I always have. As I say, he’s a truthful man. So I didn’t have a clue what Lily meant, and I certainly didn’t want to ask her in front of everyone else. In any case, Peter was waving for the bill now – it was late, and the evening was drawing to an end.
‘– let’s get our coats.’
‘– is this inclusive?’
‘– no, our treat, Mike.’
‘– Katie, can you get Granny’s coat?’
‘– very kind, Peter. Next time we take you.’
‘– who’s got the baby?’
‘– oh look, there’s a cab.’
Before we knew what had happened, we were all standing outside, kissing each other goodbye.
‘What a wonderful evening,’ said Mimi as the snowflakes fell gently onto her hair. ‘I hope we make it to fifteen years,’ she added as she strapped the baby into the back of the car.
‘I hope we make it to thirty,’ said Mike gallantly. ‘Thanks for a lovely dinner, you two – bye bye.’ The children were submitting to being kissed by Lily, though both of them hate her scent, Jennifer had been zipped up, and Sarah had gone to her car. Then I flagged down a passing cab, and climbed in with Peter and the kids.
‘What a great evening,’ he said as we swished along the wet, sleety road.
‘Yes, it was, darling,’ I said. ‘I really enjoyed it too.’ And it’s true. I did. But at the same time I was aware, in a way I could not yet define, that somehow, something had changed.
There are three things that people always ask you if you work for breakfast TV. What time do you have to get up? What time do you have to go to bed? And does it wreck your social life? Sometimes I just feel like holding up a banner at parties saying, ‘Three thirty, nine thirty, and YES!’ You simply never get used to it. Did I say that you do? Well, it’s not true – you never get used to the early start. It’s horrible. It’s horrible when the alarm goes off at half past three and your body’s still crying out for sleep. And it’s even worse if you’re feeling unhappy, as I was this morning, and are slightly hungover to boot. Graham grumbled as I lurched out of bed, but declined to stand guard by the bathroom door. I showered, squished on a little Escape – my favourite scent at the moment – put on my navy Principles suit, then went down to the waiting cab. As we pulled out of Elliot Road, I remembered Lily’s words again: I think you’re marvellous to trust him … trust him … I think you’re marvellous to trust … I stared out of the window as we drove through the slush-filled streets, turning her comment over and over in my mind; examining it from all angles, as I might study an interesting stone. But however much I thought about it, I still didn’t know what she meant. Nor was I at all sure that I really wanted to know. I mean, Lily does have a habit of saying things I don’t particularly like, but usually I just ignore them. That’s what I forced myself to do this morning as I wrenched my thoughts towards work. After all, I told myself firmly, I have an important job to do. People depend on me. I can make or break their day. When I’m about to go on air Terry, the ‘star’ presenter, looks into the camera and says, ‘Well folks, what’s the weather going to do today? Let’s h-a-v-e- FAITH!’ So on I come, and I tell them, and the viewers do have faith in me. They rely on me to tell them if they need to take a coat or a brolly, or if the humidity’s going to be high. I let them know if it’s going to be very windy, and if it’s safe to set sail, or drive. So I think the weather forecast’s really important, but I’m afraid my colleagues don’t feel the same. They just see it as this insignificant little slot that comes on three minutes before the news. To them it’s just a buffer, before the junction – they’re always trying to cut me down. I’m meant to have two and a half minutes, but often it’s less than one. But there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s all controlled from the technical gallery. For example, I can be in the middle of some fascinating piece about warm fronts when I suddenly hear the director, in my earpiece, shouting at me to stop. They’re really rude about it sometimes – I hear them yelling, ‘Shut up, Faith! Shut up! SHUT UP!’ It’s terribly distracting. What they’re meant to do is to calmly count me down from ten, and I know that by the time I hear them say ‘zero’, I have to have signed off, with a nice smile. Equally, if they lose a news item, I’ll hear someone screaming, ‘Fill, Faith! Fill! Fill! Fill!’ But I’m not fazed, because I can cope; I once filled from thirty seconds right up to four minutes! And I pride myself on being able to stay calm in those situations and to come out exactly when required. Another thing, because I use open talkback, I can hear them all gossiping in the gallery during my slot. The weather’s their down time, you see. That’s when they put their feet up because they don’t have anything to do. This is because I change the graphics with my clicker, and I ad lib my script, so I don’t have an autocue. So while I’m doing my slot I can hear them sorting out what went wrong with the previous item, or telling make-up to fix Terry’s hair, or instructing the cameraman to close in on so and so, or boasting about some bird they pulled down at the pub. And they forget that I’m on air, broadcasting live, and that I can hear every word they say. So one way and another, being a weather presenter is a pretty stressful job. But I enjoy it. I really do, especially at this time of year. I love the winter, you see: not just because of my optimistic outlook on life, but because in winter the weather’s great. In the summer we only get three types: either it’s rainy, it’s cloudy, or it’s fine. But at this time of year we get the works. We get ice, and fog, and frost, and rain, and we get sleet and hail and snow. We get fine, clear weather too if there’s an anti-cyclone, and we can get hurricane force winds as well. So if you’re in the weather business, like I am, then winter’s a thrilling time. And although the hours are pretty dreadful, I enjoy myself once I’m at work. So this morning, despite my worries, and my headache, I felt the usual frisson as we drove through the gates.
It takes about twenty minutes to get to AM-UK! which is based in a converted warehouse in Ealing. It’s not a beautiful building, but I rather like it there. The production office on the third floor is open plan, which has its drawbacks, of course, not least seeing the ashen faces of my colleagues every morning when I arrive. They sit there in the green glow of their computer screens like extras from The Night of the Living Dead, but that’s what comes of spending half the year in almost perpetual dark. I usually get in at four, have a quick espresso from the machine, and then get straight down to work. First I read the faxed briefing from International Weather Productions, which forms the basis of my reports. Then I log on to my computer – with its ‘rainbow’ screensaver – and study the satellite charts. For although I never trained as a meteorologist I do actually know my stuff, because when AM-UK! took me on, they sent me on a six-week forecasting course. So I’m not just spouting someone else’s script, I get to write my own. I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a glamorous type of weather girl. Nicole Kidman in To Die For? Well, that’s just not me. Blonde and gorgeous? No. In fact I’m a bit mousey to look at, which is why I got the job.
‘What we like about you,’ said our wimpish editor Darryl when he interviewed me, ‘is that you’re so nice and ordinary – you won’t threaten the housewives too much. They’ll be sitting there and thinking to themselves, “Well, I could do better than that!”’
To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that remark, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And I can see what he means: he wanted someone who’d look business-like but pleasant, and I do. I’m not the kind of forecaster to hog the limelight, or try to ‘twinkle’ too much. I just go to work and do my job in a competent, friendly way. I’m very happy standing by the charts, with my clicker, talking about cold snaps and sunny spells, and I don’t regard weather presenting as a stepping stone to greater things. I’ve got just the job I want, thank you very much – unlike our showbiz reporter, Tatiana.
‘Hello Tatiana,’ I said pleasantly as I passed her desk. Usually she’s reasonably friendly, because she knows that I’m no threat. Today, however, she was preoccupied and didn’t hear me; this was because she was busy mutilating a publicity shot of Sophie, our new presenter.
‘Morning Tatty,’ I tried again, and was rewarded with a thin smile. Then she put down her Stanley knife, threw the pieces into the bin and went over to talk to Terry. I try to steer clear of office politics, but those two are clearly in cahoots. They’ve united recently in a common cause: to make Sophie’s life complete hell. Tatiana wanted that job. She’s wanted it for years. And when our old presenter, Gaby, went off to present Blankety Blank Tatty assumed it would be hers. Terry was desperate for her to have it too, because he knew she wouldn’t show him up. He’s of the old school, you see. He doesn’t regard himself as the programme’s ‘co-presenter’, but as Presenter One. And it is the job of Presenter One – middle aged and male – to do all the serious stuff while Presenter Two – young and blonde – sits there gazing at him admiringly before introducing some item on knitting. That’s what it was like with Terry and Gaby, but Sophie’s a different case.
‘Morning everyone!’ Sophie called out cheerfully as I studied my isobars. ‘I say, did you see Jeremy Paxman lay into the Russian defence secretary last night?’ she said as she took off her coat. ‘I thought what he said about Chechnya was absolutely spot on. He said he thinks the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe should be much more involved in the negotiations, and I must say I totally agree.’
‘Oh, do you really?’ said Terry.
‘As for the sneaky way the Russians are flogging their nuclear expertise to Iraq,’ she added as she switched on her computer, ‘well, it’s an international scandal, don’t you think?’
‘Ra-ther.’
Terry is thirty-nine – or so he claims – and has a third from Wolverhampton poly. He is not adjusting well to having a twenty-four-year-old Oxford graduate with a starred first in Politics, Philosophy and Economics sitting beside him on the studio sofa. Sophie’s appointment came as a bit of a shock. As Terry never tires of saying, she didn’t know an autocue from a bus queue when she arrived. This was true. She’d come from radio, she was an editor at London FM, and Darryl had been invited to take part in a phone-in there about the future of digital TV. So impressed was he with Sophie’s brilliance that he invited her to audition for AM-UK! The next thing we knew, she’d got the job.
But it’s obvious that Sophie’s much too bright for a programme like ours. I mean – don’t think me disloyal – but most days AM-UK! is more of a dog’s dinner than a successful breakfast show. The mix of items is bizarre. Take today’s running order, for example: celebrity disfigurement – failed face-lifts; heroic hamsters and the lives they’ve saved; psychic granny predicts the future; Tatiana’s profile of Brad Pitt; coping with ovarian cysts; ten new ways with chrysanthemums; and, somewhere in the middle of all that, an interview with Michael Portillo.
‘I’m doing the Portillo interview,’ said Terry as he leaned back in his swivel chair.
‘But I’m down to do that one,’ said Sophie as she tucked her short blonde hair behind one ear.
‘So I see,’ said Terry indolently, ‘but it’s clearly a mistake. I think you’ll find that that one falls to me. I’ve more experience than you,’ he added.
‘With respect, Terry,’ replied Sophie carefully, ‘I’ve interviewed Michael Portillo twice before.’
‘Sophie,’ said Terry wearily, ‘on this show we all pull together. I’m afraid there’s absolutely no room for big egos, so I’ll be doing the Portillo interview – OK?’ And that was that. Terry has quite a lot of clout, actually, and he knows it, because he’s the housewives’ choice. Moreover, he has a cast-iron two-year contract, so Darryl can’t push Sophie’s cause too far. The atmosphere gets pretty stormy sometimes, but Sophie handles it well. I mean, on breakfast TV the hours are so awful that most disputes tend to be settled with machetes. Things that wouldn’t bother you at three in the afternoon induce homicidal rage at five a.m. But so far Sophie has coped with Terry and Tatty’s provocations with a sang froid that would chill champagne. She simply pretends she has no idea that they’ve anything against her. She’s so polite to them, despite their dirty tricks. For example, Tatiana’s recently taken to sidling up to her three seconds before she goes on air and saying, ‘Not sure that colour suits you,’ or, ‘Oh no! Your mascara’s run,’ or, ‘Did you know your hair’s sticking up?’ But Sophie just smiles at her and says, ‘Oh, thanks so much for telling me, Tatiana. You look lovely by the way.’ It’s impressive, but as I say Sophie’s brilliant at politics and I think she’s playing a clever game. She’s very business-like about her work, and she’s also very discreet. None of us has the slightest clue about her private life. I mean, she never makes personal phone calls, but I think she’s got a chap. Because after the Christmas party last month, I went back up to the office to get my bag and I heard Sophie talking to someone called Alex in an obviously lovey-dovey way. I coughed to let her know I was there and she suddenly looked up and froze. So I just grabbed my bag and walked straight out, because I didn’t want her to think I’d heard. But I had. And that’s the downside of working in an open-plan office – there’s not much you don’t get to know. But my approach is an old-fashioned one: hear no evil; see no evil; and above all, speak no evil.
So I sat there this morning, engrossed in the weather charts, preparing the bulletins that I do every half-hour during the show. My first one’s at six thirty, so at ten past six I went down to Make-Up on the second floor. The second floor is where all the exciting stuff goes on. That’s where the Studio is, and the Technical Gallery, and Wardrobe and the dressing rooms, and the Green Room, and the Duty Office, where all the complaints and comments are logged. And as I walked down the carpet-tiled corridor, doors were opened and banged shut, and researchers sprinted past me in both directions, clutching clipboards and looking tense. I glanced into the Green Room where various contributors were slumped, comatose, in leather chairs, while Jean, our friendly Guest Greeter, tried to rouse them with cups of Kenco.
‘Danish pastry?’ I heard her say. ‘Or how about a nice scone?’ Then someone came flying out of the gallery screaming, ‘Where the hell’s Phil? Where’s Phil? Are you Phil? Right – you’re on!’ In fact things were pretty noisy all in all.
‘– could someone page Tatiana?’
‘– would you prefer Earl Grey?’
‘– the psychic granny’s lost her crystal ball!’
‘– I’ve got some nice Assam.’
‘– Sophie’s jacket looks a bit creased.’
‘– the skateboarding cat’s just arrived!’
So to go into the Make-Up room is to enter a haven from all this chaos: inside, Iqbal and Marian quietly transform our sleep-deprived faces for the camera. I sat in a gently reclining chair, while Iqbal – we call him Iqqy – put a flowery nylon gown round my shoulders and clipped back my short brown hair. Laid out on the counter before me were serried ranks of foundation bottles, powder compacts, eye-shadows, lipsticks and combs. Canisters of hairspray gleamed in the theatrical lightbulbs round the mirror.
‘Ready with the Polyfilla?’ I asked wryly as I surveyed my exhausted-looking face.
‘You do look a bit tired,’ he said solicitously. ‘Were you out on the tiles last night?’
‘Yes. It was my wedding anniversary – we went out for supper, en famille.’
‘How lovely,’ he said soothingly.
‘It was,’ I replied. ‘In a way, or it would have been … ’ You see the thing about Iqqy and Marian is that you just want to talk to them. You naturally want to open up. They’re so calm and sympathetic and kind. It’s as though you’re in the psychiatrist’s chair, not the make-up chair, and you want to tell them all your troubles. And as they work miracles on your ravaged exterior, you fancy they can repair you on the inside, too. So it was on the tip of my tongue to tell them that actually I hadn’t enjoyed myself that much last night because my best friend, Lily, had made this very odd remark about my husband, and I’d been trying ever since to work out what she might have meant, and this – and the fact that I’d drunk too much – had resulted in my getting no sleep.
‘How many years have you been married?’ asked Marian.
‘Fifteen,’ I replied.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You must have married young.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I did.’
‘Fifteen years,’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘But then, I’ve already been married eight.’
‘And Will and I have been together for five,’ said Iqqy as he pulled mascara through my pale lashes. ‘Although,’ he went on ruefully, ‘we’ve had our ups and downs. But fifteen years, that’s wonderful. No wonder you felt like celebrating.’
‘Well, yes, except, actually, it was a bit strange … ’ I began. ‘Because, look, I don’t know what you two think about this … ’ Then I immediately stopped, because Terry had just come in. He needed more powder. And as he sat there, bitching about Sophie, I ignored him, in the way I usually do, by pretending to be engrossed in my script. Ten minutes later, primped and preened for the cameras, I slipped into the studio. It’s like the soft furnishings department of a provincial department store. There are two large, pink, chequered sofas with squashy cushions, and a smoked-glass coffee table. There are anaemic prints on the walls, a Habitat-style shelf unit with cheesy ornaments and arrangements of faded silk flowers. Behind is a trompe l’oeil backdrop of London, to one side is a small stage, and, next to that, my weather chart. I picked my way towards it, between the four cameras, stepping over the thick coils of electric cable and trying not to bash my head on the perilously low-slung rigging. It was hot. It’s always hot in the studio, because of all the lights. We’d just hit the first ad break, and Terry was taking the opportunity to throw one of his little fits.
‘Look, Sophie, I’ve told you before,’ he whined, ‘I sit on the lefthand side of the sofa.’
‘Oh, but, with respect, Terry,’ she said pleasantly, ‘why?’
‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘Why? Because I’ve been sitting on the lefthand side of this sofa for ten years, so I don’t see why I should move for you.’
I knew why he wanted to sit on that side. He’s convinced the lighting is better there and that it makes him look younger.
‘Well, I really don’t see why it matters, Terry,’ said Sophie wearily as she got up, ‘but if it’s so important to you, well, of course.’
The sound engineer attached a microphone to my lapel, and I slipped in my earpiece as I took up my place by the weather chart. I heard the director count us all out of the break, there was a brief burst of signature tune, then Terry leaned into the camera and said, ‘Welcome back, everyone; you’re watching AM-UK! Now. Has a message from beyond the grave changed your life?’
The interview with the psychic granny went quite well, then there was a sports report; that was followed by a piece about Princess Anne and Save the Children, and then it was Sophie’s turn. She was doing the interview about ovarian cysts and had only got halfway through, and in fact it was rather interesting as the gynaecologist was very good, and Sophie had just paused for a second, between questions, when to my astonishment, Terry cut in.
‘Now, what’s the weather doing today?’ he asked, beaming at Camera One. I caught the cameraman’s surprised expression. ‘Let’s h-a-v-e FAITH!’ He’d done it deliberately, of course, to cut down Sophie’s time on air. He doesn’t just steal her limelight, he goes in for daylight robbery. Whenever he thinks she’s been talking long enough, he just butts right in. Especially if she’s doing something remotely ‘serious’, like a medical interview or current affairs. And when Darryl tries to tell him off at the meeting afterwards he just looks at Sophie, all wounded innocence, and says, ‘Oh! Sorry, Sophie, I thought you’d finished.’ I really hate it when Terry does that, not just because it’s nasty, but because it means I’m thrown on air with no warning. The red light suddenly flashes on top of Camera Two and there I am, live to the nation.
‘Good morning!’ I said, with a huge smile to cover my annoyance with Terry, and because I always smile more when the weather’s bad. ‘And I’m afraid the outlook’s not good,’ I began as I turned towards the chart. ‘The snow that fell across the country yesterday has now turned to sleet and slush, and as temperatures drop again this means a very high chance of black ice, so do be careful if you’re driving,’ I added as I pressed the clicker, aware, in my earpiece, of the furious babble in the gallery.
‘– Terry’s a bastard!’
‘Wind speeds are picking up in the south and south-east … ’
‘– he cut her interview by two minutes!’
‘Those beastly easterlies are at it again … ’
‘– and it was really interesting.’
‘Possibly bringing a little sunshine in the north … ’
‘– I had an ovarian cyst once.’
‘Elsewhere, an overcast and bitterly cold day … ’
‘– very painful, actually.’
‘With a seventy per cent chance of further snowfalls … ’
‘– it was the size of a lemon, apparently … ’
‘And with this frontal system in mid-Atlantic … ’
‘– and full of pus.’
‘We’re about to enter a prolonged period of low pleasure.’
‘– low pleasure?’
‘I mean, low pressure. So, to summarise … ’
‘– God, Faith looks tired.’
‘A cold, nasty day for most of us … ’
‘– Terry, sit up straight.’
‘But maybe a glimmer of sunshine in the north … ’
‘– and her hair’s a mess. Ready when you are, Faith? Ten, nine, eight … ’
‘But temperatures in the south and south-east dropping … ’
‘Seven, six, five … ’
‘To no higher than four degrees … ’
‘Three, two … ’
‘So do remember to wrap up warm … ’
‘One and … ’
‘See you in half an hour.’
‘Zero. Cut to the skateboarding cat!’
Once I’ve done my first forecast, the rest of the morning flashes by. In between ‘hits’ I check the charts, phone the met office and update my bulletins as required. The nine thirty forecast is my last one, and that’s when the programme comes off air. We have a quick meeting in the boardroom, then I take off my make-up, sit at my desk and go through my mail. I get lots of letters. Most of them are from children asking me to help them with their geography homework. They write asking me what clouds are made of, for example, or why frost is white, or what the difference is between snow and sleet, or how rainbows are formed. Then I get letters thanking me for cheering people up. What I like about you, wrote Mr Barnes from Tunbridge Wells, is that, even when you’re giving us bad news you do it with a nice smile. Then – and I hate these ones – there are the letters about my appearance. The slightest change in it – such as a hair trim – produces a sack-load of disapproving mail. Then there are the ‘requests’ from those viewers who seem to think I’m God. Dear Faith, wrote a Mrs McManus from Edinburgh, this morning, please, please, PLEASE could we have some better weather in Scotland. We’ve had not a ray of sunshine since Hogmanay! I write back to everyone, unless they’re obviously nuts. Then, when I’ve done that, I tidy my desk and go home. People often ask me how I spend the rest of the day. The answer is, I potter. I feed Graham, of course, and take him for a walk. I might meet a friend, or go to the shops. I do the housework – I hate it, but we can’t afford a cleaner – I fill in competition forms, and I read. In an ideal world I’d do an afternoon job, but I can’t because I’m too tired. In any case it would be very awkward, because people know my face from TV. But the first thing I do when I get home is to go to bed and sleep for a couple of hours, so that’s what I did today. Or at least I tried to. But I found myself thinking, yet again, about what Lily had said last night. As I’ve said, she does sometimes say things I don’t like – including the odd uncharitable comment about Peter. Usually I just forget them, but this time I found I couldn’t. Why on earth had she said what she said and whatever could it mean? She’s so shrewd and clever – was it just a casual remark? I tried counting sheep, but that didn’t work. I tried remembering all the stations on the shipping forecast, but that didn’t help either. I tried recalling the names of all Peter’s authors, but still sleep eluded me, chased away by Lily’s remark. So I turned on the bedside radio to distract myself but that made no difference either. I opened my book – Madame Bovary – but even that didn’t help. My mind returned to Lily’s comment again and again and again. It was nagging me. Annoying me. Needling me. Gnawing at me. It kept going round and round in my mind like a mosquito in a hotel room. ‘Neeeee … ’ it went. ‘Neee … neeee … neeeeeeeeee.’ I tried to swat it away but back it came, so I pulled the duvet over my head. I thought of the children, and Graham, and I thought of the programme and how it had gone. I thought of my parents on their latest trip, and of the man who came to fix the roof. I thought about my Tesco reward card and tried to remember how many points I’d accrued; but still Lily’s strange words continued to clang away, like tinnitus. What was that remark about? What on earth could it mean?
‘Stuff it!’ I said to Graham as I threw off the duvet. ‘I’m going to damn well go and find out.’
‘Darling!’ said Lily, meeting me at the lift on the forty-ninth floor of Canary Wharf an hour and fifty minutes later. ‘What a divine surprise! But what are you doing over here?’
‘I was just passing,’ I said.
‘Really? Well, how lovely. You can share my take-away lunch. And how are you this morning?’
‘Not at my best,’ I replied. ‘Rather hungover, in fact.’
‘Oh dear,’ she murmured. ‘The wrath of grapes! But it was a wonderful evening,’ she added as she tucked the dog under her left arm. ‘Jennifer adored it, didn’t you poppet?’ Jennifer gave me a vacant stare. ‘And how marvellous of you to get up three hours later like that and calmly do the weather,’ Lily added as we crossed the editorial floor. ‘I watched you from the gym at six thirty. That girl Sophie’s rather bright,’ she went on, ‘perhaps we ought to do something on her in Moi! Terry whatshisname’s a bore though, isn’t he?’ she added. ‘A clear case of mistaken nonentity. Now,’ she said as we swept past a rail of designer clothes, ‘where are your lovely kids?’
‘They’ve gone back to school,’ I explained as a pink feather boa lifted in the breeze from Lily’s scented wake. ‘Peter took them to the station this morning. Term starts again today.’
‘They’re such darlings,’ Lily exclaimed as she stroked Jennifer’s topknot. ‘Isn’t Katie a scream with her psychoanalysis? Though I can’t help feeling she’s a little Jung. We must do a makeover on her for the magazine and get her out of those blue-stocking clothes. Now Jasmine … ’ She’d stopped at the desk of a whey-faced girl of about twenty. ‘I’ve told you not to drink coffee at lunchtime, you know it stops you sleeping in the afternoons.’
We passed the picture desk where a photographer was having his portfolio assessed and long-limbed girls leaned over the illuminated lightbox. Then we entered Lily’s glass-sided office, with its earthenware pots of splayed orchids, the Magnum shots of pouting models, the framed Moi! covers and the shining industry awards. She waved her hand at the wall-sized shelf-unit displaying all her rivals’ magazines.
‘World of Inferiors,’ she quipped. Then she removed a bottle of greenish liquid from the small fridge in the corner.
‘Wheatgrass juice?’
‘Er, no thanks.’ She poured herself a glass, then sat behind her desk and held up a plate.
‘Vegetarian sushi?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, I’m not hungry, thanks.’
‘These seaweed rolls are awfully good … ’
‘No thanks.’
‘And this shiitake’s divine.’
‘Look, Lily,’ I tried again, ‘I just wanted to ask you something. Um … ’
‘Of course, darling,’ she said. ‘Ask me anything you like.’ Suddenly there was a tap at the door and Lily’s secretary Polly appeared.
‘Lily, here’s the February edition of Vogue. It’s just come in.’
Lily winced. She loathes Vogue, in fact it’s a minor obsession. This is because in 1994, when she was features editor there, they failed to promote her to deputy editor, a lapse of professional judgement she will neither forget nor forgive. She began to flick the pages of the magazine in an indolent, insolent way.
‘God, how boring,’ she muttered. ‘Tsk … that old story … seriously vieux chapeau. Oh good Lord, what a cliché – at Moi! we avoid clichés like the plague. Oh, purleeze, not Catherine Zeta-Jones again! Oh, God!’ she declared suddenly with an appalled expression on her face. ‘They’ve got Sally Desert working for them – I wouldn’t let that crummy little dwarf write my shopping list! Faith,’ she announced as she tossed the magazine onto the floor, ‘I am going to outsell Vogue.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are Lily, but –’
‘We’re not far off,’ she added as she leaned back in her chair, steepled her long fingers and scrutinised the ceiling. ‘Lots of their advertisers are coming to us, and who can blame them?’ she asked. This was clearly a rhetorical question. ‘We make our advertisers feel wonderful,’ she went on seamlessly as she fed Jennifer bits of sushi. ‘We woo them. We flatter them. We give them very good rates. We –’
‘Lily.’
‘– look after them. Make them feel special. In short, we do not bite the brand that feeds us.’
‘Lily.’
‘And in any case they now realise that Moi! is the fashion magazine of the Millennium.’ She went and stood by the window, then raised the Venetian micro-blind. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said as she gazed down on the Dome. ‘Isn’t it just wonderful?’ she repeated. ‘Come here, Faith, and look. Look at all … this.’ She’d threaded her slender arm through mine. ‘Don’t you think it’s just fantastic?’
‘Not really,’ I said truthfully as I inhaled the aroma of her Hypnotic Poison. ‘To me it’s all style and no substance.’
‘I was there,’ she murmured dreamily, ignoring my remark. ‘I was there, Faith, at that party.’
‘I know.’
‘I was there with the Queen and Tony Blair. Don’t you think that’s amazing, Faith? That your little schoolfriend was invited to that?’ Suddenly I looked at Lily’s profile and was transported back twenty-five years. I remembered the awkward girl, standing on stage in her blue gingham dress, and the look of fear and confusion on her face. Now here she was, atop London’s tallest building, with the world spread out beneath her feet.
‘Don’t you think that’s amazing?’ she pressed me again.
‘What? Well, yes, er, no. I mean, not really, Lily – I always knew you’d succeed.’
‘Yes,’ she said dreamily as we gazed at the boat-speckled river shining below. ‘I’ve succeeded, despite the attempts of a few people to put a spanner in the works.’
‘What people?’ I said.
‘Oh, no-one significant,’ she breathed. ‘Just nobodies, out to spoil my success. But they know who they are. And I know who they are, too,’ she went on with an air of slight menace. ‘But no-one’s going to stop me,’ she murmured. ‘No-one’s going to hold me back.’
‘Lily,’ I interjected, wishing she’d stop talking just for a second and listen.
‘I’ve trounced my enemies, Faith,’ she went on calmly, ‘by my vision and my hard work. And the reason why Moi! is going to be the Number One glossy is because we’ve got so many original ideas. Now,’ she added enthusiastically as she returned to her desk, ‘I just want your advice on a new feature we’re planning – top secret, of course. What do you think of this?’ She handed me a mock-up page. It was headed ‘Your Dog’s Beauty Questions Answered’. I am a Yorkshire terrier, I read. I have very fine, fly-away fur. I can never get it to stay in one place. What should I do? I am a white miniature poodle, wrote another. But at the moment my coat looks slightly discoloured and stained. This is causing me considerable distress. What grooming products can I use to restore it to its former glory?
‘The readers are going to love it,’ said Lily with an excited smile. ‘I’d like to do a dog special at some point, a pull-out supplement, maybe for the July edition, yes,’ she went on distractedly. ‘I could call it Chienne. We could get it sponsored by Winalot.’
‘Lily!’ I stood up. It was the only way to attract her attention. ‘Lily,’ I repeated. ‘I wasn’t just passing.’
‘Weren’t you, darling?’
‘No,’ I said as I sat down again. ‘I’m afraid that was a lie.’
‘Was it?’ she said, her eyes round. ‘Really, Faith, that’s not like you.’
‘I came here for a reason,’ I went on, my heart now banging like a drum. ‘Because there’s something I need to ask you.’
‘Faith, darling,’ said Lily seriously, ‘Jennifer and I are all ears.’
‘Well,’ I began nervously, ‘I know this will sound silly, but last night you said something that disturbed me.’
‘Oh, Faith,’ she said before taking a sip of wheatgrass juice, ‘I’m always saying things that disturb you, we both know that.’
‘Yes, but this wasn’t in the usual category of your flippant off-the-cuff remarks. It was not only what you said, but the way you said it.’
‘And what was it, then?’ she enquired.
‘Well, you said,’ I said, ‘you said … You said that you thought I was “marvellous” to “trust” Peter.’ Lily’s arched eyebrows lifted an inch up her high, domed brow.
‘Well I do, darling!’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think any woman who trusts any man is a complete and utter marvel, given that the species are such beasts. I mean, why do you think I dump them at such a rate?’
‘Oh, I see. So it was just a general observation, was it?’
‘Yes!’ she said gaily. ‘Of course it was! You are silly to let that worry you, Faith. I thought you always prided yourself on never believing anything I say.’
‘Oh, I do!’ I exclaimed. ‘I mean, I know that you’re usually being funny. You like to pull my leg. I don’t mind – I never have done – and I know it’s still easy to do.’
‘Faith Value,’ she said with an indulgent shake of her head.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose I am. And you’re still Lily White.’
‘I know,’ said Lily with a smile. ‘I’m sorry if I worried you,’ she went on as she chewed delicately on her seaweed roll. ‘It’s just my sense of humour, darling. You know that.’
‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘But last night I couldn’t help wondering, if what you said was a joke or not.’
‘Of course it was,’ she said, ‘don’t give it a second thought.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said, vastly relieved, and I allowed myself to smile.
‘I was just joking, Faith.’
‘Oh, great.’
‘Because I’m good at badinage.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I was just pulling your leg … ’ She was flicking through a copy of Moi!
‘I know … ’
‘I was just winding you up, like I do.’
‘Yup. Got that,’ I said as I stood up to go. ‘Great to get it sorted out.’
‘Although … ’ Lily added softly, without looking up.
‘Although what?’ I said.
‘Well … ’ She sighed as she lifted her gaze to mine. ‘Now we’re on the subject, I must say that Peter didn’t exactly seem relaxed. In fact I thought he was decidedly sharp. Mind you,’ she continued judiciously, ‘Peter’s often sharp with me. I know he doesn’t really like me,’ she went on philosophically. ‘I’m his bete noire,’ she added with a throaty laugh.
‘It’s a personality thing,’ I said diplomatically. ‘It’s just one of those little clashes one sometimes gets. But he has huge professional respect for you,’ I said.
‘Does he?’ she said with a sceptical smile.
‘In any case,’ I went on quickly, ‘between you and me, Peter’s got a lot of hassle at work so he’s a little bit anxious at the moment.’
‘Anxious? Darling,’ she added, ‘he was jumpier than the Royal Ballet.’
‘Well … ’
‘And I couldn’t help noticing how trim he looked. And did you see he was wearing a Hermès tie?’
‘Was he? I wouldn’t know. I don’t really notice labels.’
‘Yes, Hermès. They’re seventy pounds a throw. Now, I knew you hadn’t bought it for him,’ she went on. ‘So I couldn’t help wondering who had?’ I stared at her.
‘He bought it himself.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. As an investment. He said his headhunter has advised him to smarten up a bit. Peter’s looking for a new job, you see – I didn’t tell you this, but we think he’s about to be kicked out.’
‘Really?’ said Lily. ‘Oh! How awful.’
‘Well, yes, because he’s been happy at Fenton & Friend.’
‘I’ll say he has,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘All I mean is that any man would be happy working at Fenton & Friend.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ she said as she adjusted Jennifer’s butterfly barrette, ‘it’s stuffed with gorgeous girls.’
‘Oh. Is it?’
‘And I thought I heard someone say, the other day, that they’d seen Peter having lunch with an attractive blonde. But I could have been wrong,’ she added softly.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you were. Or rather you were mistaken. Because Peter has to take authors and agents out to dinner sometimes. It’s all part of his job.’
‘Of course it is, Faith, I know. But … ’
‘But what?’
‘Well, he is a publisher, and so … ’
‘Yes?’
‘I really hate to say this, darling, but maybe he’s making someone an advance?’ I gazed into Lily’s liquid brown eyes. They’re huge and hypnotic, slanting in shape, with interminable thick, curling lashes.
‘An advance?’ I repeated. I could hear the beating of my heart.
‘Maybe he’s looking for a new chapter,’ she went on softly, then took another sip of wheatgrass juice.
‘Lily, what are you talking about?’
‘Maybe, in the bookshop of life, he’s been picking up more than a Penguin … ’
‘Look, I –’
‘And the only reason I say this is because his speech last night was so odd. Katie spotted the Freudian slip, Faith, didn’t you?’
‘Well, I … ’
‘And after all, you have been married for a very long time.’
‘But … ’
‘All I’m suggesting is that in your situation, well, I’d be just a little on my guard.’
‘On my guard?’
‘Vigilant. Now, I’m only saying this as your friend.’
‘I know … ’
‘Because I have only your best interests at heart.’
‘Yes. Thanks … ’
‘But I think you ought to do a Christine … ’ I looked at her.
‘What? Hamilton?’ I said aghast. ‘You mean, search his pockets?’ Lily was fiddling with the Buddhist power beads at her slender wrist.
‘That’s what many women would do, Faith,’ she said reasonably. ‘But don’t worry, darling. I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to be concerned about.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly panicking. ‘Maybe there is.’
‘No, no, I’m sure it’s fine,’ she said soothingly. ‘But all I’m saying, as your best and oldest friend, is that maybe you should, well, sharpen up a bit.’
‘What?’
‘Learn to spot the signs.’
‘I wouldn’t know how,’ I groaned.
‘Of course you wouldn’t, you’re so trusting. But that’s something I can help you with, darling, because as luck would have it, Moi! did a big feature on this only last month.’ She stood up and began to sort through a pile of back issues on the floor.
‘Now, where is it?’ she said. ‘Oh, here we are!’ she exclaimed happily. ‘You’re in luck. “Is Your Man a Love-Rodent?”’ she read. ‘Seven classic signs: one, he’s distracted and distant. Two, he’s “working late”; three, he’s looking fit; four, his wardrobe’s improved. Five, he’s not interested in sex; six, he’s bought a mobile phone and seven – and I gather that this is the clincher, Faith … ’ Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door.
‘Lily … ’ It was Polly again. ‘Lily, I’m sorry, but I’ve got Madonna for you on line one.’
‘Oh God,’ said Lily rolling her eyes, ‘I’ve told her not to call me in my lunchbreak. Still … ’ She sighed. ‘We do want her on the cover in June. Sorry, Faith darling. Must go.’ She blew me a kiss as I stood at the door, then waved Jennifer’s little paw up and down.
‘Now, I don’t want you to worry,’ she called out as I opened the door. ‘In any case I’m sure it’s all going to work out for the best, as you always like to say.’
I journeyed back to west London as if in a trance. I’d got what I wanted, all right. I’d had my nagging doubts dispelled, and replaced with naked fear. Peter was having an affair. Lily hadn’t said it in so many words, but she clearly thought something was up and she’s, well, a woman of the world. My morale was so low it was practically underground, and as I left Turnham Green tube and walked home I began to entertain all kinds of mad ideas: that Peter was in love with another woman; that he would up and leave; that I had been a bad wife; that he had been driven to find solace elsewhere; that our house would have to be sold; that our children would suffer and fail; that our dog would become a delinquent; that we’d never go to Ikea again; that – as I placed my hand on the garden gate, my heart suddenly skipped a beat. For there, on the doorstep, was an enormous bouquet of white and yellow flowers. I gathered it up in one hand and unlocked the door with the other, and as Graham leaped up to greet me with a joyful bark, I peeled off the envelope. The phone started to ring, but I ignored it as my eyes scanned the message on the small white card.
Happy Anniversary, Faith, it read. So sorry I forgot. All my love, Peter. Relief knocked me over, like a wave. I sank gratefully onto the hall chair.
‘Of course he’s not having an affair!’ I said to Graham as my hand reached for the phone. ‘Peter loves me,’ I said, ‘and I love him, and that’s all there is to it. Hello?’
‘Faith, darling, it’s Lily. Sorry we got cut off there.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I’d said everything I wanted to say and in fact Lily, although it’s very kind of you to give me advice, and I do appreciate it, I really don’t think you’re quite right, and to be honest I think I just really overreacted and I’d been in a silly sort of mood you see, and I was very tired too from work, so –’
‘No, but Faith, there was one thing I meant to tell you,’ she said. ‘Something really important – the seventh sign. Apparently it’s the absolutely copper-bottomed-it-simply-never-fails-dead-cert-surefire-sign that one’s husband is up to no good.’
‘Er, yes?’ I said faintly. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s if he’s sending you flowers!’
‘What are you getting up to?’ Terry enquired saucily as he leaned into the camera a few days later. ‘Why not get up to AM-UK! where there’s lots of snap, crackle and pop! It’s coming up to … ’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Seven fifty. And later in the show, Internet dating – how to “click” on-line; women with beards – why they prefer the rough to the smooth; and our Phobia of the Week – griddle pans. Plus all the news, weather and sport.’
‘But first,’ said Sophie as she read her autocue, ‘we ask that old question, what’s in a name? Well, quite a lot according to sociologist Ed McCall, who’s just written a book about names, about what they mean, and how they can influence our lives. Ed, a warm welcome to the show.’ I was standing by the weather chart, listening to this, and I must say it was great. Interesting items are rare, as one of the TV critics noted ironically, ‘AM-UK!’s healthy breakfast menu is virtually fact-free!’ But this interview was riveting, and Sophie handled it well.
‘Looking at surnames,’ Ed McCall began, ‘I’ve concluded that people are often drawn to careers which reflect their second names. For example there’s a man called James Judge, who’s a judge; then there’s Sir Hugh Fish, who was head of Thames Water; there’s a newly ordained vicar called Linda Church, and I discovered a Tasmanian police woman called Lauren Order. Gardener’s Question Time has Bob Flowerdew and Pippa Greenwood, and there’s another well-known horticulturalist called Michael Bloom.’
‘I believe the medical profession has some intriguing examples,’ Sophie prompted him.
‘Oh, yes. I uncovered an allergist called Dr Aikenhead,’ he said, ‘and dermatologists Doctors Whitehead and Pitts; I found a urologist called Dr Weedon, and a paediatrician called Dr Kidd.’
‘This is great, Sophie,’ I heard Darryl say in my earpiece.
‘Any others?’ she said with a smile.
‘There’s a surgeon called Frank Slaughter, a police officer called Andy Sergeant, several bankers with the surname Cash, and a convicted criminal called Tony Lawless. There are many other instances of this type,’ he went on, ‘so I’ve concluded that these people were drawn to their professions, whether consciously or not, because of their family names.’
‘I suppose you could call it nominative determinism,’ suggested Sophie in her academic way.
‘Er, certainly,’ he said uncertainly, ‘though that’s a very technical way of putting it. But yes, I believe that names do determine our lives in some way; that they’re not just labels but form an inherent part of our identity.’
‘And is this as true of Christian names as it is of surnames?’ Sophie asked.
‘Oh, definitely,’ he said.
‘So what does Sophie mean?’ Terry interjected with a smirk. ‘Smug little show-off?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Sycophantic show-stealer?’
‘Shut up, Terry!’ I heard Darryl hiss in my earpiece.
‘Er, no,’ said Ed McCall, clearly shocked by Terry’s shameless on-screen slurs. ‘Erm, the name Sophie actually means wisdom, and may I say,’ he added gallantly, ‘that it’s a name that obviously suits this Sophie well.’
‘And what does Terry mean?’ asked Sophie pleasantly.
‘Terry is either the diminutive of Terence,’ Ed replied, ‘or it could be derived from the French name, Thierry, from Norman times.’
‘It’s not a very popular name any more, is it?’ Sophie went on sweetly. Ah. She’d obviously read the book. ‘In fact you point out that Terry’s rather a dated name these days.’
‘That’s right,’ Ed agreed, ‘it was especially popular in the 1950s.’
‘The 1950s!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, I’m sure Terry wasn’t born as long ago as that, were you?’ she enquired innocently.
‘Oh, no no no,’ Terry said, ‘much later.’
‘Of course you were,’ said Sophie benignly as the cameraman sadistically lingered on Terry’s reddening face. ‘I’m sure you were born much, much later than that, Terry.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right. I was.’
‘I’m sure no-one would believe you could possibly have been born in – ooh – 1955?’ she concluded with a smile. Touché. He deserved it. For once he was lost for words. ‘And what about our weather forecaster, Faith?’ Sophie went on smoothly as Terry seethed; she indicated me with an elegant sweep of her left hand as the light on ‘my’ camera flashed red.
‘Faith is one of those abstract virtue names which the Puritans invented,’ Ed explained. ‘It’s like Charity, Verity or Grace. And these names were given mostly to women, of course, as a means of social control; so that baby girls given these “virtuous” names would develop those desirable characteristics. There were some really awful names of this kind,’ he added, ‘but thankfully they haven’t survived. Can you imagine calling your child Abstinence, Humility or Meek?’
‘How dreadful!’ Sophie exclaimed with a laugh.
‘But the more attractive names of this type have stayed with us and I think they do have an influence on character. I mean, if you’re called Patience or Verity, then people expect certain things. How can you be called Grace and be clumsy, for example, or be a miserable Joy, or a promiscuous Virginia, or a depressive Hope?’
‘Or an adulterous Faith,’ said Terry, trying to get back in the show. ‘Are you faithful, Faith?’ he asked me, very cheekily I thought.
‘Only to my husband,’ I said with a smile.
‘There’s a fashion for naming children after places, isn’t there, Ed?’ Sophie went on.
‘Oh yes,’ he replied, ‘we’ve got just about every American state now – Atlanta, Georgia, Savannah etc – though Nebraska and Kentucky don’t have quite the same ring. Then there’s Chelsea, of course, and India. And people often name their children after the place in which they were conceived. Like Posh Spice and David Beckham calling their baby Brooklyn after a trip to New York.’
‘Well, it could have been worse,’ said Sophie judiciously. ‘At least they didn’t call him Queens.’ Ed laughed at her witticism as she thanked him for coming on the show. ‘It’s been fascinating,’ she concluded warmly. ‘And Ed’s book, The Game of the Name, is published today by Thorsons and costs six pounds ninety-nine.’
‘And now,’ Terry intervened, ‘it’s time for a look at the weather. So let’s see if Faith lives up to her name today!’
As the programme ended an hour later, Terry and Sophie sat there beaming at each other amiably while the credits rolled. Then, the split-second they were off air, he stood up, towered over her and shouted, ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’
‘I’m sorry, do what?’ said Sophie sweetly as she removed her microphone pack from the back of her skirt.
‘Don’t you ever discuss my age on screen again,’ he hissed.
‘Well, for my part I’d be grateful if you didn’t insult me on screen,’ she replied as she took out her earpiece.
‘I am thirty-nine!’ he shouted after her as she made her way towards Make-Up to get her slap removed. ‘Thirty-nine! Not forty-six. Got that, you superior little cow?’
‘Of course I know you’re thirty-nine, Terry,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know how I could have got that wrong. After all, everyone here tells me you’ve been thirty-nine for years.’ His face went white with anger. It was as though Sophie had made a declaration of war. And though I was glad to see her start to get her own back, I hoped she wouldn’t come to regret what she’d done. Still, as I say, I always keep out of office disputes. As I picked up my bag I saw that there were two copies of The Game of the Name lying on the planning desk. No-one seemed to want them, so I put a pound in the charity box and took one of them home. There was an index at the back, and I looked up Peter; it said that Peter means a rock, which I knew. I thought how Peter always has been my rock, really – steady and unswerving and strong. I pondered my own name, and wondered, not for the first time, to what extent it has shaped who I am. Would I have turned out differently if I’d been called something racy, like Scarlett or Carmen or Sky? But I was christened Faith, so I guess I couldn’t be racy if I tried. And I decided I might as well be true to the name I have and I resolved not to have doubts about Peter. So when I opened the front door and saw that Lily had sent me the December edition of Moi! I simply felt like throwing it away. But then, on the other hand, I knew she could only mean well.
I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, she had written in her large round hand. But just to be on the safe side, do read this as it’s full of handy hints. PS, why not check out the IsHeCheating.com website?
‘How ridiculous,’ I said to Graham as I flicked through the magazine again. ‘Peter isn’t having an affair.’ Even so, I couldn’t resist reading the article. Just out of interest, of course.
How to Tell If Your Man’s Playing Away:
1 He’s distracted and distant.
2 He’s looking fit.
3 He’s working late.
4 His wardrobe’s improved.
5 He’s not interested in sex.
6 He’s bought a mobile phone.
7 He’s sending you flowers.
Now, the scary thing was that I knew I could answer a resounding ‘yes’ to all of these. But I decided to remain quite calm, because there’s a rational explanation in every case. Peter is distracted and distant because he has many worries, and has lost weight, ditto. He’s working late because his boss is vile; he’s improved his wardrobe because he has to look smart for job interviews. He’s not interested in sex because his libido is low due to his depression about work. He bought a mobile phone so that his headhunter can contact him at the drop of a hat; and he sent me flowers for the simple reason that he forgot our anniversary and felt bad.
‘So there we have it,’ I said to Graham as I read and reread the piece. ‘He’s in the clear. We have nothing to worry about.’ I looked into his eyes – they’re the colour of demerara – and I stroked his velvety nose. Graham’s been anxious too, you see. He’s very sensitive to my moods and over the last couple of days he’s been feeling a bit insecure. I know this because he’s been sitting closer to me than normal – preferably on my lap. Also, he’s following me around more than he usually does. So this afternoon I said to him, ‘It’s OK, Graham, you don’t have to get up every time I leave my chair.’ But he does. He came with me as I climbed the stairs to the spare room on the top floor. As I say, I didn’t really think that Peter was having an affair, but in order to put all my fears to rest, I’d decided to check his pockets. Peter’s fairly tidy, and he doesn’t have huge numbers of clothes, so I knew my investigations wouldn’t take long. I found that my pulse was beginning to race as I consulted the magazine again. You must leave everything exactlyas you found it, it advised. If he suspects you’re onto him he may stop what he’s doing, which means you’ll never get to the truth. So, feeling like a thief, which evoked in me a curious mixture of tremendous excitement and deep dread, I carefully went through his clothes. First I looked in the pockets of his sports jackets. But all I found was an old bus ticket, a hanky and some coins.
‘Nothing suspicious there,’ I said to Graham. He looked at me with what I can only describe as an expression of enormous relief. In the laundry basket in the corner were some shirts. Graham and I both sniffed them. But there was no whiff of alien scent, no tell-tale lipstick marks, just the familiar aroma of Peter’s sweat.
‘We’re doing well,’ I said to Graham. His ears pricked up and he wagged his tail. Then I took Peter’s corduroy trousers off the dumb valet and turned out the pockets of those. All I came up with was a packet of chewing gum – unopened – and some lint.
‘No condoms or billets-doux – my husband is innocent,’ I declared. By now I was rather enjoying myself. Relief was flooding in. I’d already checked the glove compartment for foreign knickers but found not so much as a thong. I’d done 1471 on the telephone, and it had read back to me Sarah’s number. I couldn’t check his briefcase, of course, because he’d taken that to work.
‘Ah – his mobile phone statement,’ I said as I spotted an envelope marked One-2-One lying on the window sill. It had been opened, so I just slipped it out and read the bill. There was one 0207 number on it which appeared over thirty times. So I went downstairs, cunningly pressed 141 to conceal my number (as advised by Moi!) then dialled it with a thumping heart.
‘Andy Metzler Associates,’ said a female voice. I immediately put the phone down.
‘It’s just his headhunter,’ I said to Graham. ‘Peter’s blameless. Gimme five!’ He held up his right paw and I shook it, then looked at the magazine again. Most love cheats are caught out either by unfamiliar numbers on their phone bill, orby suspicious entries on their credit card statements. Now, I didn’t actually know where our credit card statement was, as I don’t get to see it. This is not because Peter’s hiding it from me, but because it comes in a brown envelope and I never, ever open brown envelopes. It’s a kind of phobia, I suppose. I’ll open any number of white ones, but brown ones I avoid. So Peter always deals with our credit card, and I’ve never ever seen the bill. In any case, I hardly use my card as it’s so easy to over-spend. I rummaged in the bureau in the sitting room and found a small black folder labelled ‘Credit Card’.
‘So far Peter has passed the fidelity test with flying colours,’ I said to Graham. ‘This, my darling doggo, is the final stage.’ I examined the top statement, which was dated January the fourth. As I expected, there were very few entries; we’d used the card to book theatre tickets at Christmas, we’d bought Katie some books from Borders, and there was a sixty-pound entry for WH Smith for a new computer game for Matt. Then there was a fourth entry, for some flowers. My flowers, obviously. They’d cost forty pounds and had been ordered from a place called Floribunda. I know where that is – it’s in Covent Garden, near Peter’s office. So that was that then. No unexplained restaurant bills. No references to country house hotels. No suspicious mentions of Knickerbox or La Perla. My investigations were at an end. But as I snapped the folder shut and went to put it back, I suddenly felt my heart contract as though squeezed by an alien hand. Those flowers on the bill weren’t my flowers. How could they be? My bouquet had only been sent yesterday. The bill for my ones wouldn’t appear until the February statement in three weeks’ time. I could hear my breathing increase as I lowered myself onto a nearby chair. I went into the hall, looked up Floribunda in the phone book and dialled the number with a trembling hand. What would I say when they answered? What on earth would I say? Please could you tell me who my husband ordered flowers for on December eighteenth as I’m suspicious that he’s having an affair. Perhaps I could pretend to be the recipient and claim that they’d never turned up? I’m so sorry, but you know the flowers my husband Peter Smith ordered on the eighteenth of December? Yes, that’s right. Well I’m afraid they never arrived; there seems to have been a mix-up, could you just confirm which address you sent them to …
‘Hello, Floribunda, can I help you?’ said a pleasant-sounding female voice.
‘I – I –’ I put the phone down, aware that the handset was wet with sweat. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to know. I could feel the urgent banging of my heart as I sat on the foot of the stairs. Peter was having an affair. I had been happy so I had nothing known, I remembered as my hands sprang up to my face. So now, forever, Farewell, the tranquil mind … I sat there, gazing at the gold sunburst mirror Lily had given us for our wedding. I stared at it for a minute or two, too shocked to know what to do. Then suddenly I gasped, and smiled, then smacked my forehead, hard, with the palm of my hand.
‘You IDIOT, Faith!’ I shouted. ‘You STUPID IDIOT!’ I’d suddenly remembered, you see. His mother’s birthday’s on December the eighteenth. I’d organised the birthday card, and signed it, and we’d given her a silver photo frame. And now it was obvious that Peter had decided to send her flowers as well. Of course. That was it! I flung my arms round the startled dog.
‘I’m a very silly Mummy,’ I said as Graham nervously licked my ear, ‘and I got it completely wrong.’ I felt so mean for having suspected Peter, especially when he’s got so much on his mind. I felt mean, and low, and somehow tarnished. Now, I resolved as I picked up the credit card folder, I’d never distrust him again. Then I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee – real coffee by way of celebration. And the heady aroma of arabica had filled the air and I was feeling quite mellow again, calmly flicking through the rest of Moi! when I heard the trill of the telephone.
‘Hello, Faith,’ said Sarah. ‘I just wanted to thank you for organising that lovely party last week. I did enjoy myself,’ she added warmly, ‘and it was wonderful to see the children – they’re so grown up.’
‘Oh, they are,’ I said with a wistful smile.
‘And I thought it was so sweet the way you arranged it as a surprise for Peter.’
‘I wanted to cheer him up,’ I explained. ‘I expect he’s told you that he’s got a few worries at work.’
‘Well yes,’ she said. ‘He phoned me last night. I’m sure it will all work out, but I must say he is a bit distracted at the moment.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘He is. In fact,’ I went on enthusiastically, in a way I was shortly to regret, ‘he’d even forgotten that it was our anniversary and he’s never done that before.’
‘Well,’ Sarah exclaimed with a little laugh, ‘he actually forgot my birthday!’
‘Sorry?’ It was like falling down a mineshaft. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah, what did you say?’
‘He forgot my birthday,’ she repeated. ‘And he’s normally so thoughtful like that. I mean, I got your card of course, and that lovely frame, but Peter usually gives me a little something extra, just from him, but for the first time ever, he didn’t. Not a thing. But please don’t mention it to him,’ she added quickly. ‘He’s got enough on his plate right now.’
‘So you didn’t get … ?’ I began faintly.
‘Get what?’
‘You didn’t get any … ?’ I heard the sudden, sharp ring of her doorbell.
‘Oh, I’ve got to go,’ she said, ‘my bridge partners have just turned up. Let’s chat another time soon, Faith. Bye.’
I replaced the receiver very slowly. ‘Oh God,’ I said to Graham. ‘Oh God,’ I repeated, breathing more quickly. ‘Who the hell did he send those flowers to, and what on earth shall I do?’ I consulted the magazine again. Under the box headed, ‘Action Stations!’ was the following advice: On no account let your husband know that you have doubts about his fidelity. However hard it is you MUST carry on as though absolutely nothing is amiss.
‘So how was it today, darling?’ I enquired with phoney brightness as Peter arrived back from work.
‘Godawful,’ he said wearily. ‘Do you know what the old bat’s doing now?’
‘What?’
‘She’s trying to fob Amber Dane off onto me.’
‘I thought Amber Dane had given up writing those awful novels,’ I said.
‘We all hoped so,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘But she’s written another one which she claims is “satire” if you please. Satire? From what I’ve read so far it’s about as satirical as a box of Milk Tray. We really shouldn’t be publishing it – in fact that’s what I said. But Charmaine’s given me the manuscript and wants a full report. Talk about getting the short bloody straw,’ he added as he loosened his tie.
‘Oh dear.’
‘And that creep,’ he said exasperatedly as he fixed himself a drink, ‘that fat Old Etonian creep got all hoity toity with me because I called him Olly.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Exactly! Nothing. I mean, lots of people call him Olly. Charmaine calls him Olly. And today, in a meeting, I called him Olly too, and afterwards he took me to one side, and he’d gone puce in the face, and all sweaty, and he said, very crossly, as though he was my bloody boss, “Peter. Kindly don’t call me Olly. My name is Oliver.” Pompous git! You know, Faith, I used to love Fenton & Friend, but now I just can’t wait to get out.’
‘Any news from Andy?’ I asked. At this Peter blushed slightly, I guessed because he was embarrassed to admit that there wasn’t any news.
‘Er … no,’ he said with a sigh as he sank into an easy chair. ‘There’s nothing. Nothing yet. But I’m … hopeful.’
I managed to remain all breezy and ‘normal’ as the magazine article advised, and I couldn’t help congratulating myself for keeping up this pleasant façade when my mind was in such turmoil. As we sat down to supper I looked at Peter across the kitchen table, and it was as though I was seeing him in a whole new light. He looked different to me now, in some undefinable way, because for the first time in fifteen years I couldn’t read his face. It was like looking at one of those smart clocks with no numerals – they can be rather hard to read. All I knew was that I didn’t instinctively trust him in the way I had before. I mean, before trust just wasn’t an issue between Peter and me. That may sound naïve, but it’s true. I never ever gave it a thought, and I felt sorry for wives who did. But now, I found myself, like thousands of other women, consciously wondering if my husband was having an affair. And it was a very peculiar feeling after being married to him for so long. As we sat there chatting over the lasagne – reduced by a pound in Tesco actually, and double points on the loyalty card – I thought about Peter’s name again, and about how he’s always been my rock. Strong and steady and reliable – until now, that is. In the Bible it was Peter upon whom Christ built his church. That’s what we were taught at school. But it was also Peter whose resolve cracked in the garden of Gethsemane, and who denied Jesus, three times. So Peter the Apostle had feet of clay and I thought, my Peter does too.
‘Are you all right, Faith?’ said Peter suddenly. He’d put down his knife and fork.
‘What?’
‘You’re staring at me,’ he said.
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. ‘I mean, have you had a good day?’
‘Er … ’
‘You seem a little bit tense.’
‘Oooh no, I’m not tense at all no, no, no, no. No.’
‘How was the programme?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry I missed you this morning. You know I always try to watch.’
‘Well, it was quite good,’ I replied. ‘There was this really interesting interview about names and what they mean. Yours means a rock,’ I added.
‘I know.’
‘Mine means – well it’s obvious,’ I said. ‘And I always have been faithful, as you know.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do know that,’ he said rather quietly, I thought. And now there was a silence, during which I could hear the ticking of the kitchen clock. ‘So how was the weather today?’ he added.
‘Um … well, the weather was fine,’ I said. ‘I mean, it wasn’t fine. In fact the outlook is rather unsettled,’ I went on thoughtfully. ‘Temperatures are dropping quite a bit, and then there’s the chill factor.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The chill factor.’ We looked at each other again.
‘Gorgeous flowers,’ I said brightly, indicating the bouquet of creamy jonquils and narcissi, pale anemones and golden mimosa. ‘They smell heavenly. That was so sweet of you, Peter.’
‘You deserve them,’ he replied. Then another silence enveloped us both. And in that silence I suddenly decided – don’t ask me why – to ignore what the magazine advised.
‘Don’t you normally buy your mother something for her birthday?’ I asked innocently as I put down my knife and fork.
‘Oh Christ!’ he slapped his forehead. ‘I completely forgot.’
‘Well, we all gave her that silver frame, don’t you remember, and you did sign the card.’
‘I know. But I usually send her some flowers or get her a box of chocs. You know, something that’s just from me. I’m not remembering anything at the moment, Faith,’ he sighed as he picked up our plates. ‘I guess it’s all the stress at work.’
‘But you’re remembering … some things,’ I suggested tentatively as I opened the freezer door.
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said as I took out a box of ice-cream. ‘To be honest, Pete, I was going to ask you.’
‘Faith, what are you talking about?’ he asked as he got down two bowls.
‘Well, nothing really,’ I replied nonchalantly as I flipped open the lid, ‘except that you seem to have remembered someone else recently – someone I don’t know.’
‘Faith,’ he said edgily, ‘I haven’t got time for this. I’m very tired. And I’ve got an excruciating evening ahead of me because I’ve got to start the Amber Dane. So if you’ve got something to say to me, please would you be direct?’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘I will.’ I inhaled deeply, and then spoke. ‘Peter,’ I began, ‘I looked at our credit card bill today, and I found an entry on it for some flowers. I knew they weren’t for your mother’s birthday, because she told me you’d forgotten, so I just couldn’t help wondering who on earth they were for?’ Peter took his ice-cream, then stared at me as though I were mad.
‘Flowers?’ he said incredulously. ‘Flowers? I sent someone flowers? Who would I have sent flowers to apart from you or my mum?’
‘Well, that’s just what I was wondering,’ I said as I put the ice-cream away.
‘When was this exactly?’ he asked calmly as I got the chocolate sauce. If he was lying, he was very convincing.
‘December the eighteenth,’ I replied.
‘December the eighteenth? December the eighteenth … ’ He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, theatrically almost, then he suddenly said, ‘Clare Barry.’
‘Who?’
‘She’s one of my authors. That’s who those flowers were for. They were for her book launch, I always send her flowers.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘But –’
‘But what?’
‘But I thought you had a different credit card that you use just for your work expenditure.’
‘Yes, I do. It’s American Express.’
‘But sending Clare Barry congratulatory flowers, well, that would have been for work, wouldn’t it?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘So why would you have ordered flowers for one of your authors using your personal credit card?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said irritably. ‘Maybe it was a simple mistake. Or perhaps I mislaid my American Express card and was in a hurry, so I used my other card instead. Does it really matter?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said airily. ‘It doesn’t. I’m … satisfied.’
‘Satisfied?’ he said wonderingly. ‘Satisfied? Oh!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘Oh! I get it. You think I’m carrying on with someone.’ I glanced at Graham. His shoulder muscles had stiffened and his ears were down.
‘Ooh, no, no, no, no,’ I said. ‘No. Well, maybe.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Are you?’
‘No I’m not,’ he said with what struck me as a slightly regretful air. ‘I’m not carrying on with anyone. That’s the truth. In any case, Faith, don’t you think I’ve got enough to worry me right now without getting involved with some chick?’ Chick? ‘So please, will you give me a break?’ A break?
‘A break?’ I repeated. Ah. ‘You want me to give you a break?’
‘Yes,’ he replied firmly, ‘I do. And I hope you believe me when I say that those flowers were for an author? Do you believe me, Faith? Do you?’
‘Yes. I believe you,’ I lied.
February (#ulink_ab9dffc1-5978-5dae-909d-00f1545672eb)
‘I’m getting good at this,’ I said to Graham as I went through Peter’s clothes again this morning. You see I’m used to it now, so the second time wasn’t so bad. My heart wasn’t in my mouth as it had been when I’d done it the first time. My nerve endings didn’t feel as though they were attached to twitching wires. In fact I was quite business-like about it, and I told myself that I was perfectly entitled to go through my husband’s things.
‘Other women do this all the time,’ I said to Graham briskly. ‘In any case, I need to go through them to see if any of them want dry cleaning.’ I found nothing untoward this time, except, well, one very odd thing actually – in his grey trouser pockets – a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I showed it to Graham and we exchanged a meaningful glance.
‘I think I’ll go to the gym this evening,’ Peter said when he got home. ‘I haven’t been for over a week.’
‘Oh,’ I said. And whereas before I’d have thought nothing of it and gaily waved him off, now I was instantly on the alert. Why did he want to go to the gym all of a sudden? Who was he meeting there? Perhaps he had a rendezvous. Right. Let’s nip this in the bud.
‘Can I come too?’ I asked. ‘I’d like to have a swim.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ he said, so we put on Ready Steady Cook for Graham, got our sports bags and left.
‘Any news from Andy?’ I enquired as we drove along.
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘not yet.’ He changed up a gear.
‘And did you manage to finish the Amber Dane?’
‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘At long last. Satire!’ he expostulated again. ‘It’s not so much Juvenal as juvenile. I mean, why Charmaine wants to keep her on, I really don’t know. God, that woman gives me stress.’
‘Is that why you’ve started smoking?’ I asked innocently as we loitered at a red light.
‘Sorry?’
‘Is that why you’ve started smoking?’ I repeated. I wanted to see how well he could lie.
‘I don’t smoke,’ he said indignantly. ‘You know that.’
‘In that case, darling, why, when I emptied your grey trouser pockets at the dry cleaners today, did I find a packet of cigarettes?’
‘Cigarettes?’ he said. And I could see, even in the semi-darkness, that his face had flushed bright red. ‘What cigarettes?’
‘Lucky Strike,’ I replied.
‘Oh. Oh. Those cigarettes,’ he said as the car nosed forward again. ‘Yes, well, I didn’t want you to know this, but actually … I do smoke, just occasionally, when I’m stressed.’
‘I’ve never seen you do it,’ I said as the sign for the Hogarth Health Club came into view.
‘Well, I didn’t think you’d approve,’ he replied. ‘In any case, you’ve never seen me with serious stress before. But when I’m stressed, then just now and again, yes, I do like to have a quick fag.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’ And then I suddenly remembered another thing that didn’t quite fit.
‘You don’t like chewing gum, do you?’ I asked as he parked the car.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I hate it.’
‘So you’d never buy it, then?’
‘No. Of course not. Why on earth would I?’
‘Well, exactly,’ I said.
‘Look, Faith, I hope that’s the end of today’s inquisition,’ he said as he pulled up the handbrake.
‘No further questions,’ I said with a grim little smile.
‘And in future, Faith,’ he added as he turned off the ignition, ‘I’d rather you didn’t go through my pockets. You’ve never done it before and I don’t want you to start now.’ Of course he didn’t. Because then I’d find out for certain what at present I only suspected.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said breezily. ‘I won’t do it again.’ When we got home at nine thirty I pretended I was going to bed, but instead I crept into Matt’s room to use his computer. I knew he wouldn’t mind. There was a pile of CD Roms on the chair, and dozens of computer games on the bed. He seemed to be in the middle of reorganising his vast collection. I picked them up and looked at them – they’ve got the weirdest names: Zombie Revenge, Strider, Super Pang and Chu-Chu Rocket. Oh well, I thought, they keep him happy. Then I sat at his desk, turned on the computer and hit ‘Connect’. Eeeeeeeeeekkkk. Berddinnnnnggg. Chingggg. Bongggggg. Pingggggg. Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep. Blooooop. Krrrrrkkkkkkk. Krrrrrrkkkkkk. And I was in. I clicked onto Yahoo, did a search for the www.IsHeCheating.com website, then click, click, click … And there it was. As the page downloaded I quickly got the gist. It was one of these interactive sites. American. You could log on pseudonymously, e-mail your suspicions, and ask other people for advice. It was riveting to read. Sherry from Iowa was worried because she’d found a stocking in her husband’s car; Brandy from North Carolina was in despair because her boyfriend kept talking about a woman at work; and Chuck from Utah was upset because he’d intercepted his wife talking to her lover on the phone.
I’m almost certain he’s cheating, said Sherry. But although I want to know in one way, in another I don’t, because I’m scared of what I may find out.
Go with your guts, girl, advised Mary-Ann from Maine. A woman’s intuition is NEVER wrong.
Maybe it’s HIS stocking? suggested Frank from New Jersey. Maybe your husband’s a cross-dresser, and is too embarrassed to say.
Follow him to work, said Cathy from Milwaukee. But make sure you wear a wig.
I can’t. He’s a long-distance lorry-driver, Sherry had e-mailed back. I decided to log on as ‘Emily’ because that’s my middle name.
I think my husband may be having an affair, I typed. Or it could just be that I’m paranoid and insecure. But he has been behaving strangely, and I’m not sure it’s all due to pressure at work. He’s a publisher, I went on. So he gets to meet all sorts of glamorous people in the book world. And though I know he’s never strayed before, I think he may be doing so now. Firstly, he ordered flowers for someone in December, using our joint credit card. And when I challenged him about this he claimed – not very convincingly – that they were congratulatory flowers for an author. Secondly, I’ve been finding some odd things in his pockets – chewing gum, which he hates; and today I found a packet of cigarettes. But in fifteen years of marriage I have never, ever, seen him smoke. So I simply don’t trust him in the way I’ve always done before. And it’s making me feel terrible, so I’d be grateful for your thoughts.
The next afternoon I phoned Lily. ‘I need your advice,’ I said.
‘Of course, darling,’ she replied. ‘Whatever I can do to help.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s about Peter.’
‘Is it?’ she breathed. ‘Oh dear. What’s happened?’
I sat down on the hall chair. ‘I’ve found out a few things.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. But I don’t know what they mean.’
‘They probably mean nothing,’ she said confidently. ‘But I’ll tell you what I think.’
‘Right … ’ I began nervously. ‘He sent me flowers.’
‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Mmm,’ she added with a regretful sigh. ‘You know what they say about that.’
‘Yes, but the thing is,’ I said miserably, ‘that he sent someone else flowers, too.’
‘No!’ she gasped.
‘He claims they were for an author, Lily, but I’m just not sure. And then … ’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh Lily, I feel so disloyal telling you this,’ I said as I twisted my wedding ring back and forth.
‘Darling, you’re not being disloyal,’ she said quietly. ‘All you’re doing is protecting yourself.’
‘Protecting myself?’
‘Yes. Because if it is serious – though I’m absolutely sure it’s not – you don’t want to be taken by surprise. So tell me, what else have you found?’
‘Well … ’ I began again. And then stopped. ‘Oh God, I can’t go on, Lily. I feel so treacherous. I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you see, you’ve never had a husband.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Faith,’ she said with a giggle. ‘You know perfectly well I’ve had lots. Now, what were you going to say?’
I heaved a huge sigh. ‘I’ve found some pretty strange things in his pockets. For example, a packet of chewing gum, but Lily, he hates the stuff. And yesterday I discovered a packet of Lucky Strike. But the point is, Peter doesn’t smoke.’
‘Mmm. How very strange.’
‘And then this morning when I got back from work I went through his pockets again … ’
‘Naturally … ’
‘And I found this note in his jacket.’
‘A note? What does it say?’
‘It says: Peter, Jean has already phoned three times this morning and is absolutely desperate to talk to you, desperate is underlined. Twice,’ I added anxiously.
‘Jean,’ she said. ‘Well … that could mean nothing, really. It could be quite innocent.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes. I do. And if it is innocent – which I’m quite sure it is – then he’ll be perfectly happy to tell you exactly who this “Jean” is. So my advice is to ask him outright, and watch how he reacts. Now, don’t worry about all this, Faith,’ Lily added. ‘I’m praying for you, by the way.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘I said five Hail Marys for you last night and I chanted for twenty minutes, too.’
‘Great.’ Lily has a slightly promiscuous approach to religion.
‘I also looked at your horoscope this morning,’ she went on seriously. ‘There’s a lot of tension in your sign at the moment between Saturn and Mars, so this is leading to adverse celestial activity on the relationship front.’
‘I see.’
‘But you’re doing the right thing.’
‘Am I? You know, Lily, I think I’d rather bury my head in the sand and let life jog along like before.’
‘Well, of course, ignorance is bliss, they say. But … ’ She sighed.
‘But I’ve got to see it through,’ I concluded as Lily murmured her assent. ‘And now I’ve started it’s becoming an obsession. I feel I’ve just got to find out the truth.’
‘Well, you’re going about it the right way,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And although of course I don’t want to interfere, it seems to me that you’re sleuthing away quite nicely there. I mean, your investigations are getting results.’
‘My investigations are going well,’ I agreed, ‘but now I’ve got a bit stuck.’
‘Well, Faith,’ she added, softly, ‘privately I’d say that your detection work has been very good.’ Privately? Detection? Eureka!
‘I need a private detective,’ I said.
‘Have you seen this?’ said Peter last night. He waved the Guardian at me. ‘It’s about AM-UK!’
‘What? Oh, I missed it.’
‘The TV critic’s had a go.’ I looked at the piece. It was headlined ‘CEREAL KILLERS!’ Oh dear. AM-UK! normally serves up a load of waffle for breakfast, began Nancy Banks-Smith, with the odd Poptart. But with the arrival of brilliant bluestocking Sophie Walsh, it’s a clear case of Frosties all round. The on-screen chemistry between ‘husband and wife’ team Walsh and old-timer Doyle, is about as warm as liquid nitrogen. But young Sophie handles Doyle’s sadistic joshing with rare aplomb. His crude attempts to wrest back the limelight are mesmerising to watch. But it’s Sophie who’s winning this breakfast battle – so-fa.
‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘They’ve all noticed. Mind you, it’s impossible to miss.’
‘It’s probably good for the ratings,’ said Peter. ‘Maybe that’s why Terry does it.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘I’m going upstairs,’ he went on, opening his briefcase. ‘I’ve got another manuscript to read.’
‘Before you do that,’ I said carefully, ‘please could you just tell me one thing?’
‘If I can,’ he said warily. I took a deep breath.
‘Please could you tell me who Jean is.’
‘Jean? Jean?’ He looked totally confused. I was almost convinced.
‘So you don’t know anyone called Jean, then?’ I said.
‘Jean?’ he repeated with a frown.
‘Yes, Jean. As in the girl’s name.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t.’ I had no idea he was such a good actor. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘No particular reason,’ I said. Peter gave me an odd look, then he snapped his briefcase shut and repeated, very slowly, ‘I do not know anyone called Jean.’
‘OK.’
‘But I know why you’re asking,’ he added wearily. ‘And it’s really getting me down. Faith, I am not enjoying being the object of your crude and unfounded suspicions. So to allay them, I’m now going to tell you the names of all the women I do know.’
‘Really, there’s no need,’ I said.
‘Oh, but I want to,’ he went on, ‘because maybe that way you’ll actually believe me, and these constant inquisitions will stop. Because, to be honest, I’m at the end of my tether, with everything that’s going on at work. So I hope you don’t think me unreasonable, Faith, but I can’t cope with any hassle at home.’
‘I’m not hassling you,’ I said.
‘Yes you are,’ he shot back. ‘You’ve been hassling me for three weeks. You’ve never done it before, but – and I really don’t know why – you seem to have got this bee in your bonnet. So just to convince you, darling, that I’m not fooling around, I’m now going to list, from memory, all the women I know. Let’s see. Right, at work there’s Charmaine, Phillipa and Kate in Editorial, um, Daisy and Jo in Publicity; Rosanna, Flora, and Emma in Marketing, and Mary and Leanne in Sales. Now, I talk to these women on a regular basis, Faith, and I’m not involved with any of them.’
‘OK, OK,’ I said.
‘Then of course there are all my women authors. There’s Clare Barry, to whom I sent flowers, Francesca Leigh and Lucy Watt; then there’s Janet Strong, J.L. Wyatt, Anna Jones, and um … Oh yes, Lorraine Liddel and Natalie Waugh.’
‘I’m not interested,’ I said in a bored sort of way.
‘Who else?’ he said, folding his arms and gazing at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Well, there are a number of female literary agents with whom I converse on a regular basis. There’s Betsy and Valerie at Rogers, Green; Joanna and Sue at Blake Hart; Alice, Jane and Emma at A.P. Trott, and Celia at Ed McPhail.’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘No Faith, it isn’t all right,’ he said. ‘So let me tell you some more. Oh yes, on that silly Family Ethics Committee on which I sit four times a year, there is Baroness Warner, who’s sixty-three; the sociologist, Dame Barbara Brown, and two very married and rather boring women MPs, both of whom are called Anne.’
‘This is unnecessary,’ I said.
‘Other females of my acquaintance include Andy Metzler’s colleagues, Theresa and Clare, and then of course there are a number of women I know socially, but then you know them all too – there’s Samantha at number nine, and we know Jackie at number fifteen, and that nice woman – whatshername – who we occasionally bump into at the health club. Add to that our old college friends like Mimi and I’d say that pretty well completes the list. Oh, and Lily of course. But if you thought for a second I was having it off with her, Faith, I’d take you down to the head doctor like a shot.’
‘OK, OK, OK,’ I said weakly. ‘Look, I didn’t ask for all this.’
‘Oh yes you did,’ he said. ‘By your suspicious behaviour. But let me assure you that the only person who’s strayed around here is Graham!’
‘Look,’ I said, beginning to feel upset, ‘I only asked you if you know someone called Jean.’
‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘I can honestly say that I don’t.’
But I knew this was a lie. Not even a white lie, but a flashing fluorescent pink and green one. And this was very significant, because Peter’s usually so truthful, but now he was being barefaced. But I couldn’t admit that I’d seen the note about Jean, because then he’d know I’d been snooping again. I really would like to have him followed, I thought. But then I reminded myself that it was out of the question, because private detectives don’t come cheap.
‘Are you all right now, Faith?’ Peter asked me as he stood by the door.
‘All right?’
‘Are you feeling convinced? Can we just kick all this nonsense of yours into touch? Because I’d just like our marriage to be … ’
‘What?’
‘Well, normal.’
‘I guess it is normal,’ I said.
Work is a refuge these days, from my current marital distress. There’s something about staring at the satellite charts, with their masses of Turneresque cloud swirling above the blue planet, which makes me forget my concerns. And of course the cold snaps in the studio are pretty distracting. Sophie had a very bad morning. Gremlins in the autocue. Funny that, I thought. I mean, normally Sophie reads it very fluently and I’ve never ever seen her fluff. She makes it all look so natural, as though she’s ad libbing, not reading a script. But of course it’s not like that at all. Up in the Gallery, Lisa the autocue operator works the machine by hand, scrolling the script down at a pace to suit the presenter. If the presenter slows down – she slows down. If they pick up – she picks up. But this morning something went wrong.
‘Welcome back … to … the show,’ Sophie said awkwardly after the break. ‘And … now,’ she went on at thirty-three rpm and I could suddenly see confusion in her face,’ … a … report … on … sexual equality … in … the … boardroom … … concludes … that ambitious … young … women … are … spearheading … Britain’s … drive … into … the twenty-first … century.’
It was agonising to watch. Once or twice she glanced down at her script, but it was clear that she’d lost her place. Then she looked up at the autocue again, but it was still crawling along the hard shoulder. It was like watching her being tortured, but she bravely battled on.
‘Nearly four … in … ten … ’
‘What’s going on, Lisa?’ I heard Darryl bark into my earpiece.
‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ she whined. ‘I just can’t get it to work.’
‘Boardroom bosses … are now … female,’ Sophie continued. ‘The … highest figure … since data was … ’ I heard her sigh. ‘ … collected. Women are also … ’
‘Oh, come on, Sophie!’ interrupted Terry suddenly. ‘We haven’t got all day. Sorry folks,’ he said into his autocue with a regretful smile, ‘but Sophie seems to have lost the gift of the gab. So we’ll skip that item and go straight to Tatiana’s report from the Old Vic. Yes, the lovely Tatiana’s been talking to Andrew Lloyd-Webber about his plans for this much-loved London landmark where Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud first trod the boards.’
‘What’s going on?’ I heard Sophie say into her microphone as Tatiana’s filmed report went out. ‘What happened to the autocue?’
‘There were problems with it, apparently,’ Darryl said.
‘Well, it worked perfectly OK for Terry,’ she pointed out. I could see that she was close to tears. ‘Lisa,’ she said carefully as she swallowed hard, ‘kindly don’t do that again.’
‘I didn’t “do” anything,’ I heard Lisa whine. To be honest, I’ve never liked that girl. ‘It just seemed to get, I don’t know … stuck,’she concluded feebly.
‘Well, kindly unstick it for my next item,’ Sophie said crisply. I didn’t blame her. There is nothing worse than broadcasting live to the nation with a dodgy autocue. I’ve done it once or twice and believe me, you look a total prat. Worse, people remember it for years. They say, ‘Oh! I saw you on breakfast TV.’ And you think you’re about to get some lavish compliment, instead of which they say, ‘Yeah. Two years ago. It was really funny – the autocue broke down!’ And you have to go, ‘Oh yes – that was funny. Oh, yes – ha ha ha!’
‘You poor thing,’ said Terry to Sophie with phony concern. ‘That must have been awful for you. So humiliating. And at peak time too. When everyone’s watching. Five million people. Oh dear – what a shame.’ She pretended not to hear him as she looked down at her script.
‘But that’s the thrills and spills of live TV for you,’ Terry went on philosophically. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I’m not sure you’ve got what it takes.’
At the meeting afterwards, Darryl was livid.
‘Lisa, I think you should apologise to Sophie,’ he said, crossing his arms.
‘I’m very sorry, but I’m not going to apologise,’ she whined. ‘It was a technical hitch.’ She remained adamant that it wasn’t her fault. But as I was leaving I spotted Terry and Tatiana having breakfast in the canteen. They looked rather pleased with themselves. Then Lisa sat down with them too. And you don’t need to be a brain surgeon to guess what had happened, though I wonder what she’d been paid.
When I got home I took Graham for a walk along the river – he loves it there – then I checked out the IsHeCheating.com website again. I’d asked for advice, and I’d got it.
Emily, give your husband a break! said Barbara from New York. You don’t have ANY hard facts that he’s playing around so why go looking for trouble?
If you feel your man’s being evasive, then he IS, said Sally from Wichita.
Why don’t you cheat on HIM? suggested Mike from Alabama. Just to even the score.
Sneak into his office and bug his phone! advised someone else.
Call an attorney right now!
Go back home to your mom!
Just have the bastard trailed!
I was mulling over all these options tonight in the kitchen as I chopped up vegetables for supper. I wasn’t going to have an affair myself – that would be cheap and low; there was no way I could gain access to his office even if I had surveillance equipment; I couldn’t afford a lawyer, so that was out of the question, and I couldn’t go back to my mum because she was always away. As for having Peter followed, I’d decided I hadn’t the heart. Nor did I have the cash. I’d made a couple of calls and ascertained that it would cost at least two grand. I just didn’t know what to do.
‘Mum, are you all right?’ Katie enquired. She was cleaning out her goldfish, Sigmund.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I said, are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course I’m all right, darling,’ I replied. ‘What on earth makes you think I’m not?’
‘The gratuitously vicious way in which you’re chopping up those carrots.’
‘Am I?’ I said wonderingly, sword-sized Sabatier poised in mid-air.
‘Yes. You remind me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. In fact ever since Matt and I came home this evening, I’ve been picking up a lot of stress.’ Oh God. I had that shrinking feeling. I knew what was coming next.
‘I’ve been detecting a lot of tension,’ Katie went on, ‘and a lot of suppressed anger. You’re feeling pretty hostile, aren’t you Mum?’
‘I am not hostile!’ I spat.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ she continued calmly. ‘There you are, Siggy. Nice and clean.’
‘Tell you?’ I repeated wonderingly.
‘What I really mean is, Mum, is there anything you need to talk through?’
‘No thank you,’ I said as I got down the salt.
‘Because I’m getting a lot of anxiety here.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes. Have you been having many negative thoughts?’
‘Negative? No.’
‘Are you in denial?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Disturbing dreams?’
‘Of course not. What a ridiculous suggestion. No.’
‘You see, I’m worried about your super-ego,’ she added matter-of-factly as she laid the kitchen table. ‘I think there are some repressed conflicts here, so we need to work through them to take some of the pressure off your subconscious. Now,’ she said as she got out the spoons, ‘how about a little free association?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I think it would help your ego really open up.’
‘My ego’s busy cooking supper, darling. Sorry.’
‘Really Mum, there’s absolutely nothing to it.’
‘I know,’ I said as I strained the beans. ‘That’s precisely why I’m not keen.’
‘All you have to do, Mum, is just sit down, close your eyes, and say whatever comes to mind.’
‘Oh Katie, please don’t turn me into one of your human guinea pigs,’ I said irritably. ‘Can’t you do that at school?’
‘No,’ she said regretfully.
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re all in therapy already. Honestly Mum, free association’s easy,’ she persisted as I opened the oven and checked the shepherd’s pie. She took a notebook out of her pocket. ‘You just say whatever pops into your head, no matter how frivolous it might be.’
‘Oh God … ’
‘No matter how trivial,’ she went on reassuringly. ‘No matter how disgusting or depraved.’
‘Katie!’ I said crossly. ‘I object to being psychoanalysed by someone who, until relatively recently, was playing with Barbie dolls!’
‘Yes, but I was only ever interested in Barbies as a paradigm of US cultural imperialism. Please, Mum,’ she said persuasively, ‘just for five minutes – that’s all.’
‘Oh, all right,’ I conceded. ‘I’m prepared to humour you. But let me assure you young lady, that I find all this psychobabble very silly.’
‘That’s absolutely fine, Mum,’ she said soothingly. ‘Go with your anger. Don’t hold back. Just let it out. Whatever you say is OK. Right,’ she went on briskly. ‘Sit down. Close your eyes. That’s good. Relax. Breathe deeply. Let your mind wander. Now, what word springs into your mind?’
‘Um … ’
‘No, don’t think about it, Mum. Just say it. Straight out. OK? Go.’
‘Er, carrot.’
‘Yes.’
‘Chop … ’
‘Carry on.’
‘Knife … sharp … er … stick … beat … time. Fifteen. Happy. Not. Over. Yet. Maybe. Wrigley. Wriggly. Lucky. Strike. Hit. Hurt. Wound. Heart. Flowers. Betrayal. Lying. Cheating. Philandering bastard. OK, that’s it!’ I suddenly got to my feet. ‘I don’t want to play this game any more.’
‘You’re exhibiting classic resistance, Mum,’ said Katie benignly. ‘It’s quite natural, don’t worry, because it means we’re getting close to the source of the problem.’
‘I don’t have any problems. Oh, hello Matt. You’re down.’
‘What we saw there,’ said Katie cheerfully as she snapped shut her notebook, ‘was your unconscious struggling to avoid giving up its dark secrets.’
‘Look, Katie,’ I said patiently as I wiped my brow. ‘I haven’t got any dark secrets, and all this Freudian mumbo-jumbo is simply ridiculous. Now, supper’s ready, so just do me a favour and go and kill your dad.’
Who is Jean? I keep on wondering. My rival. And what does she look like? Is she blonde or dark? Tall or short? Is she younger than me? Is she prettier? Probably is. Is she slimmer? That wouldn’t be hard. Is she wittier, and brighter? How – and when – did they meet? Did she make a beeline for Peter, or did he chat her up? Does he imagine he’s in love with her, or is it just a physical thing? Oh God. Oh God. I’m torturing myself, but I just can’t stop. You see I found another note in his pocket about Jean this morning, and I was doubly upset about it because the weekend had gone quite well. We were perfectly ‘normal’ together, as a family. We walked the dog. We got out a video – ‘Analyze This’ – and the children enjoyed themselves. Matt was closeted in his room most of the time, as usual, although curiously he went out to the post box several times. But all in all, it went well. And I was just beginning to relax and to think that maybe I’d got it all wrong. After all, I still have not a shred of hard evidence that Peter’s up to no good, just these horrible, uneasy feelings which refuse to go away. But this morning, when I got back from work, I saw that he’d left his briefcase at home. So I opened it – it wasn’t locked – and I know you’ll all disapprove, but all I can say in my own defence is that it was something I just … had to do. I feel so tormented, you see. I’ve lost my peace of mind. My life’s in limbo until I’ve found out one way or the other for sure. So I opened it. And I’m glad I did, because there it was. Tucked into the pocket. A note from Peter’s secretary Iris, which said, Peter, Jean called again – sounded rather anxious. Says you’re a very ‘naughty boy’, not to have called back, and ‘please, please, PLEASE’ to ring. A ‘naughty boy’? Good God! She was probably into S and M. And I felt really annoyed with Iris, who I’d always thought was nice, for helping my husband to pursue his sordid little liaison dangereuse. Then I looked at the manuscript he was working on and there was Jean’s name again. It appeared several times. Peter had doodled it in the margin as though he was quite obsessed. Jean, he’d written, and sometimes just a simple J. And the point is that if Jean was purely a professional contact, then Peter would happily have said. But the fact that he vehemently denied that he knew her makes me feel certain that he’s involved.
‘I’m in agonies,’ I said miserably to Lily this evening. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’ We were sitting at the bar of the Bluebird Café in the King’s Road, not far from where she lives.
‘Have some Laurent Perrier, darling,’ she said above the babble. ‘That’ll cheer you up.’
‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘I have nothing to celebrate. The opposite, in fact. It’s like living with a stranger,’ I added as I sipped my virgin Mary. ‘Out of the blue, somehow, everything’s changed. I feel as though I don’t really know him at all.’
‘Well,’ she said firmly as she slipped Jennifer Aniston a crisp. ‘Are you sure you’ve done everything you can on the investigation front? You must snoop to conquer.’
‘I have been snooping,’ I said.
‘But … ’
‘It’s not working.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not, because you haven’t looked under every stone. You poor darling,’ she added sympathetically as she lit a cheroot. ‘It must be horrible having all these doubts. It must affect your peace of mind.’
‘Yes, it does,’ I agreed. ‘That’s exactly it. I’ve lost my peace of mind.’
‘Well then,’ she said reasonably, ‘you’ve just got to get it back. Now,’ she went on briskly, ‘I know someone whose husband was up to no good and she used a decoy duck.’
‘What, one of those women who chat up your husband and see if he takes the bait?’ She nodded. ‘Oh God, I’d never do that. It’s entrapment. I will not lead Peter into temptation,’ I said.
‘But Faith, it looks as though he may have led himself there.’
‘Well, yes,’ I conceded mournfully. ‘It does. I’d follow him to work, Lily, if I didn’t know that he’d spot me in a flash.’
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He would.’
‘You know, I’m very tempted to get a private detective.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said vaguely. ‘I seem to remember you mentioning that the other day.’ We looked at each other as we sipped our drinks. ‘Well, why don’t you then?’
‘Because they cost far too much,’ I replied. I glanced round the restaurant at all the happy couples having dinner. ‘Look at all these lucky people,’ I moaned. ‘They’re all happy with their partners.’
‘Actually Faith, I’m not sure that’s true. In fact,’ she went on as she expelled a twin plume of pale blue smoke, ‘I know for sure that it’s not. Do you see that couple over there, by the window?’ she went on. I followed her gaze. A man in a pinstripe suit was having supper with an attractive brunette. They were both talking and smiling, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. In short, they looked as though they were in love.
‘He’s a banker,’ Lily explained. ‘I’ve met him socially once or twice.’
‘So what?’
‘The woman who he’s having such a nice dinner with is not his wife.’
‘Oh,’ I sighed. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘Where’s Peter tonight?’ she asked in a voice that was zephyr soft.
‘He’s at a book launch,’ I replied blankly.
‘Well, that could be true I suppose. I must say,’ she went on, ‘a private detective sounds like a very good idea to me. But I’m not going to say any more,’ she added, ‘because you’re my best friend and I don’t want to meddle.’
‘Oh God, Lily,’ I went on, ‘this is such a nightmare. It’s like struggling in wet concrete. It’s like trying to run up an escalator that’s going down. You know, I really do want to have him trailed. I just wish it didn’t cost so much.’
‘Poor Faith,’ Lily said as she lifted her champagne glass to her sculpted lips. ‘But hey! I’ve just had an idea. I’ll pay.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ll pay for you to hire someone,’ she repeated as she opened her bag. ‘In fact, Faith, I’m going to write you a cheque right now.’
‘Lily!’ I said. ‘Don’t be silly, I couldn’t possibly let you do that.’
‘But I want to,’ she protested.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes, why?’ She placed her hand on my knee.
‘Because you’re my dearest friend in the world. That’s why. But that’s not the real reason,’ she suddenly added with a guilty little giggle. ‘I have an ulterior motive, you know.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. You see for some time I’ve been planning an infidelity special for Moi! I want to publish it in June, to counteract all those nauseating weddings. I’m going to call it Rogue.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I could interview you!’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that.’
‘Totally pseudonymously,’ she said reassuringly. ‘So I could pay for your private detective and put it through as an expense. We have a budget for this kind of thing, Faith, and anyway, I’m the boss.’
‘You’d pay?’
‘Yes. I would. It would be perfect for the magazine. I’ll interview you myself, of course, as I know you trust me, and I’ll protect your identity. It would be a First Person piece – Why I had My Husband Trailed. I’d let you see it before it goes in, and don’t worry, both you and Peter will be completely disguised. So what about it?’ she said.
‘Well … ’
‘It’s a good offer, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. Yes it is. But to be honest, Lily, I’m really not sure.’
‘Look, Faith,’ she said patiently, ‘it’s very simple. Do you want your peace of mind back? Or don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said suddenly, ‘I do.’
February Continued (#ulink_d6419a40-6b3f-5982-8a83-093e346e49d1)
So that was how I came to find myself sitting in the offices of Personal Quest. I’d found them by sticking a pin in the Private Investigators section of the Yellow Pages. My appointment was for three o’clock. So at ten to I climbed the rickety stairs of a narrow house in Marylebone. I experienced a frisson of excitement as I knocked on the semi-glazed door. But there was no sign of a trenchcoat, or a trilby; no glamorous secretary filing her nails. Just a harassed looking man of about forty-five with short brown hair and a beard.
‘Now, I’ve had a busy day,’ said the private detective, Ian Sharp, Dip., P.I., as he rummaged through some files on his desk. ‘So remind me again will you, is your case industrial, financial, political, medical, insurance fraud, nanny check, neighbour check, child abduction, missing persons, adoption search, or good old matrimonial?’
‘Er, matrimonial,’ I replied, looking at a framed sign which read, ‘No Mission Impossible’!
‘Well, if it’s matrimonial,’ he went on, ‘let me save you a lot of money right now by telling you that it’s either his secretary or your best friend.’
‘Actually it’s neither,’ I said as I lowered myself into a cheap, green vinyl chair.
‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘Because his secretary, Iris, is fifty-nine, and he can’t stand my closest friend.’
‘So who might this other woman be,’ Ian Sharp enquired, ‘and what makes you think your husband has strayed?’
‘Her name’s Jean,’ I explained, ‘and, well, my husband’s been acting suspiciously for weeks.’
‘Jean?’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Jean. Mmmm. With that name she’s probably Scottish.’ This thought hadn’t occurred to me, but now, somehow, it seemed to ring true. So I told him about the two notes I’d found, and the flowers Peter had sent, and the mystery gum and cigarettes.
‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. He’s distracted and distant, he’s working late, he’s looking fit, he’s bought a mobile phone, he’s not interested in sex, he’s improved his wardrobe, and he’s started sending me flowers.’
‘Ah,’ he said, sitting back and steepling his fingers. ‘All the classic signs.’
‘Yes, exactly,’ I replied.
‘But no hard evidence?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So at the moment it’s simply a hunch,’ he added, bouncing his fingertips against each other. ‘Alarm bells have been ringing.’ I nodded. ‘Your antennae are twitching.’
‘Like mad.’
‘In fact it’s becoming an obsession,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘It certainly is,’ I agreed.
‘So what you’re seeking, by coming here, is peace of mind?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s it,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I want to have my peace of mind restored.’
‘Well, I may not be able to do that,’ he said seriously. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands as if in prayer. ‘I may be able to provide you with the facts,’ he went on judiciously, ‘but as for restoring your peace of mind – I might well do the opposite. Because the truth is that women’s instincts about their husbands’ misbehaviour are proved right ninety per cent of the time.’
‘Oh,’ I said faintly. ‘I see.’
‘So you have to consider the consequences, Mrs Smith, if I were to find evidence of your husband’s … indiscretions. For if I take on this case, I will present you with a written report of my findings, which may well include compromising photos of your husband with the other woman.’
‘Yes,’ I whispered, ‘I know.’
‘You must prepare yourself emotionally, Mrs Smith, for what may lie ahead. You may, in a week’s time, say, find yourself back in this office staring at a photograph of your husband holding another woman by the hand … ’
‘Oh.’
‘Or kissing her.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Or entering a hotel with her.’
‘Oh God.’ I felt sick.
‘Or seeing his car parked outside her house. So I ask you, as I ask all my matrimonial clients, to give that serious thought. Will you be prepared for such … unpalatable images, Mrs Smith?’ he enquired. I heaved a sigh.
‘Yes. I think I will.’
‘In that case my fees are forty pounds an hour exclusive of VAT, fifty-five pounds for evening work, with any expenses on top, plus petrol which I charge at a very reasonable eighty-five pence a mile. Now,’ he went on, ‘do you just want the basic?’
‘What does that involve?’ I enquired.
‘I trail your husband to work and wait in my car, with my small but powerful camera at the ready. Wherever he goes, I won’t be far behind, going snap, snap, snap!’
‘Isn’t there a danger that he’ll spot you?’
‘Mrs Smith,’ said Ian Sharp patiently, ‘what do you notice about me?’
‘Notice?’ I said, dumbfounded. ‘Well, nothing, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘What distinguishing features do I have?’
‘Well, none that I can see, really.’
‘How tall am I?’
‘Er … medium.’
‘What sort of frame do I have?’
‘Well, you know … normal. Not fat, not thin.’
‘Precisely!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Mrs Smith, I am totally nondescript!’ he went on proudly. ‘I am very ordinary. I can pass undetected in a crowd. People do not clock me. They do not remember me. I am invisible in my averageness.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘I would not be picked out in a line-up.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘My appearance is dull and hum-drum.’
‘Well … ’
‘Which means, Mrs Smith,’ he went on confidently, ‘that your husband will be oblivious to my presence. May I add that in fifteen years as a private investigator, I have not been spotted once. Mind you,’ he added, ‘these men are usually so wrapped up in their assignations that they don’t notice me trotting along behind. But there I am, Mrs Smith. There I am.’
‘Right. Well, good.’
‘So that’s the basic search. What we call the Bronze Service. However, you can have a more sophisticated service, the Silver Service, in which I wear … ’ He suddenly opened his jacket with both hands, revealing what looked like a bullet-proof waistcoat. ‘This!’
‘Er … ’
‘This is a body-worn harness in which there is a concealed video camera. Can you see the camera, Mrs Smith? Can you? If so, kindly tell me where it is.’
‘Er, no,’ I said truthfully, ‘I can’t.’
‘It’s here,’ he said, pointing to a tiny pin on the lapel. ‘There is a lens hidden in this pin, which is mere microns thick.’
‘Good Lord!’ I said.
‘Now, if you want video footage, this is what I’ll use, but surveillance equipment of this kind is pricey so that’ll add another ninety-five pounds a day.’
‘I see.’
‘We could also use this.’ He picked up a briefcase and slapped it on the desk. ‘This is a recording briefcase, Mrs Smith. I could have it placed in a cupboard in your husband’s office; inside is a powerful radio mike – extremely sensitive – which would pick up any sweet nothings he cared to murmur down the phone.’
‘I see.’
‘And if you want the Full Monty Five Star No Holds Barred Gold Service – well, then that’s going to involve four of my colleagues following your husband full-time, detailing his every move. Mrs Smith, he would not be able to scratch his backside without me and my lads knowing about it.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.’
‘Nor do I, Mrs Smith, nor do I. I think the Bronze Service will be more than adequate for your purposes. Now,’ he added, ‘do you have any idea what this other woman looks like?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not a clue. And I can’t find out surreptitiously, from Peter, because he denies that he even knows her.’
‘I see. Have you got a photo of your husband?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I produced a recent snap.
‘How tall is he?’ he asked. ‘It’s hard to tell from this.’
‘About five foot eleven, and he weighs thirteen stone. No, he’s lost weight recently, so I guess he might be only twelve. His hair is sandy, as you can see, and he has a fair, lightly freckled complexion.’
‘And what time does he leave for work?’
‘He goes at about eight fifteen and gets the District line to Embankment; then he walks to his office in Villiers Street, where he works on the seventh floor.’
‘Make of car and registration?’ I told him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m on the case. But first, I need the usual deposit of five hundred pounds up front.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I said as I opened my bag. ‘I can give you a cheque right now.’ As I wrote it out I mentally thanked Lily for her wonderful help.
‘Mrs Smith,’ said Sharp as I reached for the door handle. ‘One last question. Have you decided what you’ll do if your suspicions do prove to be correct?’
‘What I’ll do?’
‘Yes. What course of action you’ll take.’
‘Action? Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’
‘Well, with respect, Mrs Smith, I think you should try and work out what your attitude to his adultery would be.’
‘To his adultery?’ I repeated. What a horrible word. ‘It would be totally unacceptable,’ I said.
‘So to recap,’ I said with professional brightness, ‘a typical February day … ’
‘Terry, don’t pick your nose … four, three … ’
‘With a thick bank of heavy cloud … ’
‘Tory leadership next … ’
‘Sitting over most of the country … ’
‘Two, one … ’
‘And this is known, rather depressingly … ’
‘Oh Christ! Where’s the piece about William Hague?’
‘As anti-cyclonic gloom.’
‘I don’t know – who’s got the tape?’
‘So not the slightest chance of sunshine at the moment, I’m afraid.’
‘Find it!’
‘Especially in Chiswick.’
‘What?’
‘And there may be wintry showers in the south-east later on.’
‘I can’t.’
‘So have your brollies handy – just in case.’
‘Oh God, fill, Faith! Fill, fill FILL!’
‘And talking about brollies,’ I went on, ‘we all know that it can rain cats and dogs … ’
‘A minute and a half please, Faith.’
‘But did you know it can sometimes rain frogs and fishes, too?’
‘Well done.’
‘Yes, here’s a little-known Freak Weather Fact for you. Everyone knows that those great big cumulonimbus clouds bring thunderstorms.’
‘Do we?’
‘Well, sometimes you get tornadoes forming out of the bottom of them.’
‘God, I think I’ve got a tornado in my bottom! I had a nuclear curry last night.’
‘And if these little tornadoes go over a pond, they actually suck up the frogs and fish.’
‘Get away!’
‘Then, when the storm moves away, the tornado dies and the frogs and fish drop out of the sky.’
‘Streuth!’
‘There have even been instances of it raining Dover sole along the Thames.’
‘You don’t say. OK Faith, in three, two … ’
‘But fortunately this is a rare occurrence.’
‘And zero. Thanks.’
‘See you in half an hour.’
As I made my way back to the office, I saw a copy of Bella magazine on the planning desk. ‘Is Your Husband Playing Away?’ screamed the headline. As usual these days, when I see anything about infidelity I grab it and read it right through. There were some dreadful stories about women finding alien suspenders in the laundry basket, or coming home to find their husbands in flagrante with the au pair. Then there were accounts of the nightmare scenario in which the Other Woman decides to spill the beans. Shirley from Kent found a note on her windscreen from her husband’s mistress, and Sandra from Penge had the Other Woman phoning her up to confess. I was immediately filled with horror at the thought that Jean might do that to me. In my mind’s ear I could hear her, threatening me in an accent which for some reason I’d decided was not so much Miss Jean Brodie as Irvine Welsh: ‘Noo, yew listen to me, lassie,’ she was saying menacingly, ‘I’m in love with your husband!’
‘Oh no!’
‘Dinna kid yoursel’ woman – he’s in love wi’ me tew!’
‘Don’t say that!’
‘We’ve been seein’ each other foor six months.’
‘Oh God!’
‘And he’s gonna leave yew and come and live wi’ me!’
I was so horrified I wanted to phone Ian Sharp straight away and ask him what I should do. But I couldn’t, because he instructs clients not to ring him until his investigations are through. And he’s right because a) there’s no way I can make a call to him from our open-plan office at work, and b) if I rang him from home then the number would appear on our phone bill, which means that Peter could check it out. So I have to be patient, and wait, but I feel so upset at the moment that I can scarcely function. Which is why I was rather touched when Sophie spoke to me today, in the ladies’ loo, during the third commercial break.
‘Are you all right, Faith?’ she said as I checked my appearance. And I thought that was nice of her, as we’ve never really chatted before.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Fine. Thanks. Fine. Fine. Really. Yes. I am.’
‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘It’s just that usually you’re so cheerful, and I thought you seemed a little … down.’
‘Oh. No. No.’
‘A little distracted.’
‘No. Not at all. What makes you think that?’
‘Well, because you’ve just sprayed deodorant all over your hair.’
‘Have I? Oh, yes. Silly me. Er … I’m just tired,’ I explained with casual brightness. ‘It’s the awful hours, that’s all. You know how it is. Buggered biorhythms and all that. But you’re doing well,’ I added by way of changing the subject. ‘You’re a brilliant broadcaster and you cope so well with Terry. If it was me I’d be in constant tears. Anyway,’ I went on as she washed her hands, ‘I think you’ve got a fantastic future at AM-UK!’ And when I said that she looked rather startled, then pulled a funny face and I thought that was a little bit odd.
The next few days passed agonisingly slowly. My nerves were jangling and I could hardly sleep. Worse, the name Jean seemed to jump out at me from all sides. The actress Jean Tripplehorn was in a new film, I noticed in the Mail, and Jean Marsh from Upstairs Downstairs was buying a new house according to Hello! According to TV Quick! there was going to be a new drama based on a Jean Plaidy novel, and a season of Jean Simmonds’ old films on Channel 4. I even jumped when I heard someone talking about gene therapy on Radio 4. It was an enormous struggle to keep myself occupied as the week crawled by. I finished Madame Bovary – she paid a high price for wrecking her marriage – I went to the health club and swam. I entered a few competitions, and I spent quality time with Graham. And somehow I managed to resist the burning urge to phone Ian Sharp every ten seconds. But I imagined him, all the time, following Peter down the street. Poor Peter, I thought. I felt so treacherous, and I felt sorry for him too. In fact I didn’t know how I’d be able to look him in the face, but thankfully he was having a very busy week, so we hardly saw each other. He told me he had three lunches, two launches, and meetings with Andy, of course. I wondered if any of those lunches were with Jean, and which restaurant they’d choose; and what they’d say to each other, and if they’d be playing footsie or worse, and if, being Scottish, she had a kilt complex about the fact that she was seeing a married man. I kept a detailed diary of how I was feeling, so that I’d give Lily good quotes for her piece. Then, finally, finally, the dreadful day dawned, and I went back to see Ian Sharp.
My heart was beating wildly as I knocked on his semi-glazed door. I felt as though I were awaiting the results of some terrifying medical tests. I inhaled deeply through my nose and braced myself for the worst.
‘Tell me,’ I said imploringly, ‘I’ve simply got to know.’
‘Mrs Smith,’ he began deliberately, ‘there is absolutely nothing to tell.’
‘Nothing?’ I said faintly. ‘Oh!’
‘I found no evidence whatsoever that your husband is having an affair.’
‘None?’ I said, and, curiously, I realised that my main emotion was not so much relief as surprise.
‘Not a thing,’ he reiterated with a shrug. ‘Zero. Nada. Zilch.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said, feeling vaguely indignant by now. After all, this meant I’d been wrong.
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain,’ he said.
‘But what about those three lunches he was having?’ I said. ‘I thought he might be meeting her then.’
‘Well, if it was “her” he was meeting, Mrs Smith, I can assure you there is no affair. In each case his conduct was proper. He chatted to his lunch partner, paid the bill, said goodbye and returned to work. Here,’ he opened his battered folder, ‘I’ll show you. Now, he had lunch with this lady … ’
‘That’s Lucy Watt,’ I said as I studied the black-and-white photo. ‘She’s an author.’ He pulled out another shot.
‘What about this one?’
‘Ah. She’s an agent. I met her once. I think she works at A.P. Trott.’
‘I sat at the next table to your husband, Mrs Smith, and on neither occasion could his behaviour be said to be even mildly flirtatious. Now,’ he said, handing me another photo, ‘he had lunch with this man in Charlotte Street.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I don’t know who that is. It’s probably his headhunter, Andy Metzler.’
‘He also had an early evening drink at Quaglino’s with this woman.’ I looked. The shot was slightly grainy. Sitting at a table with Peter was an attractive blonde of about my age, whom I’d never seen before. And though Peter was smiling at her, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. In fact he looked slightly uptight.
‘Do you know this woman, Mrs Smith?’
‘No,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I don’t. She looks quite tough, doesn’t she? She’s probably an agent driving a hard bargain about some author.’
Lastly, there were six photos of Peter at his book launches, one of which took place at the Groucho and the other at Soho House.
‘You crashed those?’ I said. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘They were both very crowded, Mrs Smith,’ said Ian. ‘I was able to blend right in. I’m a chameleon,’ he added with pride.
‘But how did you manage to take photos without using a flash?’
‘Tricks of the trade,’ he replied, tapping the side of his nose. I studied the pictures. In each of them Peter was talking to the authors in question, Robert Knight and Natalie Waugh, and to his colleagues in Editorial. In one he was even managing to chat politely to Charmaine.
‘After both those events your husband got a cab and went straight home,’ said Ian Sharp. ‘And I know he went straight home, because I followed him all the way. So on the basis of what I’ve seen this week, Mrs Smith, I believe you were mistaken. May I suggest that it was paranoia which fuelled your suspicions, rather than hard facts?’
‘Yes, yes I was paranoid,’ I said. And by now I was so relieved I wanted to kiss him. ‘I just – I don’t know – I began to get carried away. My imagination was running riot,’ I said with a smile. ‘But now my peace of mind has been restored.’
‘However, it is my duty to tell you, Mrs Smith, that it is perfectly possible that this woman, Jean, might not have been in London this week. For example, she might have had to go away … ’
‘Oh, I see. To Scotland, perhaps.’
‘Making it impossible for her to have a rendezvous with your husband.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose so.’ My euphoria had sunk like a stone.
‘So I’m simply saying that although I believe your husband is blameless, I can’t be entirely sure. If you wanted to be one hundred per cent certain, then we’d have to trail him for a longer period.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I understand.’
‘So my advice to you, Mrs Smith, is to assume the best and carry on as though everything is normal. Which it probably is. But should your suspicions be aroused again, then we can take further action.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s fine. I’d like to leave it like that. I’ll assume the best, because that’s what I always did before. And if I feel the need, I can always come back. Yes. That’s just what I’ll do. Thanks.’ Then I wrote him a cheque for fifteen hundred pounds – mentally giving thanks to Lily again – and got the tube home. But although I was relieved that he’d found nothing, there were still lingering doubts in my mind. What was I to make of those notes about Jean? And what about the flowers, the cigarettes and gum? I still had these uneasy feelings, which refused to go away. I left a message for Lily to phone me, then made myself a cup of tea. Half an hour later the phone rang. ‘That’ll be Lily,’ I said to Graham. And I was just about to tell her that Peter was the innocent victim of my unfounded suspicions when I heard an unfamiliar male voice.
‘’Allo,’ it said, ’eez zat Madame Smeeth?’
‘Yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘It is.’
‘Ah. Well I am trying to make contact with your ’usband, Peter. And ’is secretary, I ’ope you don’ mind, she give me ze house number.’
‘Er, yes?’
‘Because I need to talk to ’eem.’
‘OK. Erm … who is this, please?’
‘My name is John.’
‘John who?’
‘No, not John – Jean. Jean Dupont. I am calling from Paris.’
‘Jean?’ I repeated.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Zat’s right. Jean.’
‘Jean,’ I said again.
‘Yes. Yes. Zat’s right. Jean. Eet eez spelt –’
‘It’s perfectly all right,’ I said quickly. ‘I know how to spell it. I’ve just remembered. It’s spelt J, E, A, N. Jean!’
‘Er … exactement, Madame Smeeth.’
‘Jean!’
‘Correct.’ I could feel laughter rising up in my throat like bubbles in a glass of champagne. ‘I am phoning from ze French publishers, Hachette,’ he went on. ‘Peter knows me, we are working togezer on a book.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’
‘And I need to talk to ’eem again today, but ’is secretary she say she donno where he eez. You know, your ’usband is a very naughty boy, Madame Smeeth,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Because ’e don’ always return my calls.’
‘Oh. Oh. Yes, that is naughty,’ I agreed.
‘So I ask you please to ask ’eem to call me at my ’ome, çe soir. You have a pen? I give you ze number.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said as I now suppressed the urge to shout with joy. ‘Yes, of course I have a pen,’ I added happily. ‘OK. Let me write it down. Got that. And thank you very much.’
‘No, sank you,’ he said, clearly taken aback by my enthusiasm.
‘It’s so nice of you to call,’ I added warmly, ‘I’m very, very glad that you did. And the minute Peter’s home, I’ll get the “naughty boy” to phone you right back. Au revoir, Jean, au revoir!’ I slammed the phone down with an exultant cry; and I was just about to phone Lily and tell her about my ridiculous mistake, when Graham suddenly barked and I heard the key turning in the lock. It was Peter; back early.
‘Darling!’ I exclaimed joyfully. ‘Listen, I’ve got something to say!’
‘No,’ he said as Graham leaped up to greet him, ‘I’ve got something to say to you.’
‘But I just want to tell you that I’ve made this stupid, stupid mistake, you see … ’
‘Faith, whatever it is – it can wait. Graham, look, will you please get down. Faith,’ he said. ‘Faith … ’ His profile was reflected in the sunburst mirror.
‘Yes?’
‘Look, there’s something you’ve got to know.’ My pulse was racing.
‘Yes?’ I said again. Peter took a deep breath.
‘I’m leaving.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m leaving,’ he repeated as we faced each other in the hall.
‘You’re leaving what?’ I said, faintly. ‘Me?’
‘No, you twit – Fenton & Friend. I’m out!’
‘My God!’ I said with a gasp. ‘She’s done it! She’s finally sacked you, the cow!’ Peter’s face was still a mask of seriousness; but then he suddenly grinned.
‘No, Faith, she didn’t sack me,’ he explained. ‘Because I resigned first. And I told her that I was resigning … ’
‘Yes?’
‘Because I’ve been offered another job!’
‘You’ve got another job!’ I yelled. ‘Oh, how marvellous!’ I threw my arms round him. I was having a very good day. ‘How fantastic! Oh, Peter! Where?’
‘Faith,’ he said, and now his face was wreathed in smiles, ‘I’m going to be the new managing director of Bishopsgate!’
‘Bishopsgate,’ I gasped. ‘Bishopsgate? My God! But they’re huge!’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said wonderingly as he took off his coat. ‘And because they’ve expanded so much in the last couple of years they were looking for a new MD. So I was interviewed twice.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ I said as we went into the sitting room.
‘Because I was scared I wouldn’t get it, and I wanted it so much. But they did one final interview with me at lunchtime, then Andy phoned to say I’d got the job.’
‘Oh, darling!’ I said and I hugged him again.
‘And Faith,’ he went on, wonderingly, as he fixed himself a drink. ‘The money. The money’s going to be three times what I get now. We won’t have to struggle so much.’
‘God, how fantastic! But what did Charmaine say?’
‘She was livid,’ he said as he sat down and loosened his tie. ‘She was spitting fire. Especially when I told her about my new job. She kept telling me that it was “outrageous” – it’s her favourite word, silly old bat. She had the nerve to accuse me of being disloyal. So I pointed out that I’d worked for Fenton & Friend very happily for thirteen years, and that the only reason I’d been looking elsewhere was because she’s such a nightmare.’
‘Oh, darling, that was really brave of you – and typically truthful, too.’
‘I had nothing to lose at that stage,’ he explained with a shrug. ‘Anyway, she tried to kick me out, on the spot. But I wasn’t having that. I informed her that I was on three months’ notice, as stipulated in my contract. Then I got a call from Personnel, who are going to pay me off to leave by the fourteenth. Now I’ve got to call all my authors,’ he said as he rummaged in his briefcase. ‘I feel bad for them, but there’s nothing I can do. I suspect half of them are going to end up with ghastly Oiliver, poor things. But, Faith,’ he said as he flicked through his address book, ‘I feel bad about leaving, but I really had no choice. Charmaine and Oliver were out to destroy me, but now, thanks to Andy, I’m safe. I’m going to take Andy for lunch at the Ritz,’ he added as he reached for the phone.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘you must. He deserves it.’ But Peter was busy dialling a number and didn’t seem to hear what I’d said.
‘I’ll call Clare Barry first,’ he said.
‘You’ve got to call Jean, too. And darling that’s what I meant to tell you,’ I added. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes. The reason why I’ve been behaving so … stupidly. I’m really sorry. You see, I’d got this silly idea that you were seeing someone called Jean. But now I know that “Jean”, isn’t “Jean”. She’s Jean. Or rather he is. And I only realised that when Jean rang up today.’
‘Jean?’ Peter repeated. ‘Yes, Jean and I have been working on a deal. It was a really boring instant book about some minor French film star which Charmaine fobbed off on me. We were going to publish it simultaneously in Britain and France, so I’ve been talking to him quite a lot. But it’s so tedious, Faith, and I’ve been so preoccupied, I kept forgetting to phone him back. Oh hello, is that Clare?’ he said. ‘Clare, look, it’s Peter here … ’
‘Nothing?’ said Lily when I phoned to report. She sounded vaguely affronted. ‘Darling – are you quite sure?’
‘Yes,’ I said happily. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Nothing?’ she said again. ‘Zero?’
‘Not a thing,’ I confirmed.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. So it was a case of trail and error.’
‘Yes,’ I said with a giggle. ‘It was. And I’m sorry about your article, Lily … ’
‘Well, yes … ’ She sounded a little depressed.
‘But the simple fact of the matter is that Peter hasn’t strayed.’
‘Mmm.’
‘I can’t believe I could have been so stupid,’ I went on. ‘I mean, why did I automatically assume that Jean was a woman?’
‘Because you’re still Faith Value,’ she sighed.
‘I know. Instead of thinking rationally, or doing a little lateral thinking, I became totally paranoid and insecure. I didn’t just jump to conclusions, Lily, I leaped to them with a pole-vault!’
‘Oh well,’ she added philosophically, ‘we can still interview you as a woman whose suspicions were proven groundless.’
‘So it’s not a complete waste of time and money?’
‘No, though obviously it would have been much better – I mean, better copy, obviously – if he’d been up to no good.’
‘Well, I’m glad he wasn’t,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Oh Lily, thank you so much for paying for it,’ I added. ‘And you did me a double favour there, because now my trust in Peter is even greater than it was before!’
There was a sudden silence, broken only by the sound of Jennifer’s background grunting, and then I heard Lily say, ‘Faith, I’m so pleased it’s all worked out like this. And you know the last thing I’d want is to rain on your parade, but … ’
‘But what?’
‘There are still some unanswered questions.’
‘Are there?’ I said. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, those flowers,’ she said. ‘Were they really for that author?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m sure they were.’
‘And what about the chewing gum and cigarettes?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said airily. ‘To be honest I don’t really care. I’m sure there’s some perfectly innocent explanation, just as there was with Jean.’
‘Well, the only thing I’d say,’ she went on, ‘is that not many British people smoke Lucky Strike. In fact that’s an American brand.’
‘Then they must have been for Andy, his head hunter.’
‘Of course they must. But then why didn’t he say so out-right? Look, Faith, would you do me one favour, darling? This is purely for the article, of course.’
‘Yes. OK. If I can.’
‘Would you just ask Peter about those other things?’ I sighed. ‘Just to tie up those annoying little loose ends?’
‘Oh, OK,’ I said slightly reluctantly. ‘Now that I feel so confident in Peter, I will. But I won’t do it until Wednesday.’
‘Why? What’s happening then?’
‘I’m taking him out to dinner,’ I explained. ‘A very special dinner, actually. I’ve just booked a table at Le Caprice!’
‘I say, that’s a bit rash!’
‘I know, but Peter deserves it after all the stresses of the last few months. And because I was so mean and suspicious and nasty I’m going to foot the bill myself. In any case,’ I went on, ‘we’ve got so much to celebrate. His new job. Our future … ’
‘And what else?’
‘It’s Valentine’s Day!’
On the evening of February the fourteenth I took the Underground to Green Park. London was in love, and so was I. On every platform I spotted young men sheepishly clutching flowers. And I thought of the two dozen red roses that I’d received from Peter earlier in the day. I gasped when I saw them – they’re so beautiful. Long-stemmed, velvet-petalled and with a delicious, heady scent. As I walked down Piccadilly, I had to weave through all the couples strolling arm in arm. The early evening air seemed to throb with romance as I passed the Ritz, and despite the fact that I’ve been married for so long, my heart was thumping as I turned down Arlington Street and saw Le Caprice. I’d been here once, with Peter, years ago, but I knew it was his favourite place. I glanced round the monochrome interior and saw that Peter was already at the table, having his usual gin and tonic. He stood up to greet me, and I was just thinking that he looked very smart, but also slightly subdued in a funny sort of way, when his mobile phone rang out. Or rather it didn’t ring, it played ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, because that’s what it does.
‘I guess that’s Andy,’ I said as Peter fumbled to turn it off. ‘And let me say,’ I added with a laugh, ‘that Andy is a jolly good fellow!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Peter with a faint smile. ‘That’s right.’
‘He must be thrilled about what he’s pulled off for you,’ I said as we perused the menu. ‘I hope he gets a whopping great bonus for all his hard work.’
‘Yes. Yes. Definitely,’ Peter said with a funny little laugh. ‘Oh, by the way my appointment’s in Publishing News.’ He showed me a copy of the magazine and there, on page three, Peter was profiled with a photo under the headline: ‘Peter Smith’s Smart Move to Bishopsgate’. I read it through with tremendous pride: respected publishing director … very distinguished list … rumoured conflicts with Charmaine Duval … Bishopsgate set to expand. We ordered champagne – real champagne this time – and then our starters arrived. I had Bang Bang chicken, and Peter had creamed fennel soup. The restaurant was full of couples like us having a romantic Valentine’s dinner, tête à tête. I was feeling quite mellow and calm, although, as I say, I couldn’t help noticing that Peter seemed a little bit quiet. But I knew why – he’d just had his last day at Fenton & Friend, which must have been an enormous wrench.
‘Did they give you a good send off?’ I asked.
‘I had a small gathering in my office,’ he said. ‘Iris cried. I felt quite cut up, too.’
‘Well, it’s a huge change, darling – especially after so long. But like most changes it’s going to be for the best. What a hellish time you’ve had,’ I added as the waiter removed our plates. ‘And Peter, I just want to apologise again for being so mean and low. I just don’t know what got into me.’ He squeezed my hand.
‘Faith, don’t worry. That’s in the past.’
‘Anyway,’ I said as I raised my glass, ‘here’s to happy endings.’
‘Yes. To happy endings,’ he agreed. ‘And to new beginnings, too.’
‘To a new chapter,’ I went on happily. ‘With no nasty twists in the tale.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘Even the weather’s improved,’ I added with a laugh. ‘The anti-cyclonic gloom has lifted and there are blue skies ahead.’ Peter smiled. ‘And did you take Andy to the Ritz?’ I enquired as our main course arrived – swordfish for me and breast of chicken for him.
‘Er … yes,’ he replied. ‘I did. We went there on, um, Tuesday.’
‘Well,’ I said as I picked up my knife and fork, ‘personally I think Andy’s just fab.’ We chatted away like this as we ate, and at last Peter began to relax. I glanced at the black-and-white photo on the wall beside us and realised that it was Marianne Faithfull. And somehow that made me remember Lily’s request. I didn’t want to ask Peter directly, so I just said, ‘Darling, I’m so sorry I ever doubted you. It was horrid of me. Obviously those flowers were for Clare Barry.’ He looked at me. ‘Weren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘They were.’
‘And as for those cigarettes – well, so what? – why shouldn’t you have the occasional fag? It was so silly of me to over-react like that, Peter. I’ve trusted you for fifteen years, darling, and I’ve no intention of stopping now. I know you’ve never had an affair,’ I went on with a tipsy giggle, ‘and I don’t believe you would.’ He was silent. ‘Because I know you always tell the truth.’ I had a sip of wine. ‘Don’t you, darling? Because the simple fact is that you’re a very decent and honourable man. And you’re so truthful, too, in fact that’s what I love about you most and I just want to say how –’
‘Faith,’ said Peter suddenly. ‘Please stop.’ He was fiddling with his knife and he had this peculiar expression on his face. ‘There’s something I want to tell you,’ he said.
‘Darling, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter, Faith. It matters to me.’
‘Peter,’ I said, then took another large sip of Bordeaux, ‘whatever it is it’s not important tonight.’
‘It is,’ he corrected me. ‘It is. It’s very important, actually. Because you’re sitting here telling me what a great guy I am, and quite frankly I can’t stand it.’
‘Oh darling, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just that I’m feeling so happy and I’ve probably had a bit too much to drink, and I’m just trying to make it up to you for being such a suspicious cow.’
‘But that’s the whole point,’ he said. ‘That’s precisely what I can’t stand.’
‘Why?’
‘Faith,’ he said, fiddling with his glass, ‘I’ve done something rather … silly.’
‘You’ve done something silly?’ I echoed. ‘Oh Peter, I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘It isn’t nothing,’ he said.
‘Really, Peter –’
‘No, darling, listen to me,’ he said as he locked his gaze in mine. I saw him breathe in. Then out. ‘Faith,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been unfaithful.’ My wine-glass stopped in mid-air.
‘Sorry?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry – because I’ve slept with someone else.’
‘Oh,’ I said, aware that my face was suddenly aflame.
‘But it was only once,’ he added, ‘and it doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh,’ I said again.
‘But the reason I’m telling you is because, well, we are about to enter a new era, yes, a new chapter; and I knew I just couldn’t live with myself unless I’d made a clean breast.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. For some reason it seemed to be the only word I knew.
‘You see, Faith,’ he went on as he stared at his uneaten chicken, ‘you’ve been going on at me all evening about how “honest” and “truthful” I am. So I can’t bear to conceal from you the fact that … ’
‘What?’
‘Well, that I’ve had this little … fling.’
‘A fling?’ I echoed. ‘With whom?’
‘Look,’ he said wearily, ‘that’s not important. It’s over now. It was a stupid mistake, and it’s not going to happen again.’
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ I said, struggling to remain composed. ‘But I don’t think it’s fair of you to tell me you’ve had a – fling, and then refuse to say who it was with, because … Oh God, Peter,’ I added, my throat suddenly constricting. ‘You’ve been unfaithful to me.’
‘Yes,’ he said, quietly, ‘I have. But it’s not important,’ he repeated. ‘I was put under pressure. I – I’d had a few drinks, it was just … one of those things.’
‘Please tell me who it was with?’ I said again, aware that my palms felt damp.
‘I –’
‘Please, Peter. I’d like to know.’
‘Well … ’
‘Just give me her name, will you?’
‘No.’
‘Go on, tell me!’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can!’
‘Look, I –’
‘Give me her name, Peter.’
‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘It’s Andy Metzler.’ My hands flew up to my mouth.
‘You’ve had sex with a man?!’ Peter was staring at me. He looked shocked.
‘No, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘It’s not all right,’ I shot back. ‘It is absolutely NOT all right, Peter!’
‘Yes it is,’ he insisted.
‘No, it damn well isn’t –’
‘Yes it is, Faith, because, you see – Andy’s a woman.’
‘What?’
‘Andy Metzler’s a woman,’ he repeated. I gasped.
‘You never told me that.’
‘You never asked.’
‘But you never said. It’s been “Andy this, and Andy that” – I had no idea he was a she.’
‘Well,’ he said quietly, ‘she is. I agree it’s a funny sort of name for a woman. But she’s American, and, well, that’s what she’s called – it’s spelled A-N-D-I-E.’
‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘Like Andie McDowell.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Like that.’
‘And you had an affair with her?’ He nodded. ‘When?’ He fiddled with the salt pot.
‘When, Peter?’
‘On Tuesday.’
‘On Tuesday? Yesterday? Oh yes, of course,’ I said, nodding my head. ‘You were going to take her for lunch at the Ritz. To celebrate. Well, it certainly sounds like you did.’
‘Look, one thing led to another,’ he said sheepishly. ‘She was coming on to me, Faith. She’s been coming on to me for months. Ever since she met me, in fact. And you were behaving so suspiciously, I was fed up and I felt so grateful to her for getting me the job that, somehow, I couldn’t … refuse.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said sarcastically. ‘In order not to hurt her feelings, you slept with her. What a gent. I’m so proud of you, Peter. You took a room, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘We did.’ And suddenly, in that moment, in that terrible moment when he said ‘we’, I realised that truthfulness was Peter’s least endearing quality.
‘So she did get her bonus, then,’ I said darkly, aware of a lemon-sized lump in my throat. ‘How ironic,’ I murmured as I gripped and ungripped my napkin. ‘How very ironic. For the past two weeks I’ve been obsessing about some Scottish woman called Jean, who turns out to be a Frenchman called Jean; and now you tell me you’ve had an affair with an American woman called Andie, who I was quite convinced was a bloke!’
‘Er … yes.’ I shook my head.
‘Well,’ I whispered bitterly. ‘Well, well, well.’ Then I looked at him and said, ‘This hurts.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. But she pushed me into it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said.
‘She did,’ he insisted wearily. ‘I’d made it quite clear that I was – married. But now our professional relationship was at an end and she just … ’
‘Decided to make it personal.’
‘Yes. Oh, I don’t know – she put me under all this … pressure.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I hissed. ‘I think you slept with her because you wanted to.’
‘No I did not.’
‘Liar!’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Admit it!’
‘OK, then, yes, I did!’
‘You did!’
‘Yes. Since you’ve forced me to admit it, yes I bloody well did!’
‘You bastard!’ I spat. And I was terribly shocked to hear myself say that, because I’ve never called him that in my life.
‘I’ve been under such stress, Faith,’ he groaned. He leaned his head on his right hand. ‘These last six months have been hell. And then you started going on at me. You wouldn’t leave me alone. You were like a terrier with a rat, banging on about this woman or that chewing gum or those cigarettes.’
‘That gum!’ I exclaimed. ‘That chewing gum was for her.’ He was silent. ‘Wasn’t it?’ I said. ‘You don’t like it – you never have. And those cigarettes, they were for her as well, weren’t they?’ Peter nodded miserably. ‘You had gum and cigarettes at the ready for her. How gallant. Lucky Strike!’ I spat. ‘So you’ve had an affair,’ I repeated, my voice rising, ‘with a – what was it you said – “chick”? Oh. My. God.’
‘Look, it was completely spontaneous,’ he said. ‘It just happened on the spur of the moment.’
‘That’s not true!’ I said.
‘Shhhh! Don’t shout.’
‘You’d wanted to shag her for weeks.’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes you had. And the reason I know is because of Katie.’
‘Katie? What’s she got to do with this?’
‘Her psychoanalytic stuff. She’s always going on about Freudian slips, isn’t she? Well, she goes on about the Freudian “telling omission” too. And I think it’s very, very telling, Peter, that you’ve never let on that Andie was a woman.’
‘It wasn’t relevant,’ he said.
‘Oh yes it was,’ I shot back. ‘Because the other night you recited that great list of all the women you know – every single one. So how very strange, Peter,’ I added, emphatically, ‘that you didn’t mention her!’ By now his face and neck were blotched with red. ‘In fact you even told me the names of Andie’s two female colleagues, but you carefully left her out. Now I know why!’ I concluded triumphantly. ‘Because you didn’t want me to know. And the reason why you didn’t was because you already knew you wanted to get her into bed.’
‘I … I … ’
‘Don’t deny it,’ I said contemptuously.
‘I … OK,’ he said. ‘OK, I admit it. She’s very attractive. She’s single. She fancies me. And yes, I fancied her.’
‘She’s got short blonde hair,’ I said suddenly. It had come to me in a flash. What the French call an éclaircissement. Andie was that unknown blonde photographed with Peter in Quaglino’s. ‘She’s got short blonde hair,’ I said again.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She has. But how the hell do you know?’
‘Because … ’ Oh God, I couldn’t tell him. ‘Because … Oh, female intuition,’ I explained. ‘I feel sick,’ I announced as I fiddled with my pudding spoon. ‘You’ve had an affair. How could you?’
‘I’ll tell you how,’ he said, and by now his voice was rising as well. ‘Because you’d accused me of having one, and then the opportunity was there and I thought damn it, why not go ahead and do it!’ I was aware by now that we were beginning to attract strange looks.
‘Any dessert?’ enquired the waiter. ‘And, er, I’d be grateful sir and madam if you could keep your voices down.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I will not keep my voice down, because my husband has just been unfaithful!’ I was aware of eyes swivelling in our direction, and of the sound of breath being sharply inhaled.
‘Well, madam,’ said the waiter, ‘I just feel that … ’
‘I don’t care what you feel!’ I hissed. ‘We are having marital difficulties here.’ By now all conversation in the restaurant had stopped and everyone was staring, but I couldn’t have cared less. ‘After fifteen years of marriage,’ I informed the waiter, ‘my husband tells me that he’s strayed.’
‘– poor woman,’ I heard someone say.
‘– isn’t she the weather girl on that morning TV show?’
‘– faithful for fifteen years? The man must be a saint.’
‘– of course you were unfaithful after five.’
‘– no need to bring that up!’
‘Now madam,’ said the waiter, ‘I am very sorry that you have this, er, problem.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ I corrected him, ‘it’s a crisis.’
‘And actually I’m divorced myself.’
‘Oh, well, I’m sorry.’
‘My wife left me.’
‘Oh, bad luck,’ said Peter.
‘So although I am sympathetic, I must nevertheless ask you to keep your voices down.’
‘Yes, Faith,’ Peter whispered hoarsely. ‘Please would you keep it down!’
‘That’s right, keep it down,’ I said with a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t rock the boat. Be a big girl. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t cry. And above all, above all – don’t mind. Well, I do mind!’ I wailed. ‘I mind terribly. How could you, Peter?’ I added, aware that the table had begun to blur.
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Isabel Wolff
A sparkling novel by the bestselling author of THE VERY PICTURE OF YOU and A VINTAGE AFFAIR.Faith has arranged a surprise party at a West London restaurant to celebrate fifteen years of marriage to her publisher husband Peter. They have a lot to be thankful for – including two teenage children and the knowledge that, at thirty-five, they’ve hammered out an enduring partnership that, at this age, many of their contemporaries are only just themselves embarking upon.But something is niggling at Faith. A casual, barbed comment by her bitchy magazine editor friend Lily makes her wonder whether her world is as wonderful as it seems on the surface. Peter has been behaving slightly oddly recently – but is this purely because of stress at work?As the kernel of unease swells and begins to burgeon inside her, Faith finds herself on a quest that leads to a shake-up of everything she holds dear – but which, in the end, enables her to reforge her life.
Out of the Blue
Isabel Wolff
For my godchildren Nadia, Raphael and Laurie
No dogs were harmed in the writing of this book.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ub2813029-69a8-5fa2-9c4f-f6bccd5e9872)
Title Page (#u6fa0faec-0136-52af-815e-19a1041bda59)
Epigraph (#u81c09ab1-773a-5433-aefc-6deff34bdea4)
January (#uaf0df96d-fcb7-5d47-801a-0c640ba8b778)
February (#u182011f1-a753-5d35-84f1-6ec6de95daa7)
February Continued (#ua41d0611-5893-5831-9880-b980fc097f99)
March (#litres_trial_promo)
March Continued (#litres_trial_promo)
April (#litres_trial_promo)
May (#litres_trial_promo)
June (#litres_trial_promo)
July (#litres_trial_promo)
July Continued (#litres_trial_promo)
August (#litres_trial_promo)
September (#litres_trial_promo)
October (#litres_trial_promo)
November (#litres_trial_promo)
December (#litres_trial_promo)
January (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Permissions (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
January (#ulink_f8edb686-74ec-5423-8c52-b4d05d69e197)
It’s funny how things can suddenly change, isn’t it? They can alter in a heartbeat, in a breath. I think that’s what happened tonight because, well, I don’t really know how to explain it except to say that nothing feels quite the same. The evening started out well. In fact it felt like quite a success. There we were, in the restaurant, enjoying ourselves. Talking and laughing. Eating and drinking. Just eight of us. Just a small party. I wanted to cheer Peter up, because he’s got his problems right now. So I’d planned this evening as a surprise. He hadn’t suspected a thing. In fact, he’d even forgotten that it was our anniversary, and he’s never done that before. But when he came home it was obvious that today’s date had passed him by.
‘Oh, Faith, I’m sorry,’ he sighed as he opened my card. ‘It’s the sixth today, isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘I’m afraid I completely … forgot.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said brightly. ‘Honestly, darling. Because I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.’ He’s having a bad time at work, you see. He’s publishing director at Fenton & Friend, a job he used to love, but a year ago a new chairwoman called Charmaine arrived and she’s been giving him serious grief. She and her creepy sidekick, Oliver. Or rather ‘Oiliver’ as Peter calls him, though not to his face, of course. But, between the two of them, Charmaine and Oliver are making Peter’s life hell.
‘How was it today?’ I asked him cautiously as he hung up his coat.
‘Awful,’ he said wearily, running his hand through his sandcoloured hair. ‘The old bat was going on at me about the bloody sales figures,’ he said as he loosened his tie. ‘She went on and on. In front of everyone. It was hideous. And Oliver just stood there, with a smirk on his fat face, oozing sycophancy from every pore. I tell you, Faith,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I’m for the chop. It can’t be long.’
‘Well, leave it to Andy,’ I said.
A faraway look came into Peter’s eyes and he said, ‘Yes. I’ll put my faith in Andy.’ That’s Andy Metzler, by the way. He’s a headhunter. American. One of the best in town. Peter seems to think the world of him. It’s ‘Andy this’ and ‘Andy that’, so I really hope Andy delivers the goods. But it’ll be hard for Peter if he does have to leave Fenton & Friend, because he’s been there for thirteen years. It’s been a bit like our marriage, really – a stable and happy relationship, based on affection, loyalty and trust. But now it looks as though it might be coming to an end.
‘I suppose nothing stays the same,’ Peter added ruefully as he fixed us both a drink. ‘I’m not joking, Faith,’ he added as I took the last baubles off the Christmas tree. ‘I’ll be getting the old heave-ho, because Oiliver’s after my job.’
Peter tries to be philosophical about it all, but I know he’s very depressed. For example, he’s not quite his normal genial self, and he’s finding it hard to sleep. So for the past six months or so, we’ve been in separate rooms. Which is no bad thing as I have to get up at three thirty a.m. for my job at breakfast TV. I do the weather, at AM-UK! I’ve been there six years now, and I love it, despite the hideously early start. Normally, I let the alarm pip twice, slip out of bed, and Peter goes straight back to sleep. But at the moment he can’t stand being disturbed, so he’s in the spare room on the top floor. I don’t mind. I understand. And sex isn’t everything, you know. And in some ways I quite like it, because it means I can sleep with Graham instead. I love Graham. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and he’s incredibly bright. He snores a bit, which annoys me, but I poke him in the ribs and say, ‘Darling – shhh!’ And he opens his eyes, looks at me lovingly, then drops off again – just like that. He’s lucky. He sleeps very well, though sometimes he has nightmares and starts twitching violently and kicking his legs. But he doesn’t mind being disturbed in the dead of night when I get up to go to work; in fact – and this is really sweet – he likes to get up too. He sits outside the bathroom while I have my shower. Then I hear the cab pull up, I put on my coat, and hug him goodbye.
Some of our friends think that Graham’s a slightly odd name for a dog. And I suppose it is compared to Rover, say, or Gnasher, or Shep. But we decided on Graham because I found him in Graham Road, in Chiswick, where we live. That was two years ago. I’d been to the dentist for a filling, and when I came out there was this mongrel – very young, and terribly thin – looking at me expectantly as though we’d known each other for years. And he followed me all the way home, just trotting along gently behind, then sat down outside the front gate and wouldn’t move. So eventually I invited him in, gave him a ham sandwich and that was that. We phoned the police, and the dogs’ home, but no-one ever claimed him, and I’d have been distraught if they had because, to be honest, it was love at first sight, just like it was with Peter. I adore him. Graham, I mean. We just clicked. We really get on. And I think the reason why I love him so much is because of the sweet way he put his faith in me.
Peter was fine about it – he likes dogs too – and of course the children were thrilled, though Katie, who wants to be a psychiatrist, thinks I ‘mother’ Graham too much. She says I’m projecting my frustrated maternal desires for another child onto the dog. I know … ridiculous! But you have to take teenagers very seriously, don’t you, otherwise they get in a strop. Anyway, Graham’s the baby of the family. He’s only three. He doesn’t have a pedigree, but he’s got bucketloads of class. He’s a collie cross of some sort, with a feathery red-gold coat, a white blaze on his chest and a foxy, elegant charm. We take him almost everywhere with us, though not to restaurants, of course. So this evening Peter settled him on his beanbag, put on the telly for him – he likes Food and Drink – and said, ‘Don’t worry, old boy, Mummy and I are just going out for a quick bite.’
But Peter had no idea what I’d really planned. He thought we’d just be having an impromptu dinner, tête à tête. I’d told him I’d booked a table, but he’d assumed it was just for two. So when we got to the restaurant, and he saw the children sitting there, with his mother, Sarah, he looked so surprised and pleased. And I’d invited Mimi, an old college friend of ours, with her new husband, Mike.
‘It’s like This Is Your Life!’ Peter exclaimed with a laugh, as we took off our coats. ‘What a great idea, Faith,’ he said. To be honest, I didn’t do it just for him. I did it for myself, too, because I felt like marking the occasion in some way. I mean, fifteen years. Fifteen years. That’s nearly half our lives.
‘Fifteen years,’ I said with a smile as we sat down. ‘And it hasn’t been a day too long.’
I’ve been very happy in my marriage, you see. And believe me, I still am. For example, I’m never, ever bored. There’s always loads to do. We don’t have much money, of course – we never have had – but we still have lots of fun. Well, we would do if it wasn’t for the fact that Peter’s working so hard: Charmaine’s got him reading manuscripts most nights, and I have to be in bed by half past nine. But at weekends, that’s when we catch up and really enjoy ourselves. The children come home – they’re weekly boarders at a school in Kent – and we do, ooh, all sorts of things. We go for walks along the river, and we garden. We go to Tesco for the weekly shop. Sometimes we pop down to Ikea – the one in Brent Cross, though occasionally, for a bit of a change, we’ll try the one in Croydon. And we might take out a video, or watch a bit of TV, and the children go and see their friends. Well, they would do if they had any. They’re both what you’d call loners, I’m afraid. It worries me a bit. For example, Matt – he’s twelve – just loves being on his computer. He’s an addict, always has been; he was mouse-trained very young. I remember when he was five and I’d be putting him to bed, he’d say, ‘Please can you wake me up at six o’clock tomorrow, Mummy, so I can go on the computer before I go to school?’ And that struck me as rather sad, really, and he’s still just like that now. But he’s as happy as Larry with all his computer games and his CD Roms, so we don’t like to interfere. As I say, he’s not what you’d call an all rounder. For example, his written skills are dire. But as well as the computers he’s brilliant at maths – in fact we call him ‘Mattematics’. And that’s why we sent him to Seaworth, because he wasn’t coping well where he was. But he wouldn’t go without Katie, and it suits her very well too because, look, don’t think I’m being disloyal about my children – but they’re not quite like other kids. For one thing Katie’s far too old for her years. She’s only fourteen now, but she’s so serious-minded. She does nothing but read. I guess she takes after Peter, because for her it’s books, not bytes. She’s not at all fashion-conscious, like other girls of her age. There’s no hint of any teenage rebellion, either; she seems to be just as ‘sensible’ as me. And because I never kicked over the traces, somehow I wish that she would. I keep hoping that she’ll come home one weekend with a lime-green mohican or at the very least with a stud in her nose. But no such luck – all she ever does is read. As I say, she’s dead keen on psychology, she’s got lots of books on Jung and Freud, and she likes to practise her psychotherapeutic skills on all of us. And when we sat down at the table this evening, that’s what she was doing.
‘So, Granny, how did you feel about your divorce?’ I heard her ask my mother-in-law. I made a sympathetic face at Sarah, but she just looked at me and smiled.
‘Well, Katie, I felt fine about it,’ she said. ‘Because when two people are unhappy together, then it’s sometimes better for them to part.’
‘What were the chief factors, would you say, in the breakdown of your relationship with Grandpa?’
‘Well, darling,’ she said as she lowered her menu, ‘I think we just married too young.’
People sometimes say that about Peter and me. We married at twenty, you see; and so people do sometimes ask me – and to be honest I wish they wouldn’t – if I ever have any regrets about that. But I don’t. I never, ever wonder, ‘What if … ?’ because I’ve been happy really, in every way. Peter’s a decent and honest man. He’s very hard-working, he’s great with the kids, and he’s kind and considerate to his mum. He’s quite handsome, too, though he needs to lose a little weight. But then, funnily enough, this evening I noticed that he is looking a bit more trim. I expect he’s shed a few pounds recently because of all his stress. He’s well turned out at the moment, too – I’ve noticed he’s got a couple of lovely new ties. He says he has to be ready to slip out to interviews at the drop of a hat, so he’s been dressing very smartly for work. So despite his present anxieties, he’s looking pretty good. And after such a long time with Peter I could never fancy anyone else. People sometimes ask me if I do fantasy – sorry, fancy, anyone else – after fifteen years with the same man, and the answer is absolutely, categorically, definitively hardly ever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m made of flesh and blood. I can see when a man’s attractive. For example, that chap who came round last week to mend the washing machine. He got my delicates cycle going again. And yes, objectively, I could see that he was a handsome sort of chap. Yes, I admit it – he was a bit of a hunk. And to be honest, I have been having some rather strange dreams about him recently. Quite vivid ones, featuring all sorts of peculiar items like a mobile phone for example, a TV remote control, and – this is really odd – a tub of blackcurrant sorbet! God knows what it means. I asked Katie actually, and she gave me this rather peculiar look and said it’s just my id, running wild. As I say, I always humour her. No doubt my dreams are just the product of my rather fertile imagination. So no, I don’t look at anyone else, although I do meet lots of attractive men at work. But I never fancy them, because I’m a very happily married woman, and sex isn’t everything, you know. And of course Peter’s very preoccupied right now. But yes, to answer your question, my marriage is in great shape, which is why I wanted to celebrate our fifteen happy years. So I booked a table at Snows, just down the road at Brook Green. We don’t eat out very often. Peter has to go out to dinner with authors and agents sometimes, he’s been doing quite a bit of that of late, but we don’t do much ourselves. We can’t afford it; what with the school fees – though luckily Matt got a scholarship – and of course publishing doesn’t pay well. And my job’s only part-time because I’m home by eleven every day. But I thought Peter needed a bit of a treat, so I decided on a party at Snows. It’s actually called Snows on the Green, which was rather appropriate because today the snow was on the green. More than an inch of it. It started to fall this morning, and by late afternoon it had built into gentle drifts. And I love it when it snows because there’s this eerie hush, and the world falls silent as though everyone’s dropped off to sleep. And I just want to rush outside, clap my hands and shout, ‘Come on! Wake up! Wake up!’ And snow always reminds me of our wedding, because it snowed on that day too.
So I was sitting there in the restaurant, looking out of the window for a minute, watching the flakes batting gently against the panes and idly wondering what the next fifteen years of my life would bring. And I was feeling the slightly dizzying effects of the champagne. Not real champagne, obviously – just the Italian sparkling, but it’s very good, and only half the price. I glanced round the table, listening to the low babble of conversation.
‘Are your parents coming, Faith?’ Sarah asked me as she nibbled on an olive.
‘Oh no, they’re on holiday again. I think they’re scuba diving in St Lucia,’ I said vaguely. ‘Or maybe they’re heli-skiing in Alaska. Or are they bungee-jumping in Botswana … ’ Mum and Dad are pensioners, or rather what you might call Silver Foxes or Glamorous Greys. They seem to stagger from cruise to safari to adventure holiday in a variety of increasingly exotic locations. Well, why not? After all, they’ve worked hard all their lives and so now’s the time to have some fun.
‘No, Sarah,’ I said, ‘I really can’t remember where they are, they go away so much.’
‘That’s because they have classic avoidant personalities,’ announced Katie with mild contempt. ‘The incessant holidays are the means by which they avoid spending any time with us. I mean, the second Grandpa retired from Abbey National, that was it – they were off!’
‘Oh, I know darling, but they send us lots of lovely postcards,’ I said. ‘And they phone up from time to time. And Granny loves chatting to you, doesn’t she, Matt?’
‘Er … yes,’ he said slightly nervously as he looked up from his menu. ‘Yes, I suppose she does.’ Lately I’ve noticed that my mother often asks to speak to Matt on the phone. She loves chewing the fat with him, even ringing him at school, and I think it’s great that they’re developing such a nice bond.
‘I do envy your parents,’ said Sarah ruefully. ‘I’d love to go away, but it’s impossible because I’m tied to the shop.’ Sarah owns a second-hand book shop in Dulwich. She bought it twenty years ago with her alimony after her husband, John, left her for an American woman and moved to the States. ‘Oh, I’ve a small anniversary gift,’ Sarah added as she handed me a beribboned parcel, inside which – Peter helped me open it – were two beautiful crystal glasses.
‘What lovely tumblers, Sarah – thank you!’
‘Yes, thanks Mum,’ Peter said.
‘Well, you see the fifteenth anniversary is the crystal one,’ she explained as I noticed the red sticker on the box marked ‘Fragile’. ‘Anyway, are we all present and correct, now?’ she added pleasantly.
‘All except for Lily,’ I replied. ‘She says she’s going to be a bit late.’ At this I noticed Peter roll his eyes.
‘Lily Jago?’ said Mimi. ‘Wow! I remember her at your wedding, she was your bridesmaid – she’s famous now.’
‘Yes,’ I said proudly, ‘she is. But she deserves every bit of it,’ I added, ‘because she’s worked so incredibly hard.’
‘What’s she like?’ asked Mimi.
‘Like Lady Macbeth,’ said Peter with a hollow laugh. ‘But not as nice.’
‘Darling!’ I said reprovingly. ‘Please don’t say that – she’s my best and oldest friend.’
‘She treats staff like disposable knickers,’ he added, ‘and treads on heads as though they’re stepping stones.’
‘Peter, that’s not fair,’ I said. ‘And you know it. She’s very dedicated and she’s brilliant, she deserves her tremendous success.’ It used to grieve me that Peter didn’t like Lily, but I got used to it years ago. He can’t understand why I keep up with her and I’ve given up trying to explain. The fact is, Lily matters to me. I’ve known her for twenty-five years – since our convent days – so we have an unbreakable bond. But I mean, I’m not blind – I know that Lily’s no angel. For example, she’s a little bit touchy, and she’s got a wicked tongue. She’s also a ‘bit of a one’ with the boys – but then why shouldn’t she be? She’s single, and she’s beautiful. Why shouldn’t she play the field? Why shouldn’t a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old woman, in her prime, have lots of lovers and lots of fun? Why shouldn’t a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old woman be made to feel desirable and loved? Why shouldn’t a thirty-five-year-old woman have romantic weekends in country house hotels with jacuzzis and fluffy towels? Why shouldn’t any thirty-five-year-old woman have flowers and champagne and little presents? I mean, once you’re married, that’s that; romance flies out the window, and you’re with the same old body every night. So I don’t blame Lily at all, though I don’t think her choice of boyfriends is great. Every week, it seems, we see her staring at us out of the pages of Hello! or OK! with this footballer, or that rock star, or some actor from that new soap on Channel 4. And I think, mmm. Mmmm. Lily could do better, I think. So, no, she hasn’t got brilliant taste in men, although at least these days – praise the Lord! – she’s stopped going for the married ones. Yes, I’m afraid to say she used to be a little bit naughty like that. And I did once remind her that adultery is forbidden by the seventh commandment.
‘I didn’t commit adultery,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m single, so it was only fornication.’ Lily’s not interested in marriage herself, by the way; she’s totally dedicated to her career. ‘I’m footloose and fiancé free!’ she always likes to exclaim. I must say, she’d be a bit of a challenge to any man. For a start, she’s very opinionated, and she bears interminable grudges. Peter thinks she’s dangerous, but she’s not. She’s simply tribal; by which I mean she’s loyal to her friends but ruthless to her foes, and I know exactly which category I’m in.
‘Lily had twelve other invitations tonight,’ I said. ‘She knows so many people!’
‘Yes, Mum,’ said Katie matter-of-factly. ‘But you’re her only friend.’
‘Well, maybe that’s true, darling,’ I said with a tiny stab of pride, ‘but I still think it’s sweet of her to come.’
‘Very gracious,’ said Peter wryly. He’d had a couple of drinks by then. ‘I can’t wait for the dramatic entrance,’ he added sarcastically.
‘Darling,’ I said patiently, ‘Lily can’t help making an entrance. I mean, it’s not her fault she’s so stunning.’ She is. In fact she’s jaw-dropping. Everybody stares. She’s terribly tall for a start, and whippety thin, and she’s always exquisitely dressed. Unlike me. I get a small allowance from work for the things I wear on TV and I tend to spend it in Principles – I’ve always liked their stuff. Just recently I’ve started to get quite interested in Next, and Episode. But Lily gets a huge clothing allowance, and the designers send her things too, so she always looks amazing – in fact, she’s amazing full stop. And even Peter will admit that she has huge talent, and guts and drive. You see, she had a very tough start in life. I remember the day she arrived at St Bede’s. I have this vivid picture in my mind of Reverend Mother standing on stage in the main hall one morning after Mass; and next to her was this new girl – we were all agog to know who she was.
‘Girls,’ said Reverend Mother as a hush descended. ‘This is Lily. Lily Jago. Now, we must all be kind to Lily,’ she went on benignly, ‘because Lily is very poor.’ I will never forget, to my dying day, the look of fury on Lily’s face. And of course the girls weren’t kind to her at all. Far from it. They teased her about her accent and they laughed at her lack of finesse; they disparaged her evident poverty and they made terrible fun of her folks. They called her ‘Lily White’, which she loathed. Then, when they realised how clever she was, they hated her for that as well. But I didn’t hate her. I liked her and I felt drawn to her, perhaps because I was an outsider too. I got laughed at a lot at school. My nickname was ‘Faith Value’, because they all said I was very naive. I was impossible to tease, apparently, because I could never get the joke. I thought it was obvious that the chicken’s reason for crossing the road was to reach the other side. I couldn’t see why that was funny, really. I mean, why else would the chicken cross the road? And of course a bell is necessary on a bicycle – otherwise you could have a very nasty accident. It’s obvious. So why’s that funny? Do you see what I mean? The other girls all said I was a credulous sap. Ridiculous! I’m not. But I am trusting. Oh yes. I want to have faith in people and I do. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and I tend to believe what they say. Because that’s how I want to be. I decided, a long time ago, that I didn’t want to be cynical like Lily. She’s the suspicious sort, and though I’m desperately fond of her, I could never be like that myself. That’s probably why my purse is full of foreign coins, for example, because I never, ever check my change. Shopkeepers are constantly palming off on me their dimes and their pfennigs and their francs. But I don’t care, because I don’t want to be the kind of woman who’s always on her guard. I guess I’m a natural optimist – I always trust that things will work out. I’m trusting in my marriage, too. I simply don’t think that Peter would ever stray. And he hasn’t – so I was right. And I believe you can make your own destiny, by the strength of your mental attitude. Anyway, I rather liked the fact that Lily was naughty, because I knew it was something I could never be. I remember, once, when we were thirteen, making a dash for the town. We’d lied to Sister St Wilfred, and said we were going for a walk. But we got the bus to Reading instead – using my pocket money, of course – and we bought sweets and Lily bought cigarettes, and she got talking to some boys. Then, on the way back, she did something awful – she went into a newsagent and nicked a copy of Harpersand Queen. I wanted her to return it but she refused, though she promised to mention it in confession. But I remember her poring over it in the dormitory later, utterly entranced; she was fingering it reverentially, as though it were a holy text. Then she swore out loud that one day she’d be the editor of a magazine like that; and the girls all fell about laughing. But now she is.
‘Lily’s been in New York for a long time, hasn’t she?’ said Mimi as she broke into her bread roll. ‘I’ve seen lots of stuff about her in the press.’
‘Six years,’ I said. ‘She was working on Mirabella and Vanity Fair.’ And as we ate our anti pasti I told them about her career, and about how single-minded she’d been. Because I’m very proud of my friendship with her. And I told them about the way she’d even left Cambridge early because she was offered some lowly job at Marie Claire. But it was the start of her long climb up the greasy pole, or rather shiny cover. She was determined to reach the top – and now she has. Three months ago she became the first black woman to edit Moi!
That’s Moi-Même! magazine, of course, commonly known as Moi! Or perhaps ‘Mwaaah, mwaaah!’ as Peter always likes to say. He’s a bit of a snob about magazines, he thinks they’re utterly trite. He calls Lily the ‘High Priestess of Gloss’. But chacun à son goût, I say, and Lily’s brilliant at what she does. Mind you, some of the stories are pretty silly. Not my kind of thing at all. It’s all this, ‘What’s Hot What’s Not!’ kind of stuff, and ‘Grey – the new black! Fat – the new thin! Old – the new young!’ But the magazine always looks beautiful because the photography’s out of this world. And the writing’s good too, because Lily says she can sort out ‘the wit from the chaff’. Oh yes, Lily’s seriously successful. And yes, she’s got a wicked tongue. But she would never do anything to hurt me. I know that for a fact.
Anyway, by nine Lily still hadn’t arrived, and we’d all finished our starters and were waiting for the main course which in my case was chump of lamb. And the conversation had turned back to marriage, and to Peter and me.
‘Fifteen years!’ Mimi exclaimed with a laugh. ‘I just can’t believe it! I remember your wedding day so well. In the university chapel. We all froze to death, it was snowing, just like today.’
‘That’s because it was a white wedding!’ I quipped. Peter laughed.
‘But how amazing that this is your fifteenth anniversary,’ Mimi added. ‘Good God! I haven’t even had my first!’ We all smiled at that, and she gave her husband, Mike, a gooey look and said, ‘I’ve only just had my happy ending!’
‘New beginning, you mean,’ he replied. And I felt very strange when he said that; very strange indeed. But at the same time I thought, yes, he’s right. It is a new beginning. That’s exactly what it is. They only got married last May. They both peeped at their six-week-old baby, Alice, who was asleep in her car seat on the floor. I looked across the table at my two ‘babies’, who are fourteen and twelve. And it struck me again, as it has done recently, that Peter and I are completely out of step with our peers. Most of them are like Mimi, they’re marrying and having kids now. But we did that fifteen years ago, and it won’t be long before our children leave home.
‘You two got married when you were still at college, didn’t you?’ Mike asked.
‘In our second year,’ I said. ‘We just couldn’t wait,’ I explained. ‘Isn’t that right, darling?’ And Peter looked at me, through the flickering candles, and gave me a little smile. ‘We were madly in love,’ I went on, emboldened by the sparkling wine. ‘And good Catholics don’t live in sin!’ Actually I’m not a very good Catholic, though I was, then. I’m a sort of Christmas Catholic now. I go to church no more than three or four times a year.
‘I remember when you two met,’ said Mimi. ‘It was in our first term at Durham, at the freshers’ ball. You looked at Peter, Faith, and you whispered to me, “That’s the man I’m going to marry,” – and you did!’
‘We were like Superglue,’ I giggled. ‘We bonded in seconds!’ At that Peter’s mother, Sarah, smiled. I like Sarah. We’ve always got on well. And yes, she did have misgivings at the time because she thought we’d end up divorced, like her. But we didn’t do that, and I’m sure we won’t. As I say, I have faith in the future. Anyway, Sarah was chatting away to the children – she hadn’t seen them for a while – and Peter was beginning to unwind a bit as we talked to Mimi and Mike. We’d had a bit to drink by now, and were all feeling mellow and warm, when suddenly there was an icy blast – the door had opened: Lily had finally arrived.
It’s always fun watching Lily entering a room. You can almost hear the clunk of jawbones hitting the floor. That’s what it was like tonight. She’s so used to it, she claims never to notice, but it always makes me smile.
‘Darlings, I’m so sorry!’ she called out as she swept in on a cloud of Obsession, oblivious to the collective male stares. ‘So sorry,’ she reiterated as her floor-length arctic fox slid from her shoulders and was quickly gathered up by the maitre d’. ‘You see Gore’s in town – Vidal not Al – so we had a quick drink at the Ritz, then I had to go down Cork Street where there was this tedious private view … ’ She removed her fur hat and I could see snowflakes on her shoulder-length, raven-black hair. ‘And Chanel were launching their new scent,’ she went on, ‘so of course I had to show my face there … ’ She handed the waiter an assortment of exquisite little bags. ‘But I only stayed ten minutes at Lord Linley’s Twelfth Night party because I just wanted to be here with you.’ I glanced at Mimi – she was speechless.
‘Happy anniversary, Faith, darling!’ Lily exclaimed, handing me a Tiffany bag. Inside, in a silk-lined presentation box, was a small cylinder made of sterling silver.
‘It’s a telescope,’ I said wonderingly, holding it up to my left eye. ‘Oh! No it isn’t, it’s a … ooh how lovely.’ As I rotated the end with my right hand, a thousand sequins – red and purple and green – arranged themselves into dazzling patterns, like the fractals of a technicolour snowflake.
‘How wonderful,’ I murmured. ‘A kaleidoscope. I haven’t seen one of these for years.’
‘I couldn’t decide what to get you,’ said Lily, ‘but I thought this might be fun. It’s for Peter as well,’ she added, giving him a feline smile.
‘Thank you, Lily,’ he replied.
‘What a fantastic present,’ I said, hugging her. ‘Hey, great outfit, too!’ Today she was wearing a viridian green cashmere twin-set, a knee-length gaberdine skirt, and a pair of what I think were probably Jimmy Choo snakeskin boots.
‘The cashmere’s only Nicole Farhi,’ she said. ‘But I’m getting so bored of Voyage. Jil Sander sent me the skirt. Wasn’t that sweet? The cut’s so sharp it ought to be classed as an offensive weapon. When I’ve finished with it, Faith, it’s yours.’
‘Thanks, Lily,’ I said ruefully. ‘But it wouldn’t go past my knees.’ Lily’s a size ten, and I’m a fourteen. She’s almost six foot – more in her heels – and I’m only five foot four. Which is funny, because when we were nine we were both exactly the same size. She used to have my cast-offs then, but now she gives me hers. She used to be the one who was penniless, but now it’s me. Still, we all make our choices in life, and as I say, I’m quite happy with mine.
The waiter poured Lily a glass of Chablis, and then he looked at the large, Louis Vuitton carrier on her lap and said, ‘May I take that for you, madam?’
‘Oh, no thank you,’ she replied, looking slightly furtive. ‘This is my handbag, you see.’
‘Really, madam?’ he said suspiciously.
‘Absolutely,’ Lily shot back with a dazzling smile, her refulgent teeth sparkling like frost against the rich, dark bronze of her skin. ‘I always hang on to this one,’ she explained. I knew why. She’s very naughty like that. But then, as I say, Lily has always broken rules. As the waiter retreated she put the bag under the table and quickly undid the zip. Then she looked at me, grinned, and swiped the last bit of meat from my plate.
‘Here, darling!’ she whispered as her beautifully manicured hand shot down below. ‘Auntie Faith wants you to have this.’ We could hear snuffling, snorty little sounds, followed by a tinny whine. Katie, Sarah and I lifted the cloth and peered under the table where Lily’s Shih Tzu, Jennifer, had just scoffed the last of my lamb. A pink tongue shot out and wrapped itself around her furry little face; then she stared at us blankly with a pair of huge, bulging, black eyes.
‘What a sweet hairstyle,’ said Sarah with a laugh. Jennifer’s flowing locks had been gathered into a top knot and secured with a sparkling clip.
‘Oh yes, she’s so gorgeous,’ Lily replied with a sigh. ‘Isn’t she, Faith? Isn’t she just the prettiest little thing in the world?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I lied, looking at Jennifer’s undershot jaw, her crooked teeth, her bearded chin and flat little face. ‘Jennifer’s just … great,’ I added with a hypocritical smile. Again, some people might think that Jennifer’s an unusual choice of name for a dog. In fact her full name is Jennifer Aniston. This is because of her long, silky blonde hair, and because she’s ‘worth it’. At least I hope so, because Lily spends half her salary on that pooch. The Louis Vuitton doggy bag, for example – that’s at least five hundred pounds’ worth. She’s also got eight Gucci dog collars, five Chanel leads, two Burberry coats, three Paul Smith bowls, and you should see her bed! It’s like an oriental tent, complete with Chinese wall-hangings and a silk rug. The purpose of this, apparently, is to remind Jennifer of her ancient origins in Imperial Peking. Shih Tzus were temple dogs, and Lily worships hers. But between you and me, Jennifer Aniston is simply not my type. She’s not Graham’s, either. He tends to stare at her, slightly incredulously, as though he’s not entirely sure she’s a dog.
‘How’s magland?’ I asked brightly, changing the subject.
‘Fabulous,’ Lily replied. ‘Here’s the February issue – look! It’s just come in from the printers, I’m having them biked all over town.’ The magazine felt heavy in my hands, and shone under the spotlights like ice. Moi! it proclaimed on the masthead, above a photo of Kate Moss. I glanced at the headlines: ‘Pees and Queues – Five Star Loos!’ ‘Prolier Than Thou – the REAL New Labour!’ ‘It Girls – Just Lamé Ducks?’ and ‘Pulling Power – Our Top Ten Tweezers!’
‘Hype springs eternal!’ muttered Peter, rolling his eyes.
I gave him a discreet kick, then Sarah and I flicked through the magazine, careful to admire, aloud, the wonderful photos, the features, and the fashion. And the ads, of course. There were lots of those. Some of them, I happen to know, cost thirty thousand pounds a page, which is more than I earn in a year. There was one particular ad for an expensive face cream, with a photo of a Persian kitten, and though I’m a doggy sort of person, I just couldn’t help going, ‘Aaaaah!’
‘That’s the “classical conditioning” reflex, Mum,’ said Katie knowledgeably. ‘Extremely effective for selling. It works by establishing an association between a product and a pleasant feeling. Stayman and Batra did a fascinating study in 1991 which proved that emotional states affect consumer choice.’ As I say, she’s not like other girls. In the meantime Lily had been rattling on about circulation and pagination and subscription rates and God knows what. ‘We’ve got a hundred and twenty advertising pages,’ she explained happily, ‘and a hundred and thirty editorial. This is our biggest issue yet. We’re on a roll.’
At the front was an article about dieting and a profile of Sharon Stone. There was an extract from the new Ian McEwan novel, and the society diary section, ‘I Spy’. There were pages on lotions and potions, and a competition to win a car. Now, I love competitions. I do quite a lot of them, though obviously I couldn’t enter this one because friends of the editor are barred. But whenever I’ve got time I send off the forms. I actually won something recently – I was really chuffed – a year’s supply of Finish rinse aid. I’ve never won anything big though, but maybe one day I will.
By now, Mimi, who works at Radio 4, had plucked up her courage and was talking to Lily about her career.
‘Other women’s magazines have falling circulations,’ Mimi said, ‘but yours seems to be soaring.’
‘It’s gone up by twenty per cent since I took over,’ said Lily triumphantly. ‘They’re all quaking in their Manolos at Vogue!’
‘Would you like to come on Woman’s Hour?’ Mimi asked. ‘When I’m back from maternity leave? You’d be talking about Moi!, of course, and about your innovatory editing style. But I think the listeners would also like to know about you – your background, and your convent days.’ Lily snorted with laughter.
‘I wasn’t exactly a model pupil. Ask Faith!’ I smiled and nodded. It was true. But there are reasons for that. There are very good reasons why Lily, though obviously gifted, was rather difficult at school. For a start, she was just plucked from her home: it was done with the best of intentions, but she was taken away and placed in an environment where she was bound to feel she didn’t fit in. At eight, her exceptional brain was spotted by a teacher, who told the local priest, who then contacted the bishop, who wrote to Reverend Mother who agreed to take her on as a scholarship girl. And that was how Lily left the Caribbean to be educated at St Bede’s.
‘Lily was a brilliant pupil,’ I said. ‘She wanted to be top in everything, and she was!’
‘Except good behaviour,’ Lily pointed out with a throaty laugh. This was absolutely true. We had to go to confession every Saturday morning, and she used to spend hours in there. I was convinced she must be making things up, so I remember once telling her that inventing transgressions was, in itself, a mortal sin.
‘It’s a bit like wasting police time,’ I explained, ‘so you really shouldn’t fabricate sins.’
‘I wasn’t fabricating anything,’ she retorted, rolling her huge brown eyes.
I’m afraid Lily wasn’t what you’d call popular. She could be very sharp, for example, and the girls feared her razor tongue. When we were sixteen, Sister St Joseph gave us a career talk and she looked at Dinah Shaw, who was terribly dim, and said, ‘Dinah, what are you going to be when you leave St Bede’s?’ And Lily shouted, ‘Twenty-five!’
But if, as I say, Lily was naughty, it was because of all the appalling snobbery and spite. Venetia Smedley was the worst. She came from the Channel Islands and was known as the Jersey Cow. At breakfast one morning – I’ll never forget it – Venetia announced, in a very loud voice, ‘My parents are off to St Kitts next week. They always stay at the Four Winds in Banana Bay. Isn’t that a coincidence, Lily? Perhaps your mother will be cleaning their room.’ Lily just looked at her, lowered her spoon and said, ‘Yes, Venetia. Perhaps she will.’ But a few months later she exacted a dreadful revenge. Venetia had had bridgework, having fallen off her pony two years before. She was very embarrassed about this and would never let anyone see her cleaning her teeth. Lily made some toffee; it was unbelievably sticky because – I only learned this afterwards – she’d adulterated it with glue. Then she offered some to Venetia, and the look of triumph on Lily’s face when Venetia’s three false teeth came out … ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Venetia,’ she said sweetly. ‘I forgot that you wore dentures.’ Afterwards, I found her in the grounds, rocking with laughter. And she looked at me gleefully and whispered, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay!’ And she did.
She’s still calling in her debts to this day.
‘I had Camilla Fanshawe on the phone this morning,’ she said to me with a snigger as she spooned up her guacamole. ‘She’s marrying some squitty banker and she was begging me, Faith, begging me to cover her wedding in “I Spy”. But she was only saying that because Letty Brocklebank got hers into Tatler. And Camilla was practically blubbing and saying how she always liked me so much at school and how she knew I’d be a success because I was so clever, and what about it? Old school tie and all that? And I let her go on and on and then I said, very sweetly, “Well I’m terribly sorry, Camilla; I’m afraid we don’t cover small, provincial weddings in Moi!”’
Yes, Lily’s had the last laugh, all right. She’s outsmarted them all – in every way. Intellectually, of course, though that was easy enough – but she outsmarted them socially, too. Her mind was like a radar, and she quickly cracked the code. Her table manners changed, her deportment improved and within two years her voice was transformed. Gone was her rich, Caribbean inflection and in its place was cut glass. Peter says she has ‘irritable vowel syndrome’, but, as I say, he’s not really a fan.
Mimi, clearly fascinated by Lily, was asking us about St Bede’s. So we explained that there was Mass every morning, benediction on Wednesdays, the rosary on Thursdays, confession on Saturdays, and sung Latin Mass on Sundays.
‘Was there time for any lessons with all that?’ Mike enquired.
‘Oh yes,’ I said tipsily, ‘and Lily was jolly good at them! She got twelve “O” levels, four A-grade A levels, and an exhibition to Cambridge at seventeen.’
‘What about sports?’
‘We had hockey and netball.’
‘I was useless,’ said Lily with a laugh. ‘All that running and jumping – such a bore – I really couldn’t be fagged. I was no good at music, either,’ she giggled. I kept quiet; it was perfectly true. In fact she had a voice like a corncrake and standing next to her during ‘Faith of Our Fathers’ was not a musically rewarding experience. ‘As for dancing,’ she went on. ‘I was appalling at that! I had two left feet – I still have.’
‘There was lots of drama,’ I went on enthusiastically. ‘It was great. Especially the annual school play … ’ Suddenly I saw the smile slide off Lily’s face and she gave me a censuring stare. And then I remembered. Drama’s a sore point. We don’t talk about that. You see, Lily wasn’t very good at acting, and without sounding conceited, I was. The awful thing was that she loved it, but she was always so over the top. I mean, she couldn’t even make the sign of the cross without looking as though she was directing traffic. So acting was not her forté and this spoiled our friendship for a while. When we were in the Lower Sixth, Reverend Mother was casting the school play. She decided to do Othello and, as the only non-white girl at St Bede’s, Lily presumed the title role would be hers. She prepared hard for the part, and I helped her to go through her lines. But when, after auditions, the list went up, the lead had gone not to Lily, but to me. She didn’t take it well, I’m afraid. In fact she stormed into Reverend Mother’s office – I was there at the time – and shouted, ‘It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?’
‘No, Lily,’ said Reverend Mother calmly. ‘It’s because you are not a good enough actress. You have many gifts,’ she went on calmly. ‘I know you are going to be a huge success in life. But I confidently predict that your future triumphs will not take place on the stage.’ There was silence. Then Lily left. She wouldn’t speak to me for a month. But what was I supposed to do? Refuse the part? It was a wonderful role, and everyone said I did it well; I can still remember those marvellous lines to this day: ‘I had been happy … so I had nothing known. So now, forever, farewell the tranquil mind!’
Lily gradually got over her disappointment, though she refused to come to the play; and we never, ever spoke of it again – until tonight. I don’t think it was tactless of me to mention it, given that it was eighteen years ago and our roles have long since been reversed. I mean, she’s the star now. Not me. She’s the celebrated and successful one. She’s the one with the huge flat in Chelsea, and the fridge full of champagne and foie gras. I’m the boring suburban housewife with two children and sensible shoes, who thinks a trip to Ikea’s a treat. So I appreciate the fact that Lily’s kept in touch all this time, when you consider how our lives have diverged.
At this point – it must have been almost ten thirty – we’d gone on to pudding. The candles had almost burned down, and the bottles of wine had been drunk. I thought Peter had had one too many; I could tell that he was quite well oiled. He and Matt were talking about the Internet, and Katie was doing some psychometric tests on Lily – Lily’s her godmother, so she claimed not to mind. Meanwhile Mimi, still clearly struck by the novelty of being married, was asking me if I had any wisdom to impart.
‘Tell me, Faith,’ she whispered, ‘what’s the secret of a successful marriage?’
‘I don’t know,’ I murmured, lifting a spoonful of poached autumn fruits to my mouth. ‘I only know that after fifteen years together Peter and I have this unbreakable bond. We’re like the wisteria growing up the front of our house – we’re completely intertwined.’
‘What quality do you admire in him most?’ Mimi added.
‘His ability to find my contact lenses whenever I lose one,’ I giggled. ‘He’s brilliant at it.’
‘No, seriously,’ Mimi pressed me. ‘What do you like about him best?’
‘His decency,’ I replied, ‘and his truthfulness. Peter always tells the truth.’
Mike thought that was such a nice thing to say that he said he thought Peter ought to make a little speech.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Oh no,’ groaned Peter.
‘Please,’ Mimi insisted. ‘This is an occasion, after all.’
‘Oh, all right,’ Peter conceded after another sip of wine. ‘Er … I just want to say … ’ he began, getting unsteadily to his feet, ‘that Faith was my first love, and that my fifteen years with her feel like a millstone … ’
‘Freudian slip!’ said Katie.
‘I mean, a milestone,’ he corrected himself. ‘A milestone. That’s what I mean. An incredible achievement, in fact. When you consider. And I just can’t believe where the last fifteen years of my life have gone.’ That was it. He’d finished. I tried to smile. As I say, he’s very preoccupied at work, so he’s not quite his usual relaxed and happy self.
‘He’s rather tired,’ I whispered diplomatically to Mimi and Mike.
‘He does seem distracted,’ Lily agreed.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘no doubt because, well, he’s got a lot on his mind right now.’
‘I must say, he’s looking good though,’ Lily murmured as our coffee arrived. ‘Hasn’t he lost a bit of weight?’
‘Er, yes, he has. He’s looking pretty trim, you’re right.’
‘Nice tie he’s wearing,’ she whispered appreciatively.
‘Yes. Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Nice tie.’
Then Lily reached into her bag, took out a box of Pandora matches and struck one. It hissed and flared as it ignited, then died down to a steady yellow flame. She lifted a cheroot to her lips, lit it and inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke away. Then she looked at me seriously and said, very, very softly, ‘I think you’re marvellous to trust him.’
This struck me as a very strange remark, because of course I trust Peter – I always have. As I say, he’s a truthful man. So I didn’t have a clue what Lily meant, and I certainly didn’t want to ask her in front of everyone else. In any case, Peter was waving for the bill now – it was late, and the evening was drawing to an end.
‘– let’s get our coats.’
‘– is this inclusive?’
‘– no, our treat, Mike.’
‘– Katie, can you get Granny’s coat?’
‘– very kind, Peter. Next time we take you.’
‘– who’s got the baby?’
‘– oh look, there’s a cab.’
Before we knew what had happened, we were all standing outside, kissing each other goodbye.
‘What a wonderful evening,’ said Mimi as the snowflakes fell gently onto her hair. ‘I hope we make it to fifteen years,’ she added as she strapped the baby into the back of the car.
‘I hope we make it to thirty,’ said Mike gallantly. ‘Thanks for a lovely dinner, you two – bye bye.’ The children were submitting to being kissed by Lily, though both of them hate her scent, Jennifer had been zipped up, and Sarah had gone to her car. Then I flagged down a passing cab, and climbed in with Peter and the kids.
‘What a great evening,’ he said as we swished along the wet, sleety road.
‘Yes, it was, darling,’ I said. ‘I really enjoyed it too.’ And it’s true. I did. But at the same time I was aware, in a way I could not yet define, that somehow, something had changed.
There are three things that people always ask you if you work for breakfast TV. What time do you have to get up? What time do you have to go to bed? And does it wreck your social life? Sometimes I just feel like holding up a banner at parties saying, ‘Three thirty, nine thirty, and YES!’ You simply never get used to it. Did I say that you do? Well, it’s not true – you never get used to the early start. It’s horrible. It’s horrible when the alarm goes off at half past three and your body’s still crying out for sleep. And it’s even worse if you’re feeling unhappy, as I was this morning, and are slightly hungover to boot. Graham grumbled as I lurched out of bed, but declined to stand guard by the bathroom door. I showered, squished on a little Escape – my favourite scent at the moment – put on my navy Principles suit, then went down to the waiting cab. As we pulled out of Elliot Road, I remembered Lily’s words again: I think you’re marvellous to trust him … trust him … I think you’re marvellous to trust … I stared out of the window as we drove through the slush-filled streets, turning her comment over and over in my mind; examining it from all angles, as I might study an interesting stone. But however much I thought about it, I still didn’t know what she meant. Nor was I at all sure that I really wanted to know. I mean, Lily does have a habit of saying things I don’t particularly like, but usually I just ignore them. That’s what I forced myself to do this morning as I wrenched my thoughts towards work. After all, I told myself firmly, I have an important job to do. People depend on me. I can make or break their day. When I’m about to go on air Terry, the ‘star’ presenter, looks into the camera and says, ‘Well folks, what’s the weather going to do today? Let’s h-a-v-e- FAITH!’ So on I come, and I tell them, and the viewers do have faith in me. They rely on me to tell them if they need to take a coat or a brolly, or if the humidity’s going to be high. I let them know if it’s going to be very windy, and if it’s safe to set sail, or drive. So I think the weather forecast’s really important, but I’m afraid my colleagues don’t feel the same. They just see it as this insignificant little slot that comes on three minutes before the news. To them it’s just a buffer, before the junction – they’re always trying to cut me down. I’m meant to have two and a half minutes, but often it’s less than one. But there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s all controlled from the technical gallery. For example, I can be in the middle of some fascinating piece about warm fronts when I suddenly hear the director, in my earpiece, shouting at me to stop. They’re really rude about it sometimes – I hear them yelling, ‘Shut up, Faith! Shut up! SHUT UP!’ It’s terribly distracting. What they’re meant to do is to calmly count me down from ten, and I know that by the time I hear them say ‘zero’, I have to have signed off, with a nice smile. Equally, if they lose a news item, I’ll hear someone screaming, ‘Fill, Faith! Fill! Fill! Fill!’ But I’m not fazed, because I can cope; I once filled from thirty seconds right up to four minutes! And I pride myself on being able to stay calm in those situations and to come out exactly when required. Another thing, because I use open talkback, I can hear them all gossiping in the gallery during my slot. The weather’s their down time, you see. That’s when they put their feet up because they don’t have anything to do. This is because I change the graphics with my clicker, and I ad lib my script, so I don’t have an autocue. So while I’m doing my slot I can hear them sorting out what went wrong with the previous item, or telling make-up to fix Terry’s hair, or instructing the cameraman to close in on so and so, or boasting about some bird they pulled down at the pub. And they forget that I’m on air, broadcasting live, and that I can hear every word they say. So one way and another, being a weather presenter is a pretty stressful job. But I enjoy it. I really do, especially at this time of year. I love the winter, you see: not just because of my optimistic outlook on life, but because in winter the weather’s great. In the summer we only get three types: either it’s rainy, it’s cloudy, or it’s fine. But at this time of year we get the works. We get ice, and fog, and frost, and rain, and we get sleet and hail and snow. We get fine, clear weather too if there’s an anti-cyclone, and we can get hurricane force winds as well. So if you’re in the weather business, like I am, then winter’s a thrilling time. And although the hours are pretty dreadful, I enjoy myself once I’m at work. So this morning, despite my worries, and my headache, I felt the usual frisson as we drove through the gates.
It takes about twenty minutes to get to AM-UK! which is based in a converted warehouse in Ealing. It’s not a beautiful building, but I rather like it there. The production office on the third floor is open plan, which has its drawbacks, of course, not least seeing the ashen faces of my colleagues every morning when I arrive. They sit there in the green glow of their computer screens like extras from The Night of the Living Dead, but that’s what comes of spending half the year in almost perpetual dark. I usually get in at four, have a quick espresso from the machine, and then get straight down to work. First I read the faxed briefing from International Weather Productions, which forms the basis of my reports. Then I log on to my computer – with its ‘rainbow’ screensaver – and study the satellite charts. For although I never trained as a meteorologist I do actually know my stuff, because when AM-UK! took me on, they sent me on a six-week forecasting course. So I’m not just spouting someone else’s script, I get to write my own. I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a glamorous type of weather girl. Nicole Kidman in To Die For? Well, that’s just not me. Blonde and gorgeous? No. In fact I’m a bit mousey to look at, which is why I got the job.
‘What we like about you,’ said our wimpish editor Darryl when he interviewed me, ‘is that you’re so nice and ordinary – you won’t threaten the housewives too much. They’ll be sitting there and thinking to themselves, “Well, I could do better than that!”’
To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that remark, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And I can see what he means: he wanted someone who’d look business-like but pleasant, and I do. I’m not the kind of forecaster to hog the limelight, or try to ‘twinkle’ too much. I just go to work and do my job in a competent, friendly way. I’m very happy standing by the charts, with my clicker, talking about cold snaps and sunny spells, and I don’t regard weather presenting as a stepping stone to greater things. I’ve got just the job I want, thank you very much – unlike our showbiz reporter, Tatiana.
‘Hello Tatiana,’ I said pleasantly as I passed her desk. Usually she’s reasonably friendly, because she knows that I’m no threat. Today, however, she was preoccupied and didn’t hear me; this was because she was busy mutilating a publicity shot of Sophie, our new presenter.
‘Morning Tatty,’ I tried again, and was rewarded with a thin smile. Then she put down her Stanley knife, threw the pieces into the bin and went over to talk to Terry. I try to steer clear of office politics, but those two are clearly in cahoots. They’ve united recently in a common cause: to make Sophie’s life complete hell. Tatiana wanted that job. She’s wanted it for years. And when our old presenter, Gaby, went off to present Blankety Blank Tatty assumed it would be hers. Terry was desperate for her to have it too, because he knew she wouldn’t show him up. He’s of the old school, you see. He doesn’t regard himself as the programme’s ‘co-presenter’, but as Presenter One. And it is the job of Presenter One – middle aged and male – to do all the serious stuff while Presenter Two – young and blonde – sits there gazing at him admiringly before introducing some item on knitting. That’s what it was like with Terry and Gaby, but Sophie’s a different case.
‘Morning everyone!’ Sophie called out cheerfully as I studied my isobars. ‘I say, did you see Jeremy Paxman lay into the Russian defence secretary last night?’ she said as she took off her coat. ‘I thought what he said about Chechnya was absolutely spot on. He said he thinks the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe should be much more involved in the negotiations, and I must say I totally agree.’
‘Oh, do you really?’ said Terry.
‘As for the sneaky way the Russians are flogging their nuclear expertise to Iraq,’ she added as she switched on her computer, ‘well, it’s an international scandal, don’t you think?’
‘Ra-ther.’
Terry is thirty-nine – or so he claims – and has a third from Wolverhampton poly. He is not adjusting well to having a twenty-four-year-old Oxford graduate with a starred first in Politics, Philosophy and Economics sitting beside him on the studio sofa. Sophie’s appointment came as a bit of a shock. As Terry never tires of saying, she didn’t know an autocue from a bus queue when she arrived. This was true. She’d come from radio, she was an editor at London FM, and Darryl had been invited to take part in a phone-in there about the future of digital TV. So impressed was he with Sophie’s brilliance that he invited her to audition for AM-UK! The next thing we knew, she’d got the job.
But it’s obvious that Sophie’s much too bright for a programme like ours. I mean – don’t think me disloyal – but most days AM-UK! is more of a dog’s dinner than a successful breakfast show. The mix of items is bizarre. Take today’s running order, for example: celebrity disfigurement – failed face-lifts; heroic hamsters and the lives they’ve saved; psychic granny predicts the future; Tatiana’s profile of Brad Pitt; coping with ovarian cysts; ten new ways with chrysanthemums; and, somewhere in the middle of all that, an interview with Michael Portillo.
‘I’m doing the Portillo interview,’ said Terry as he leaned back in his swivel chair.
‘But I’m down to do that one,’ said Sophie as she tucked her short blonde hair behind one ear.
‘So I see,’ said Terry indolently, ‘but it’s clearly a mistake. I think you’ll find that that one falls to me. I’ve more experience than you,’ he added.
‘With respect, Terry,’ replied Sophie carefully, ‘I’ve interviewed Michael Portillo twice before.’
‘Sophie,’ said Terry wearily, ‘on this show we all pull together. I’m afraid there’s absolutely no room for big egos, so I’ll be doing the Portillo interview – OK?’ And that was that. Terry has quite a lot of clout, actually, and he knows it, because he’s the housewives’ choice. Moreover, he has a cast-iron two-year contract, so Darryl can’t push Sophie’s cause too far. The atmosphere gets pretty stormy sometimes, but Sophie handles it well. I mean, on breakfast TV the hours are so awful that most disputes tend to be settled with machetes. Things that wouldn’t bother you at three in the afternoon induce homicidal rage at five a.m. But so far Sophie has coped with Terry and Tatty’s provocations with a sang froid that would chill champagne. She simply pretends she has no idea that they’ve anything against her. She’s so polite to them, despite their dirty tricks. For example, Tatiana’s recently taken to sidling up to her three seconds before she goes on air and saying, ‘Not sure that colour suits you,’ or, ‘Oh no! Your mascara’s run,’ or, ‘Did you know your hair’s sticking up?’ But Sophie just smiles at her and says, ‘Oh, thanks so much for telling me, Tatiana. You look lovely by the way.’ It’s impressive, but as I say Sophie’s brilliant at politics and I think she’s playing a clever game. She’s very business-like about her work, and she’s also very discreet. None of us has the slightest clue about her private life. I mean, she never makes personal phone calls, but I think she’s got a chap. Because after the Christmas party last month, I went back up to the office to get my bag and I heard Sophie talking to someone called Alex in an obviously lovey-dovey way. I coughed to let her know I was there and she suddenly looked up and froze. So I just grabbed my bag and walked straight out, because I didn’t want her to think I’d heard. But I had. And that’s the downside of working in an open-plan office – there’s not much you don’t get to know. But my approach is an old-fashioned one: hear no evil; see no evil; and above all, speak no evil.
So I sat there this morning, engrossed in the weather charts, preparing the bulletins that I do every half-hour during the show. My first one’s at six thirty, so at ten past six I went down to Make-Up on the second floor. The second floor is where all the exciting stuff goes on. That’s where the Studio is, and the Technical Gallery, and Wardrobe and the dressing rooms, and the Green Room, and the Duty Office, where all the complaints and comments are logged. And as I walked down the carpet-tiled corridor, doors were opened and banged shut, and researchers sprinted past me in both directions, clutching clipboards and looking tense. I glanced into the Green Room where various contributors were slumped, comatose, in leather chairs, while Jean, our friendly Guest Greeter, tried to rouse them with cups of Kenco.
‘Danish pastry?’ I heard her say. ‘Or how about a nice scone?’ Then someone came flying out of the gallery screaming, ‘Where the hell’s Phil? Where’s Phil? Are you Phil? Right – you’re on!’ In fact things were pretty noisy all in all.
‘– could someone page Tatiana?’
‘– would you prefer Earl Grey?’
‘– the psychic granny’s lost her crystal ball!’
‘– I’ve got some nice Assam.’
‘– Sophie’s jacket looks a bit creased.’
‘– the skateboarding cat’s just arrived!’
So to go into the Make-Up room is to enter a haven from all this chaos: inside, Iqbal and Marian quietly transform our sleep-deprived faces for the camera. I sat in a gently reclining chair, while Iqbal – we call him Iqqy – put a flowery nylon gown round my shoulders and clipped back my short brown hair. Laid out on the counter before me were serried ranks of foundation bottles, powder compacts, eye-shadows, lipsticks and combs. Canisters of hairspray gleamed in the theatrical lightbulbs round the mirror.
‘Ready with the Polyfilla?’ I asked wryly as I surveyed my exhausted-looking face.
‘You do look a bit tired,’ he said solicitously. ‘Were you out on the tiles last night?’
‘Yes. It was my wedding anniversary – we went out for supper, en famille.’
‘How lovely,’ he said soothingly.
‘It was,’ I replied. ‘In a way, or it would have been … ’ You see the thing about Iqqy and Marian is that you just want to talk to them. You naturally want to open up. They’re so calm and sympathetic and kind. It’s as though you’re in the psychiatrist’s chair, not the make-up chair, and you want to tell them all your troubles. And as they work miracles on your ravaged exterior, you fancy they can repair you on the inside, too. So it was on the tip of my tongue to tell them that actually I hadn’t enjoyed myself that much last night because my best friend, Lily, had made this very odd remark about my husband, and I’d been trying ever since to work out what she might have meant, and this – and the fact that I’d drunk too much – had resulted in my getting no sleep.
‘How many years have you been married?’ asked Marian.
‘Fifteen,’ I replied.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You must have married young.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I did.’
‘Fifteen years,’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘But then, I’ve already been married eight.’
‘And Will and I have been together for five,’ said Iqqy as he pulled mascara through my pale lashes. ‘Although,’ he went on ruefully, ‘we’ve had our ups and downs. But fifteen years, that’s wonderful. No wonder you felt like celebrating.’
‘Well, yes, except, actually, it was a bit strange … ’ I began. ‘Because, look, I don’t know what you two think about this … ’ Then I immediately stopped, because Terry had just come in. He needed more powder. And as he sat there, bitching about Sophie, I ignored him, in the way I usually do, by pretending to be engrossed in my script. Ten minutes later, primped and preened for the cameras, I slipped into the studio. It’s like the soft furnishings department of a provincial department store. There are two large, pink, chequered sofas with squashy cushions, and a smoked-glass coffee table. There are anaemic prints on the walls, a Habitat-style shelf unit with cheesy ornaments and arrangements of faded silk flowers. Behind is a trompe l’oeil backdrop of London, to one side is a small stage, and, next to that, my weather chart. I picked my way towards it, between the four cameras, stepping over the thick coils of electric cable and trying not to bash my head on the perilously low-slung rigging. It was hot. It’s always hot in the studio, because of all the lights. We’d just hit the first ad break, and Terry was taking the opportunity to throw one of his little fits.
‘Look, Sophie, I’ve told you before,’ he whined, ‘I sit on the lefthand side of the sofa.’
‘Oh, but, with respect, Terry,’ she said pleasantly, ‘why?’
‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘Why? Because I’ve been sitting on the lefthand side of this sofa for ten years, so I don’t see why I should move for you.’
I knew why he wanted to sit on that side. He’s convinced the lighting is better there and that it makes him look younger.
‘Well, I really don’t see why it matters, Terry,’ said Sophie wearily as she got up, ‘but if it’s so important to you, well, of course.’
The sound engineer attached a microphone to my lapel, and I slipped in my earpiece as I took up my place by the weather chart. I heard the director count us all out of the break, there was a brief burst of signature tune, then Terry leaned into the camera and said, ‘Welcome back, everyone; you’re watching AM-UK! Now. Has a message from beyond the grave changed your life?’
The interview with the psychic granny went quite well, then there was a sports report; that was followed by a piece about Princess Anne and Save the Children, and then it was Sophie’s turn. She was doing the interview about ovarian cysts and had only got halfway through, and in fact it was rather interesting as the gynaecologist was very good, and Sophie had just paused for a second, between questions, when to my astonishment, Terry cut in.
‘Now, what’s the weather doing today?’ he asked, beaming at Camera One. I caught the cameraman’s surprised expression. ‘Let’s h-a-v-e FAITH!’ He’d done it deliberately, of course, to cut down Sophie’s time on air. He doesn’t just steal her limelight, he goes in for daylight robbery. Whenever he thinks she’s been talking long enough, he just butts right in. Especially if she’s doing something remotely ‘serious’, like a medical interview or current affairs. And when Darryl tries to tell him off at the meeting afterwards he just looks at Sophie, all wounded innocence, and says, ‘Oh! Sorry, Sophie, I thought you’d finished.’ I really hate it when Terry does that, not just because it’s nasty, but because it means I’m thrown on air with no warning. The red light suddenly flashes on top of Camera Two and there I am, live to the nation.
‘Good morning!’ I said, with a huge smile to cover my annoyance with Terry, and because I always smile more when the weather’s bad. ‘And I’m afraid the outlook’s not good,’ I began as I turned towards the chart. ‘The snow that fell across the country yesterday has now turned to sleet and slush, and as temperatures drop again this means a very high chance of black ice, so do be careful if you’re driving,’ I added as I pressed the clicker, aware, in my earpiece, of the furious babble in the gallery.
‘– Terry’s a bastard!’
‘Wind speeds are picking up in the south and south-east … ’
‘– he cut her interview by two minutes!’
‘Those beastly easterlies are at it again … ’
‘– and it was really interesting.’
‘Possibly bringing a little sunshine in the north … ’
‘– I had an ovarian cyst once.’
‘Elsewhere, an overcast and bitterly cold day … ’
‘– very painful, actually.’
‘With a seventy per cent chance of further snowfalls … ’
‘– it was the size of a lemon, apparently … ’
‘And with this frontal system in mid-Atlantic … ’
‘– and full of pus.’
‘We’re about to enter a prolonged period of low pleasure.’
‘– low pleasure?’
‘I mean, low pressure. So, to summarise … ’
‘– God, Faith looks tired.’
‘A cold, nasty day for most of us … ’
‘– Terry, sit up straight.’
‘But maybe a glimmer of sunshine in the north … ’
‘– and her hair’s a mess. Ready when you are, Faith? Ten, nine, eight … ’
‘But temperatures in the south and south-east dropping … ’
‘Seven, six, five … ’
‘To no higher than four degrees … ’
‘Three, two … ’
‘So do remember to wrap up warm … ’
‘One and … ’
‘See you in half an hour.’
‘Zero. Cut to the skateboarding cat!’
Once I’ve done my first forecast, the rest of the morning flashes by. In between ‘hits’ I check the charts, phone the met office and update my bulletins as required. The nine thirty forecast is my last one, and that’s when the programme comes off air. We have a quick meeting in the boardroom, then I take off my make-up, sit at my desk and go through my mail. I get lots of letters. Most of them are from children asking me to help them with their geography homework. They write asking me what clouds are made of, for example, or why frost is white, or what the difference is between snow and sleet, or how rainbows are formed. Then I get letters thanking me for cheering people up. What I like about you, wrote Mr Barnes from Tunbridge Wells, is that, even when you’re giving us bad news you do it with a nice smile. Then – and I hate these ones – there are the letters about my appearance. The slightest change in it – such as a hair trim – produces a sack-load of disapproving mail. Then there are the ‘requests’ from those viewers who seem to think I’m God. Dear Faith, wrote a Mrs McManus from Edinburgh, this morning, please, please, PLEASE could we have some better weather in Scotland. We’ve had not a ray of sunshine since Hogmanay! I write back to everyone, unless they’re obviously nuts. Then, when I’ve done that, I tidy my desk and go home. People often ask me how I spend the rest of the day. The answer is, I potter. I feed Graham, of course, and take him for a walk. I might meet a friend, or go to the shops. I do the housework – I hate it, but we can’t afford a cleaner – I fill in competition forms, and I read. In an ideal world I’d do an afternoon job, but I can’t because I’m too tired. In any case it would be very awkward, because people know my face from TV. But the first thing I do when I get home is to go to bed and sleep for a couple of hours, so that’s what I did today. Or at least I tried to. But I found myself thinking, yet again, about what Lily had said last night. As I’ve said, she does sometimes say things I don’t like – including the odd uncharitable comment about Peter. Usually I just forget them, but this time I found I couldn’t. Why on earth had she said what she said and whatever could it mean? She’s so shrewd and clever – was it just a casual remark? I tried counting sheep, but that didn’t work. I tried remembering all the stations on the shipping forecast, but that didn’t help either. I tried recalling the names of all Peter’s authors, but still sleep eluded me, chased away by Lily’s remark. So I turned on the bedside radio to distract myself but that made no difference either. I opened my book – Madame Bovary – but even that didn’t help. My mind returned to Lily’s comment again and again and again. It was nagging me. Annoying me. Needling me. Gnawing at me. It kept going round and round in my mind like a mosquito in a hotel room. ‘Neeeee … ’ it went. ‘Neee … neeee … neeeeeeeeee.’ I tried to swat it away but back it came, so I pulled the duvet over my head. I thought of the children, and Graham, and I thought of the programme and how it had gone. I thought of my parents on their latest trip, and of the man who came to fix the roof. I thought about my Tesco reward card and tried to remember how many points I’d accrued; but still Lily’s strange words continued to clang away, like tinnitus. What was that remark about? What on earth could it mean?
‘Stuff it!’ I said to Graham as I threw off the duvet. ‘I’m going to damn well go and find out.’
‘Darling!’ said Lily, meeting me at the lift on the forty-ninth floor of Canary Wharf an hour and fifty minutes later. ‘What a divine surprise! But what are you doing over here?’
‘I was just passing,’ I said.
‘Really? Well, how lovely. You can share my take-away lunch. And how are you this morning?’
‘Not at my best,’ I replied. ‘Rather hungover, in fact.’
‘Oh dear,’ she murmured. ‘The wrath of grapes! But it was a wonderful evening,’ she added as she tucked the dog under her left arm. ‘Jennifer adored it, didn’t you poppet?’ Jennifer gave me a vacant stare. ‘And how marvellous of you to get up three hours later like that and calmly do the weather,’ Lily added as we crossed the editorial floor. ‘I watched you from the gym at six thirty. That girl Sophie’s rather bright,’ she went on, ‘perhaps we ought to do something on her in Moi! Terry whatshisname’s a bore though, isn’t he?’ she added. ‘A clear case of mistaken nonentity. Now,’ she said as we swept past a rail of designer clothes, ‘where are your lovely kids?’
‘They’ve gone back to school,’ I explained as a pink feather boa lifted in the breeze from Lily’s scented wake. ‘Peter took them to the station this morning. Term starts again today.’
‘They’re such darlings,’ Lily exclaimed as she stroked Jennifer’s topknot. ‘Isn’t Katie a scream with her psychoanalysis? Though I can’t help feeling she’s a little Jung. We must do a makeover on her for the magazine and get her out of those blue-stocking clothes. Now Jasmine … ’ She’d stopped at the desk of a whey-faced girl of about twenty. ‘I’ve told you not to drink coffee at lunchtime, you know it stops you sleeping in the afternoons.’
We passed the picture desk where a photographer was having his portfolio assessed and long-limbed girls leaned over the illuminated lightbox. Then we entered Lily’s glass-sided office, with its earthenware pots of splayed orchids, the Magnum shots of pouting models, the framed Moi! covers and the shining industry awards. She waved her hand at the wall-sized shelf-unit displaying all her rivals’ magazines.
‘World of Inferiors,’ she quipped. Then she removed a bottle of greenish liquid from the small fridge in the corner.
‘Wheatgrass juice?’
‘Er, no thanks.’ She poured herself a glass, then sat behind her desk and held up a plate.
‘Vegetarian sushi?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, I’m not hungry, thanks.’
‘These seaweed rolls are awfully good … ’
‘No thanks.’
‘And this shiitake’s divine.’
‘Look, Lily,’ I tried again, ‘I just wanted to ask you something. Um … ’
‘Of course, darling,’ she said. ‘Ask me anything you like.’ Suddenly there was a tap at the door and Lily’s secretary Polly appeared.
‘Lily, here’s the February edition of Vogue. It’s just come in.’
Lily winced. She loathes Vogue, in fact it’s a minor obsession. This is because in 1994, when she was features editor there, they failed to promote her to deputy editor, a lapse of professional judgement she will neither forget nor forgive. She began to flick the pages of the magazine in an indolent, insolent way.
‘God, how boring,’ she muttered. ‘Tsk … that old story … seriously vieux chapeau. Oh good Lord, what a cliché – at Moi! we avoid clichés like the plague. Oh, purleeze, not Catherine Zeta-Jones again! Oh, God!’ she declared suddenly with an appalled expression on her face. ‘They’ve got Sally Desert working for them – I wouldn’t let that crummy little dwarf write my shopping list! Faith,’ she announced as she tossed the magazine onto the floor, ‘I am going to outsell Vogue.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are Lily, but –’
‘We’re not far off,’ she added as she leaned back in her chair, steepled her long fingers and scrutinised the ceiling. ‘Lots of their advertisers are coming to us, and who can blame them?’ she asked. This was clearly a rhetorical question. ‘We make our advertisers feel wonderful,’ she went on seamlessly as she fed Jennifer bits of sushi. ‘We woo them. We flatter them. We give them very good rates. We –’
‘Lily.’
‘– look after them. Make them feel special. In short, we do not bite the brand that feeds us.’
‘Lily.’
‘And in any case they now realise that Moi! is the fashion magazine of the Millennium.’ She went and stood by the window, then raised the Venetian micro-blind. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said as she gazed down on the Dome. ‘Isn’t it just wonderful?’ she repeated. ‘Come here, Faith, and look. Look at all … this.’ She’d threaded her slender arm through mine. ‘Don’t you think it’s just fantastic?’
‘Not really,’ I said truthfully as I inhaled the aroma of her Hypnotic Poison. ‘To me it’s all style and no substance.’
‘I was there,’ she murmured dreamily, ignoring my remark. ‘I was there, Faith, at that party.’
‘I know.’
‘I was there with the Queen and Tony Blair. Don’t you think that’s amazing, Faith? That your little schoolfriend was invited to that?’ Suddenly I looked at Lily’s profile and was transported back twenty-five years. I remembered the awkward girl, standing on stage in her blue gingham dress, and the look of fear and confusion on her face. Now here she was, atop London’s tallest building, with the world spread out beneath her feet.
‘Don’t you think that’s amazing?’ she pressed me again.
‘What? Well, yes, er, no. I mean, not really, Lily – I always knew you’d succeed.’
‘Yes,’ she said dreamily as we gazed at the boat-speckled river shining below. ‘I’ve succeeded, despite the attempts of a few people to put a spanner in the works.’
‘What people?’ I said.
‘Oh, no-one significant,’ she breathed. ‘Just nobodies, out to spoil my success. But they know who they are. And I know who they are, too,’ she went on with an air of slight menace. ‘But no-one’s going to stop me,’ she murmured. ‘No-one’s going to hold me back.’
‘Lily,’ I interjected, wishing she’d stop talking just for a second and listen.
‘I’ve trounced my enemies, Faith,’ she went on calmly, ‘by my vision and my hard work. And the reason why Moi! is going to be the Number One glossy is because we’ve got so many original ideas. Now,’ she added enthusiastically as she returned to her desk, ‘I just want your advice on a new feature we’re planning – top secret, of course. What do you think of this?’ She handed me a mock-up page. It was headed ‘Your Dog’s Beauty Questions Answered’. I am a Yorkshire terrier, I read. I have very fine, fly-away fur. I can never get it to stay in one place. What should I do? I am a white miniature poodle, wrote another. But at the moment my coat looks slightly discoloured and stained. This is causing me considerable distress. What grooming products can I use to restore it to its former glory?
‘The readers are going to love it,’ said Lily with an excited smile. ‘I’d like to do a dog special at some point, a pull-out supplement, maybe for the July edition, yes,’ she went on distractedly. ‘I could call it Chienne. We could get it sponsored by Winalot.’
‘Lily!’ I stood up. It was the only way to attract her attention. ‘Lily,’ I repeated. ‘I wasn’t just passing.’
‘Weren’t you, darling?’
‘No,’ I said as I sat down again. ‘I’m afraid that was a lie.’
‘Was it?’ she said, her eyes round. ‘Really, Faith, that’s not like you.’
‘I came here for a reason,’ I went on, my heart now banging like a drum. ‘Because there’s something I need to ask you.’
‘Faith, darling,’ said Lily seriously, ‘Jennifer and I are all ears.’
‘Well,’ I began nervously, ‘I know this will sound silly, but last night you said something that disturbed me.’
‘Oh, Faith,’ she said before taking a sip of wheatgrass juice, ‘I’m always saying things that disturb you, we both know that.’
‘Yes, but this wasn’t in the usual category of your flippant off-the-cuff remarks. It was not only what you said, but the way you said it.’
‘And what was it, then?’ she enquired.
‘Well, you said,’ I said, ‘you said … You said that you thought I was “marvellous” to “trust” Peter.’ Lily’s arched eyebrows lifted an inch up her high, domed brow.
‘Well I do, darling!’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think any woman who trusts any man is a complete and utter marvel, given that the species are such beasts. I mean, why do you think I dump them at such a rate?’
‘Oh, I see. So it was just a general observation, was it?’
‘Yes!’ she said gaily. ‘Of course it was! You are silly to let that worry you, Faith. I thought you always prided yourself on never believing anything I say.’
‘Oh, I do!’ I exclaimed. ‘I mean, I know that you’re usually being funny. You like to pull my leg. I don’t mind – I never have done – and I know it’s still easy to do.’
‘Faith Value,’ she said with an indulgent shake of her head.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose I am. And you’re still Lily White.’
‘I know,’ said Lily with a smile. ‘I’m sorry if I worried you,’ she went on as she chewed delicately on her seaweed roll. ‘It’s just my sense of humour, darling. You know that.’
‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘But last night I couldn’t help wondering, if what you said was a joke or not.’
‘Of course it was,’ she said, ‘don’t give it a second thought.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said, vastly relieved, and I allowed myself to smile.
‘I was just joking, Faith.’
‘Oh, great.’
‘Because I’m good at badinage.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I was just pulling your leg … ’ She was flicking through a copy of Moi!
‘I know … ’
‘I was just winding you up, like I do.’
‘Yup. Got that,’ I said as I stood up to go. ‘Great to get it sorted out.’
‘Although … ’ Lily added softly, without looking up.
‘Although what?’ I said.
‘Well … ’ She sighed as she lifted her gaze to mine. ‘Now we’re on the subject, I must say that Peter didn’t exactly seem relaxed. In fact I thought he was decidedly sharp. Mind you,’ she continued judiciously, ‘Peter’s often sharp with me. I know he doesn’t really like me,’ she went on philosophically. ‘I’m his bete noire,’ she added with a throaty laugh.
‘It’s a personality thing,’ I said diplomatically. ‘It’s just one of those little clashes one sometimes gets. But he has huge professional respect for you,’ I said.
‘Does he?’ she said with a sceptical smile.
‘In any case,’ I went on quickly, ‘between you and me, Peter’s got a lot of hassle at work so he’s a little bit anxious at the moment.’
‘Anxious? Darling,’ she added, ‘he was jumpier than the Royal Ballet.’
‘Well … ’
‘And I couldn’t help noticing how trim he looked. And did you see he was wearing a Hermès tie?’
‘Was he? I wouldn’t know. I don’t really notice labels.’
‘Yes, Hermès. They’re seventy pounds a throw. Now, I knew you hadn’t bought it for him,’ she went on. ‘So I couldn’t help wondering who had?’ I stared at her.
‘He bought it himself.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. As an investment. He said his headhunter has advised him to smarten up a bit. Peter’s looking for a new job, you see – I didn’t tell you this, but we think he’s about to be kicked out.’
‘Really?’ said Lily. ‘Oh! How awful.’
‘Well, yes, because he’s been happy at Fenton & Friend.’
‘I’ll say he has,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘All I mean is that any man would be happy working at Fenton & Friend.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ she said as she adjusted Jennifer’s butterfly barrette, ‘it’s stuffed with gorgeous girls.’
‘Oh. Is it?’
‘And I thought I heard someone say, the other day, that they’d seen Peter having lunch with an attractive blonde. But I could have been wrong,’ she added softly.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you were. Or rather you were mistaken. Because Peter has to take authors and agents out to dinner sometimes. It’s all part of his job.’
‘Of course it is, Faith, I know. But … ’
‘But what?’
‘Well, he is a publisher, and so … ’
‘Yes?’
‘I really hate to say this, darling, but maybe he’s making someone an advance?’ I gazed into Lily’s liquid brown eyes. They’re huge and hypnotic, slanting in shape, with interminable thick, curling lashes.
‘An advance?’ I repeated. I could hear the beating of my heart.
‘Maybe he’s looking for a new chapter,’ she went on softly, then took another sip of wheatgrass juice.
‘Lily, what are you talking about?’
‘Maybe, in the bookshop of life, he’s been picking up more than a Penguin … ’
‘Look, I –’
‘And the only reason I say this is because his speech last night was so odd. Katie spotted the Freudian slip, Faith, didn’t you?’
‘Well, I … ’
‘And after all, you have been married for a very long time.’
‘But … ’
‘All I’m suggesting is that in your situation, well, I’d be just a little on my guard.’
‘On my guard?’
‘Vigilant. Now, I’m only saying this as your friend.’
‘I know … ’
‘Because I have only your best interests at heart.’
‘Yes. Thanks … ’
‘But I think you ought to do a Christine … ’ I looked at her.
‘What? Hamilton?’ I said aghast. ‘You mean, search his pockets?’ Lily was fiddling with the Buddhist power beads at her slender wrist.
‘That’s what many women would do, Faith,’ she said reasonably. ‘But don’t worry, darling. I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to be concerned about.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly panicking. ‘Maybe there is.’
‘No, no, I’m sure it’s fine,’ she said soothingly. ‘But all I’m saying, as your best and oldest friend, is that maybe you should, well, sharpen up a bit.’
‘What?’
‘Learn to spot the signs.’
‘I wouldn’t know how,’ I groaned.
‘Of course you wouldn’t, you’re so trusting. But that’s something I can help you with, darling, because as luck would have it, Moi! did a big feature on this only last month.’ She stood up and began to sort through a pile of back issues on the floor.
‘Now, where is it?’ she said. ‘Oh, here we are!’ she exclaimed happily. ‘You’re in luck. “Is Your Man a Love-Rodent?”’ she read. ‘Seven classic signs: one, he’s distracted and distant. Two, he’s “working late”; three, he’s looking fit; four, his wardrobe’s improved. Five, he’s not interested in sex; six, he’s bought a mobile phone and seven – and I gather that this is the clincher, Faith … ’ Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door.
‘Lily … ’ It was Polly again. ‘Lily, I’m sorry, but I’ve got Madonna for you on line one.’
‘Oh God,’ said Lily rolling her eyes, ‘I’ve told her not to call me in my lunchbreak. Still … ’ She sighed. ‘We do want her on the cover in June. Sorry, Faith darling. Must go.’ She blew me a kiss as I stood at the door, then waved Jennifer’s little paw up and down.
‘Now, I don’t want you to worry,’ she called out as I opened the door. ‘In any case I’m sure it’s all going to work out for the best, as you always like to say.’
I journeyed back to west London as if in a trance. I’d got what I wanted, all right. I’d had my nagging doubts dispelled, and replaced with naked fear. Peter was having an affair. Lily hadn’t said it in so many words, but she clearly thought something was up and she’s, well, a woman of the world. My morale was so low it was practically underground, and as I left Turnham Green tube and walked home I began to entertain all kinds of mad ideas: that Peter was in love with another woman; that he would up and leave; that I had been a bad wife; that he had been driven to find solace elsewhere; that our house would have to be sold; that our children would suffer and fail; that our dog would become a delinquent; that we’d never go to Ikea again; that – as I placed my hand on the garden gate, my heart suddenly skipped a beat. For there, on the doorstep, was an enormous bouquet of white and yellow flowers. I gathered it up in one hand and unlocked the door with the other, and as Graham leaped up to greet me with a joyful bark, I peeled off the envelope. The phone started to ring, but I ignored it as my eyes scanned the message on the small white card.
Happy Anniversary, Faith, it read. So sorry I forgot. All my love, Peter. Relief knocked me over, like a wave. I sank gratefully onto the hall chair.
‘Of course he’s not having an affair!’ I said to Graham as my hand reached for the phone. ‘Peter loves me,’ I said, ‘and I love him, and that’s all there is to it. Hello?’
‘Faith, darling, it’s Lily. Sorry we got cut off there.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I’d said everything I wanted to say and in fact Lily, although it’s very kind of you to give me advice, and I do appreciate it, I really don’t think you’re quite right, and to be honest I think I just really overreacted and I’d been in a silly sort of mood you see, and I was very tired too from work, so –’
‘No, but Faith, there was one thing I meant to tell you,’ she said. ‘Something really important – the seventh sign. Apparently it’s the absolutely copper-bottomed-it-simply-never-fails-dead-cert-surefire-sign that one’s husband is up to no good.’
‘Er, yes?’ I said faintly. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s if he’s sending you flowers!’
‘What are you getting up to?’ Terry enquired saucily as he leaned into the camera a few days later. ‘Why not get up to AM-UK! where there’s lots of snap, crackle and pop! It’s coming up to … ’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Seven fifty. And later in the show, Internet dating – how to “click” on-line; women with beards – why they prefer the rough to the smooth; and our Phobia of the Week – griddle pans. Plus all the news, weather and sport.’
‘But first,’ said Sophie as she read her autocue, ‘we ask that old question, what’s in a name? Well, quite a lot according to sociologist Ed McCall, who’s just written a book about names, about what they mean, and how they can influence our lives. Ed, a warm welcome to the show.’ I was standing by the weather chart, listening to this, and I must say it was great. Interesting items are rare, as one of the TV critics noted ironically, ‘AM-UK!’s healthy breakfast menu is virtually fact-free!’ But this interview was riveting, and Sophie handled it well.
‘Looking at surnames,’ Ed McCall began, ‘I’ve concluded that people are often drawn to careers which reflect their second names. For example there’s a man called James Judge, who’s a judge; then there’s Sir Hugh Fish, who was head of Thames Water; there’s a newly ordained vicar called Linda Church, and I discovered a Tasmanian police woman called Lauren Order. Gardener’s Question Time has Bob Flowerdew and Pippa Greenwood, and there’s another well-known horticulturalist called Michael Bloom.’
‘I believe the medical profession has some intriguing examples,’ Sophie prompted him.
‘Oh, yes. I uncovered an allergist called Dr Aikenhead,’ he said, ‘and dermatologists Doctors Whitehead and Pitts; I found a urologist called Dr Weedon, and a paediatrician called Dr Kidd.’
‘This is great, Sophie,’ I heard Darryl say in my earpiece.
‘Any others?’ she said with a smile.
‘There’s a surgeon called Frank Slaughter, a police officer called Andy Sergeant, several bankers with the surname Cash, and a convicted criminal called Tony Lawless. There are many other instances of this type,’ he went on, ‘so I’ve concluded that these people were drawn to their professions, whether consciously or not, because of their family names.’
‘I suppose you could call it nominative determinism,’ suggested Sophie in her academic way.
‘Er, certainly,’ he said uncertainly, ‘though that’s a very technical way of putting it. But yes, I believe that names do determine our lives in some way; that they’re not just labels but form an inherent part of our identity.’
‘And is this as true of Christian names as it is of surnames?’ Sophie asked.
‘Oh, definitely,’ he said.
‘So what does Sophie mean?’ Terry interjected with a smirk. ‘Smug little show-off?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Sycophantic show-stealer?’
‘Shut up, Terry!’ I heard Darryl hiss in my earpiece.
‘Er, no,’ said Ed McCall, clearly shocked by Terry’s shameless on-screen slurs. ‘Erm, the name Sophie actually means wisdom, and may I say,’ he added gallantly, ‘that it’s a name that obviously suits this Sophie well.’
‘And what does Terry mean?’ asked Sophie pleasantly.
‘Terry is either the diminutive of Terence,’ Ed replied, ‘or it could be derived from the French name, Thierry, from Norman times.’
‘It’s not a very popular name any more, is it?’ Sophie went on sweetly. Ah. She’d obviously read the book. ‘In fact you point out that Terry’s rather a dated name these days.’
‘That’s right,’ Ed agreed, ‘it was especially popular in the 1950s.’
‘The 1950s!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, I’m sure Terry wasn’t born as long ago as that, were you?’ she enquired innocently.
‘Oh, no no no,’ Terry said, ‘much later.’
‘Of course you were,’ said Sophie benignly as the cameraman sadistically lingered on Terry’s reddening face. ‘I’m sure you were born much, much later than that, Terry.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right. I was.’
‘I’m sure no-one would believe you could possibly have been born in – ooh – 1955?’ she concluded with a smile. Touché. He deserved it. For once he was lost for words. ‘And what about our weather forecaster, Faith?’ Sophie went on smoothly as Terry seethed; she indicated me with an elegant sweep of her left hand as the light on ‘my’ camera flashed red.
‘Faith is one of those abstract virtue names which the Puritans invented,’ Ed explained. ‘It’s like Charity, Verity or Grace. And these names were given mostly to women, of course, as a means of social control; so that baby girls given these “virtuous” names would develop those desirable characteristics. There were some really awful names of this kind,’ he added, ‘but thankfully they haven’t survived. Can you imagine calling your child Abstinence, Humility or Meek?’
‘How dreadful!’ Sophie exclaimed with a laugh.
‘But the more attractive names of this type have stayed with us and I think they do have an influence on character. I mean, if you’re called Patience or Verity, then people expect certain things. How can you be called Grace and be clumsy, for example, or be a miserable Joy, or a promiscuous Virginia, or a depressive Hope?’
‘Or an adulterous Faith,’ said Terry, trying to get back in the show. ‘Are you faithful, Faith?’ he asked me, very cheekily I thought.
‘Only to my husband,’ I said with a smile.
‘There’s a fashion for naming children after places, isn’t there, Ed?’ Sophie went on.
‘Oh yes,’ he replied, ‘we’ve got just about every American state now – Atlanta, Georgia, Savannah etc – though Nebraska and Kentucky don’t have quite the same ring. Then there’s Chelsea, of course, and India. And people often name their children after the place in which they were conceived. Like Posh Spice and David Beckham calling their baby Brooklyn after a trip to New York.’
‘Well, it could have been worse,’ said Sophie judiciously. ‘At least they didn’t call him Queens.’ Ed laughed at her witticism as she thanked him for coming on the show. ‘It’s been fascinating,’ she concluded warmly. ‘And Ed’s book, The Game of the Name, is published today by Thorsons and costs six pounds ninety-nine.’
‘And now,’ Terry intervened, ‘it’s time for a look at the weather. So let’s see if Faith lives up to her name today!’
As the programme ended an hour later, Terry and Sophie sat there beaming at each other amiably while the credits rolled. Then, the split-second they were off air, he stood up, towered over her and shouted, ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’
‘I’m sorry, do what?’ said Sophie sweetly as she removed her microphone pack from the back of her skirt.
‘Don’t you ever discuss my age on screen again,’ he hissed.
‘Well, for my part I’d be grateful if you didn’t insult me on screen,’ she replied as she took out her earpiece.
‘I am thirty-nine!’ he shouted after her as she made her way towards Make-Up to get her slap removed. ‘Thirty-nine! Not forty-six. Got that, you superior little cow?’
‘Of course I know you’re thirty-nine, Terry,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know how I could have got that wrong. After all, everyone here tells me you’ve been thirty-nine for years.’ His face went white with anger. It was as though Sophie had made a declaration of war. And though I was glad to see her start to get her own back, I hoped she wouldn’t come to regret what she’d done. Still, as I say, I always keep out of office disputes. As I picked up my bag I saw that there were two copies of The Game of the Name lying on the planning desk. No-one seemed to want them, so I put a pound in the charity box and took one of them home. There was an index at the back, and I looked up Peter; it said that Peter means a rock, which I knew. I thought how Peter always has been my rock, really – steady and unswerving and strong. I pondered my own name, and wondered, not for the first time, to what extent it has shaped who I am. Would I have turned out differently if I’d been called something racy, like Scarlett or Carmen or Sky? But I was christened Faith, so I guess I couldn’t be racy if I tried. And I decided I might as well be true to the name I have and I resolved not to have doubts about Peter. So when I opened the front door and saw that Lily had sent me the December edition of Moi! I simply felt like throwing it away. But then, on the other hand, I knew she could only mean well.
I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, she had written in her large round hand. But just to be on the safe side, do read this as it’s full of handy hints. PS, why not check out the IsHeCheating.com website?
‘How ridiculous,’ I said to Graham as I flicked through the magazine again. ‘Peter isn’t having an affair.’ Even so, I couldn’t resist reading the article. Just out of interest, of course.
How to Tell If Your Man’s Playing Away:
1 He’s distracted and distant.
2 He’s looking fit.
3 He’s working late.
4 His wardrobe’s improved.
5 He’s not interested in sex.
6 He’s bought a mobile phone.
7 He’s sending you flowers.
Now, the scary thing was that I knew I could answer a resounding ‘yes’ to all of these. But I decided to remain quite calm, because there’s a rational explanation in every case. Peter is distracted and distant because he has many worries, and has lost weight, ditto. He’s working late because his boss is vile; he’s improved his wardrobe because he has to look smart for job interviews. He’s not interested in sex because his libido is low due to his depression about work. He bought a mobile phone so that his headhunter can contact him at the drop of a hat; and he sent me flowers for the simple reason that he forgot our anniversary and felt bad.
‘So there we have it,’ I said to Graham as I read and reread the piece. ‘He’s in the clear. We have nothing to worry about.’ I looked into his eyes – they’re the colour of demerara – and I stroked his velvety nose. Graham’s been anxious too, you see. He’s very sensitive to my moods and over the last couple of days he’s been feeling a bit insecure. I know this because he’s been sitting closer to me than normal – preferably on my lap. Also, he’s following me around more than he usually does. So this afternoon I said to him, ‘It’s OK, Graham, you don’t have to get up every time I leave my chair.’ But he does. He came with me as I climbed the stairs to the spare room on the top floor. As I say, I didn’t really think that Peter was having an affair, but in order to put all my fears to rest, I’d decided to check his pockets. Peter’s fairly tidy, and he doesn’t have huge numbers of clothes, so I knew my investigations wouldn’t take long. I found that my pulse was beginning to race as I consulted the magazine again. You must leave everything exactlyas you found it, it advised. If he suspects you’re onto him he may stop what he’s doing, which means you’ll never get to the truth. So, feeling like a thief, which evoked in me a curious mixture of tremendous excitement and deep dread, I carefully went through his clothes. First I looked in the pockets of his sports jackets. But all I found was an old bus ticket, a hanky and some coins.
‘Nothing suspicious there,’ I said to Graham. He looked at me with what I can only describe as an expression of enormous relief. In the laundry basket in the corner were some shirts. Graham and I both sniffed them. But there was no whiff of alien scent, no tell-tale lipstick marks, just the familiar aroma of Peter’s sweat.
‘We’re doing well,’ I said to Graham. His ears pricked up and he wagged his tail. Then I took Peter’s corduroy trousers off the dumb valet and turned out the pockets of those. All I came up with was a packet of chewing gum – unopened – and some lint.
‘No condoms or billets-doux – my husband is innocent,’ I declared. By now I was rather enjoying myself. Relief was flooding in. I’d already checked the glove compartment for foreign knickers but found not so much as a thong. I’d done 1471 on the telephone, and it had read back to me Sarah’s number. I couldn’t check his briefcase, of course, because he’d taken that to work.
‘Ah – his mobile phone statement,’ I said as I spotted an envelope marked One-2-One lying on the window sill. It had been opened, so I just slipped it out and read the bill. There was one 0207 number on it which appeared over thirty times. So I went downstairs, cunningly pressed 141 to conceal my number (as advised by Moi!) then dialled it with a thumping heart.
‘Andy Metzler Associates,’ said a female voice. I immediately put the phone down.
‘It’s just his headhunter,’ I said to Graham. ‘Peter’s blameless. Gimme five!’ He held up his right paw and I shook it, then looked at the magazine again. Most love cheats are caught out either by unfamiliar numbers on their phone bill, orby suspicious entries on their credit card statements. Now, I didn’t actually know where our credit card statement was, as I don’t get to see it. This is not because Peter’s hiding it from me, but because it comes in a brown envelope and I never, ever open brown envelopes. It’s a kind of phobia, I suppose. I’ll open any number of white ones, but brown ones I avoid. So Peter always deals with our credit card, and I’ve never ever seen the bill. In any case, I hardly use my card as it’s so easy to over-spend. I rummaged in the bureau in the sitting room and found a small black folder labelled ‘Credit Card’.
‘So far Peter has passed the fidelity test with flying colours,’ I said to Graham. ‘This, my darling doggo, is the final stage.’ I examined the top statement, which was dated January the fourth. As I expected, there were very few entries; we’d used the card to book theatre tickets at Christmas, we’d bought Katie some books from Borders, and there was a sixty-pound entry for WH Smith for a new computer game for Matt. Then there was a fourth entry, for some flowers. My flowers, obviously. They’d cost forty pounds and had been ordered from a place called Floribunda. I know where that is – it’s in Covent Garden, near Peter’s office. So that was that then. No unexplained restaurant bills. No references to country house hotels. No suspicious mentions of Knickerbox or La Perla. My investigations were at an end. But as I snapped the folder shut and went to put it back, I suddenly felt my heart contract as though squeezed by an alien hand. Those flowers on the bill weren’t my flowers. How could they be? My bouquet had only been sent yesterday. The bill for my ones wouldn’t appear until the February statement in three weeks’ time. I could hear my breathing increase as I lowered myself onto a nearby chair. I went into the hall, looked up Floribunda in the phone book and dialled the number with a trembling hand. What would I say when they answered? What on earth would I say? Please could you tell me who my husband ordered flowers for on December eighteenth as I’m suspicious that he’s having an affair. Perhaps I could pretend to be the recipient and claim that they’d never turned up? I’m so sorry, but you know the flowers my husband Peter Smith ordered on the eighteenth of December? Yes, that’s right. Well I’m afraid they never arrived; there seems to have been a mix-up, could you just confirm which address you sent them to …
‘Hello, Floribunda, can I help you?’ said a pleasant-sounding female voice.
‘I – I –’ I put the phone down, aware that the handset was wet with sweat. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to know. I could feel the urgent banging of my heart as I sat on the foot of the stairs. Peter was having an affair. I had been happy so I had nothing known, I remembered as my hands sprang up to my face. So now, forever, Farewell, the tranquil mind … I sat there, gazing at the gold sunburst mirror Lily had given us for our wedding. I stared at it for a minute or two, too shocked to know what to do. Then suddenly I gasped, and smiled, then smacked my forehead, hard, with the palm of my hand.
‘You IDIOT, Faith!’ I shouted. ‘You STUPID IDIOT!’ I’d suddenly remembered, you see. His mother’s birthday’s on December the eighteenth. I’d organised the birthday card, and signed it, and we’d given her a silver photo frame. And now it was obvious that Peter had decided to send her flowers as well. Of course. That was it! I flung my arms round the startled dog.
‘I’m a very silly Mummy,’ I said as Graham nervously licked my ear, ‘and I got it completely wrong.’ I felt so mean for having suspected Peter, especially when he’s got so much on his mind. I felt mean, and low, and somehow tarnished. Now, I resolved as I picked up the credit card folder, I’d never distrust him again. Then I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee – real coffee by way of celebration. And the heady aroma of arabica had filled the air and I was feeling quite mellow again, calmly flicking through the rest of Moi! when I heard the trill of the telephone.
‘Hello, Faith,’ said Sarah. ‘I just wanted to thank you for organising that lovely party last week. I did enjoy myself,’ she added warmly, ‘and it was wonderful to see the children – they’re so grown up.’
‘Oh, they are,’ I said with a wistful smile.
‘And I thought it was so sweet the way you arranged it as a surprise for Peter.’
‘I wanted to cheer him up,’ I explained. ‘I expect he’s told you that he’s got a few worries at work.’
‘Well yes,’ she said. ‘He phoned me last night. I’m sure it will all work out, but I must say he is a bit distracted at the moment.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘He is. In fact,’ I went on enthusiastically, in a way I was shortly to regret, ‘he’d even forgotten that it was our anniversary and he’s never done that before.’
‘Well,’ Sarah exclaimed with a little laugh, ‘he actually forgot my birthday!’
‘Sorry?’ It was like falling down a mineshaft. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah, what did you say?’
‘He forgot my birthday,’ she repeated. ‘And he’s normally so thoughtful like that. I mean, I got your card of course, and that lovely frame, but Peter usually gives me a little something extra, just from him, but for the first time ever, he didn’t. Not a thing. But please don’t mention it to him,’ she added quickly. ‘He’s got enough on his plate right now.’
‘So you didn’t get … ?’ I began faintly.
‘Get what?’
‘You didn’t get any … ?’ I heard the sudden, sharp ring of her doorbell.
‘Oh, I’ve got to go,’ she said, ‘my bridge partners have just turned up. Let’s chat another time soon, Faith. Bye.’
I replaced the receiver very slowly. ‘Oh God,’ I said to Graham. ‘Oh God,’ I repeated, breathing more quickly. ‘Who the hell did he send those flowers to, and what on earth shall I do?’ I consulted the magazine again. Under the box headed, ‘Action Stations!’ was the following advice: On no account let your husband know that you have doubts about his fidelity. However hard it is you MUST carry on as though absolutely nothing is amiss.
‘So how was it today, darling?’ I enquired with phoney brightness as Peter arrived back from work.
‘Godawful,’ he said wearily. ‘Do you know what the old bat’s doing now?’
‘What?’
‘She’s trying to fob Amber Dane off onto me.’
‘I thought Amber Dane had given up writing those awful novels,’ I said.
‘We all hoped so,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘But she’s written another one which she claims is “satire” if you please. Satire? From what I’ve read so far it’s about as satirical as a box of Milk Tray. We really shouldn’t be publishing it – in fact that’s what I said. But Charmaine’s given me the manuscript and wants a full report. Talk about getting the short bloody straw,’ he added as he loosened his tie.
‘Oh dear.’
‘And that creep,’ he said exasperatedly as he fixed himself a drink, ‘that fat Old Etonian creep got all hoity toity with me because I called him Olly.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Exactly! Nothing. I mean, lots of people call him Olly. Charmaine calls him Olly. And today, in a meeting, I called him Olly too, and afterwards he took me to one side, and he’d gone puce in the face, and all sweaty, and he said, very crossly, as though he was my bloody boss, “Peter. Kindly don’t call me Olly. My name is Oliver.” Pompous git! You know, Faith, I used to love Fenton & Friend, but now I just can’t wait to get out.’
‘Any news from Andy?’ I asked. At this Peter blushed slightly, I guessed because he was embarrassed to admit that there wasn’t any news.
‘Er … no,’ he said with a sigh as he sank into an easy chair. ‘There’s nothing. Nothing yet. But I’m … hopeful.’
I managed to remain all breezy and ‘normal’ as the magazine article advised, and I couldn’t help congratulating myself for keeping up this pleasant façade when my mind was in such turmoil. As we sat down to supper I looked at Peter across the kitchen table, and it was as though I was seeing him in a whole new light. He looked different to me now, in some undefinable way, because for the first time in fifteen years I couldn’t read his face. It was like looking at one of those smart clocks with no numerals – they can be rather hard to read. All I knew was that I didn’t instinctively trust him in the way I had before. I mean, before trust just wasn’t an issue between Peter and me. That may sound naïve, but it’s true. I never ever gave it a thought, and I felt sorry for wives who did. But now, I found myself, like thousands of other women, consciously wondering if my husband was having an affair. And it was a very peculiar feeling after being married to him for so long. As we sat there chatting over the lasagne – reduced by a pound in Tesco actually, and double points on the loyalty card – I thought about Peter’s name again, and about how he’s always been my rock. Strong and steady and reliable – until now, that is. In the Bible it was Peter upon whom Christ built his church. That’s what we were taught at school. But it was also Peter whose resolve cracked in the garden of Gethsemane, and who denied Jesus, three times. So Peter the Apostle had feet of clay and I thought, my Peter does too.
‘Are you all right, Faith?’ said Peter suddenly. He’d put down his knife and fork.
‘What?’
‘You’re staring at me,’ he said.
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. ‘I mean, have you had a good day?’
‘Er … ’
‘You seem a little bit tense.’
‘Oooh no, I’m not tense at all no, no, no, no. No.’
‘How was the programme?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry I missed you this morning. You know I always try to watch.’
‘Well, it was quite good,’ I replied. ‘There was this really interesting interview about names and what they mean. Yours means a rock,’ I added.
‘I know.’
‘Mine means – well it’s obvious,’ I said. ‘And I always have been faithful, as you know.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do know that,’ he said rather quietly, I thought. And now there was a silence, during which I could hear the ticking of the kitchen clock. ‘So how was the weather today?’ he added.
‘Um … well, the weather was fine,’ I said. ‘I mean, it wasn’t fine. In fact the outlook is rather unsettled,’ I went on thoughtfully. ‘Temperatures are dropping quite a bit, and then there’s the chill factor.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The chill factor.’ We looked at each other again.
‘Gorgeous flowers,’ I said brightly, indicating the bouquet of creamy jonquils and narcissi, pale anemones and golden mimosa. ‘They smell heavenly. That was so sweet of you, Peter.’
‘You deserve them,’ he replied. Then another silence enveloped us both. And in that silence I suddenly decided – don’t ask me why – to ignore what the magazine advised.
‘Don’t you normally buy your mother something for her birthday?’ I asked innocently as I put down my knife and fork.
‘Oh Christ!’ he slapped his forehead. ‘I completely forgot.’
‘Well, we all gave her that silver frame, don’t you remember, and you did sign the card.’
‘I know. But I usually send her some flowers or get her a box of chocs. You know, something that’s just from me. I’m not remembering anything at the moment, Faith,’ he sighed as he picked up our plates. ‘I guess it’s all the stress at work.’
‘But you’re remembering … some things,’ I suggested tentatively as I opened the freezer door.
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said as I took out a box of ice-cream. ‘To be honest, Pete, I was going to ask you.’
‘Faith, what are you talking about?’ he asked as he got down two bowls.
‘Well, nothing really,’ I replied nonchalantly as I flipped open the lid, ‘except that you seem to have remembered someone else recently – someone I don’t know.’
‘Faith,’ he said edgily, ‘I haven’t got time for this. I’m very tired. And I’ve got an excruciating evening ahead of me because I’ve got to start the Amber Dane. So if you’ve got something to say to me, please would you be direct?’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘I will.’ I inhaled deeply, and then spoke. ‘Peter,’ I began, ‘I looked at our credit card bill today, and I found an entry on it for some flowers. I knew they weren’t for your mother’s birthday, because she told me you’d forgotten, so I just couldn’t help wondering who on earth they were for?’ Peter took his ice-cream, then stared at me as though I were mad.
‘Flowers?’ he said incredulously. ‘Flowers? I sent someone flowers? Who would I have sent flowers to apart from you or my mum?’
‘Well, that’s just what I was wondering,’ I said as I put the ice-cream away.
‘When was this exactly?’ he asked calmly as I got the chocolate sauce. If he was lying, he was very convincing.
‘December the eighteenth,’ I replied.
‘December the eighteenth? December the eighteenth … ’ He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, theatrically almost, then he suddenly said, ‘Clare Barry.’
‘Who?’
‘She’s one of my authors. That’s who those flowers were for. They were for her book launch, I always send her flowers.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘But –’
‘But what?’
‘But I thought you had a different credit card that you use just for your work expenditure.’
‘Yes, I do. It’s American Express.’
‘But sending Clare Barry congratulatory flowers, well, that would have been for work, wouldn’t it?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘So why would you have ordered flowers for one of your authors using your personal credit card?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said irritably. ‘Maybe it was a simple mistake. Or perhaps I mislaid my American Express card and was in a hurry, so I used my other card instead. Does it really matter?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said airily. ‘It doesn’t. I’m … satisfied.’
‘Satisfied?’ he said wonderingly. ‘Satisfied? Oh!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘Oh! I get it. You think I’m carrying on with someone.’ I glanced at Graham. His shoulder muscles had stiffened and his ears were down.
‘Ooh, no, no, no, no,’ I said. ‘No. Well, maybe.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Are you?’
‘No I’m not,’ he said with what struck me as a slightly regretful air. ‘I’m not carrying on with anyone. That’s the truth. In any case, Faith, don’t you think I’ve got enough to worry me right now without getting involved with some chick?’ Chick? ‘So please, will you give me a break?’ A break?
‘A break?’ I repeated. Ah. ‘You want me to give you a break?’
‘Yes,’ he replied firmly, ‘I do. And I hope you believe me when I say that those flowers were for an author? Do you believe me, Faith? Do you?’
‘Yes. I believe you,’ I lied.
February (#ulink_ab9dffc1-5978-5dae-909d-00f1545672eb)
‘I’m getting good at this,’ I said to Graham as I went through Peter’s clothes again this morning. You see I’m used to it now, so the second time wasn’t so bad. My heart wasn’t in my mouth as it had been when I’d done it the first time. My nerve endings didn’t feel as though they were attached to twitching wires. In fact I was quite business-like about it, and I told myself that I was perfectly entitled to go through my husband’s things.
‘Other women do this all the time,’ I said to Graham briskly. ‘In any case, I need to go through them to see if any of them want dry cleaning.’ I found nothing untoward this time, except, well, one very odd thing actually – in his grey trouser pockets – a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I showed it to Graham and we exchanged a meaningful glance.
‘I think I’ll go to the gym this evening,’ Peter said when he got home. ‘I haven’t been for over a week.’
‘Oh,’ I said. And whereas before I’d have thought nothing of it and gaily waved him off, now I was instantly on the alert. Why did he want to go to the gym all of a sudden? Who was he meeting there? Perhaps he had a rendezvous. Right. Let’s nip this in the bud.
‘Can I come too?’ I asked. ‘I’d like to have a swim.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ he said, so we put on Ready Steady Cook for Graham, got our sports bags and left.
‘Any news from Andy?’ I enquired as we drove along.
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘not yet.’ He changed up a gear.
‘And did you manage to finish the Amber Dane?’
‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘At long last. Satire!’ he expostulated again. ‘It’s not so much Juvenal as juvenile. I mean, why Charmaine wants to keep her on, I really don’t know. God, that woman gives me stress.’
‘Is that why you’ve started smoking?’ I asked innocently as we loitered at a red light.
‘Sorry?’
‘Is that why you’ve started smoking?’ I repeated. I wanted to see how well he could lie.
‘I don’t smoke,’ he said indignantly. ‘You know that.’
‘In that case, darling, why, when I emptied your grey trouser pockets at the dry cleaners today, did I find a packet of cigarettes?’
‘Cigarettes?’ he said. And I could see, even in the semi-darkness, that his face had flushed bright red. ‘What cigarettes?’
‘Lucky Strike,’ I replied.
‘Oh. Oh. Those cigarettes,’ he said as the car nosed forward again. ‘Yes, well, I didn’t want you to know this, but actually … I do smoke, just occasionally, when I’m stressed.’
‘I’ve never seen you do it,’ I said as the sign for the Hogarth Health Club came into view.
‘Well, I didn’t think you’d approve,’ he replied. ‘In any case, you’ve never seen me with serious stress before. But when I’m stressed, then just now and again, yes, I do like to have a quick fag.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’ And then I suddenly remembered another thing that didn’t quite fit.
‘You don’t like chewing gum, do you?’ I asked as he parked the car.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I hate it.’
‘So you’d never buy it, then?’
‘No. Of course not. Why on earth would I?’
‘Well, exactly,’ I said.
‘Look, Faith, I hope that’s the end of today’s inquisition,’ he said as he pulled up the handbrake.
‘No further questions,’ I said with a grim little smile.
‘And in future, Faith,’ he added as he turned off the ignition, ‘I’d rather you didn’t go through my pockets. You’ve never done it before and I don’t want you to start now.’ Of course he didn’t. Because then I’d find out for certain what at present I only suspected.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said breezily. ‘I won’t do it again.’ When we got home at nine thirty I pretended I was going to bed, but instead I crept into Matt’s room to use his computer. I knew he wouldn’t mind. There was a pile of CD Roms on the chair, and dozens of computer games on the bed. He seemed to be in the middle of reorganising his vast collection. I picked them up and looked at them – they’ve got the weirdest names: Zombie Revenge, Strider, Super Pang and Chu-Chu Rocket. Oh well, I thought, they keep him happy. Then I sat at his desk, turned on the computer and hit ‘Connect’. Eeeeeeeeeekkkk. Berddinnnnnggg. Chingggg. Bongggggg. Pingggggg. Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep. Blooooop. Krrrrrkkkkkkk. Krrrrrrkkkkkk. And I was in. I clicked onto Yahoo, did a search for the www.IsHeCheating.com website, then click, click, click … And there it was. As the page downloaded I quickly got the gist. It was one of these interactive sites. American. You could log on pseudonymously, e-mail your suspicions, and ask other people for advice. It was riveting to read. Sherry from Iowa was worried because she’d found a stocking in her husband’s car; Brandy from North Carolina was in despair because her boyfriend kept talking about a woman at work; and Chuck from Utah was upset because he’d intercepted his wife talking to her lover on the phone.
I’m almost certain he’s cheating, said Sherry. But although I want to know in one way, in another I don’t, because I’m scared of what I may find out.
Go with your guts, girl, advised Mary-Ann from Maine. A woman’s intuition is NEVER wrong.
Maybe it’s HIS stocking? suggested Frank from New Jersey. Maybe your husband’s a cross-dresser, and is too embarrassed to say.
Follow him to work, said Cathy from Milwaukee. But make sure you wear a wig.
I can’t. He’s a long-distance lorry-driver, Sherry had e-mailed back. I decided to log on as ‘Emily’ because that’s my middle name.
I think my husband may be having an affair, I typed. Or it could just be that I’m paranoid and insecure. But he has been behaving strangely, and I’m not sure it’s all due to pressure at work. He’s a publisher, I went on. So he gets to meet all sorts of glamorous people in the book world. And though I know he’s never strayed before, I think he may be doing so now. Firstly, he ordered flowers for someone in December, using our joint credit card. And when I challenged him about this he claimed – not very convincingly – that they were congratulatory flowers for an author. Secondly, I’ve been finding some odd things in his pockets – chewing gum, which he hates; and today I found a packet of cigarettes. But in fifteen years of marriage I have never, ever, seen him smoke. So I simply don’t trust him in the way I’ve always done before. And it’s making me feel terrible, so I’d be grateful for your thoughts.
The next afternoon I phoned Lily. ‘I need your advice,’ I said.
‘Of course, darling,’ she replied. ‘Whatever I can do to help.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s about Peter.’
‘Is it?’ she breathed. ‘Oh dear. What’s happened?’
I sat down on the hall chair. ‘I’ve found out a few things.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. But I don’t know what they mean.’
‘They probably mean nothing,’ she said confidently. ‘But I’ll tell you what I think.’
‘Right … ’ I began nervously. ‘He sent me flowers.’
‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Mmm,’ she added with a regretful sigh. ‘You know what they say about that.’
‘Yes, but the thing is,’ I said miserably, ‘that he sent someone else flowers, too.’
‘No!’ she gasped.
‘He claims they were for an author, Lily, but I’m just not sure. And then … ’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh Lily, I feel so disloyal telling you this,’ I said as I twisted my wedding ring back and forth.
‘Darling, you’re not being disloyal,’ she said quietly. ‘All you’re doing is protecting yourself.’
‘Protecting myself?’
‘Yes. Because if it is serious – though I’m absolutely sure it’s not – you don’t want to be taken by surprise. So tell me, what else have you found?’
‘Well … ’ I began again. And then stopped. ‘Oh God, I can’t go on, Lily. I feel so treacherous. I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you see, you’ve never had a husband.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Faith,’ she said with a giggle. ‘You know perfectly well I’ve had lots. Now, what were you going to say?’
I heaved a huge sigh. ‘I’ve found some pretty strange things in his pockets. For example, a packet of chewing gum, but Lily, he hates the stuff. And yesterday I discovered a packet of Lucky Strike. But the point is, Peter doesn’t smoke.’
‘Mmm. How very strange.’
‘And then this morning when I got back from work I went through his pockets again … ’
‘Naturally … ’
‘And I found this note in his jacket.’
‘A note? What does it say?’
‘It says: Peter, Jean has already phoned three times this morning and is absolutely desperate to talk to you, desperate is underlined. Twice,’ I added anxiously.
‘Jean,’ she said. ‘Well … that could mean nothing, really. It could be quite innocent.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes. I do. And if it is innocent – which I’m quite sure it is – then he’ll be perfectly happy to tell you exactly who this “Jean” is. So my advice is to ask him outright, and watch how he reacts. Now, don’t worry about all this, Faith,’ Lily added. ‘I’m praying for you, by the way.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘I said five Hail Marys for you last night and I chanted for twenty minutes, too.’
‘Great.’ Lily has a slightly promiscuous approach to religion.
‘I also looked at your horoscope this morning,’ she went on seriously. ‘There’s a lot of tension in your sign at the moment between Saturn and Mars, so this is leading to adverse celestial activity on the relationship front.’
‘I see.’
‘But you’re doing the right thing.’
‘Am I? You know, Lily, I think I’d rather bury my head in the sand and let life jog along like before.’
‘Well, of course, ignorance is bliss, they say. But … ’ She sighed.
‘But I’ve got to see it through,’ I concluded as Lily murmured her assent. ‘And now I’ve started it’s becoming an obsession. I feel I’ve just got to find out the truth.’
‘Well, you’re going about it the right way,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And although of course I don’t want to interfere, it seems to me that you’re sleuthing away quite nicely there. I mean, your investigations are getting results.’
‘My investigations are going well,’ I agreed, ‘but now I’ve got a bit stuck.’
‘Well, Faith,’ she added, softly, ‘privately I’d say that your detection work has been very good.’ Privately? Detection? Eureka!
‘I need a private detective,’ I said.
‘Have you seen this?’ said Peter last night. He waved the Guardian at me. ‘It’s about AM-UK!’
‘What? Oh, I missed it.’
‘The TV critic’s had a go.’ I looked at the piece. It was headlined ‘CEREAL KILLERS!’ Oh dear. AM-UK! normally serves up a load of waffle for breakfast, began Nancy Banks-Smith, with the odd Poptart. But with the arrival of brilliant bluestocking Sophie Walsh, it’s a clear case of Frosties all round. The on-screen chemistry between ‘husband and wife’ team Walsh and old-timer Doyle, is about as warm as liquid nitrogen. But young Sophie handles Doyle’s sadistic joshing with rare aplomb. His crude attempts to wrest back the limelight are mesmerising to watch. But it’s Sophie who’s winning this breakfast battle – so-fa.
‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘They’ve all noticed. Mind you, it’s impossible to miss.’
‘It’s probably good for the ratings,’ said Peter. ‘Maybe that’s why Terry does it.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘I’m going upstairs,’ he went on, opening his briefcase. ‘I’ve got another manuscript to read.’
‘Before you do that,’ I said carefully, ‘please could you just tell me one thing?’
‘If I can,’ he said warily. I took a deep breath.
‘Please could you tell me who Jean is.’
‘Jean? Jean?’ He looked totally confused. I was almost convinced.
‘So you don’t know anyone called Jean, then?’ I said.
‘Jean?’ he repeated with a frown.
‘Yes, Jean. As in the girl’s name.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t.’ I had no idea he was such a good actor. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘No particular reason,’ I said. Peter gave me an odd look, then he snapped his briefcase shut and repeated, very slowly, ‘I do not know anyone called Jean.’
‘OK.’
‘But I know why you’re asking,’ he added wearily. ‘And it’s really getting me down. Faith, I am not enjoying being the object of your crude and unfounded suspicions. So to allay them, I’m now going to tell you the names of all the women I do know.’
‘Really, there’s no need,’ I said.
‘Oh, but I want to,’ he went on, ‘because maybe that way you’ll actually believe me, and these constant inquisitions will stop. Because, to be honest, I’m at the end of my tether, with everything that’s going on at work. So I hope you don’t think me unreasonable, Faith, but I can’t cope with any hassle at home.’
‘I’m not hassling you,’ I said.
‘Yes you are,’ he shot back. ‘You’ve been hassling me for three weeks. You’ve never done it before, but – and I really don’t know why – you seem to have got this bee in your bonnet. So just to convince you, darling, that I’m not fooling around, I’m now going to list, from memory, all the women I know. Let’s see. Right, at work there’s Charmaine, Phillipa and Kate in Editorial, um, Daisy and Jo in Publicity; Rosanna, Flora, and Emma in Marketing, and Mary and Leanne in Sales. Now, I talk to these women on a regular basis, Faith, and I’m not involved with any of them.’
‘OK, OK,’ I said.
‘Then of course there are all my women authors. There’s Clare Barry, to whom I sent flowers, Francesca Leigh and Lucy Watt; then there’s Janet Strong, J.L. Wyatt, Anna Jones, and um … Oh yes, Lorraine Liddel and Natalie Waugh.’
‘I’m not interested,’ I said in a bored sort of way.
‘Who else?’ he said, folding his arms and gazing at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Well, there are a number of female literary agents with whom I converse on a regular basis. There’s Betsy and Valerie at Rogers, Green; Joanna and Sue at Blake Hart; Alice, Jane and Emma at A.P. Trott, and Celia at Ed McPhail.’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘No Faith, it isn’t all right,’ he said. ‘So let me tell you some more. Oh yes, on that silly Family Ethics Committee on which I sit four times a year, there is Baroness Warner, who’s sixty-three; the sociologist, Dame Barbara Brown, and two very married and rather boring women MPs, both of whom are called Anne.’
‘This is unnecessary,’ I said.
‘Other females of my acquaintance include Andy Metzler’s colleagues, Theresa and Clare, and then of course there are a number of women I know socially, but then you know them all too – there’s Samantha at number nine, and we know Jackie at number fifteen, and that nice woman – whatshername – who we occasionally bump into at the health club. Add to that our old college friends like Mimi and I’d say that pretty well completes the list. Oh, and Lily of course. But if you thought for a second I was having it off with her, Faith, I’d take you down to the head doctor like a shot.’
‘OK, OK, OK,’ I said weakly. ‘Look, I didn’t ask for all this.’
‘Oh yes you did,’ he said. ‘By your suspicious behaviour. But let me assure you that the only person who’s strayed around here is Graham!’
‘Look,’ I said, beginning to feel upset, ‘I only asked you if you know someone called Jean.’
‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘I can honestly say that I don’t.’
But I knew this was a lie. Not even a white lie, but a flashing fluorescent pink and green one. And this was very significant, because Peter’s usually so truthful, but now he was being barefaced. But I couldn’t admit that I’d seen the note about Jean, because then he’d know I’d been snooping again. I really would like to have him followed, I thought. But then I reminded myself that it was out of the question, because private detectives don’t come cheap.
‘Are you all right now, Faith?’ Peter asked me as he stood by the door.
‘All right?’
‘Are you feeling convinced? Can we just kick all this nonsense of yours into touch? Because I’d just like our marriage to be … ’
‘What?’
‘Well, normal.’
‘I guess it is normal,’ I said.
Work is a refuge these days, from my current marital distress. There’s something about staring at the satellite charts, with their masses of Turneresque cloud swirling above the blue planet, which makes me forget my concerns. And of course the cold snaps in the studio are pretty distracting. Sophie had a very bad morning. Gremlins in the autocue. Funny that, I thought. I mean, normally Sophie reads it very fluently and I’ve never ever seen her fluff. She makes it all look so natural, as though she’s ad libbing, not reading a script. But of course it’s not like that at all. Up in the Gallery, Lisa the autocue operator works the machine by hand, scrolling the script down at a pace to suit the presenter. If the presenter slows down – she slows down. If they pick up – she picks up. But this morning something went wrong.
‘Welcome back … to … the show,’ Sophie said awkwardly after the break. ‘And … now,’ she went on at thirty-three rpm and I could suddenly see confusion in her face,’ … a … report … on … sexual equality … in … the … boardroom … … concludes … that ambitious … young … women … are … spearheading … Britain’s … drive … into … the twenty-first … century.’
It was agonising to watch. Once or twice she glanced down at her script, but it was clear that she’d lost her place. Then she looked up at the autocue again, but it was still crawling along the hard shoulder. It was like watching her being tortured, but she bravely battled on.
‘Nearly four … in … ten … ’
‘What’s going on, Lisa?’ I heard Darryl bark into my earpiece.
‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ she whined. ‘I just can’t get it to work.’
‘Boardroom bosses … are now … female,’ Sophie continued. ‘The … highest figure … since data was … ’ I heard her sigh. ‘ … collected. Women are also … ’
‘Oh, come on, Sophie!’ interrupted Terry suddenly. ‘We haven’t got all day. Sorry folks,’ he said into his autocue with a regretful smile, ‘but Sophie seems to have lost the gift of the gab. So we’ll skip that item and go straight to Tatiana’s report from the Old Vic. Yes, the lovely Tatiana’s been talking to Andrew Lloyd-Webber about his plans for this much-loved London landmark where Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud first trod the boards.’
‘What’s going on?’ I heard Sophie say into her microphone as Tatiana’s filmed report went out. ‘What happened to the autocue?’
‘There were problems with it, apparently,’ Darryl said.
‘Well, it worked perfectly OK for Terry,’ she pointed out. I could see that she was close to tears. ‘Lisa,’ she said carefully as she swallowed hard, ‘kindly don’t do that again.’
‘I didn’t “do” anything,’ I heard Lisa whine. To be honest, I’ve never liked that girl. ‘It just seemed to get, I don’t know … stuck,’she concluded feebly.
‘Well, kindly unstick it for my next item,’ Sophie said crisply. I didn’t blame her. There is nothing worse than broadcasting live to the nation with a dodgy autocue. I’ve done it once or twice and believe me, you look a total prat. Worse, people remember it for years. They say, ‘Oh! I saw you on breakfast TV.’ And you think you’re about to get some lavish compliment, instead of which they say, ‘Yeah. Two years ago. It was really funny – the autocue broke down!’ And you have to go, ‘Oh yes – that was funny. Oh, yes – ha ha ha!’
‘You poor thing,’ said Terry to Sophie with phony concern. ‘That must have been awful for you. So humiliating. And at peak time too. When everyone’s watching. Five million people. Oh dear – what a shame.’ She pretended not to hear him as she looked down at her script.
‘But that’s the thrills and spills of live TV for you,’ Terry went on philosophically. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I’m not sure you’ve got what it takes.’
At the meeting afterwards, Darryl was livid.
‘Lisa, I think you should apologise to Sophie,’ he said, crossing his arms.
‘I’m very sorry, but I’m not going to apologise,’ she whined. ‘It was a technical hitch.’ She remained adamant that it wasn’t her fault. But as I was leaving I spotted Terry and Tatiana having breakfast in the canteen. They looked rather pleased with themselves. Then Lisa sat down with them too. And you don’t need to be a brain surgeon to guess what had happened, though I wonder what she’d been paid.
When I got home I took Graham for a walk along the river – he loves it there – then I checked out the IsHeCheating.com website again. I’d asked for advice, and I’d got it.
Emily, give your husband a break! said Barbara from New York. You don’t have ANY hard facts that he’s playing around so why go looking for trouble?
If you feel your man’s being evasive, then he IS, said Sally from Wichita.
Why don’t you cheat on HIM? suggested Mike from Alabama. Just to even the score.
Sneak into his office and bug his phone! advised someone else.
Call an attorney right now!
Go back home to your mom!
Just have the bastard trailed!
I was mulling over all these options tonight in the kitchen as I chopped up vegetables for supper. I wasn’t going to have an affair myself – that would be cheap and low; there was no way I could gain access to his office even if I had surveillance equipment; I couldn’t afford a lawyer, so that was out of the question, and I couldn’t go back to my mum because she was always away. As for having Peter followed, I’d decided I hadn’t the heart. Nor did I have the cash. I’d made a couple of calls and ascertained that it would cost at least two grand. I just didn’t know what to do.
‘Mum, are you all right?’ Katie enquired. She was cleaning out her goldfish, Sigmund.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I said, are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course I’m all right, darling,’ I replied. ‘What on earth makes you think I’m not?’
‘The gratuitously vicious way in which you’re chopping up those carrots.’
‘Am I?’ I said wonderingly, sword-sized Sabatier poised in mid-air.
‘Yes. You remind me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. In fact ever since Matt and I came home this evening, I’ve been picking up a lot of stress.’ Oh God. I had that shrinking feeling. I knew what was coming next.
‘I’ve been detecting a lot of tension,’ Katie went on, ‘and a lot of suppressed anger. You’re feeling pretty hostile, aren’t you Mum?’
‘I am not hostile!’ I spat.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ she continued calmly. ‘There you are, Siggy. Nice and clean.’
‘Tell you?’ I repeated wonderingly.
‘What I really mean is, Mum, is there anything you need to talk through?’
‘No thank you,’ I said as I got down the salt.
‘Because I’m getting a lot of anxiety here.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes. Have you been having many negative thoughts?’
‘Negative? No.’
‘Are you in denial?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Disturbing dreams?’
‘Of course not. What a ridiculous suggestion. No.’
‘You see, I’m worried about your super-ego,’ she added matter-of-factly as she laid the kitchen table. ‘I think there are some repressed conflicts here, so we need to work through them to take some of the pressure off your subconscious. Now,’ she said as she got out the spoons, ‘how about a little free association?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I think it would help your ego really open up.’
‘My ego’s busy cooking supper, darling. Sorry.’
‘Really Mum, there’s absolutely nothing to it.’
‘I know,’ I said as I strained the beans. ‘That’s precisely why I’m not keen.’
‘All you have to do, Mum, is just sit down, close your eyes, and say whatever comes to mind.’
‘Oh Katie, please don’t turn me into one of your human guinea pigs,’ I said irritably. ‘Can’t you do that at school?’
‘No,’ she said regretfully.
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re all in therapy already. Honestly Mum, free association’s easy,’ she persisted as I opened the oven and checked the shepherd’s pie. She took a notebook out of her pocket. ‘You just say whatever pops into your head, no matter how frivolous it might be.’
‘Oh God … ’
‘No matter how trivial,’ she went on reassuringly. ‘No matter how disgusting or depraved.’
‘Katie!’ I said crossly. ‘I object to being psychoanalysed by someone who, until relatively recently, was playing with Barbie dolls!’
‘Yes, but I was only ever interested in Barbies as a paradigm of US cultural imperialism. Please, Mum,’ she said persuasively, ‘just for five minutes – that’s all.’
‘Oh, all right,’ I conceded. ‘I’m prepared to humour you. But let me assure you young lady, that I find all this psychobabble very silly.’
‘That’s absolutely fine, Mum,’ she said soothingly. ‘Go with your anger. Don’t hold back. Just let it out. Whatever you say is OK. Right,’ she went on briskly. ‘Sit down. Close your eyes. That’s good. Relax. Breathe deeply. Let your mind wander. Now, what word springs into your mind?’
‘Um … ’
‘No, don’t think about it, Mum. Just say it. Straight out. OK? Go.’
‘Er, carrot.’
‘Yes.’
‘Chop … ’
‘Carry on.’
‘Knife … sharp … er … stick … beat … time. Fifteen. Happy. Not. Over. Yet. Maybe. Wrigley. Wriggly. Lucky. Strike. Hit. Hurt. Wound. Heart. Flowers. Betrayal. Lying. Cheating. Philandering bastard. OK, that’s it!’ I suddenly got to my feet. ‘I don’t want to play this game any more.’
‘You’re exhibiting classic resistance, Mum,’ said Katie benignly. ‘It’s quite natural, don’t worry, because it means we’re getting close to the source of the problem.’
‘I don’t have any problems. Oh, hello Matt. You’re down.’
‘What we saw there,’ said Katie cheerfully as she snapped shut her notebook, ‘was your unconscious struggling to avoid giving up its dark secrets.’
‘Look, Katie,’ I said patiently as I wiped my brow. ‘I haven’t got any dark secrets, and all this Freudian mumbo-jumbo is simply ridiculous. Now, supper’s ready, so just do me a favour and go and kill your dad.’
Who is Jean? I keep on wondering. My rival. And what does she look like? Is she blonde or dark? Tall or short? Is she younger than me? Is she prettier? Probably is. Is she slimmer? That wouldn’t be hard. Is she wittier, and brighter? How – and when – did they meet? Did she make a beeline for Peter, or did he chat her up? Does he imagine he’s in love with her, or is it just a physical thing? Oh God. Oh God. I’m torturing myself, but I just can’t stop. You see I found another note in his pocket about Jean this morning, and I was doubly upset about it because the weekend had gone quite well. We were perfectly ‘normal’ together, as a family. We walked the dog. We got out a video – ‘Analyze This’ – and the children enjoyed themselves. Matt was closeted in his room most of the time, as usual, although curiously he went out to the post box several times. But all in all, it went well. And I was just beginning to relax and to think that maybe I’d got it all wrong. After all, I still have not a shred of hard evidence that Peter’s up to no good, just these horrible, uneasy feelings which refuse to go away. But this morning, when I got back from work, I saw that he’d left his briefcase at home. So I opened it – it wasn’t locked – and I know you’ll all disapprove, but all I can say in my own defence is that it was something I just … had to do. I feel so tormented, you see. I’ve lost my peace of mind. My life’s in limbo until I’ve found out one way or the other for sure. So I opened it. And I’m glad I did, because there it was. Tucked into the pocket. A note from Peter’s secretary Iris, which said, Peter, Jean called again – sounded rather anxious. Says you’re a very ‘naughty boy’, not to have called back, and ‘please, please, PLEASE’ to ring. A ‘naughty boy’? Good God! She was probably into S and M. And I felt really annoyed with Iris, who I’d always thought was nice, for helping my husband to pursue his sordid little liaison dangereuse. Then I looked at the manuscript he was working on and there was Jean’s name again. It appeared several times. Peter had doodled it in the margin as though he was quite obsessed. Jean, he’d written, and sometimes just a simple J. And the point is that if Jean was purely a professional contact, then Peter would happily have said. But the fact that he vehemently denied that he knew her makes me feel certain that he’s involved.
‘I’m in agonies,’ I said miserably to Lily this evening. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’ We were sitting at the bar of the Bluebird Café in the King’s Road, not far from where she lives.
‘Have some Laurent Perrier, darling,’ she said above the babble. ‘That’ll cheer you up.’
‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘I have nothing to celebrate. The opposite, in fact. It’s like living with a stranger,’ I added as I sipped my virgin Mary. ‘Out of the blue, somehow, everything’s changed. I feel as though I don’t really know him at all.’
‘Well,’ she said firmly as she slipped Jennifer Aniston a crisp. ‘Are you sure you’ve done everything you can on the investigation front? You must snoop to conquer.’
‘I have been snooping,’ I said.
‘But … ’
‘It’s not working.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not, because you haven’t looked under every stone. You poor darling,’ she added sympathetically as she lit a cheroot. ‘It must be horrible having all these doubts. It must affect your peace of mind.’
‘Yes, it does,’ I agreed. ‘That’s exactly it. I’ve lost my peace of mind.’
‘Well then,’ she said reasonably, ‘you’ve just got to get it back. Now,’ she went on briskly, ‘I know someone whose husband was up to no good and she used a decoy duck.’
‘What, one of those women who chat up your husband and see if he takes the bait?’ She nodded. ‘Oh God, I’d never do that. It’s entrapment. I will not lead Peter into temptation,’ I said.
‘But Faith, it looks as though he may have led himself there.’
‘Well, yes,’ I conceded mournfully. ‘It does. I’d follow him to work, Lily, if I didn’t know that he’d spot me in a flash.’
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He would.’
‘You know, I’m very tempted to get a private detective.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said vaguely. ‘I seem to remember you mentioning that the other day.’ We looked at each other as we sipped our drinks. ‘Well, why don’t you then?’
‘Because they cost far too much,’ I replied. I glanced round the restaurant at all the happy couples having dinner. ‘Look at all these lucky people,’ I moaned. ‘They’re all happy with their partners.’
‘Actually Faith, I’m not sure that’s true. In fact,’ she went on as she expelled a twin plume of pale blue smoke, ‘I know for sure that it’s not. Do you see that couple over there, by the window?’ she went on. I followed her gaze. A man in a pinstripe suit was having supper with an attractive brunette. They were both talking and smiling, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. In short, they looked as though they were in love.
‘He’s a banker,’ Lily explained. ‘I’ve met him socially once or twice.’
‘So what?’
‘The woman who he’s having such a nice dinner with is not his wife.’
‘Oh,’ I sighed. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘Where’s Peter tonight?’ she asked in a voice that was zephyr soft.
‘He’s at a book launch,’ I replied blankly.
‘Well, that could be true I suppose. I must say,’ she went on, ‘a private detective sounds like a very good idea to me. But I’m not going to say any more,’ she added, ‘because you’re my best friend and I don’t want to meddle.’
‘Oh God, Lily,’ I went on, ‘this is such a nightmare. It’s like struggling in wet concrete. It’s like trying to run up an escalator that’s going down. You know, I really do want to have him trailed. I just wish it didn’t cost so much.’
‘Poor Faith,’ Lily said as she lifted her champagne glass to her sculpted lips. ‘But hey! I’ve just had an idea. I’ll pay.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ll pay for you to hire someone,’ she repeated as she opened her bag. ‘In fact, Faith, I’m going to write you a cheque right now.’
‘Lily!’ I said. ‘Don’t be silly, I couldn’t possibly let you do that.’
‘But I want to,’ she protested.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes, why?’ She placed her hand on my knee.
‘Because you’re my dearest friend in the world. That’s why. But that’s not the real reason,’ she suddenly added with a guilty little giggle. ‘I have an ulterior motive, you know.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. You see for some time I’ve been planning an infidelity special for Moi! I want to publish it in June, to counteract all those nauseating weddings. I’m going to call it Rogue.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I could interview you!’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that.’
‘Totally pseudonymously,’ she said reassuringly. ‘So I could pay for your private detective and put it through as an expense. We have a budget for this kind of thing, Faith, and anyway, I’m the boss.’
‘You’d pay?’
‘Yes. I would. It would be perfect for the magazine. I’ll interview you myself, of course, as I know you trust me, and I’ll protect your identity. It would be a First Person piece – Why I had My Husband Trailed. I’d let you see it before it goes in, and don’t worry, both you and Peter will be completely disguised. So what about it?’ she said.
‘Well … ’
‘It’s a good offer, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. Yes it is. But to be honest, Lily, I’m really not sure.’
‘Look, Faith,’ she said patiently, ‘it’s very simple. Do you want your peace of mind back? Or don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said suddenly, ‘I do.’
February Continued (#ulink_d6419a40-6b3f-5982-8a83-093e346e49d1)
So that was how I came to find myself sitting in the offices of Personal Quest. I’d found them by sticking a pin in the Private Investigators section of the Yellow Pages. My appointment was for three o’clock. So at ten to I climbed the rickety stairs of a narrow house in Marylebone. I experienced a frisson of excitement as I knocked on the semi-glazed door. But there was no sign of a trenchcoat, or a trilby; no glamorous secretary filing her nails. Just a harassed looking man of about forty-five with short brown hair and a beard.
‘Now, I’ve had a busy day,’ said the private detective, Ian Sharp, Dip., P.I., as he rummaged through some files on his desk. ‘So remind me again will you, is your case industrial, financial, political, medical, insurance fraud, nanny check, neighbour check, child abduction, missing persons, adoption search, or good old matrimonial?’
‘Er, matrimonial,’ I replied, looking at a framed sign which read, ‘No Mission Impossible’!
‘Well, if it’s matrimonial,’ he went on, ‘let me save you a lot of money right now by telling you that it’s either his secretary or your best friend.’
‘Actually it’s neither,’ I said as I lowered myself into a cheap, green vinyl chair.
‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘Because his secretary, Iris, is fifty-nine, and he can’t stand my closest friend.’
‘So who might this other woman be,’ Ian Sharp enquired, ‘and what makes you think your husband has strayed?’
‘Her name’s Jean,’ I explained, ‘and, well, my husband’s been acting suspiciously for weeks.’
‘Jean?’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Jean. Mmmm. With that name she’s probably Scottish.’ This thought hadn’t occurred to me, but now, somehow, it seemed to ring true. So I told him about the two notes I’d found, and the flowers Peter had sent, and the mystery gum and cigarettes.
‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. He’s distracted and distant, he’s working late, he’s looking fit, he’s bought a mobile phone, he’s not interested in sex, he’s improved his wardrobe, and he’s started sending me flowers.’
‘Ah,’ he said, sitting back and steepling his fingers. ‘All the classic signs.’
‘Yes, exactly,’ I replied.
‘But no hard evidence?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So at the moment it’s simply a hunch,’ he added, bouncing his fingertips against each other. ‘Alarm bells have been ringing.’ I nodded. ‘Your antennae are twitching.’
‘Like mad.’
‘In fact it’s becoming an obsession,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘It certainly is,’ I agreed.
‘So what you’re seeking, by coming here, is peace of mind?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s it,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I want to have my peace of mind restored.’
‘Well, I may not be able to do that,’ he said seriously. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands as if in prayer. ‘I may be able to provide you with the facts,’ he went on judiciously, ‘but as for restoring your peace of mind – I might well do the opposite. Because the truth is that women’s instincts about their husbands’ misbehaviour are proved right ninety per cent of the time.’
‘Oh,’ I said faintly. ‘I see.’
‘So you have to consider the consequences, Mrs Smith, if I were to find evidence of your husband’s … indiscretions. For if I take on this case, I will present you with a written report of my findings, which may well include compromising photos of your husband with the other woman.’
‘Yes,’ I whispered, ‘I know.’
‘You must prepare yourself emotionally, Mrs Smith, for what may lie ahead. You may, in a week’s time, say, find yourself back in this office staring at a photograph of your husband holding another woman by the hand … ’
‘Oh.’
‘Or kissing her.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Or entering a hotel with her.’
‘Oh God.’ I felt sick.
‘Or seeing his car parked outside her house. So I ask you, as I ask all my matrimonial clients, to give that serious thought. Will you be prepared for such … unpalatable images, Mrs Smith?’ he enquired. I heaved a sigh.
‘Yes. I think I will.’
‘In that case my fees are forty pounds an hour exclusive of VAT, fifty-five pounds for evening work, with any expenses on top, plus petrol which I charge at a very reasonable eighty-five pence a mile. Now,’ he went on, ‘do you just want the basic?’
‘What does that involve?’ I enquired.
‘I trail your husband to work and wait in my car, with my small but powerful camera at the ready. Wherever he goes, I won’t be far behind, going snap, snap, snap!’
‘Isn’t there a danger that he’ll spot you?’
‘Mrs Smith,’ said Ian Sharp patiently, ‘what do you notice about me?’
‘Notice?’ I said, dumbfounded. ‘Well, nothing, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘What distinguishing features do I have?’
‘Well, none that I can see, really.’
‘How tall am I?’
‘Er … medium.’
‘What sort of frame do I have?’
‘Well, you know … normal. Not fat, not thin.’
‘Precisely!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Mrs Smith, I am totally nondescript!’ he went on proudly. ‘I am very ordinary. I can pass undetected in a crowd. People do not clock me. They do not remember me. I am invisible in my averageness.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘I would not be picked out in a line-up.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘My appearance is dull and hum-drum.’
‘Well … ’
‘Which means, Mrs Smith,’ he went on confidently, ‘that your husband will be oblivious to my presence. May I add that in fifteen years as a private investigator, I have not been spotted once. Mind you,’ he added, ‘these men are usually so wrapped up in their assignations that they don’t notice me trotting along behind. But there I am, Mrs Smith. There I am.’
‘Right. Well, good.’
‘So that’s the basic search. What we call the Bronze Service. However, you can have a more sophisticated service, the Silver Service, in which I wear … ’ He suddenly opened his jacket with both hands, revealing what looked like a bullet-proof waistcoat. ‘This!’
‘Er … ’
‘This is a body-worn harness in which there is a concealed video camera. Can you see the camera, Mrs Smith? Can you? If so, kindly tell me where it is.’
‘Er, no,’ I said truthfully, ‘I can’t.’
‘It’s here,’ he said, pointing to a tiny pin on the lapel. ‘There is a lens hidden in this pin, which is mere microns thick.’
‘Good Lord!’ I said.
‘Now, if you want video footage, this is what I’ll use, but surveillance equipment of this kind is pricey so that’ll add another ninety-five pounds a day.’
‘I see.’
‘We could also use this.’ He picked up a briefcase and slapped it on the desk. ‘This is a recording briefcase, Mrs Smith. I could have it placed in a cupboard in your husband’s office; inside is a powerful radio mike – extremely sensitive – which would pick up any sweet nothings he cared to murmur down the phone.’
‘I see.’
‘And if you want the Full Monty Five Star No Holds Barred Gold Service – well, then that’s going to involve four of my colleagues following your husband full-time, detailing his every move. Mrs Smith, he would not be able to scratch his backside without me and my lads knowing about it.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.’
‘Nor do I, Mrs Smith, nor do I. I think the Bronze Service will be more than adequate for your purposes. Now,’ he added, ‘do you have any idea what this other woman looks like?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not a clue. And I can’t find out surreptitiously, from Peter, because he denies that he even knows her.’
‘I see. Have you got a photo of your husband?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I produced a recent snap.
‘How tall is he?’ he asked. ‘It’s hard to tell from this.’
‘About five foot eleven, and he weighs thirteen stone. No, he’s lost weight recently, so I guess he might be only twelve. His hair is sandy, as you can see, and he has a fair, lightly freckled complexion.’
‘And what time does he leave for work?’
‘He goes at about eight fifteen and gets the District line to Embankment; then he walks to his office in Villiers Street, where he works on the seventh floor.’
‘Make of car and registration?’ I told him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m on the case. But first, I need the usual deposit of five hundred pounds up front.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I said as I opened my bag. ‘I can give you a cheque right now.’ As I wrote it out I mentally thanked Lily for her wonderful help.
‘Mrs Smith,’ said Sharp as I reached for the door handle. ‘One last question. Have you decided what you’ll do if your suspicions do prove to be correct?’
‘What I’ll do?’
‘Yes. What course of action you’ll take.’
‘Action? Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’
‘Well, with respect, Mrs Smith, I think you should try and work out what your attitude to his adultery would be.’
‘To his adultery?’ I repeated. What a horrible word. ‘It would be totally unacceptable,’ I said.
‘So to recap,’ I said with professional brightness, ‘a typical February day … ’
‘Terry, don’t pick your nose … four, three … ’
‘With a thick bank of heavy cloud … ’
‘Tory leadership next … ’
‘Sitting over most of the country … ’
‘Two, one … ’
‘And this is known, rather depressingly … ’
‘Oh Christ! Where’s the piece about William Hague?’
‘As anti-cyclonic gloom.’
‘I don’t know – who’s got the tape?’
‘So not the slightest chance of sunshine at the moment, I’m afraid.’
‘Find it!’
‘Especially in Chiswick.’
‘What?’
‘And there may be wintry showers in the south-east later on.’
‘I can’t.’
‘So have your brollies handy – just in case.’
‘Oh God, fill, Faith! Fill, fill FILL!’
‘And talking about brollies,’ I went on, ‘we all know that it can rain cats and dogs … ’
‘A minute and a half please, Faith.’
‘But did you know it can sometimes rain frogs and fishes, too?’
‘Well done.’
‘Yes, here’s a little-known Freak Weather Fact for you. Everyone knows that those great big cumulonimbus clouds bring thunderstorms.’
‘Do we?’
‘Well, sometimes you get tornadoes forming out of the bottom of them.’
‘God, I think I’ve got a tornado in my bottom! I had a nuclear curry last night.’
‘And if these little tornadoes go over a pond, they actually suck up the frogs and fish.’
‘Get away!’
‘Then, when the storm moves away, the tornado dies and the frogs and fish drop out of the sky.’
‘Streuth!’
‘There have even been instances of it raining Dover sole along the Thames.’
‘You don’t say. OK Faith, in three, two … ’
‘But fortunately this is a rare occurrence.’
‘And zero. Thanks.’
‘See you in half an hour.’
As I made my way back to the office, I saw a copy of Bella magazine on the planning desk. ‘Is Your Husband Playing Away?’ screamed the headline. As usual these days, when I see anything about infidelity I grab it and read it right through. There were some dreadful stories about women finding alien suspenders in the laundry basket, or coming home to find their husbands in flagrante with the au pair. Then there were accounts of the nightmare scenario in which the Other Woman decides to spill the beans. Shirley from Kent found a note on her windscreen from her husband’s mistress, and Sandra from Penge had the Other Woman phoning her up to confess. I was immediately filled with horror at the thought that Jean might do that to me. In my mind’s ear I could hear her, threatening me in an accent which for some reason I’d decided was not so much Miss Jean Brodie as Irvine Welsh: ‘Noo, yew listen to me, lassie,’ she was saying menacingly, ‘I’m in love with your husband!’
‘Oh no!’
‘Dinna kid yoursel’ woman – he’s in love wi’ me tew!’
‘Don’t say that!’
‘We’ve been seein’ each other foor six months.’
‘Oh God!’
‘And he’s gonna leave yew and come and live wi’ me!’
I was so horrified I wanted to phone Ian Sharp straight away and ask him what I should do. But I couldn’t, because he instructs clients not to ring him until his investigations are through. And he’s right because a) there’s no way I can make a call to him from our open-plan office at work, and b) if I rang him from home then the number would appear on our phone bill, which means that Peter could check it out. So I have to be patient, and wait, but I feel so upset at the moment that I can scarcely function. Which is why I was rather touched when Sophie spoke to me today, in the ladies’ loo, during the third commercial break.
‘Are you all right, Faith?’ she said as I checked my appearance. And I thought that was nice of her, as we’ve never really chatted before.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Fine. Thanks. Fine. Fine. Really. Yes. I am.’
‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘It’s just that usually you’re so cheerful, and I thought you seemed a little … down.’
‘Oh. No. No.’
‘A little distracted.’
‘No. Not at all. What makes you think that?’
‘Well, because you’ve just sprayed deodorant all over your hair.’
‘Have I? Oh, yes. Silly me. Er … I’m just tired,’ I explained with casual brightness. ‘It’s the awful hours, that’s all. You know how it is. Buggered biorhythms and all that. But you’re doing well,’ I added by way of changing the subject. ‘You’re a brilliant broadcaster and you cope so well with Terry. If it was me I’d be in constant tears. Anyway,’ I went on as she washed her hands, ‘I think you’ve got a fantastic future at AM-UK!’ And when I said that she looked rather startled, then pulled a funny face and I thought that was a little bit odd.
The next few days passed agonisingly slowly. My nerves were jangling and I could hardly sleep. Worse, the name Jean seemed to jump out at me from all sides. The actress Jean Tripplehorn was in a new film, I noticed in the Mail, and Jean Marsh from Upstairs Downstairs was buying a new house according to Hello! According to TV Quick! there was going to be a new drama based on a Jean Plaidy novel, and a season of Jean Simmonds’ old films on Channel 4. I even jumped when I heard someone talking about gene therapy on Radio 4. It was an enormous struggle to keep myself occupied as the week crawled by. I finished Madame Bovary – she paid a high price for wrecking her marriage – I went to the health club and swam. I entered a few competitions, and I spent quality time with Graham. And somehow I managed to resist the burning urge to phone Ian Sharp every ten seconds. But I imagined him, all the time, following Peter down the street. Poor Peter, I thought. I felt so treacherous, and I felt sorry for him too. In fact I didn’t know how I’d be able to look him in the face, but thankfully he was having a very busy week, so we hardly saw each other. He told me he had three lunches, two launches, and meetings with Andy, of course. I wondered if any of those lunches were with Jean, and which restaurant they’d choose; and what they’d say to each other, and if they’d be playing footsie or worse, and if, being Scottish, she had a kilt complex about the fact that she was seeing a married man. I kept a detailed diary of how I was feeling, so that I’d give Lily good quotes for her piece. Then, finally, finally, the dreadful day dawned, and I went back to see Ian Sharp.
My heart was beating wildly as I knocked on his semi-glazed door. I felt as though I were awaiting the results of some terrifying medical tests. I inhaled deeply through my nose and braced myself for the worst.
‘Tell me,’ I said imploringly, ‘I’ve simply got to know.’
‘Mrs Smith,’ he began deliberately, ‘there is absolutely nothing to tell.’
‘Nothing?’ I said faintly. ‘Oh!’
‘I found no evidence whatsoever that your husband is having an affair.’
‘None?’ I said, and, curiously, I realised that my main emotion was not so much relief as surprise.
‘Not a thing,’ he reiterated with a shrug. ‘Zero. Nada. Zilch.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said, feeling vaguely indignant by now. After all, this meant I’d been wrong.
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain,’ he said.
‘But what about those three lunches he was having?’ I said. ‘I thought he might be meeting her then.’
‘Well, if it was “her” he was meeting, Mrs Smith, I can assure you there is no affair. In each case his conduct was proper. He chatted to his lunch partner, paid the bill, said goodbye and returned to work. Here,’ he opened his battered folder, ‘I’ll show you. Now, he had lunch with this lady … ’
‘That’s Lucy Watt,’ I said as I studied the black-and-white photo. ‘She’s an author.’ He pulled out another shot.
‘What about this one?’
‘Ah. She’s an agent. I met her once. I think she works at A.P. Trott.’
‘I sat at the next table to your husband, Mrs Smith, and on neither occasion could his behaviour be said to be even mildly flirtatious. Now,’ he said, handing me another photo, ‘he had lunch with this man in Charlotte Street.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I don’t know who that is. It’s probably his headhunter, Andy Metzler.’
‘He also had an early evening drink at Quaglino’s with this woman.’ I looked. The shot was slightly grainy. Sitting at a table with Peter was an attractive blonde of about my age, whom I’d never seen before. And though Peter was smiling at her, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. In fact he looked slightly uptight.
‘Do you know this woman, Mrs Smith?’
‘No,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I don’t. She looks quite tough, doesn’t she? She’s probably an agent driving a hard bargain about some author.’
Lastly, there were six photos of Peter at his book launches, one of which took place at the Groucho and the other at Soho House.
‘You crashed those?’ I said. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘They were both very crowded, Mrs Smith,’ said Ian. ‘I was able to blend right in. I’m a chameleon,’ he added with pride.
‘But how did you manage to take photos without using a flash?’
‘Tricks of the trade,’ he replied, tapping the side of his nose. I studied the pictures. In each of them Peter was talking to the authors in question, Robert Knight and Natalie Waugh, and to his colleagues in Editorial. In one he was even managing to chat politely to Charmaine.
‘After both those events your husband got a cab and went straight home,’ said Ian Sharp. ‘And I know he went straight home, because I followed him all the way. So on the basis of what I’ve seen this week, Mrs Smith, I believe you were mistaken. May I suggest that it was paranoia which fuelled your suspicions, rather than hard facts?’
‘Yes, yes I was paranoid,’ I said. And by now I was so relieved I wanted to kiss him. ‘I just – I don’t know – I began to get carried away. My imagination was running riot,’ I said with a smile. ‘But now my peace of mind has been restored.’
‘However, it is my duty to tell you, Mrs Smith, that it is perfectly possible that this woman, Jean, might not have been in London this week. For example, she might have had to go away … ’
‘Oh, I see. To Scotland, perhaps.’
‘Making it impossible for her to have a rendezvous with your husband.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose so.’ My euphoria had sunk like a stone.
‘So I’m simply saying that although I believe your husband is blameless, I can’t be entirely sure. If you wanted to be one hundred per cent certain, then we’d have to trail him for a longer period.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I understand.’
‘So my advice to you, Mrs Smith, is to assume the best and carry on as though everything is normal. Which it probably is. But should your suspicions be aroused again, then we can take further action.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s fine. I’d like to leave it like that. I’ll assume the best, because that’s what I always did before. And if I feel the need, I can always come back. Yes. That’s just what I’ll do. Thanks.’ Then I wrote him a cheque for fifteen hundred pounds – mentally giving thanks to Lily again – and got the tube home. But although I was relieved that he’d found nothing, there were still lingering doubts in my mind. What was I to make of those notes about Jean? And what about the flowers, the cigarettes and gum? I still had these uneasy feelings, which refused to go away. I left a message for Lily to phone me, then made myself a cup of tea. Half an hour later the phone rang. ‘That’ll be Lily,’ I said to Graham. And I was just about to tell her that Peter was the innocent victim of my unfounded suspicions when I heard an unfamiliar male voice.
‘’Allo,’ it said, ’eez zat Madame Smeeth?’
‘Yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘It is.’
‘Ah. Well I am trying to make contact with your ’usband, Peter. And ’is secretary, I ’ope you don’ mind, she give me ze house number.’
‘Er, yes?’
‘Because I need to talk to ’eem.’
‘OK. Erm … who is this, please?’
‘My name is John.’
‘John who?’
‘No, not John – Jean. Jean Dupont. I am calling from Paris.’
‘Jean?’ I repeated.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Zat’s right. Jean.’
‘Jean,’ I said again.
‘Yes. Yes. Zat’s right. Jean. Eet eez spelt –’
‘It’s perfectly all right,’ I said quickly. ‘I know how to spell it. I’ve just remembered. It’s spelt J, E, A, N. Jean!’
‘Er … exactement, Madame Smeeth.’
‘Jean!’
‘Correct.’ I could feel laughter rising up in my throat like bubbles in a glass of champagne. ‘I am phoning from ze French publishers, Hachette,’ he went on. ‘Peter knows me, we are working togezer on a book.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’
‘And I need to talk to ’eem again today, but ’is secretary she say she donno where he eez. You know, your ’usband is a very naughty boy, Madame Smeeth,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Because ’e don’ always return my calls.’
‘Oh. Oh. Yes, that is naughty,’ I agreed.
‘So I ask you please to ask ’eem to call me at my ’ome, çe soir. You have a pen? I give you ze number.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said as I now suppressed the urge to shout with joy. ‘Yes, of course I have a pen,’ I added happily. ‘OK. Let me write it down. Got that. And thank you very much.’
‘No, sank you,’ he said, clearly taken aback by my enthusiasm.
‘It’s so nice of you to call,’ I added warmly, ‘I’m very, very glad that you did. And the minute Peter’s home, I’ll get the “naughty boy” to phone you right back. Au revoir, Jean, au revoir!’ I slammed the phone down with an exultant cry; and I was just about to phone Lily and tell her about my ridiculous mistake, when Graham suddenly barked and I heard the key turning in the lock. It was Peter; back early.
‘Darling!’ I exclaimed joyfully. ‘Listen, I’ve got something to say!’
‘No,’ he said as Graham leaped up to greet him, ‘I’ve got something to say to you.’
‘But I just want to tell you that I’ve made this stupid, stupid mistake, you see … ’
‘Faith, whatever it is – it can wait. Graham, look, will you please get down. Faith,’ he said. ‘Faith … ’ His profile was reflected in the sunburst mirror.
‘Yes?’
‘Look, there’s something you’ve got to know.’ My pulse was racing.
‘Yes?’ I said again. Peter took a deep breath.
‘I’m leaving.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m leaving,’ he repeated as we faced each other in the hall.
‘You’re leaving what?’ I said, faintly. ‘Me?’
‘No, you twit – Fenton & Friend. I’m out!’
‘My God!’ I said with a gasp. ‘She’s done it! She’s finally sacked you, the cow!’ Peter’s face was still a mask of seriousness; but then he suddenly grinned.
‘No, Faith, she didn’t sack me,’ he explained. ‘Because I resigned first. And I told her that I was resigning … ’
‘Yes?’
‘Because I’ve been offered another job!’
‘You’ve got another job!’ I yelled. ‘Oh, how marvellous!’ I threw my arms round him. I was having a very good day. ‘How fantastic! Oh, Peter! Where?’
‘Faith,’ he said, and now his face was wreathed in smiles, ‘I’m going to be the new managing director of Bishopsgate!’
‘Bishopsgate,’ I gasped. ‘Bishopsgate? My God! But they’re huge!’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said wonderingly as he took off his coat. ‘And because they’ve expanded so much in the last couple of years they were looking for a new MD. So I was interviewed twice.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ I said as we went into the sitting room.
‘Because I was scared I wouldn’t get it, and I wanted it so much. But they did one final interview with me at lunchtime, then Andy phoned to say I’d got the job.’
‘Oh, darling!’ I said and I hugged him again.
‘And Faith,’ he went on, wonderingly, as he fixed himself a drink. ‘The money. The money’s going to be three times what I get now. We won’t have to struggle so much.’
‘God, how fantastic! But what did Charmaine say?’
‘She was livid,’ he said as he sat down and loosened his tie. ‘She was spitting fire. Especially when I told her about my new job. She kept telling me that it was “outrageous” – it’s her favourite word, silly old bat. She had the nerve to accuse me of being disloyal. So I pointed out that I’d worked for Fenton & Friend very happily for thirteen years, and that the only reason I’d been looking elsewhere was because she’s such a nightmare.’
‘Oh, darling, that was really brave of you – and typically truthful, too.’
‘I had nothing to lose at that stage,’ he explained with a shrug. ‘Anyway, she tried to kick me out, on the spot. But I wasn’t having that. I informed her that I was on three months’ notice, as stipulated in my contract. Then I got a call from Personnel, who are going to pay me off to leave by the fourteenth. Now I’ve got to call all my authors,’ he said as he rummaged in his briefcase. ‘I feel bad for them, but there’s nothing I can do. I suspect half of them are going to end up with ghastly Oiliver, poor things. But, Faith,’ he said as he flicked through his address book, ‘I feel bad about leaving, but I really had no choice. Charmaine and Oliver were out to destroy me, but now, thanks to Andy, I’m safe. I’m going to take Andy for lunch at the Ritz,’ he added as he reached for the phone.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘you must. He deserves it.’ But Peter was busy dialling a number and didn’t seem to hear what I’d said.
‘I’ll call Clare Barry first,’ he said.
‘You’ve got to call Jean, too. And darling that’s what I meant to tell you,’ I added. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes. The reason why I’ve been behaving so … stupidly. I’m really sorry. You see, I’d got this silly idea that you were seeing someone called Jean. But now I know that “Jean”, isn’t “Jean”. She’s Jean. Or rather he is. And I only realised that when Jean rang up today.’
‘Jean?’ Peter repeated. ‘Yes, Jean and I have been working on a deal. It was a really boring instant book about some minor French film star which Charmaine fobbed off on me. We were going to publish it simultaneously in Britain and France, so I’ve been talking to him quite a lot. But it’s so tedious, Faith, and I’ve been so preoccupied, I kept forgetting to phone him back. Oh hello, is that Clare?’ he said. ‘Clare, look, it’s Peter here … ’
‘Nothing?’ said Lily when I phoned to report. She sounded vaguely affronted. ‘Darling – are you quite sure?’
‘Yes,’ I said happily. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Nothing?’ she said again. ‘Zero?’
‘Not a thing,’ I confirmed.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. So it was a case of trail and error.’
‘Yes,’ I said with a giggle. ‘It was. And I’m sorry about your article, Lily … ’
‘Well, yes … ’ She sounded a little depressed.
‘But the simple fact of the matter is that Peter hasn’t strayed.’
‘Mmm.’
‘I can’t believe I could have been so stupid,’ I went on. ‘I mean, why did I automatically assume that Jean was a woman?’
‘Because you’re still Faith Value,’ she sighed.
‘I know. Instead of thinking rationally, or doing a little lateral thinking, I became totally paranoid and insecure. I didn’t just jump to conclusions, Lily, I leaped to them with a pole-vault!’
‘Oh well,’ she added philosophically, ‘we can still interview you as a woman whose suspicions were proven groundless.’
‘So it’s not a complete waste of time and money?’
‘No, though obviously it would have been much better – I mean, better copy, obviously – if he’d been up to no good.’
‘Well, I’m glad he wasn’t,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Oh Lily, thank you so much for paying for it,’ I added. ‘And you did me a double favour there, because now my trust in Peter is even greater than it was before!’
There was a sudden silence, broken only by the sound of Jennifer’s background grunting, and then I heard Lily say, ‘Faith, I’m so pleased it’s all worked out like this. And you know the last thing I’d want is to rain on your parade, but … ’
‘But what?’
‘There are still some unanswered questions.’
‘Are there?’ I said. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, those flowers,’ she said. ‘Were they really for that author?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m sure they were.’
‘And what about the chewing gum and cigarettes?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said airily. ‘To be honest I don’t really care. I’m sure there’s some perfectly innocent explanation, just as there was with Jean.’
‘Well, the only thing I’d say,’ she went on, ‘is that not many British people smoke Lucky Strike. In fact that’s an American brand.’
‘Then they must have been for Andy, his head hunter.’
‘Of course they must. But then why didn’t he say so out-right? Look, Faith, would you do me one favour, darling? This is purely for the article, of course.’
‘Yes. OK. If I can.’
‘Would you just ask Peter about those other things?’ I sighed. ‘Just to tie up those annoying little loose ends?’
‘Oh, OK,’ I said slightly reluctantly. ‘Now that I feel so confident in Peter, I will. But I won’t do it until Wednesday.’
‘Why? What’s happening then?’
‘I’m taking him out to dinner,’ I explained. ‘A very special dinner, actually. I’ve just booked a table at Le Caprice!’
‘I say, that’s a bit rash!’
‘I know, but Peter deserves it after all the stresses of the last few months. And because I was so mean and suspicious and nasty I’m going to foot the bill myself. In any case,’ I went on, ‘we’ve got so much to celebrate. His new job. Our future … ’
‘And what else?’
‘It’s Valentine’s Day!’
On the evening of February the fourteenth I took the Underground to Green Park. London was in love, and so was I. On every platform I spotted young men sheepishly clutching flowers. And I thought of the two dozen red roses that I’d received from Peter earlier in the day. I gasped when I saw them – they’re so beautiful. Long-stemmed, velvet-petalled and with a delicious, heady scent. As I walked down Piccadilly, I had to weave through all the couples strolling arm in arm. The early evening air seemed to throb with romance as I passed the Ritz, and despite the fact that I’ve been married for so long, my heart was thumping as I turned down Arlington Street and saw Le Caprice. I’d been here once, with Peter, years ago, but I knew it was his favourite place. I glanced round the monochrome interior and saw that Peter was already at the table, having his usual gin and tonic. He stood up to greet me, and I was just thinking that he looked very smart, but also slightly subdued in a funny sort of way, when his mobile phone rang out. Or rather it didn’t ring, it played ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, because that’s what it does.
‘I guess that’s Andy,’ I said as Peter fumbled to turn it off. ‘And let me say,’ I added with a laugh, ‘that Andy is a jolly good fellow!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Peter with a faint smile. ‘That’s right.’
‘He must be thrilled about what he’s pulled off for you,’ I said as we perused the menu. ‘I hope he gets a whopping great bonus for all his hard work.’
‘Yes. Yes. Definitely,’ Peter said with a funny little laugh. ‘Oh, by the way my appointment’s in Publishing News.’ He showed me a copy of the magazine and there, on page three, Peter was profiled with a photo under the headline: ‘Peter Smith’s Smart Move to Bishopsgate’. I read it through with tremendous pride: respected publishing director … very distinguished list … rumoured conflicts with Charmaine Duval … Bishopsgate set to expand. We ordered champagne – real champagne this time – and then our starters arrived. I had Bang Bang chicken, and Peter had creamed fennel soup. The restaurant was full of couples like us having a romantic Valentine’s dinner, tête à tête. I was feeling quite mellow and calm, although, as I say, I couldn’t help noticing that Peter seemed a little bit quiet. But I knew why – he’d just had his last day at Fenton & Friend, which must have been an enormous wrench.
‘Did they give you a good send off?’ I asked.
‘I had a small gathering in my office,’ he said. ‘Iris cried. I felt quite cut up, too.’
‘Well, it’s a huge change, darling – especially after so long. But like most changes it’s going to be for the best. What a hellish time you’ve had,’ I added as the waiter removed our plates. ‘And Peter, I just want to apologise again for being so mean and low. I just don’t know what got into me.’ He squeezed my hand.
‘Faith, don’t worry. That’s in the past.’
‘Anyway,’ I said as I raised my glass, ‘here’s to happy endings.’
‘Yes. To happy endings,’ he agreed. ‘And to new beginnings, too.’
‘To a new chapter,’ I went on happily. ‘With no nasty twists in the tale.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘Even the weather’s improved,’ I added with a laugh. ‘The anti-cyclonic gloom has lifted and there are blue skies ahead.’ Peter smiled. ‘And did you take Andy to the Ritz?’ I enquired as our main course arrived – swordfish for me and breast of chicken for him.
‘Er … yes,’ he replied. ‘I did. We went there on, um, Tuesday.’
‘Well,’ I said as I picked up my knife and fork, ‘personally I think Andy’s just fab.’ We chatted away like this as we ate, and at last Peter began to relax. I glanced at the black-and-white photo on the wall beside us and realised that it was Marianne Faithfull. And somehow that made me remember Lily’s request. I didn’t want to ask Peter directly, so I just said, ‘Darling, I’m so sorry I ever doubted you. It was horrid of me. Obviously those flowers were for Clare Barry.’ He looked at me. ‘Weren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘They were.’
‘And as for those cigarettes – well, so what? – why shouldn’t you have the occasional fag? It was so silly of me to over-react like that, Peter. I’ve trusted you for fifteen years, darling, and I’ve no intention of stopping now. I know you’ve never had an affair,’ I went on with a tipsy giggle, ‘and I don’t believe you would.’ He was silent. ‘Because I know you always tell the truth.’ I had a sip of wine. ‘Don’t you, darling? Because the simple fact is that you’re a very decent and honourable man. And you’re so truthful, too, in fact that’s what I love about you most and I just want to say how –’
‘Faith,’ said Peter suddenly. ‘Please stop.’ He was fiddling with his knife and he had this peculiar expression on his face. ‘There’s something I want to tell you,’ he said.
‘Darling, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter, Faith. It matters to me.’
‘Peter,’ I said, then took another large sip of Bordeaux, ‘whatever it is it’s not important tonight.’
‘It is,’ he corrected me. ‘It is. It’s very important, actually. Because you’re sitting here telling me what a great guy I am, and quite frankly I can’t stand it.’
‘Oh darling, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just that I’m feeling so happy and I’ve probably had a bit too much to drink, and I’m just trying to make it up to you for being such a suspicious cow.’
‘But that’s the whole point,’ he said. ‘That’s precisely what I can’t stand.’
‘Why?’
‘Faith,’ he said, fiddling with his glass, ‘I’ve done something rather … silly.’
‘You’ve done something silly?’ I echoed. ‘Oh Peter, I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘It isn’t nothing,’ he said.
‘Really, Peter –’
‘No, darling, listen to me,’ he said as he locked his gaze in mine. I saw him breathe in. Then out. ‘Faith,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been unfaithful.’ My wine-glass stopped in mid-air.
‘Sorry?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry – because I’ve slept with someone else.’
‘Oh,’ I said, aware that my face was suddenly aflame.
‘But it was only once,’ he added, ‘and it doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh,’ I said again.
‘But the reason I’m telling you is because, well, we are about to enter a new era, yes, a new chapter; and I knew I just couldn’t live with myself unless I’d made a clean breast.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. For some reason it seemed to be the only word I knew.
‘You see, Faith,’ he went on as he stared at his uneaten chicken, ‘you’ve been going on at me all evening about how “honest” and “truthful” I am. So I can’t bear to conceal from you the fact that … ’
‘What?’
‘Well, that I’ve had this little … fling.’
‘A fling?’ I echoed. ‘With whom?’
‘Look,’ he said wearily, ‘that’s not important. It’s over now. It was a stupid mistake, and it’s not going to happen again.’
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ I said, struggling to remain composed. ‘But I don’t think it’s fair of you to tell me you’ve had a – fling, and then refuse to say who it was with, because … Oh God, Peter,’ I added, my throat suddenly constricting. ‘You’ve been unfaithful to me.’
‘Yes,’ he said, quietly, ‘I have. But it’s not important,’ he repeated. ‘I was put under pressure. I – I’d had a few drinks, it was just … one of those things.’
‘Please tell me who it was with?’ I said again, aware that my palms felt damp.
‘I –’
‘Please, Peter. I’d like to know.’
‘Well … ’
‘Just give me her name, will you?’
‘No.’
‘Go on, tell me!’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can!’
‘Look, I –’
‘Give me her name, Peter.’
‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘It’s Andy Metzler.’ My hands flew up to my mouth.
‘You’ve had sex with a man?!’ Peter was staring at me. He looked shocked.
‘No, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘It’s not all right,’ I shot back. ‘It is absolutely NOT all right, Peter!’
‘Yes it is,’ he insisted.
‘No, it damn well isn’t –’
‘Yes it is, Faith, because, you see – Andy’s a woman.’
‘What?’
‘Andy Metzler’s a woman,’ he repeated. I gasped.
‘You never told me that.’
‘You never asked.’
‘But you never said. It’s been “Andy this, and Andy that” – I had no idea he was a she.’
‘Well,’ he said quietly, ‘she is. I agree it’s a funny sort of name for a woman. But she’s American, and, well, that’s what she’s called – it’s spelled A-N-D-I-E.’
‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘Like Andie McDowell.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Like that.’
‘And you had an affair with her?’ He nodded. ‘When?’ He fiddled with the salt pot.
‘When, Peter?’
‘On Tuesday.’
‘On Tuesday? Yesterday? Oh yes, of course,’ I said, nodding my head. ‘You were going to take her for lunch at the Ritz. To celebrate. Well, it certainly sounds like you did.’
‘Look, one thing led to another,’ he said sheepishly. ‘She was coming on to me, Faith. She’s been coming on to me for months. Ever since she met me, in fact. And you were behaving so suspiciously, I was fed up and I felt so grateful to her for getting me the job that, somehow, I couldn’t … refuse.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said sarcastically. ‘In order not to hurt her feelings, you slept with her. What a gent. I’m so proud of you, Peter. You took a room, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘We did.’ And suddenly, in that moment, in that terrible moment when he said ‘we’, I realised that truthfulness was Peter’s least endearing quality.
‘So she did get her bonus, then,’ I said darkly, aware of a lemon-sized lump in my throat. ‘How ironic,’ I murmured as I gripped and ungripped my napkin. ‘How very ironic. For the past two weeks I’ve been obsessing about some Scottish woman called Jean, who turns out to be a Frenchman called Jean; and now you tell me you’ve had an affair with an American woman called Andie, who I was quite convinced was a bloke!’
‘Er … yes.’ I shook my head.
‘Well,’ I whispered bitterly. ‘Well, well, well.’ Then I looked at him and said, ‘This hurts.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. But she pushed me into it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said.
‘She did,’ he insisted wearily. ‘I’d made it quite clear that I was – married. But now our professional relationship was at an end and she just … ’
‘Decided to make it personal.’
‘Yes. Oh, I don’t know – she put me under all this … pressure.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I hissed. ‘I think you slept with her because you wanted to.’
‘No I did not.’
‘Liar!’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Admit it!’
‘OK, then, yes, I did!’
‘You did!’
‘Yes. Since you’ve forced me to admit it, yes I bloody well did!’
‘You bastard!’ I spat. And I was terribly shocked to hear myself say that, because I’ve never called him that in my life.
‘I’ve been under such stress, Faith,’ he groaned. He leaned his head on his right hand. ‘These last six months have been hell. And then you started going on at me. You wouldn’t leave me alone. You were like a terrier with a rat, banging on about this woman or that chewing gum or those cigarettes.’
‘That gum!’ I exclaimed. ‘That chewing gum was for her.’ He was silent. ‘Wasn’t it?’ I said. ‘You don’t like it – you never have. And those cigarettes, they were for her as well, weren’t they?’ Peter nodded miserably. ‘You had gum and cigarettes at the ready for her. How gallant. Lucky Strike!’ I spat. ‘So you’ve had an affair,’ I repeated, my voice rising, ‘with a – what was it you said – “chick”? Oh. My. God.’
‘Look, it was completely spontaneous,’ he said. ‘It just happened on the spur of the moment.’
‘That’s not true!’ I said.
‘Shhhh! Don’t shout.’
‘You’d wanted to shag her for weeks.’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes you had. And the reason I know is because of Katie.’
‘Katie? What’s she got to do with this?’
‘Her psychoanalytic stuff. She’s always going on about Freudian slips, isn’t she? Well, she goes on about the Freudian “telling omission” too. And I think it’s very, very telling, Peter, that you’ve never let on that Andie was a woman.’
‘It wasn’t relevant,’ he said.
‘Oh yes it was,’ I shot back. ‘Because the other night you recited that great list of all the women you know – every single one. So how very strange, Peter,’ I added, emphatically, ‘that you didn’t mention her!’ By now his face and neck were blotched with red. ‘In fact you even told me the names of Andie’s two female colleagues, but you carefully left her out. Now I know why!’ I concluded triumphantly. ‘Because you didn’t want me to know. And the reason why you didn’t was because you already knew you wanted to get her into bed.’
‘I … I … ’
‘Don’t deny it,’ I said contemptuously.
‘I … OK,’ he said. ‘OK, I admit it. She’s very attractive. She’s single. She fancies me. And yes, I fancied her.’
‘She’s got short blonde hair,’ I said suddenly. It had come to me in a flash. What the French call an éclaircissement. Andie was that unknown blonde photographed with Peter in Quaglino’s. ‘She’s got short blonde hair,’ I said again.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She has. But how the hell do you know?’
‘Because … ’ Oh God, I couldn’t tell him. ‘Because … Oh, female intuition,’ I explained. ‘I feel sick,’ I announced as I fiddled with my pudding spoon. ‘You’ve had an affair. How could you?’
‘I’ll tell you how,’ he said, and by now his voice was rising as well. ‘Because you’d accused me of having one, and then the opportunity was there and I thought damn it, why not go ahead and do it!’ I was aware by now that we were beginning to attract strange looks.
‘Any dessert?’ enquired the waiter. ‘And, er, I’d be grateful sir and madam if you could keep your voices down.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I will not keep my voice down, because my husband has just been unfaithful!’ I was aware of eyes swivelling in our direction, and of the sound of breath being sharply inhaled.
‘Well, madam,’ said the waiter, ‘I just feel that … ’
‘I don’t care what you feel!’ I hissed. ‘We are having marital difficulties here.’ By now all conversation in the restaurant had stopped and everyone was staring, but I couldn’t have cared less. ‘After fifteen years of marriage,’ I informed the waiter, ‘my husband tells me that he’s strayed.’
‘– poor woman,’ I heard someone say.
‘– isn’t she the weather girl on that morning TV show?’
‘– faithful for fifteen years? The man must be a saint.’
‘– of course you were unfaithful after five.’
‘– no need to bring that up!’
‘Now madam,’ said the waiter, ‘I am very sorry that you have this, er, problem.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ I corrected him, ‘it’s a crisis.’
‘And actually I’m divorced myself.’
‘Oh, well, I’m sorry.’
‘My wife left me.’
‘Oh, bad luck,’ said Peter.
‘So although I am sympathetic, I must nevertheless ask you to keep your voices down.’
‘Yes, Faith,’ Peter whispered hoarsely. ‘Please would you keep it down!’
‘That’s right, keep it down,’ I said with a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t rock the boat. Be a big girl. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t cry. And above all, above all – don’t mind. Well, I do mind!’ I wailed. ‘I mind terribly. How could you, Peter?’ I added, aware that the table had begun to blur.
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Isabel Wolff
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Книги о приключениях
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A sparkling novel by the bestselling author of THE VERY PICTURE OF YOU and A VINTAGE AFFAIR.Faith has arranged a surprise party at a West London restaurant to celebrate fifteen years of marriage to her publisher husband Peter. They have a lot to be thankful for – including two teenage children and the knowledge that, at thirty-five, they’ve hammered out an enduring partnership that, at this age, many of their contemporaries are only just themselves embarking upon.But something is niggling at Faith. A casual, barbed comment by her bitchy magazine editor friend Lily makes her wonder whether her world is as wonderful as it seems on the surface. Peter has been behaving slightly oddly recently – but is this purely because of stress at work?As the kernel of unease swells and begins to burgeon inside her, Faith finds herself on a quest that leads to a shake-up of everything she holds dear – but which, in the end, enables her to reforge her life.