Out of the Blue

‘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!’