Out of the Blue

‘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 exactly as 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, or by 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

‘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.