Out of the Blue

‘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.