Out of the Blue

February Continued

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?’