Out of the Blue

‘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.’