Out of the Blue (12 page)

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 realized 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 behavior 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?”

“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 check 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 marvelous!” 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 favorite 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 dialing 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 realized 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 favor 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.”