Out of the Blue (13 page)

“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 headhunter.”

“Of course they must. But then why didn’t he say so outright? Look, Faith, would you do me one favor, 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 favorite 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…rumored 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 apologize 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 realized 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 honorable 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 realized that truthfulness was Peter’s
least
endearing quality.

“So she
did
get her bonus, then,” I said darkly, aware of a lemon-size 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.

“Shhh! Don’t shout.”

“You’d wanted to shag her for weeks.”

“No.”

“Oh yes you had. And the reason I know is because of Katie.”

“Katie? What’s
she
got to do with this?”

“Her psychoanalytic stuff. She’s always going on about Freudian slips, isn’t she? Well, she goes on about the Freudian ‘telling omission’, too. And I think it’s very,
very
telling, Peter, that you’ve never let on that Andie was a woman.”

“It wasn’t relevant,” he said.

“Oh yes it was,” I shot back. “Because the other night you recited that great list of all the women you know—every single one. So how
very
strange, Peter,” I added, emphatically, “that you didn’t mention her!” By now his face and neck were blotched with red. “In fact you even told me the names of Andie’s two female colleagues, but you carefully left her out. Now I know why!” I concluded triumphantly. “Because you didn’t want me to know. And the reason why you didn’t was because you already knew you wanted to get her into bed.”