Out of the Blue (17 page)

“Ah,” Lily said. “Well, in that case you’ve got to learn how to flirt. And I’m going to help you do it.”

* * *

I don’t know why I go along with Lily’s schemes. I really
don’t
know why. But she can always persuade me to do anything, and that’s how it’s always been. With her in the driving seat and me strapped in by her side. I guess it must be the sheer force of her personality. She’s like an avalanche—she sweeps me along. I can’t otherwise explain how I found myself attending a flirting workshop with her four days later.

“I only agreed to this because I’m still semi-deranged from shock,” I said as we arrived at the Sloane Hotel in Earls Court.

“No, Faith,” she corrected me as we went through the swing doors. “You’re doing it because you secretly want to, because you know it will do you good. You’ve
got
to learn how to deal with men again,” she said bossily as we took off our coats. “You’ve got to learn how to interact with them in a positive, healthy way. And flirting will make men more interested in you, which will boost your self-esteem. You’ve been betrayed, Faith,” she said seriously as we found the conference suite. “So you feel small and unloved.”

“Thanks.”

“You feel unwanted, and undesirable. Insignificant and plain. In fact you feel a total failure.”

“OK, OK.”

“But learning to flirt will make you feel alluring again, gorgeous and sexy.”

“I very much doubt it.”

“And then, when you’re ready, you’ll be well-equipped to go for it with some stunning new man.”

“I don’t want to go for it with any man,” I pointed out bitterly, “new or old.”

“Not now, darling. But you will,” she said. “And of course that would really hurt Peter.”

“What?”

“Well, it would hurt Peter like mad if you found someone new.”

“Even though he’s the one who had the affair?”

“Yes.”

And when Lily said that I felt something inside me jump, and I realized, for the first time, that I didn’t mind at all if I hurt Peter. In fact I
wanted
to hurt him. After all, he’d hurt
me
. He’d betrayed
me
. He’d wounded
me
. This situation was entirely
his
fault.
I
hadn’t had an affair. And as I sat there waiting for the class to start, I entertained fantasies of revenge. I no longer wanted to murder Andie, I wanted to murder
him
. I’d like to run him down, I thought calmly. Or push him off a cliff, or slip something nasty in his coffee or…

“Hello everyone!” My violent reveries had been interrupted by the arrival of our “teacher”, Brigitte, a pneumatic-looking brunette of about forty-five. Her eyes raked the room like a blowtorch.

“What a great turn-out,” she said. It was true. There were over thirty of us, split fairly evenly between men and women. We were all smiling sheepishly, all except Lily that is. She was winking at a rather attractive man sitting across the aisle from her.

“So you want to learn to flirt?” said Brigitte with a beatific smile. Lily was fingering the hem of her skirt. “You want to become more attractive to the opposite sex,” she went on benignly. Lily had undone her top button. “It’s just as well that people do flirt,” Brigitte continued as Lily flicked her tongue over her lips, “otherwise the human race would die out! I flirt a lot,” she confided, “and believe me, it’s a lot of fun. Now,” she said, clapping her hands, “let’s do the first exercise. Get into groups of six, and throw these tennis balls at each other whilst at the same time introducing yourselves in a sexy, flirtatious way.” We all giggled and shuffled our feet, then reluctantly stood up and arranged ourselves into groups.

“Hello, er, ha ha ha, er, I’m Brian.”

“Hello, I’m Sue.”

“Hi there. I’m Mike.”

“Er, hello. I’m Faith.”

“Good morning, my name’s Dave.”

“Well hell-o-o-o, Dave, you
sexy
love-bucket. I’m Lily.” Dave dropped the ball. Man over-awed, I thought.

“Very good, everyone,” said Brigitte after three or four minutes of this. “Now, the next exercise is all about eye-contact and how to make it. Most of us feel embarrassed to look deeply into someone’s eyes. But making proper eye-contact is extremely sexy and can have a powerful effect. So that’s what we’re going to do now. We’re all going to walk round the room, and we’re going to look each other up and down in a flagrantly predatory and provocative way.” This was
bizarre,
I reflected as we all wandered around eyeballing each other, though it was hard eyeing up any of the men as most of them were gawping at Lily.

“That’s it,” said Brigitte enthusiastically. “Let your eyes roam. Up and down. Look
deep
into everyone’s pupils. That’s right—hold their gaze. Let your eyes speak to that person. Let your eyes say, ‘Well…hel-lo!’”

This was nauseating. My face was on fire. Next we had to get into pairs and pay each other lavish compliments. I was paired up with a Chinese medical student called Ting.

“Now,
really
compliment each other!” said Brigitte. “And when you receive your compliment just say ‘thank you’ and smile. Got that?”

“Um, you’ve got nice shiny hair,” I said.

“Tank you. An’ you ’ave rubbery ice.”

“Er, thanks. You’ve got nice teeth.”

“You ’ave goo’ eggs.”

“Oh, right. I like your nose.”

“Your skir’ is smar’.” Brigitte clapped her hands again.

“The real clue to flirting,” she explained, “is that people like people who like
them.
This is why imitation really is the sincerest form of flattery. So what we’re going to do now is body-mirroring, or what’s technically known as Postural Echo. So copy each other’s movements as closely as you can. See if you can mirror their breathing patterns too… And now,” said Brigitte excitedly after fifteen minutes of this, “the next flirting challenge—to find the Animal Within! Yes, you’re going to find an animal that suits your personality, and take that animal feeling up and down your body, OK? Right, Lily, what animal are you?”

“I’m a panther,” she purred.

“What animal are you, Faith?”

“Er, I don’t know—er, an armadillo.”

“Don’t be an armadillo,” said Brigitte, “they’ve got armour plating.”

“OK, then I’ll be a dog.”

“I’m a lion!”

“I’m an eagle!”

“I’m an ardvaark!”

“I’m a ferret!”

“I’m a budgie!”

By this stage it was so farcical that my inhibitions had vanished and I began to relax. By the time the workshop came to an end I was almost enjoying myself.

“You’ve all done very well,” said Brigitte warmly. “But I’m going to give you one more task. A very important task. Which is to give everyone you meet as you go home today a lovely, welcoming smile.”

“I got a lot out of that,” said Lily as we left the hotel. “I really learned
a lot
.”

“
Did
you?” I said sceptically as she opened the doors of her navy-blue Porsche.

“Oh yes,” she said enthusiastically as the roof descended with an electronic whine. “And don’t forget, Faith,” she added as we pulled out into the Earls Court Road, “we’ve got to smile at everyone we meet.”

“Don’t worry,” I said confidently, “I will.” After all, the sun was shining. The cherry trees were in bloom. And, for the first time in several weeks, I’d had a really good laugh. Oh yes, I felt like smiling today, despite all my problems at home. We drew up at a traffic light in the Brompton Road and were sitting there, with the engine idling, when an MGF with its roof down pulled up alongside. Suddenly I became aware that the driver was looking at us. I turned my head to the left and found myself face to face with a smiling man. But who on earth was he smiling at? Lily, I presumed. I looked. But no. He wasn’t smiling at Lily. He was smiling at me. He was looking at me. And smiling. Just like that. What a bloody
nerve!
I glared at him but he didn’t stop. He only seemed to smile more. By now I was spitting fire. This had got to stop.

“What are you looking at?” I snapped.

“You,” he said with a grin.

“Well that’s very
rude!
” I shot back. And at that he began to laugh. He was laughing at me. Imagine the impertinence! So I gave him an evil stare. But still he sat there, just looking at me and laughing. At which point, provoked beyond belief, I had no option but to give him the two-fingered treatment with both hands.

“Faith!” exclaimed Lily. “What the hell are you doing? You’re supposed to smile at him, you fool!”

“I’m not going to smile at him—he’s annoying me!” I hissed. “Just staring like that. Bloody cheek! Who the hell does he think he is? I mean, Christ, Lily! I’ve been through enough. This is the
last
thing I need. How
dare
you!” I said, turning to him again. “How dare you just sit there in your pathetic sports car ogling us like this. There’s a policeman over there,” I added angrily, “and I’ve half a mind to call him over and have you arrested because this is sexual harassment, you know. Officer!” I shouted theatrically. “Officer!” By now the man in the sports car was convulsed with mirth.

“Stop it right now,” I snapped.

“Faith!” said Lily. “Shut
up!
”

“No!” I said. “I won’t. I won’t have this!” I yelled at him again. “I’m going to take your numberplate down. And I’m going to report you to the police, do you hear me? I’m going to write to Scotland Yard.”

“Yes!” He roared with laughter. “Do. But there’s no need to check my numberplate—here!” At this he reached into his jacket pocket and now, as the lights changed to amber, he tossed a small white card into my lap. And by the time I’d caught my breath, the lights were green and he’d gone.

“What a… How outrageous!” I expostulated. “God, did you see that, Lily? What a bloody cheek!”

“Didn’t you learn anything today?” said Lily crossly. “The man fancied you, you fool!”

“What?
Oh
.”

“And the only reason you were shouting at him like that is because you’re so furious with Peter.”

“No.”

“Yes! It’s displaced anger, that’s all. But what a performance, Faith,” she said, shaking her head. “God, you’ve got a lot to learn!”

I looked at the card. There was a tiny paintbrush in one corner and it said,
Josiah Cartwright—Artist At Large
. And I was very tempted to throw it away; to throw it away right there and then. But I didn’t do that; because it’s not nice to drop litter. So I tucked it carefully into my bag.

March Continued

On Friday evening the children came home. Breaking the news to them wasn’t easy, but I did it as gently as I could.

“You see,” I said carefully as we sat in the kitchen, “when a mummy and a daddy don’t love each other in that special way any more, what happens is that they decide to—Matt, please could you put the newspaper down? I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said vaguely, looking up from his
Financial Times
. “But there’s been an insurrection in Bolivia.”

“Well, that’s very unfortunate, but I have something important to say. You see,” I tried again. “When a mummy and a daddy don’t really…sort of…you know…then they decide to…”

“Get divorced?” interjected Katie. “Come on, Mum, cut to the chase. You and Dad are splitting up.”

“Well…no, I wouldn’t put it
quite
like that. But on the other hand,” I said, fiddling with my wedding ring, “we’re not getting on very well.”

“I could have told you that.”

“So we’ve decided to—separate.”

“Thank God!” Matt exclaimed.

“Sorry?” He looked up from his paper.

“The government have regained control.”

“Matt,” I said irritably, “I am very pleased to see that you are starting to take such an interest in current affairs, but I’m trying to tell you something serious—something very serious, actually—and I’d appreciate it if you’d listen. As I was saying, your father and I have taken this difficult and very painful decision. But you’ll still see him a lot. Matt,” I said crossly, “I’m not going to say it again. Will you
please
put that away?”

“What? Oh, sorry, Mum,” he said absently. “But there’s been an earthquake in Japan. What’s all this about?”

“Mum said that she and Dad are getting divorced,” Katie explained patiently. There was an ominous silence as they both took this in. “Which means, Matt,” Katie went on, “that you and I will no longer bear the stigma of having happily married parents.” I stared at her, dumbfounded. “At Seaworth all the kids’ parents are divorced,” she went on matter-of-factly. “We were the only ones whose folks weren’t. It was very embarrassing.”

“Oh,” I said faintly. “I see.”

“In fact most of them are on their third marriages by now.”

“Really?”

“So don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

“Oh. Well. Good. That’s great.”

“Complex family relationships are the norm.”

“Right.”

“The nuclear family is dead. But we’ll have to be very careful with Graham,” she added seriously. “It could be traumatic for him. I mean, he comes from a broken home as it is.”

“Broken kennel,” said Matt.

“So he’ll be feeling pretty insecure. We’ll have to give him a lot of emotional support,” she went on as she stroked his ears. “And we’ll have to reassure him that there are lots of
different
kinds of families these days.” I nodded. She was absolutely right. I’d never ever thought it would happen to us, but we were going to become a “different” kind of family now. This is just awful.
Awful,
I thought. Suddenly the phone rang and Katie ran to pick it up.

“Hello, Dad,” I heard her say. “Oh, we’re fine. Yes, we know. So it’s Splitsville Tennessee. You want to take us out? Sure. Matt!” she yelled. “Dad’s going to take us out.”

So at 2 p.m. the next day the doorbell rang and there was Peter, standing on the step, for all the world like some polite visitor. Graham threw himself at him, barking and whimpering with joy.

“Hello, darling,” said Peter as he crouched down to let Graham lick his ear.

“You could have used your key,” I said quietly. “This is still your house, you know.”

“For the time being,” he said dryly. “Until Rory Cheetham-Stabb starts on me.”

“Let’s not quarrel, Peter. Where are you taking the kids?”

“To the Science Museum—they’ve got a new gallery there. Then for a spin on the Ferris Wheel. After that I thought we’d go and have a burger at the Hard Rock Café.”

“That sounds lovely,” I said brightly. “Lovely.” I was determined to be civilized.

“You can come too if you like,” he added.

“Can I? Oh.
Great
. I’d love to, I’ll just go and get my coat…” Hang on. What was I
saying?
Of course I couldn’t go. We’re splitting up. “Um, it’s all right, thanks,” I backtracked. “I’ll take Graham out. And then I’ll go for a swim. Come on, kids—don’t keep Dad waiting!”

“Just a min-ute!”

While they got their coats Peter and I stood there in the hall, smiling awkwardly at each other as though we were strangers making smalltalk at some boring drinks do.

“Faith,” said Peter suddenly. He took a step towards me. “Faith,” he repeated. “Please don’t do anything drastic yet. I want us to go to counseling.”

“Counseling?” I repeated.

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about it. I think we should go to Resolve.”

“Resolve?” I said with a grim little laugh. “Commonly known as
Dis
solve.”

“They might be able to help,” he insisted.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “In any case I don’t want to discuss our marriage with a total stranger.”

“They might enable us to get things in perspective before everything gets out of hand. The Taylors got help,” he added.

“Yes, and she’s on Prozac,” I replied.

“Please, Faith,” he added beseechingly. “Please, Faith, we’ve got to try.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said reluctantly. Suddenly Graham jumped up, placed his paws on my chest and looked at me imploringly with his soft brown eyes.

“Please, Faith,” said Peter. I stroked Graham’s ears.

“Well…all right,” I sighed. “If you want.”

* * *

“You’re looking good,” said Marian warmly when I went into Make-Up on Monday morning.

“Yeah,” said Iqbal. “You’re looking
great
. Haven’t you lost a few pounds?”

“Have I?” I said wonderingly. “Yes. Maybe I have. A few.”

“You’ve lost a bit from your face,” said Marian as she sponged foundation across my cheeks. “You’re looking lovely,” she added generously. “Not so…”

“Dumpy?” I said with a smile.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

“What she means,” said Iqbal with a grin, “is that whatever diet you’re on—it works.”

I was longing to tell them that I was actually on the Divorce Diet—great for shifting extra pounds. But I couldn’t. Because then it might get out, and I didn’t want my marital difficulties being discussed at work. I could imagine the gossip.
Poor Faith…another woman…American, you know…oh no, he’s a decent guy…just married too young…it happens
. No, I did not intend to make myself an object of sympathetic concern. People got divorced every day of the week, I reflected, I’d just have to cope and be strong. But I’d promised Peter that I’d go to Resolve with him, even if it was unlikely to help. So after the program came off air I discreetly phoned them and booked us both in.

“Who will the appointment be with?” I enquired as I jotted down the date.

“With our principal counselor,” said the receptionist. “She’s called Zillah Strindberg. She’s
awfully
good.”

Later that day I went swimming. The house feels horribly empty now, without Peter. I loathe it. I feel bereft. I miss his familiar presence—our sudden conversations—and the way he knows what I’m thinking without even having to ask. And I hate not hearing the familiar click of his key in the door every night. So I’m making a conscious effort to try and fill the early evenings because otherwise I’d get in a state. So I settled Graham in front of
Ready, Steady, Cook!
and went up to the health club and did my usual thirty lengths. I found the water therapeutic—the way it supported me, and lifted me up. And I was sitting in the bar afterwards, reading
The Times
and having a cup of herbal tea, mentally congratulating myself on at least
trying
to save my marriage, as I idly scanned the lonely hearts ads. Do you know, I’ve never really read them before but these days I find I’m hooked. All those single men! Today the paper was heaving with “sporty thirty-somethings”, “tall professionals” and “eligible bachelors, forty-three”. And I began to think about what Lily had said, that a time would come when I would want to date other men. But it was inconceivable that I should do so now because of course it was much too soon. And I thought of that silly man in his stupid sports car who’d impudently chucked me his card. What a
nerve,
I thought as I opened my bag and took it out. What a cheek, I reflected as I read the telephone number again. What a sauce, I said to myself. Did he seriously think I’d ring? My dating experience might be chronically limited, but blatant pick-ups are just
not
my style.

“Excuse me, is this chair taken?” I looked up, momentarily startled. A man was standing there, smiling hesitantly. “Is this chair taken?” he enquired again.

“Er, yes,” I replied, feeling my face begin to flush. “I mean, no. No, it’s not taken. It’s free. That’s what I mean, it’s…” My voice trailed away. “Help yourself,” I said feebly. Then I turned back to my paper, feeling slightly flustered, whilst discreetly surveying from behind lowered lids this decidedly attractive man. He was tall, and quite well built. His hair was still damp from the shower. He sat down, smiled at me, and now I noticed his nice blue eyes.

“I’m Stanley,” he said, suddenly. I lowered the paper, surprised that he wanted to talk. “I’m Stanley,” he repeated. “Stan Plunkett.”

“Oh. Well. Hello,” I said. “I’m Faith.”

“I know,” he replied with a smile. “I’ve seen you. You do the weather, on the BBC.”

“That’s half right,” I said with a little laugh, feeling myself blush with pride. “I’m on the other side actually, AM-UK!”

“Do you come here often?”

“Quite often. I like to swim.” I assumed that he was only talking to me out of politeness, as we were sharing a table. I thought he’d drink his coffee and then go. But he didn’t go. He kept talking. We sat there for ten minutes or so while he told me about his work—it’s something quite unusual, actually, involving nuclear arms—and he was just getting into it, and telling me all about it, when I suddenly glanced at the clock and saw that it was half past nine.

“I’m afraid I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’m awfully sorry, but it’s the curse of breakfast TV.”

“What a pity,” he replied. “I was really enjoying myself.”

“Well, I have to get my head down by ten, you see.”

“Why don’t we meet again?” he suggested brightly as I picked up my bag.

“Er…yes,” I said uncertainly. “I’m sure we’ll meet again here.”

“No, I mean, let’s get together,” he said warmly. Oh. “Let’s have a drink. Are you free on…” He whipped out his diary. “Thursday?”

Gosh. I suddenly twigged. He was asking me out. He was asking me out on a date. And I was just about to say, “Well I’m awfully sorry, and of course I’m terribly flattered, but actually, I’m married you know,” when I suddenly remembered. I remembered that everything has changed. I remembered that I’m separated; I remembered that Peter now lives elsewhere; and I remembered that, as from today, I no longer wear my wedding ring.

“We could go to Café Rouge,” he went on. “The one down by the river.” I looked at him and I thought to myself, why not? Yes—why ever not?

“Are you free, then?” he repeated as I picked up my bag.

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

So on Thursday I got myself ready for my first date in fifteen years. It was an historic occasion for me. I’d never really been courted, or wined or dined. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Peter and I were very happily married—at least we were until his fling. Oh yes, until Andie Metzler came along our marriage was like a picnic without the wasps. We were so compatible. So harmonious. We’d never really quarrelled—until this year. We’d just bumped along optimistically, happy and trusting, seeing only the best in each other. We’d had a lovely marriage really, which I’d always believed only death would end. But in the end it wasn’t death which was going to part us. I’ve read that some people, when their relationship ends, want to destroy their past, deny that they’ve ever been happy—as though the affair has wiped out all the good things. It’s a coping mechanism, I suppose. But I didn’t feel like that. Even though Peter had strayed and I was angry with him I still knew our marriage had been a happy one. At the same time, we’d been so young when we got together that I knew there were things we’d missed. Oh yes, I realized, there certainly were. Because Peter was my first love. I’d never really dated before, but now, at thirty-five, I was about to start. I was terrified, of course, and I was very depressed, but at the same time, yes—I was a tiny bit thrilled. I admit it. I was slightly excited. Because I could hear a door creaking open in my mind. I mean, take Mimi, for example. She’d had a few boyfriends before she met Mike, and although I was happy with Peter I used to envy her going on dates. I thought of her, as I thought of Lily and all single women, as independent and brave and strong. But now I was going to be an independent woman, too. A woman going on dates. And as I checked my appearance in the mirror, I realized that Marian was right—I
had
lost weight. I’d been too preoccupied with my problems to notice, but now it was quite clear. The waistband of my skirt was loose, and my bust seemed to have shrunk a bit. My little double chin had disappeared—thank God—and my features looked more defined. I’d lost that “puddingy”, “mumsy” look I’d been getting, and my hair had grown a bit too. As I surveyed my reflection one last time I felt my heart give a little jump. For I knew that I was capable of attracting men—without even trying, I had pulled! So I felt the stirrings of a new confidence beneath my nervousness as I ventured out to meet Stan. As I walked to Café Rouge I mentally rehearsed a few amusing anecdotes about my work, which I was sure he’d want to hear. He wasn’t there when I arrived so I sat at a table by the window, and I was glad I’d brought the paper with me because he was almost half an hour late.

“So sorry,” he said as he rushed up to my table, “but I was delayed because of work. I was at the House of Commons, actually.”