Out of the Blue (21 page)

“Here it is!” he said. We’d stopped outside a tiny restaurant called The Birdcage. As we walked in, I caught my breath. The interior was tiny—and totally bizarre. Diners sat on richly embroidered armchairs, surrounded by golden Buddhas and Tibetan prayer wheels. On the blood-red walls were stuffed turtles and erotic paintings of naked men. Antique birdcages hung from the walls, while vases of peacock feathers stirred in the slight breeze from the bronze ceiling fan.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s what’s known as Oriental fusion. And just wait until you see the food!”

A black waitress in a bright blue wig seated us at a table near the window, upon which was an odd assortment of things—an Indonesian flute, a magnifying glass, and a wind-up plastic bird.

“The theme here is playful,” Josiah explained. “They like to joke.”

“So I see,” I laughed. Now the waitress brought us two old hardbacks, in the front of which were the folded menus.

“I’ve got
The Magic Mountain…
” he said, looking at his book. “How about you?”

“Mine’s
The Faerie Queene…
” I replied. And now, as I scanned the menu I thought my eyes would start from my head. “Juniper-smoked reindeer carpaccio…goat consommé with Irish moss…whitefish in paperbark with lavender-drenched potato…kaballah healing salad.”

I chose the coconut, gold leaf and foie gras soup, while Josiah had the bitter cactus rice knapsacks. The waitress brought us two Iguazu beers, which she proudly informed us contained extract of lizard, and some boiled peacock eggs as a canapé.

“Are these
real
peacock eggs?” I asked. She nodded.

“This is magical,” I breathed.

“Magical,” Josiah echoed. “Magical. That’s the word.” And at this he held my gaze again and I felt my face begin to burn. As we ate our strange starters, I got him to talk about himself. He told me about his production of
The Tempest
at the Royal Exchange in Manchester, and about some work he’d done in Milan. He also told me about his commission to design the Royal Opera’s new production of
Madame Butterfly
.

“So you’re in demand,” I said as I toyed with my square of gold leaf.

“Yes,” he said, “I guess I am. I know that I’m very lucky. But do you know, Faith, what really makes me happy is just to paint.”

“What kind of painting do you do?”

“I specialize in trompe l’oeil,” he explained as our main courses arrived. “I do murals to commission. There’s nothing I love more than to put a gorgeous Tuscan landscape on the wall of a British bathroom, or to paint a piece of Morocco into someone’s dining room. I can give them a whole new perspective,” he said. “I can really open their eyes.”

“And you?” I added with sudden boldness as I toyed with my seaweed and hemp risotto. “What about
your
private life?”

“What about it?” he said with a shrug.

“Have you ever been married?” He shook his head. “Did you ever come close?” He smiled.

“I’ve had relationships, of course, though I’m no playboy. But I guess I’ve never met anyone who I felt I could commit myself to. It’s such a huge thing, isn’t it, Faith? From this day forward, and all that. ‘Until death do us part.’ The question of who we choose to spend the rest of our lives with. For you, it seems to have been easy, you just married your college sweetheart.”

“Yes. I did.”

“Did you never regret marrying so young?” he asked me as he spooned purple potato onto his plate.

“Well, I…not really. Sometimes, maybe. But then again…no.”

“But you missed out on a lot of fun.”

“That’s true.” I sighed.

“So perhaps now you can catch up a bit?”

“Yes. Perhaps I can.”

“Maybe you could catch up on some fun with me?”

“Maybe,” I replied with a smile.

At this he smiled back and held my gaze, and I felt so exhilarated, as though I were skiing downhill. And I was going so fast that I thought I was actually flying through the air. Or maybe I was falling. I didn’t know. I only knew that I didn’t want the evening to come to an end.

“Would you like a glass of pudding wine?” he enquired as he looked at the menu again. “With a chocolate-covered scorpion?”

“That sounds absolutely delicious,” I said, “but I don’t think I’ve got room.”

“I think I will,” he said. And so it was brought to his table on a marble slab. A small scorpion, covered in dark chocolate, leaning, almost casually, on a stem of lemon grass. I hadn’t believed it would be real, but it was. You could even see the sting in its lifeless tail.

“Are you
really
going to eat that?” I giggled.

“Well, I will,” he said carefully, “but only on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“That you’ll agree to see me again very soon.” I looked at him, then smiled and nodded. He lifted the scorpion to his mouth, and with two crunchy bites it had gone.

“I’ve had the most wonderful time,” he said as we stood outside on the pavement waiting for our cabs. He lifted my hand to his lips once more. “I’m so glad we met.”

“So am I.”

My cab arrived, and I stepped inside and wound down the window.

“Thank you so much,” I said.

“It was all my pleasure,” he replied. “And, Faith, do you know what I’m going to do tomorrow morning?”

“No.”

“I’m going to turn you on.”

May

I tend to forget. I forget that I can be recognized in the street. I never really think about it, because to me, doing the weather’s just a job. But at the same time it’s a job that puts me in front of more than five million people every day. So although I’m certainly not a household name, I do get spotted sometimes. That’s why Josiah—I call him Jos now—smiled at me that day. Usually I’m blissfully unaware of any stares, but then I get pulled up short. I can be walking down the street, and I hear someone singing “Stormy Weather”, or whistling “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head”. Or I can be in a shop, minding my own business, when I suddenly catch someone looking. And I automatically think, why the
hell
’s that person staring at me? Have I got ink all over my face? Then I remember—it’s because of my work. Sometimes people come up to me and say, “I’m sure I
know
you—haven’t we met?” And I tell them I don’t think we have. But they keep on insisting, until they’re blue in the face, that we’ve
definitely
met somewhere before. But it would be so arrogant to say, “Honestly, you
don’t
know me, you simply think you do because you recognize me from the TV.” So I just have to stand there, smiling, while they try and work it out. It happened only yesterday, in Tesco’s. I was at the deli counter, in a kind of happy daze, absently wondering whether Jos likes potted shrimp or not, when this man came up to me. And he stood there staring at me, quite blatantly, not hiding the fact at all, and then he said, “I
know
you, don’t I?” I shook my head. “I
do
know you,” he insisted.

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

So he stared at me for a bit longer and then he suddenly blurted out: “I’ve got it! You’re that girl on the telly, aren’t you? You’re that girl on the telly!” I just nodded and gave him a feeble smile and hoped he’d go away.

“I just want to tell you something,” he said excitedly. “I just want to tell you…”

“Yes?” I said as I braced myself for some embarrassing but complimentary remark.

“That I don’t like you much.”

“Oh,” I said, crestfallen.

“Nor does my mum.”

“Right. Well, it’s a free country,” I said with a shrug. Now, normally an incident like that would seriously get me down. I’d probably go home feeling mortified and mope for the rest of the day. But at the moment I feel unassailable, because the truth is I’m nuts about Jos. I’ve seen him twice more since our date at The Birdcage, and I think I’ve fallen under his spell. This is what love does—I’d forgotten. It gives you emotional armor plating; it’s a natural anaesthetic against pain; love fills you with confidence and restores your self-esteem. Which is why I managed to laugh gaily about my encounter in Tesco’s when Jos called me the next day.

“Well,
my
mum thinks you’re wonderful,” he said loyally, “and so do I by the way. You looked lovely this morning,” he added warmly. “Scrumptiously pretty, in fact. I felt so proud of you,” he added softly, and I felt my cheeks begin to burn.

“It’s not difficult,” I said. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”

“But you do it so well,” he insisted. Then he began to sing that song, “Nobody does it better”. “‘Nobody does it…half as good as you,’” he crooned as I stifled my giggles, “‘B-a-by, you’re the best.’ Now,” he added briskly, “when can I see you again?”

“Again?” I said with a laugh. “You’ve already seen me three times in ten days!”

“Yes, and I’m coming back for more. I mean it, Faith,” he added softly, “when can I see you again?”

“Well, when would you like to see me?”

“Immediately!” he said. “If not sooner. How about tonight?” he suggested.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” I lied.

“How about tomorrow, then?”

“Ditto.”

“Right, Miss In-Demand and Playing-
Slightly
-Hard-To-Get, I guess it’ll have to be Thursday.”

“Yes, I
think
I can manage Thursday,” I conceded with a smile. “Where?” I added.

“At my place.” Oh. “This will be our fourth date, Faith, so I think it’s time that you…”

“Yes?”

“…got to see where I live. I’ll cook supper for you. Would you like that?”

“That would be lovely,” I said.

I felt like an infatuated schoolgirl as I put down the telephone. Here I was, just an ordinary, pre-middle-aged, suburban mother of two being pursued by a man of huge talent and charm. Who needs drugs, I thought? I was high on happiness. I was intoxicated, I realized happily as I emptied the washing machine. I was exhilarated, I was elated, I was ecstatic, I was—suddenly Graham barked. The second post had arrived. On the mat were three letters for Matt—he gets
so
many these days—and one addressed to me. To my surprise it was from Peter.

Dear Faith,
I read.
I thought this would be easier to write than to say. It’s just to let you know that after a lot of soul-searching I’ve decided not to contest the divorce. I think you’re right. Too much has happened in the last three months for us to be able to go back. So I’ve signed the Acknowledgment of Service and sent the original back to the court. To make it all easier, I’ve admitted adultery, which in any case, of course, is true. I can’t explain what’s happened to us. It all seems so unreal. But I guess we should be thankful that we were happy for as long as we were. And although it’s all gone so wrong for us now, I’ll always be glad that I married you. Peter. x

My euphoria had taken a headlong dive and was drowning in my tears. My forehead dropped to the kitchen table as I clutched the letter in my hand. I felt Graham lay his head on my lap and I absently stroked his left ear. We stayed like that for quite a long time, then I reached for the phone and dialled Lily.

“It’s
terribly
sad,” she said softly. “I feel very sad about it myself. And of course you’re bound to be upset because this letter makes the end of your marriage more certain.”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “I know. Oh, Lily,” I wept, “it’s just so…
awful
. I wish Peter and I could go back.”

“Faith,” she said, more firmly now. “I’m afraid you can’t.”

“Can’t we?” I said. I ripped off a piece of Fiesta kitchen roll and pressed it to my eyes.

“No,” said Lily, “you can’t. And though naturally I don’t want to be negative about Peter’s
terrible
betrayal, you really have to face facts. And the cruel fact is that, well, he’s got someone…”

“
Else
,” I wailed. “But now I wish he only had
me.
”

“Faith, darling,” said Lily carefully, “I’m afraid you’re being a little hysterical. Just stop and think about this. Maybe the reason Peter’s pressing on with the divorce is because he wants to be with…?”

“
Her,”
I wept. “Yes, of course, he does,” I gasped, “he wants to be with that—uh-uh—bitch. That brazen cow. She just—uh, uh—stole my—uh, uh—husband.”

“Faith,” said Lily, her voice becoming sterner. “She didn’t just steal your husband. Your husband offered himself up for theft.” Oh God. Yes. That was true. “So you certainly can’t go back to him now,” she concluded firmly.

“Why not?” I said. “After all, we’re not divorced. I—uh, uh—
want
to go back.”

“Faith,” she said, “you
can’t
. Because even if he gave Andie up, and promised never, ever to see her again, the fact of his infidelity would always be there.”

“Would it?” I croaked dismally.

“Yes,” she said. “It would be like some lingering odor, which no amount of Jo Malone cologne could ever dispel.”

“Oh. Ye-e-e-s,” I sobbed. It was true. Lily was right. She was right. Though I do wish she didn’t spell things out in quite such a brutal way. But now her tone of voice had changed again and was positive, encouraging and kind.

“You’re moving on, Faith,” she said brightly. “Just like you said you would. You’re going forward, and you’re being brave…”

“Yes. I
am
being brave,” I blubbed as a slick of snot slithered down my top lip.

“Very brave,” she repeated, “when you consider, well, let’s face it, what Peter’s put you through.”

“Ye-e-e-s,” I gasped, “he’s put me through—uh-uh—hell!”

“Exactly, Faith. He has. He doesn’t deserve you,” she said. “But now you’ve got out there again and you’ve met someone else.”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “I have.”

“You’ve met someone great. Someone who seems to be mad about you.”

“Well—uh-uh—ye-es,” I said, suddenly recovering now. “He does seem rather—uh-uh—keen.”

“He’s handsome, and he’s very talented…”

“Oh yes, yes, he is.”

“He’s eligible, and he’s kind.”

“Oh he’s
really
kind,” I said, sniffing.

“In fact, Faith, he seems perfect.”

“Well…yes,” I said, swallowing my tears. “I think he
is
perfect, in every way.”

“
Exactly
. So aren’t you lucky, then, to have found someone like that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Just think of all the dumped wives who take
ages
to find anyone new.”

“Do they?” I said.

“Oh, yes. It can be a
nightmare
. Don’t you realize that? There are
so
many lonely divorced women out there. But you’ve managed to find a lovely new boyfriend almost straight away.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “That’s true.” By now my sobs had subsided and ebbed far away, like the waves of a retreating tide.

“So just be grateful,” I heard Lily say, “for the good fortune that’s come your way. And look ahead, Faith, into the future, because I really believe that it’s bright. Now,” she added briskly. “When are you seeing Jos again?”

“On Thursday,” I said as I threw the piece of sodden Fiesta into the bin. “He wants to cook me supper.”

“Cook you supper?” said Lily excitedly. “Oh—I
say
. Well there’s only one thing that can mean! Have you got something nice to wear? I’ve got loads of spare La Perla, you know. Stockings, suspenders…”

“Lily!” I exclaimed. “You’re going much too fast. I’m not ready for, you know—that.”

“Yes, darling, but maybe
he is
.” Oh. My stomach was suddenly aflutter with a thousand butterflies. “Now, Faith, are you feeling all right again?” said Lily solicitously.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I am. And Lily, thanks for being such a wonderful friend.”

“Oh, not at all,” she replied.

* * *

“Then add two tablespoons of milk,” said Delia on Thursday as I checked my appearance in the hall mirror one last time, “and give it a jolly good stir. Add two twists of black pepper,” she went on as I squished on a little more CK Contradiction. “And, this is very important, a
really big
pinch of salt…”

“Bye Graham,” I called out. “I won’t be too late.” He looked at me slightly reproachfully, I thought, then returned his gaze to the screen.

I shut the front door quietly behind me and walked to Turnham Green tube. Jos lived at World’s End, so it would take me less than half an hour. World’s End, I mused as the tube train rattled along. World’s End—that was funny. I thought my world
had
ended, but now a new one had begun. I walked down Lots Road, then turned left into Burnaby Street and found number eighty-six at the end. It was a flat-fronted terraced house, painted a creamy white. A lovely wisteria, in full flower, clambered up the front. I stood there for a moment inhaling its scent, then lifted my hand to the bell.

“Faith!” Jos exclaimed. He flung his arms round me.

“What a lovely welcome,” I said. “I like the flowery apron,” I added. “Have you been slaving away?”

“I certainly have,” he replied. “You are about to have the best chicken tikka this side of Bombay. Now, what would you like to drink? Faith, did you hear me? What would you like to drink?”

“What?” I was staring, dumbstruck, at the walls and ceiling. It was as though the wisteria had crept in from outside and was growing all the way down the hall. Huge purple racemes hung down, like enormous bunches of grapes; I wanted to sink my nose into the pendant flowers and stroke their papery petals. I wanted to run my finger along the gnarled and twisted trunk. There were even bees, their legs laden with pollen, resting on the feathery leaves.

“How amazing,” I whispered. “This is magic, too.”

“No, Faith. It’s just illusion.”

“Well, it’s a lovely illusion,” I breathed.

“I suppose it’s not bad,” said Jos judiciously, “even if I say so myself. And of course this is the best time of year to see it. My wisteria often produces hysteria,” he added with a laugh. “Now, Faith, come with me.” He took my hand and led me through to the kitchen, where a gasp escaped me again. For the whitewashed walls were hung with pink hams, strings of garlic and a brace of coppery pheasants; curling sprigs of rosemary and sage dried out over the stove.

“It’s just…incredible,” I said. “No, I mean the
opposite
—it’s credible. It’s utterly believable. My eye was completely tricked.”

“That’s what trompe l’oeil means,” Jos explained. “To fool the eye. Artists have been duping people in this way since Classical times. Zeuxis painted grapes so realistic that it’s said the birds came to peck at them. Now, how about a glass of champagne?”

“I’d love some,” I replied as he reached into the fridge. “I say—more Krug! What a treat.”

“It’s my one extravagance,” he explained with a guilty grin. “But I’m afraid it’s non-vintage again.”

“I think I’ll manage,” I said. We smiled and chinked glasses, then went through to the small conservatory where humming birds and tropical butterflies seemed to flit and pirouette amongst the plants. He’d even painted a few translucent geckos onto the glass. If you looked very closely, you could even see their tiny hearts.

“What a brilliant deception,” I murmured.

“That’s what all painting is,” Jos explained. “It’s just a confidence trick in which two dimensions pass themselves off as three. Now,” he went on as we sipped our champagne. “Shall I show you how artful I’ve been elsewhere?” Like an entranced child I nodded, and let him lead me through the rest of the house.