Out of the Blue (22 page)

At first glance the dining room looked quite conventional. It was painted ox-blood red, with a mahogany sideboard and table, but one wall was lined—or so it appeared—with beautiful antique books. Some were packed in tight rows, while others were stacked more casually in horizontal piles. Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall,
I read in deeply tooled gold lettering. Alongside were
War and Peace, David Copperfield,
and
The Gathering Storm
. I wanted to pull them down and sniff the leather, and feel their weight in my hands. Now we climbed the stairs, and as we did so I peered, bewitched, through the carved pillars of a medieval courtyard onto a plunging Italian hillside far below. The sunburned grass was punctuated with spiky cypresses and dusty olives with twisted trunks. Upstairs, one wall of the drawing room had been transformed into a French orchard, the low evening sunlight radiating through the branching apple trees. Now Jos opened the bathroom door and I found myself staring out through the whitewashed walls of a Moorish palace onto an azure sea. I wanted to shield my eyes from the stinging sunlight and pluck the dates from their palms.

“It’s Morocco,” he explained. “I love it. Have you been there?” I shook my head. “Well, we’ll go there together one day.” At this I felt my face redden and my head began to spin. “Now,” he added with a knowing grin, “would you like to see my bedroom?” He took my hand again and led me down the corridor, and I felt my pulse begin to race. He opened the door and I peered in. Everything was white—the carpet, the cupboards and the embroidered white duvet cover on the enormous bed. Then I looked at the far wall. Flat-topped umbrella thorn trees dotted the scrubby landscape; on the horizon two giraffes entwined their necks against a darkening sky. In the foreground was a watering hole where a solitary lion crouched to drink. I could almost hear it lap the water.

“How wonderful,” I breathed, laughing and shaking my head in disbelief. “So you just lie in bed and look at this, and think you’re in Africa.”

“Well, it beats wallpaper!” he said. “But enough of my painting,” he added, “it’s my cooking I’m really hoping to impress you with.” We went back down to the kitchen where a delicious aroma filled the air.

“How clever of you to make curry,” I said as he checked the pan of bubbling rice.

“It’s not hard,” he replied. “The trick is in the way you combine the spices. I make my own garam masala by combining cumin, fennel, turmeric, cardamom, peppercorns and cloves. It’s a bit like mixing oil paints on a palette,” he explained expertly.

“Well, it smells divine,” I said. “It tastes divine,” I added ten minutes later as he dished it up. And as we sat in his kitchen chatting happily, I realized that Jos was no longer a stranger—I knew so much about him now. I knew about his family—he’s very close to his mother—and I knew a lot about his work. He’d told me the names of one or two of his friends, but so far hadn’t mentioned any exes. And to be honest I hoped he wouldn’t, because I didn’t want to know. After all, it was still early days and he might say something I didn’t like. So I’d made a conscious decision to contain my curiosity about his past, and to care only about the here and now. As we chatted I felt replete, happy and slightly tipsy. Suddenly Jos reached across the table and placed his hand on mine.

“Faith,” he began gently, “Faith, I…” Suddenly we heard the sharp trill of the telephone.

“Fuck!” he said. “Sorry,” he added as he stood up. But instead of answering it in the kitchen he picked it up in the hall; I didn’t want him to think I was listening, so I busied myself by clearing the plates. I placed my foot on the chrome pedal bin and flipped up the lid, and I was just about to scrape in the remains of our rice, when something caught my eye. Lying on top of the rubbish was a large, colorful packet labelled
Tandoori Tonite!
I peered at it, dumbfounded.
Just pour on and serve!
it announced.
No preparation required!
I was totally taken aback. All that guff about cumin and turmeric and he’d just used a packet mix! My first instinct was to feel very indignant, but then I began to laugh. Of
course
. How sweet. It was quite funny, really. Well, he’d said he was trying to impress. And as he came back into the kitchen, I gave him an indulgent smile.

“Sorry about that,” he said, running his left hand through his thick hair. “Er, it was my mum. She likes to chat.” I glanced at my watch. It was ten past ten.

“That was utterly delicious,” I said. “Thank you, but I think I’ll have to go home.”

“Oh,” he said, crestfallen. “Must you?”

“Well, yes,” I said. “Because of Graham.”

“Doesn’t he trust you with strange men, then?” Jos asked with a meaningful smile.

“That’s never been tested,” I replied. “I wonder how he’d react to you?” I went on. “I’m sure he’d like you, because I do.”

“Do you?” said Jos. He was standing right next to me. “
Do
you like me?” he said again, almost childishly. “How much do you like me?” he asked, and now I was aware of his breath, warm and sweet, on my face.

“I like you…very much,” I replied shyly.

“Do you, Faith?” he repeated as I felt his arm go round my waist.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”

“Do you like me very, very much?”

“Yes,” I murmured as his lips found mine. “I like you very, very,
very
much.” And now he was kissing my throat.

“Is that very, very, very much or even very, very, very,
very
much?”

“It’s very, very, very, very,
very
much, actually,” I said as he began to unbutton my shirt.

“Is that very to the power of six?” he said.

“No, it’s very to the power of ten.”

“So you really, really like me then?”

“Mmm. I really, really do.”

“So, would you go to Africa with me?”

“Africa? Ah. Oh. Er…yes,” I said. “OK.”

“But we mustn’t disturb the lion,” he said as he led me up the stairs.

“No, no, we mustn’t,” I said. “We must be really, really quiet.”

“Yes, shhh!”

“Shhhhhhh!”

“Sssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Oh look, you’ve frightened it!” We were both giggling now as we kicked off our shoes and removed each other’s clothes. I pulled his shirt down over his shoulders, while he unzipped my skirt. Then he slowly unbuttoned my silk shirt and let it slither off my shoulders to the floor. Then we fell, laughing and kissing, onto the white expanse of his bed. I looked at the ceiling, and now I saw that he’d painted it pale blue, with streaks of white. A solitary swift, in search of gnats, wheeled and dived through the air.

“Those are cirrus clouds,” I murmured. “That means fine weather.”

“I know,” he said. “And do you know what
I
forecast?” he added as he slowly slipped down the strap of my bra. “I forecast,” he whispered as he kissed my left shoulder, “that you and I are going to make love.”

“Mmm,” I said, and a wave of desire convulsed my frame.

“You’re very beautiful, you know.”

“Am I?” I said, as if in a trance. “I really don’t think I am.”

“Oh yes, you are,” he murmured. “Trust me,” he added softly. “I’m an artist. I should know.” And now, maybe it was the effect of the wine, but suddenly I felt very strange. I looked up into Jos’s large grey eyes and imagined that they were brown. I stroked his dark blond hair, and suddenly wished it was sandy-red. I looked at his perfect, six-pack body, and longed for Peter’s chubby frame instead. Jos was a gorgeous, gorgeous man, but my desire had evaporated like the dew.

“What’s the matter, Faith?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing. Except…”

“What?” I paused. I could feel his breath in my ear. “What is it?” he asked again.

“Well,” I sighed. “Well…this is the first time I’ve…since Peter.”

“Ah,” he said. “I see. Don’t you want to?” he added gently.

“Yes. Yes. I do. I mean, no. I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I don’t know. You see…” My voice trailed away. “You see…” I tried again, but my throat was aching and I found it hard to speak. “You see, I’ve never, ever, ever slept with anyone other than my husband. We married so young,” I explained miserably, “and there was never anyone before. And even though he was unfaithful to me, this just feels all…wrong. So, well…I’m just…sorry, Jos,” I finished lamely. I sat up and reached for my shirt.

“Well, never mind,” he said with a philosophical shrug.

“I didn’t mean to mislead you,” I croaked as a tear snaked down my cheek. “I thought I wanted to go to bed with you, and I did. But now that we’re here, I just…
can’t
. I’m sorry,” I murmured again. I thought he’d be angry, but he wasn’t. He just put his arm round me and gave me a gentle hug.

And then he said, “Don’t worry about it, Faith. It really doesn’t matter. How about a quick game of Scrabble instead?”

* * *

“Now,” said Sophie at nine fifteen this morning as she looked into Camera Two, “do you tend to take things too fast? Particularly when you’re behind-the-wheel? Well, in futureyou may findthatyourspeed is controlledbyglobalsatellite.” I saw confusion register on Sophie’s face as she tried to keep up with the racing autocue. “If the Intelligent Speed Adaptation System isintroduced,” she said as she struggled to remain calm, “then electronicspeedlimiterscouldbecome a legal requirement. Supporters ofthe systemsaythatmore-thantwothousand livesayearcouldbe saved.” Oh God, poor girl. “Linked to a navigationsatellite, thiswouldpinpointeveryvehicle’sposition and automaticallyrestrictitsspeedtothelegallimit.Itssupporterswantthesystemtobe phased inbylawover the nexttwoyearsandby2005—”

“Oh dear, oh dear, Sophie,” interjected Terry irritably. “You’re clearly well over the limit yourself. Sorry about that everyone,” he said smoothly as he turned to Camera Three. “Let’s wait for Sophie to get back in the slow lane, where she belongs. I suggest we go straight to Tatiana’s report from the Stephen Joseph theater in Scarborough where a new Alan Ayckbourn play opens tonight.” Sophie sat there muttering into her microphone as Tatiana’s piece went out.

“You said it wouldn’t happen again!” she hissed to Lisa in the Gallery.

“Oh, sorry Sophie,” Lisa whined. “Technical hitch, I’m afraid.”

“Well, Terry never seems to have any technical hitches!” Sophie spat.

“Leave me out of this,” said Terry. “It’s not my fault you’re incapable of reading a simple autocue.”

Sophie remained composed, but despite the thick stage make-up I could see that her face had flushed red. The studio lights cruelly highlighted the tears shining in her eyes, and as we came off air and the credits rolled, she walked smartly to the ladies’ loo.

“Sophie,” I called out a minute later. “Sophie. It’s only me, Faith.” She emerged, swollen-faced from the end cubicle. Normally so calm and self-controlled, it was shocking to see her cry.

“Those two won’t be happy until I’ve left,” she wept as she clutched the side of the sink.

“Which is precisely why you mustn’t leave,” I said as I handed her a tissue.

“But I can’t
stand
it,” she said as huge sobs racked her slender frame. “It’s bad enough coping with the hideous,
hideous
hours without being victimized as well. And I get no support from Darryl.”

“Darryl’s just a wimp. In any case there’s not much he
can
do because he knows Terry’s contract’s cast iron.”

“I’m just trying to do my job,” she added as fresh tears streamed down her face.

“And you’re doing it terribly well,” I said. “Which is why those two are so cross.”

“It was so humiliating,” she wailed as her face crumpled like an empty crisp packet. “Five
million
people saw me cock up. Five
million!
I was a laughing stock.”

“Well, I’m prepared to predict right now that it’ll be you who’ll have the last laugh.”

“Do you really think so?” she said as her sobs subsided.

“Yes,” I said, “I do.”

“But how?” she said bleakly. I shrugged.

“I don’t really know. But all I
do
know is that you’re clearly going places, and Terry and Tatiana aren’t.”

“Thanks, Faith,” Sophie said with a sniff. She heaved a teary sigh. “Thanks very much. I feel fine now.” She gave me a thin smile, then washed her mascara-stained face.

“So how are things with you?” she asked as she peered into the mirror.

“Well, I’m definitely getting divorced,” I replied.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She pulled down a thick green paper towel.

“But the amazing thing is that I’ve already met someone else.”

“Wow! Gosh!” she said. “That’s good.” And I wasn’t going to say any more about Jos, and I wouldn’t have done, had Sophie not suddenly said, “So tell me, what’s he like?”

“He’s really nice,” I confided warmly as she chucked the towel away. “In fact, Sophie, he’s absolutely great.” And now, fired up by my enthusiasm for Jos, I got a bit carried away. “He’s kind and he’s decent,” I added happily as she repaired her make-up. “He’s terribly talented, too. He’s a successful theater designer and he’s incredibly attractive—he’s got lovely dark blond, curly hair.” Suddenly Sophie caught my eye in the mirror.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Jos Cartwright.” Her lipstick had stopped in mid-air. “Have you heard of him?” I added. There was a momentary silence.

“Er…yes,” she said. “I have.”

“Oh, do you know him socially then?” I went on, aware that my heart had just skipped several beats.

“Not really,” she said judiciously. “I mean, I’ve never actually met him.”

“You just know of him?”

“Yes,” she said, reddening. “I do.”

“Because of his reputation?”

“Yes. Yes. That’s right.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” I went on, “because he’s becoming quite well known. I only met him a few weeks ago, Sophie, so it’s very early days. But I like him
so
much,” I added, “and he seems keen on me.” By now Sophie had this rather strange expression on her face.

“Faith—” she began, but I’d already charged straight on.

“I’m incredibly glad I met him,” I said. “I was so depressed before. But Jos makes me feel happy and wanted. He makes me feel…desired. I thought I’d never feel like that again after the misery of the past few months.” There was silence, then Sophie just nodded and gave me an odd little smile.