Out of the Blue (28 page)

“And how’s Bishopsgate?” I enquired pleasantly as we set off again.

“It’s going
very
well,” he replied. He looked into his mirror as he overtook the car in front. “It’s much more commercial, of course,” he explained as I handed him a reconciliatory mint. “It’s all self-help guides and coffee-table books and no fiction, which I miss. But on the other hand I have far more responsibility, no Oiliver, and a lot more dosh.”

“Well, Rory Cheetham-Stabb will be relieving you of some of that,” I said.

“No doubt,” he groaned. “And the house. For richer, for poorer,” he added wryly. “But it was in marriage I promised that, not divorce.” At that a wave of sadness engulfed me, and I felt my throat constrict. I looked ahead at the long perpendicular ribbon of black motorway stretching far, far ahead, and I thought, Peter and I are on a road like this, which is taking us inexorably towards divorce. We’re on it now, and we’re stuck, and there are few opportunities to get off. And a U-turn is out of the question because there’s this huge barrier in the way. Or rather, a central reservation, I realized bitterly. A reservation about Peter’s fidelity, which I knew I could never overcome. And here we were driving down together to see the kids as though nothing were amiss, when the reality was that we had embarked on a process which would split us up in less than six months. It was surreal.
Un
real. And as we drove along, the heat threw up spectral mirages which shimmered in the distance, like ghosts. I heaved a painful sigh, aware of the relentless swish of the tires.

“OK, we’re passing Maidstone,” I heard Peter say a while later. “Will you look out for Nettlebury Green? I always miss the turning. Faith, will you help me look out for the signs, please? Faith? Are you listening?” I wasn’t. I was reading the paper and had just turned to the gossip page. Occupying the top part of it was a photo of Rory Cheetham-Stabb, on a tropical beach, with a louche smile on his face, and a glamorous blonde on his arm. So that’s why I hadn’t heard from him recently—he was on holiday at his house in Mustique. Then I lowered my gaze and now, to my astonishment, I found myself staring at another, much smaller photo. It was of Peter and me. It was captioned:
Weather girl Faith Smith in happier times
.

“Here’s the sign,” I heard Peter say as the car began to slow down. “You’ve gone very quiet, Faith. Faith?” I didn’t respond as, with growing indignation, I read the diary piece.
AM-UK!’s Faith Smith is divorcing her husband Peter,
it proclaimed.
The attractive weather girl has confessed to friends that she’s “had enough” of his womanising ways. The only question now is what Smith’s new bosses will make of his domestic troubles. And what of his place on the government’s Family Ethics Committee? Can he in all honesty remain? Some say that Smith should do the decent thing and resign
.

“Faith, what’s up?” said Peter as we turned left through the wrought iron school gates. “What is it?” he repeated as he followed the drive, then nosed into a parking space.

“Look at this,” I said bleakly as he pulled up the handbrake. I handed him the paper, his eyes scanned the page, and his relaxed expression changed.

“Who the
hell
is doing this?” he said. “I’ll bloody well sue. Womaniser?” he expostulated. “I am not a womaniser—I was faithful to you for fifteen years! Who the
hell
is behind this?” he repeated angrily as we opened the doors of the car.

“I don’t know,” I said as I retrieved my jacket and bag from the back. “But I’ve got a good idea.”

“Oh yes? Who?”

“Well,
I
think it’s Andie,” I said carefully as I leaned against the car.

“Andie?” said Peter. “No way!”

“I think it is her,” I repeated quietly. “It certainly makes sense.”

“Faith,” said Peter firmly, “I know you don’t like her, but it makes no sense at all.”

“Yes it does,” I insisted, “though I agree the logic is a bit odd. But she…” I swallowed. I hated saying this. “She wants to marry you, doesn’t she? I mean, I assume that’s her aim.” I looked at Peter and he looked away into the middle distance.

“And how,” he now asked, pursing his lips, “would this kind of behavior help her to achieve that?”

“Rory Cheetham-Stabb thinks that’s her subtle way of putting pressure on you. He thinks—and I agree—that
she
fed that story to
Hello!.
”

“But why would she? I still don’t understand.”

“Because if your divorce makes life a bit awkward for you with Bishopsgate, because you’re getting some negative press, then Andie can quietly assure them, as her client, that your personal life will soon be ‘normal’ again—with her.”

“Faith,” said Peter, “Rory Cheetham-Stabb is talking out of his expensively besuited backside. He knows nothing about the terms of my contract. Of course they’re not going to kick me out just because I’m getting divorced. If that were a condition of employment, then half the staff would have to resign. These gossip pieces are just spiteful speculation. They have no basis in fact. In any case,” he went on, “if I was sacked before my first year is up then Andie would have to refund most of her fee. Cheetham-Stabb is quite wrong, Faith. The only purpose this drip-feed of poison serves is to damage and discredit me. But the question is, who’s doing it, and why?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“I mean, who would have such a big grudge against me that they’d be this vindictive and low?” Who would, I thought. Who? And then I knew.

“Oliver,” I said. Of course.

“
Oliver?
” Peter repeated. “No! Although he’s certainly vicious enough, and he definitely bore me a grudge.”

“I think he still does,” I said. And I told him about Oliver’s nasty remarks at the book launch in June.

“Mmm,” said Peter. “That’s rather interesting. So he’s still got it in for me, then.”

“Though it’s hard to understand why, now that he’s got what he’s always wanted, namely your absence and your job.” Peter didn’t reply. He was staring into the middle distance again. That’s what he does when he’s thinking. “So why would Oliver want to damage you,” I went on, “when you’re no threat to him any more?”

“I wonder,” he said quietly. “I
wonder
. But you may have hit on something there. Yes,” he added thoughtfully, “as it happens, I really think you may. But I tell you what, whoever it is, I’m going to damn well find out. Mmm. Oliver,” he mused as he locked the car. “In fact that’s quite an interesting thought. Anyway,” he added wearily, “let’s go and find Katie and Matt.”

We set off across the car parking field, the parched grass crisp beneath our feet, and as we passed under the school gateway with the other parents I read the Seaworth motto carved above.
Garde Ta Foy,
it declared. Well I did keep Faith, I thought. I kept Faith for fifteen years. And this, I knew, would be the last time that Peter and I would come here as man and wife. By this time next year we’d be divorced, and despite the heat a shiver convulsed my frame at the thought that my life could have changed so fast. But then I made myself stop thinking about it, because I’d spotted the kids. Matt looked very grown up, I realized, though he had a slightly anxious expression on his face. Probably because he felt nervous at the thought of going up to collect his prize. Katie looked smart in a green linen dress we’d bought for her in Hobbs. They ushered us into a huge marquee on the main lawn for the buffet lunch. As we circulated amongst the throng I spotted a few familiar faces. We’d met the Dobbses a couple of times, and the Blacks—their children were in the same house. I’d also met the Thompsons, at the school play last year. They had a son in the same year as Matt, Johnny, and another boy of sixteen. I smiled at the Dobbses and their son James; to my great surprise, they didn’t smile back.

“Peter,” I whispered as we stood in the queue. “Am I imagining it or do the Dobbs seem a bit hostile?”

“Funny you should say that,” Peter replied. “David Black has just been a bit off with me.”

“It can’t be because of that gossip piece in the
Mail,
can it?” I asked. He shrugged.

“I don’t see why. I mean, loads of people here are divorced.” I looked around. It was true. There was the rock singer, Rod McShagg, he’d been married three times. On the side of the marquee was that actress Sheryl Love—that was her fourth husband she was with. And that chap over there—he was a successful record producer—I’d read about his colorful private life in
Hello!.
So why on earth should anyone be sniffy about Peter and me?

“Hello, Mrs Thompson,” I said to a woman in a frumpy lilac suit. “How nice to see you again.”

She gave me a strange little smile, then said, “Well, I suppose Matt must be pleased with himself.”

“Matt?” I repeated. I was totally taken aback.

“Yes. Matt,” she said.

“Oh, er, you mean because he’s getting the Junior Math Prize?” She emitted a hollow laugh.

“I don’t know
why
he’s getting it,” she said as she patted her rigid-looking perm.

“Well,” I said, dumbfounded, feeling my mouth open and close like a fish. “Well, I believe he’s getting it because he happens to be good at math.” Mrs Thompson gave me a withering smile, then walked away. I was so shocked by her rudeness that I was shaking. What an awful thing to say! And why on earth had she said it? Then I realized. Of
course
. She was jealous, because her son, Johnny, isn’t up for a prize. For God’s sake, I thought, how petty can you get? It’s not Matt’s fault he’s so bright. It’s not Matt’s fault that he’s brilliant and her son Johnny is moronic and mediocre. I mean, why do other parents have to be so competitive, I reflected crossly.

Now the Ellis-Joneses were giving us odd looks as we nibbled our bits of cold quiche. I was beginning to feel quite annoyed, and far too hot in my jacket and dress. But I was determined, despite the aggravation, to act as though nothing were amiss.

“Hello, Mrs Ellis-Jones,” I said breezily. “Hello Jack,” I said to her spotty sixteen-year-old. “How are you?”

“I’m…OK,” he said. “Considering.” Considering? What on earth did that mean?

“And have you got exciting holiday plans?” I enquired breezily.

“No,” he replied flatly. “I haven’t. I
did,
” he added darkly. “I’d saved up to go inter-railing with Tom North. But I can’t afford it now.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “What a shame.” And I had not the slightest idea why he was telling me this, but I didn’t press him to explain.

“Katie,” I whispered. “I can’t help feeling that we’re not exactly popular today.”

“Mmm,” she said. “We’re getting bad vibes. There’s some group hostility. I thought that this might happen.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Well, Mum,” she went on thoughtfully as she popped a strawberry into her mouth. “I think there’s something you ought to know.”

“What ought I to know? What are you talking about?” But I didn’t have time to find out. For at that moment a bell was rung, and we were summoned inside for the speeches. All the children went down to the front of the hall, while the parents sat at the back.

“Peter,” I whispered as we took our seats. “I find the atmosphere rather strained.”

“Mmm,” he assented. “You’re right. There’s something decidedly odd going on, or maybe it’s just the heat.” I began to fan myself with the service sheet, which listed the names of all the prize-winners. I experienced a stab of maternal pride as I read Matt’s name at the end. Now the headmaster stepped onto the podium, to make his annual address.

“Over the past year…progress…community spirit…cricket results…excellent…unfortunately…expulsions…perspective…illicit substances…violence…new science wing…expensive…shortfall…much appreciated…bucket. And now,” he added warmly, “the annual prize-giving, for which we are profoundly grateful to all our benefactors whose generosity has made it possible for us to present these valuable awards. We are particularly grateful to Mr Bill Gates for endowing the new junior math prize with a splendid ten-pound book voucher!” We all applauded dutifully. And then the headmaster cleared his throat and announced the winners.

“The Ali G prize for grammar goes to Caroline Day.” A lanky girl with black hair went up to collect her book voucher, then returned to her seat in a shower of applause. “The Emin prize for painting is awarded to Laetitia Banks.” We all clapped enthusiastically as the pint-sized Laetitia shook the head’s hand. “The Mark Thatcher prize for orienteering goes to Rajiv Patel.” We all applauded as the boy swaggered, hands in pockets, across the stage. “And the Archer prize for acting goes to Britney Scott.” We all showed our appreciation in the conventional way as Britney Scott collected her prize. “The al Fayed prize for politics—this one’s a cash award—is awarded to Mary Ross.” By now my hands were beginning to sting. “The Barbara Windsor prize for elocution goes to Jennifer Johns. And the Ken Livingstone debating prize goes to Barbara Jones. Finally,” he said as we all applauded again, “the Bill Gates junior math prize, which is awarded to Matthew Smith.” Peter and I clapped enthusiastically as Matt got up from his seat. But as he stepped up onto the stage, we suddenly realized that we were alone. The hall was virtually silent, our applause pinging off the walls. How rude! I’d clapped all the other parents’ kids, I thought indignantly, so why couldn’t they clap mine? I felt my face burn with barely repressed fury, but now, at last, they did. Thank God. They were all clapping. They’d been a bit slow to react, that was all. Then I realized that it wasn’t polite, appreciative applause. Far from it—it was a slow hand clap. I saw Matt’s pale face flush bright red. Clap, clap, clap, they went. Clap. Clap. Clap. It was getting louder and louder and more rhythmic, and then, to my horror, someone booed. And as Matt shook the head’s hand, there were shouts of, “Rubbish!” and, “Get him off!” And the headmaster, seeing things getting out of hand, called the hall to attention.

“We must applaud our prize-winners in a spirit of generosity,” he said. “Matt is a very gifted young mathematician. Very gifted indeed. Although,” he went on judiciously, “he doesn’t always get it
quite
right.”