Out of the Blue (31 page)

“Faith,” said Jos after a few minutes, “the heat’s getting to me, do you mind if we go home?” I shook my head. I’d had enough too. As we found our way to the car park, I looked up at the sky. The cirrus had lengthened and begun to curve, like boomerangs. This meant the anti-cyclone had hit a warm front, which signalled the onset of a new low. And as we drove back to London, the sky was already turning from cobalt to gun-metal grey. When I got in, I looked at the barometer and sure enough, it had switched to “Change”. Then Sarah left, and Jos went home too, and as he kissed me goodbye Graham growled.

Jos looked at him contemptuously and said, “You’re for the chop, old boy.” I found myself wishing he hadn’t said that. It was a sour note on which to end the day. As he walked down the path, I saw that the sky had turned pewter-grey. And there were churning cumulonimbus now, and the rumble of distant thunder. Uneasy feelings, I thought. Uneasy feelings. I’d never had them before. I mean, Peter could annoy me, of course. He might leave the loo seat up, or forget to put the top on the toothpaste tube. He might snore half the night or tell me jokes I’d heard fifty times before. But I’d never had the vague sense of disquiet I sometimes have now, with Jos. No, with Peter there were no uneasy feelings—at least not until the start of this year. That’s when everything had changed, I reflected bitterly as I heard a loud thunder clap. That’s when it began to go wrong. And now, overwhelmed by the urge to speak to him, I picked up the phone and dialled.

“Peter,” I said quickly. He was still my husband after all. “Peter, I—”

“Oh, Faith,” he replied. “It’s so lovely to hear your voice.
I—”

“Yes?”

“I,” he tried again, and laughed. I laughed too.

“You first,” I said.

“Well, I was just going to phone
you
actually,” he said.

“Really?” I said happily. I glanced outside where a fork of lightning had fissured the coal-black sky.

“Yes. Look, Faith,” he went on, slightly shyly I thought. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yes?” I said, my heart quickening. Now there were raindrops the size of bullets beating down onto the path. As I stood there with the phone in my hand, I saw them scatter the dust.

“Faith, I just wanted to say…”

“Yes?” I could hardly hear him now above the rack-a-tack-tack of the rain.

“Well, to let you know really, that I’ll be away for a few days.”

“Oh! Have you got a work trip?” I asked as a huge “BOOM!” rent the air.

“Well, no,” he said, with what now struck me as a slightly awkward, apologetic air. “It’s a…holiday, actually.”

“A holiday! How
lovely!
” I exclaimed as a bolt of misery pierced my heart. “So where are you going?”

“Norfolk—”

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” I interrupted as the garden began to blur. “All those long, sunny beaches and big skies…”

“No, it’s Norfolk, Virginia, Faith. You see,” he added as a tear splashed my hand, “I’m going to meet Andie’s parents.”

August

I have different dreams these days from the ones I used to have. I know, because I write them down. At the beginning of the year, for example, I was dreaming about mobile phones. I guess that’s because Peter and I weren’t communicating very well. I was also having dreams about cucumbers which, I suppose, signified a suppressed desire for summer. When I first began to suspect Peter, I dreamed I was stuck halfway up a mountain. But the funny thing was that I didn’t know whether I was trying to go up or down. When Peter confessed to his fling, I had recurring dreams in which I was falling off tall buildings. I felt terrified as I plummeted, face down, towards the ground. All I could see beneath me was concrete and tarmac—no grass. But as I’d braced myself for the impact I’d suddenly realized I had wings; and then I wasn’t falling any more—I was flying. That was strange. Over the past few days I’ve been having dreams in which Peter’s lying in bed. He just lies there, in this big four-poster, looking at me. And I guess that means he’s made his bed now, and must lie in it, because of the affair. Bridges have also been featuring prominently. I think they symbolize the fact that I’m trying to cross the bridge to reach Jos. And I’d be crazy not to do that, because he seems keener than ever.

“I love you, Faith,” he murmured on Saturday morning as we lay in bed. He’s said that a few times of late. He’s also taken to sending me romantic little e-mails at work. “Do you love me, darling?” he asked. I nodded. “It’s just that since the polo match you’ve seemed a little…remote. A little distant, as though there’s—Faith, are you listening?”

“What? Oh, sorry.”

“As though there’s something on your mind.”

“Oh no, no no no, not at all.” Then, not that I was trying to change the subject or anything, I began telling him about my dream.

“Was I standing on the other side of that bridge?” he asked me as he stroked my hair. “Was it me, waiting for you on the opposite bank?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It was. I could see your face quite clearly.” Now, this wasn’t true. Jos wasn’t in my dream, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I told him that he was. But I don’t feel bad about it because, like Jos, I’d only lie for a very good reason.

“I expect you’ve got a fascinating
id,
” he murmured as he kissed me. “And that’s why you have vivid dreams. I had a funny one,” he added as he placed his hands behind his head. “It was a kind of nightmare, in a way. I dreamed that I was standing in the foyer of the Opera House, and for some reason I began to get undressed.”

“Really?” I said with a laugh.

“Yes. And there I was, taking off my clothes, when people started to come in.”

“How embarrassing.”

“It would have been, but luckily they didn’t seem to notice me. But I was terrified that they would. I was really scared that they’d see me without my clothes on.”

“And did they?”

“I couldn’t tell. I suspected that they had spotted me, but were politely averting their eyes. By the end of the dream I was standing there, stark naked, and praying that no-one would see.”

“How weird,” I said with a giggle. “I wonder what that means. I know!” I said. “It means you’re very honest, because you’re prepared to strip off in public. I’ll ask Katie when she’s back,” I added. “She’s good on this kind of thing.” Oh yes, Katie’s keen on dreams. She says she agrees with Freud that dreams “are the royal road to the subconscious”. She believes that they contain important messages from ourselves to ourselves.

“I wonder what Graham dreams about?” I said as I looked at him dozing by the door.

“He’s probably dreaming about knives and scissors,” Jos said with a grim little laugh. “I’m serious, Faith,” he added. “You ought to talk to the vet.”

“Do I really have to?” I sighed. He kissed me.

“Yes,” he said softly. “You do. If Graham and I are to cohabit happily I’m afraid there’s no other way. And how’s the divorce going?” he added as he sat up in bed and stretched.

“It seems to have stalled,” I said. “In fact it’s pulled over on the hard shoulder. I haven’t heard from Rory Cheetham-Stabb for weeks.”

“But I imagine Peter will want to get on with it,” Jos said as he stood up. “It’s clearly serious with Andie.” Oh yes, I thought, bitterly, it’s serious. It’s serious all right. And now, as he went into the bathroom, I mentally replayed my last conversation with Peter.

I have to go to the States,
he’d said.
I’ve got to meet Andie’s parents
. So their relationship’s obviously going very well if it’s Meet the Family time. I’d felt heartbroken when he told me that, even though we’re splitting up, because it was as though the swing door of our separation had been replaced with a barred gate marked “Keep Out!”. But in the week since Peter and I last spoke I’ve been rationalizing things, as I do. And, as Lily is constantly telling me, the fact is I
have
to move on. I have to leave my old existence behind because—yes, of course,
that’s
what my dream was telling me!—I have to cross the bridge, to my new life. A life in which Peter will no longer be at the center, but at the edge. Andie went after his head, and she got it, I reflected; then she went back for the rest.

“When am I going to meet your parents?” Jos enquired as I followed him into the bathroom.

“Well, er, when they’re all back from France, next week. Do you really want to meet them?” I asked as I put in my lenses.

“Yes,” he said. “I do. After all, we’ve been together for three months now, so it’s serious, isn’t it?”
Serious
. That word again.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It is.”

Jos reached down his toothbrush from the family toothbrush holder. To be honest, I hadn’t wanted him to put it there but I didn’t like to say. Now he was squeezing the toothpaste, and I noticed that he always squeezes it very neatly, from the end, whereas Peter squeezes it from the middle.

“And it’s time you met my mum,” Jos went on as he carefully replaced the cap. “Wouldn’t you like to, Faith?”

“Mmm, of course,” I said. He brushed his teeth, spat neatly into the sink, then gave me a minty kiss.

“I love you, Faith,” he said again with a smile. “I’ve got designs on you.” At this I looked at the half-finished mural. The sea is a luminescent turquoise, the sky is vaulting and blue. The palm trees look so real I can hear their leaves rustling in the breeze. Jos has changed my perspective, I realized. I have vistas I never had before. And yet…

“I wish you’d say you love me,” he added plaintively as he inspected his face in the mirror.

“But I do.”

“Then just say the words, ‘I love you’.”

“Yes. Yes. I do.” Jos looked at me, out of slightly narrowed eyes, then squished shaving foam into his hands.

“Jos—why do you love me?” I suddenly asked as I sat on the side of the bath.

“Why do I love you?” he echoed. He was smoothing the foam over his throat and jaw—it covered his lower face like a mask. “Why do I love you?” he repeated. “Well, because you’re very lovable. That’s why.” At that he looked into the mirror again, and his reflection smiled at mine. “Why do you ask?” he said.

“Because I’m only
quite
attractive,” I said. “And I’m not rich, or famous. I’ve got two teenage children, and a dog who you can’t stand, plus there are millions of women out there. So what drew you to me?” I went on boldly. “Out of all the women you could have had?”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said as he lifted the razor to his left cheek. “It was your cross little face, that’s what. Women are usually smiling at me. They’re flirting and they’re trying too hard. But you were doing the opposite,” he went on as he scraped the blade across his skin. “You were scowling at me, Faith. You were telling me to fuck off. You were giving me two fingers.”

“Yes, I was,” I agreed with a laugh.

“And the more hostile you were, the more I thought, I’m going to make that woman love me…”

I glanced out of the window; the sky was opalescent with the threat of summer rain. The sun was a blurred white disc as it tried to burn its way through a veil of cloud.

“Say it,” Jos said again as he wrapped his arms around me. I looked down at my toes, and noticed that the nail varnish was badly chipped. “Go on, Faith. Say it. Tell me you love me.”

“Yes,” I muttered. “I do.”

Jos gave me an odd little smile, ruffled my hair, then got dressed and went to work. There are often weekend rehearsals at Covent Garden, and today the cast of
Butterfly
were rehearsing on set for the first time. Jos needed to be there to make sure that it was all working well.

“I’ll be home at seven!” I heard him call from the open front door. “Did you hear me, Faith?”
Home?
“Faith? Did you hear me? I’ll be back here at seven!”

“Right-e-o,” I replied brightly, aware that this was not a word I ever used.

A few minutes later Graham barked as the post arrived. There was a card from the kids—
On s’amuse!
they wrote—and another hateful brown envelope. I put it on top of the growing pile in the boiler cupboard, then switched on Radio 4. It was
Home Truths
with John Peel and there was a feature on photograph albums. In the background they were playing that old song, “Memories are Made of This”. I got down some of our photo albums and flicked through them as I sipped my tea.
Take one fresh and tender kiss
…I heard Dean Martin croon.
Add one stolen night of bliss
. There were Peter and I at university, our college scarves wrapped round each other’s necks.
One girl. One boy
. It was hard to see where his ended and mine began.
Some grief, some joy
. He had his arm round me, and we were laughing wildly. I remember that photo—it was March ’87—we’d only been going out for a month.
Mem-ories are made of this
. I’d fancied him since the Freshers’ Ball but had been too shy to make the first move. But one day he’d sat next to me at a lecture and, well, that was that.
Your lips, on mine. Two sips, of wine
. I looked at the photo again.
Mem-ories are made of this
. It was slightly discolored, through age. We looked so in love, and so young; but then we were—we were only nineteen. He was my first boyfriend, and I was his third girlfriend.
Then add the wedding bells
. In the next album there were casual snaps from our wedding the following year. Peter looked happy, but slightly startled, in the way that young bridegrooms do.
One house where lovers dwell
. And I had a velvet cape to keep out the wind as we posed outside in the cold. There was Sarah, talking to Mum—she wasn’t much older than I am now. And Lily, of course, looking elegant, but slightly, well, disappointed, I could now see. And there was Mimi—her hair was long then—chatting to my Dad.
Three little kids, for the fla-vor
. The next album contained some of Katie’s earliest snaps, looking so serious, even then.
Stir carefully through the days
. There was Peter, on graduation day, in his academic gown, holding her up in his arms.
See how the flavor stays
. He’s put his mortarboard on her head, and I’m standing next to him, in a Laura Ashley dress, hugely pregnant with Matt.
These are the dreams that you’ll sa-vor
. The next album was of a holiday we had in Wales—that must have been in ’91.
Mem-ories are made of this
. Peter was assistant editor then at Fenton & Friend and we were very hard up. But we had a lovely week in Tenby, and Matt took his first steps on the beach. And every time he fell down, and I rushed to help him, he’d cry because he wanted to do it on his own.
Mem-ories are made of this
. And now, as John Peel’s familiar tones droned soothingly away, I opened the next album which was labelled “Chiswick, ’95”. We’d just bought this house. It was a huge squeeze financially, but Peter had been promoted again and I was temping at AM-UK!. And here we all were in the kitchen on our first night in Elliot Road. The children were so thrilled to have a garden, after having been in a flat, and I’d cooked a huge spag bol.
Serve it generously with love
. And we were all laughing as it dribbled down our chins, and Peter’s got his arms round us all.
One man, one wife
. And I’m tucking a bib into Matt’s bespattered little shirt.
One love, one life
. I must have put the camera on automatic timer for that one.
Mem-ories are made of this
…

“And now,” I heard John Peel say as the music faded out, “a romantic tale of a woman who’s found new love—with her ex-husband.” I listened as she recounted the grim tale of their divorce.

“Never saw it coming…someone he knew at work…it’s like your heart’s been put through a shredder…as though my life had stopped…no kids, so I moved down to Devon…left him to
her
,” she spat. At that I smiled a tight little smile of recognition. “Slowly began to recover…one or two love affairs…new friends…but then…”

“Yes,” said John Peel. “But then…?”

“But then I just kept wanting my old life back. For five years I tried to suppress the memories,” she went on, “but they just kept flooding in. All the years of shared experiences and shared history. The images in the photo album. The story of us—of who we’d been. I wanted it back, and it became overwhelming, this longing for the past. I’d found I couldn’t just shed my old life like a lizard shedding its skin.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, one day I just picked up the phone and called him at work. I hadn’t spoken to him for six years. I had no idea what his situation was. I’d heard that the affair hadn’t lasted, but didn’t know if he was with anyone else. I hadn’t a clue what I wanted to say. It was just one of those moments when you decide to act, and you know that if you don’t act, right then, in that split second, you never will. I was so nervous as the receptionist put me through. My heart was in my mouth as the number rang. Then it picked up, and I heard his voice. And I just said, ‘Mark. It’s Gill.’ That’s all I said. There was a moment’s silence and I thought, I have made a stupid,
stupid
mistake, and I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life. Then I suddenly heard him say, ‘Gill, just tell me where you are and stay there—I’m driving down.’ We haven’t had a day apart since.”