Out of the Blue (35 page)

“This is what people will remember,” I realized as I gazed at the stage. “They’ll remember the singers, and the orchestra for a while, but for most of the audience their abiding memory will be of what it all looked like, and what they wore.”

I’m lucky, I thought again as the house-lights dimmed and the run-through began. Oh yes, I’m lucky. I repeated it, like a mantra. “I’m very, very lucky indeed.”

* * *

“You’re
very
lucky,” said Peter a few days later. “You know that, don’t you?” He was down on his knees in the kitchen, eye to eye with Graham, who was nervously wagging his tail. “You are one helluva lucky dog. So don’t push it, puppy.” Graham licked his nose. “And next time you want to come over to my place, just phone me first, OK? Right. Lecture over. Gimme five.” Graham held up his right paw. “I hated not being able to help you look for him,” Peter said as he straightened up.

“Well, you couldn’t,” I said. “But we all went out, and Jos helped too.”

“That was nice of him,” said Peter. “That was very nice, when you consider that they don’t really get on.” I poured some coffee into his mug. “I’ll look at these in a minute,” he said, indicating the pile of brown envelopes. “You really ought to try and conquer your fear of manila, you know.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But I can’t.”

“You might have to,” he said. “Because once the divorce comes through—” he drew an imaginary knife across his throat “—I won’t be doing it for you.” I nodded. I knew it was true. “So how’s it going with you and Jos, then?” he suddenly enquired. And I was slightly taken aback by that question, and by the bright, friendly way in which it was asked. I’d assumed Peter wouldn’t really want to know about Jos any more than I wanted to know about Andie. “Going well, is it?” he added casually.

“Oh, yes, it’s fine,” I said. “It’s fine. You know. Fine.” I felt uncomfortable discussing my boyfriend with the man I was still married to. “It’s just, absolutely…fine,” I reiterated with a sigh.

“Good,” he nodded. “Good. That’s good.” We sipped our Arabica in silence. “So it’s progressing nicely then,” he added pleasantly.

“Well, yes,” I said, fiddling with my spoon. “It is. Really, although…”

“What?”

“Although, he’s very busy at the opera house.”

“Of course. That’s a
really
interesting job he’s got there.”

“Mmm.” I nodded. “It is.”

“So it’s going really well, is it?”

“Um, yes. It is. Absolutely. Usually.”

“
Usually?”
he echoed with a quizzical air.

“Yes. Usually,” I repeated. “I mean, it’s great, it really is. It’s great. But it’s not
perfect,
you know.”

“
Isn’t
it?” he said. He was fiddling with the sugar bowl.

“No. Not perfect as such.”

“In what way?”

“Oh. Nothing really. Just small things.”

“Like what? Graham?”

“Oh no, not that. That’s getting a bit better. Just other, trifling things.”

“Things?”

“I mean, areas of conflict.”

“Conflict? Oh dear.”

“Well, you know—differences of opinion. That’s all I mean. Differences of attitude. But they’re pretty piffling, really. And I guess that’s normal, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” he repeated.

“Oh, yes. I mean, I’m sure we had our differences too. At the beginning.”

“Did we?”

“I think so.” There was silence. “Yes,” I said. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Like what?”

“Well…” I looked at him blankly. I couldn’t remember anything. “I’d have to think about it. It was a long time ago.”

“That’s true,” he said. “It was. It was a very long time ago. I remember one thing!” he suddenly announced triumphantly. “You didn’t care for my taste in popular music.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No. You used to tease me.”

“Really?”

“Mmm. Because I liked Gladys Knight and the Pips.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I remember.” We looked at each other and smiled.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” said Peter softly.

“Sorry?” I said. My face felt hot and my pulse had begun to race.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he repeated.

“Really?”

“Yes. I think that’s their best number.”

“Oh. Mmm. I suppose it is. I wasn’t mad about them myself.”

“No. You preferred Tom Jones.” I nodded.

“It’s Not Unusual,” I said.

“I always thought it was, as he was a bit before your time.”

“No, ‘It’s Not Unusual’ is my favorite song,” I explained. “And actually he’s been continually popular. His appeal spans the generations.”

“Yes, I suppose it does. So it’s going well with you and Jos?” he repeated brightly. I nodded. “Good. Nothing big worrying you, then?”

“Heavens, no.”

“No major concerns?”

“Nope.”

“Or areas of incompatibility?” I shook my head.

“Why do you ask?” I said.

“Well, because the kids phoned me from France, and Katie hinted that there might be, you know, one or two, little things.”

“Did she? Well I’m afraid she’s quite wrong. In any case, you know how she loves to over-analyze.” He nodded.

“She certainly does. So you’re really happy with Jos, then?” he added.

“Yes. And since we’re being so personal, what about you. Do you have any?”

“Any what?”

“Major concerns?” I asked.

“What? With Andie?” I nodded. “Oh. No,” he said, shaking his head. “Like you, there are just a few, you know…” I heard the air being drawn through his teeth “…small things.”

“What things?” I asked. Not that I was curious, of course. Now he exhaled, quite audibly, blowing air through his lips.

“Oh,” he said, “just piffling, insignificant, and not very important tiny, well, baby little things really.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, well…”

“Yes?”

“It would be disloyal of me to say.”

“Of course it would. Ditto here.”

“And in any case they’re only tiny things.”

“Well, that’s…great.”

“Yes.”

“Because tiny things don’t matter.”

“No.”

“So did you have a good holiday?” I enquired.

“Oh. It was…great,” he said, stirring his coffee again. “It was…great. It’s an interesting part of the States, you know.”

“Yes,” I replied. “So I hear.”

“Virginia was the site of the first permanent European settlement.”

“1607,” I said.

“It was named Virginia in honor of Elizabeth the First. The Virgin Queen.”

“Of course.”

“It’s also known as the Old Dominion State.”

“Mmm. I also hear it’s a leading producer of tobacco.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Peanuts, too. And apples, and tomatoes.”

“Tom
ay
toes!”

“Of course,” he laughed. “And timber.”

“I understand that coal mining is an important sector too.”

“Oh yes. Yes. It is. And there are so many historic towns. Like Norfolk, of course, and Richmond, and Jamestown. Now that’s a
very
interesting place.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like you had a wonderful time.”

“How’s your mother?” Peter said.

“Oh. Well, Mum is contrite,” I replied carefully. “She has redeemed herself by working really hard with Matt, who seems to have caught up quite a bit. His French vocabulary is pretty good now. She taught them to play Bridge as well.”

“Oh, that’s a good game. I’d like to take them out this weekend,” he went on. “As I haven’t seen them for almost two months. I thought we could go to the Tate Modern.”

“Good idea.”

“Or the Royal Academy.”

“Great.” We smiled awkwardly at each other. “Right. Well, I’d better go through these,” he added as he picked up the pile of brown envelopes. “Gas bill,” he announced. “Seventy three pounds, sixty. Here you are. And this is from your accountant. This one’s a reminder from the Inland Revenue and this,” he said, ripping open the envelope, “is from…ooh…the manufacturers of Impulse body freshener. Congratulations, Faith! You have won
another
competition. A weekend for two in Rome.”

“Have I?” I grabbed the letter. “Wow!”

“You’d better phone them up to accept. So, tell me, what was your slogan?”

“Oh, what was it? I can’t remember. Oh yes. It was: ‘Men Can’t Help Acting On Impulse because…they ignore common scents.’ That’s s.c.e.n.t.s.,” I explained.

“I know,” he said. “I got it in one. Well, that’s brilliant. What a great prize. Not quite as good as a divorce though, is it?” he added briskly. “On which note, this envelope here contains some nasty looking documents from Rory Cheetham-Stabb.” He peered at the pale yellow form. “Affidavit by petitioner in support of the petition.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I know about that. They sent me a duplicate.”

“And have you filled it in?” he enquired casually.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I have.”

“When?” He looked out of the window. It was raining.

“Yesterday. I got Karen to witness it this morning. The decree nisi will come through in late November.”

“Precipitating,” he said.

“What?”

“The weather. There’s precipitation. Isn’t that what you forecasters say?”

“Oh, we don’t really talk about precipitation these days,” I explained. “We talk about percentages instead. As in, ‘There’s a sixty per cent chance of rain this morning.’ Or, ‘There’s a ten per cent chance that it will snow.’”

“And there’s a one hundred and ten per cent chance that I’ll be in trouble if I’m late for Andie,” he said, suddenly standing up. “So I guess I’d better go. Bye, darling,” he said as he turned. “I do love you, you know.”

“Bye darling,” I replied. I was slightly taken aback by his declaration of affection, but suddenly realized he’d been talking to the dog.

“Bye poppet,” he said, putting his arms round Graham. “No more freelance walkies, OK? I’ll see you again very soon.” And I thought there was a chance that Peter might kiss me too. But he didn’t. He gave me a slightly joyless little smile, then walked out of the house.

“So long, Faith!” I heard him call from the door.

“So long!” I replied. I waited to hear the click of the latch, but it didn’t come. How
very
odd. He’d left the door ajar.

* * *

“Ten, nine, eight…”

“So the picture’s rather unsettled,” I concluded in my nine thirty bulletin on Monday morning.

“Seven, six…”

“Rather than the clear, fine weather we’d expect at this time of the year.”

“Five…”

“There’s a good deal of rain and murk.”

“Four…”

“This is because of these spiky lines here on the isobars, which indicate an occluded front.”

“A
what?
” I heard in my ear.

“An occluded front arises when a warm front meets a cold front and that generally leads to a very cloudy, unclear period, which is what we’re going to get for the next few days.”

“Three, two…”

“With a fifty per cent chance of rain.”

“One…”

“Which on the other hand means there’s a fifty per cent chance of sun.”

“And zero…”

“See you all tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Faith.”

“And thank you all for watching,” said Terry. “In the program tomorrow we’ll be interviewing the woman who set up Two Awful—a dating agency for incredibly ugly people—and we’ll be meeting some of her clients.”

“Also,” said Sophie, “we’ll have more Decorating Disasters. And we’ll be talking to the authors of
The Great Pantyhose Crafts Book
—a complete guide to making useful things out of old tights. But just before we finish,” she added, “I’d like to thank everyone who’s sent me fan-mail. I’m sorry not to have written back to you all, but there seems to have been a little local problem with the post which has now been sorted out.”

With that she gave the camera a dazzling smile, let the credits roll, then strode off set with a purposeful air. I removed my make-up with Simple moisturiser, checked the satellite charts once more, then went into the boardroom for the weekly planning meeting. There was Terry indolently picking his teeth, Tatiana whispering into her mobile phone, and there were the producers and researchers with their clipboards and folders and notes. And Darryl, of course, at the end. There was a hiatus while we waited for everyone to arrive, so I looked through the pile of magazines. At the bottom was the new, October edition of
Moi!.
I flicked through it to the back, to the diary section, “I Spy”. And sure enough, there it was, at the top of the page. The photo of Jos and me at the polo. It was simply, but correctly captioned,
Jos Cartwright and Mrs Peter Smith
. Jos had his arm round me, and we were both smiling. It was a flattering picture, though I noticed that despite my happy expression my smile didn’t quite reach my eyes. But of course that was the morning that Jos had shouted at Graham. Things had been tense that day. But now, well, they were pretty good. All in all. I mean, nothing’s ideal, is it? There’s no such thing as the perfect man. With relationships, especially new ones, you have to take the wider view. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sharp tapping of a pen on the table. It was Darryl, and he didn’t look pleased.

“Where’s Sophie?” he said irritably. “I want to start.”

“Just coming!” she called. She came into the boardroom, smiling but slightly breathless, clutching a huge cardboard box.

“So sorry I’m late,” she said.

“What’s that?” said Darryl.

“I’ll show you,” she replied. She smiled at Terry and Tatiana, then suddenly tipped it up, disgorging a sea of letters. Out they spewed, in a papery slick as thick and slow as lava. There were white envelopes, and pink ones, and yellow ones and brown. There were parchment-blue aerogrammes with pretty foreign stamps. There were postcards, plain and pictorial, there was Conqueror and Basildon Bond. There was green ink, and blue crayon, and smudged pencil and mauve felt-tip. Many were typed, some were scrawled, while others were in smart copperplate. A number had stars and hearts stuck to them, and some were emblazoned S.W.A.L.K. There must have been more than five hundred, and they were all addressed to Sophie.