Out of the Blue (38 page)

“I hope you’ve got some spares,” said a woman.

“No,” I said ruefully, “I don’t.”

“Well, then we’ve
got
to find it—otherwise you’ll be in the soup.”

“What we need is a torch,” said a man in a dinner jacket. “Anyone got one?”

“’Fraid not.”

I sighed; we’d never find it. I’d have to go into work tomorrow half blind. Oh God, oh God. What a
terrible
night. And what a farcical way for it to end.

“I give up,” I said. “It’s very kind of everyone, but I don’t think I’m going to have any luck.”

Suddenly, a hand stretched out beneath me, and resting in the palm was my tiny lens.

“Thank God,” I breathed. I picked it up, spat on it, then quickly put it in. “Thank you
so
much,” I said as I blinkingly looked up. “I—”

“That’s OK,” Peter said.

“Found it, has she?” I heard someone say. “Has she got it or not?”

“Oh yes, yes, I have, thanks very much. Thank you, Peter,” I said. We both got shakily to our feet as the crowd now flowed around us and out. He was smiling at me, but I noticed that the whites of his eyes were veined and red.

“Did you enjoy the opera?” he asked.

“Yes. No. Not really. Too sad.”

“Ditto,” he said. “Terrible.”

“Terrible.” We gave each other a watery smile. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” I added quietly.

“Nor did I. It was a surprise.”

“Well, how lovely!” I said brightly while inside I felt as bleak as a Yorkshire moor. My nerves were jangling painfully as I waited for Andie to appear. Peter smiled again. A sad smile. Then he suddenly grabbed my hand. “Oh, Faith,” he said. Then he swallowed hard. He’d enclosed my hand in both of his. “Faith, this is
mad,
” he added. “I can’t bear it. This crazy…thing we’re doing. Faith,” he said imploringly, “I don’t want to get divorced.”

“No,” I said, faintly, “I know. Where is she?” I added quickly.

“In the Ladies. She’ll be down in a second. And where’s he? Where’s Jos?”

“He’s on his way, too.”

“We don’t have long, Faith,” Peter said. He was holding my hand so hard I thought my fingers would break. “We’ve got to talk,” he added. “We’ve got to talk properly, Faith. We don’t have much time, you see. We’ve got to—” Suddenly he dropped my hand as though it were white-hot.

“Peter, darling!” It was Andie. She was sweeping down the stairs like a Harpy come to snatch the feast away. “Come on, pumpkin,” she said in that gravelly voice. “I want you to take me home.” Suddenly she registered me, standing next to him, and stopped dead in her tracks. Then she gave me a brittle smile, turned on her heel and led Peter away.

October

This Butterfly has Wings!
trumpeted the
Telegraph
.
A Soaring Butterfly!
announced
The Times
.
Perfect Puccini!
proclaimed the
Guardian
.
A Butterfly Ablaze!
said the
Mail
. The critics were united and unanimous—the production was a huge triumph. I read and reread the reviews with Jos as we had breakfast on Saturday.
Absolutely heart-searing…Covent Garden awash with tears…Li Yuen’s Butterfly more than a victim…proud and dignified…Mark Bell’s Pinkerton callous, but revealing a bewildered agony too…Jos Cartwright’s thrilling design puts him firmly in the front rank
.

“You’ve done it,” I said. “You’re a star.”

“Well, it worked pretty well,” he said judiciously. “And today I feel…satisfied.”

“So you should,” I said warmly. “The whole world’s after you now.” For already Jos is being deluged with offers of work. He’s been approached to do
The Turn of the Screw
at Glyndebourne,
The Rake’s Progress
at The Met,
Don Giovanni
in San Francisco, and
Rigoletto
in Rome. He’s being commissioned now to do operas that won’t be staged for three or four years.

“I’m going to choose very carefully,” he said. “I don’t want to travel as much as before. And the reason for that—” he lifted my fingers to his lips “—is because I don’t want to be too far from you. That’s why none of my relationships have worked out,” he added, “because I was always away. But I feel different now, Faith. I’m thirty-seven. What I’d
really
like to do,” he added with a knowing smile, “is
The Ring Cycle.
”

“
The Ring Cycle
?” I repeated. “Oh.”

“Why not?” he murmured as he stroked my left hand. “After all, it’s serious now. And what about the divorce,” he went on smoothly, “is that still on track?”

“Mmm. As far as I know.”

“And I want to book that trip to Parrot Cay,” he went on as he stood up to go and play squash. “Can you get away in early December?” I nodded. “Good, we’ll try and go then. Right, I’d better be off,” he said as he picked up his sports bag. “The court’s booked for half past ten.” He went to the kitchen dresser to get his car keys, then something caught his eye and he stopped.

“That’s pretty,” he said, picking up the greetings card I’d bought the previous day. “Who’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s for an old school friend,” I replied. “It’s her…wedding anniversary soon.”

“You send your friends anniversary cards?” I nodded. “Oh Faith, that’s so typically sweet. Anyway,” he added as he kissed me, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

I found myself feeling slightly shocked at the smooth way in which I’d just lied. The card wasn’t for a school friend at all—it was for Peter’s birthday the following week. I looked at it again as I heard Jos’s MG rev up, then drive away. As I did so I thought once more of what Peter had said that night: “This is mad… This thing we’re doing. We don’t have long. We’ve got to talk…” He’d looked at me with such a blazing intensity, but I hadn’t heard from him since. Perhaps he’d been carried away by the emotion of the opera. Perhaps he’d had too much champagne. Perhaps he was getting on better with Andie. Perhaps he’d been working too hard. But he was still my husband and I wanted him to know that on his birthday he’d be in my thoughts. I took the card out of its cellophane sleeve and a slip of paper fell out:
This card has been left blank for your own message
. But what should my message say? Happy birthday, obviously. I wrote that down. But how should I sign off? “Love from Faith”, I suppose. Or, perhaps, “With love from Faith”. “Much love, Faith”, maybe? “Lots of love from Faith”? “Love and kisses, Faith”? Oh, no. Too forward. Perhaps I should just sign it “F”. Maybe I should add an “X”. Or two. Or possibly even three. I tried that out on a piece of scrap paper but still I wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps I should stick on a little PS—“It was so nice to see you the other day”. Though the fact was, it had been one of the most stressful events of this year. I sighed at the memory then quickly wrote, “With love from Faith, and Graham”. I added a small cross by my name, and two paw prints, then scribbled, “I hope you’re OK”. Pleased with this affectionate, yet casual salutation, I looked at the card again. On the front was a drawing of two outstretched hands—they were almost touching. There was no particular reason for buying that one, it was just the one I liked best, that’s all. Anyway, I addressed the envelope to Peter’s office, then dropped it straight in the mail. Not that I was in a hurry to post it, or anything, but it was time for Graham’s walk. Nor was I hoping he’d get in touch—I mean, it was only a birthday card. As Graham and I walked on Chiswick common, I wondered how Peter would spend the day. Perhaps Andie would throw a drinks party for him. Perhaps they’d have dinner
à deux
. Perhaps she’d take him to the theater. And what would her present be? Gold cuff-links, quite possibly. Or rather, gold manacles. Or perhaps an extending lead. She’d sunk her piranha teeth into him, and she wasn’t about to let go.

As the days went by and I didn’t hear anything from him, I tried to push Peter to the back of my mind. In any case Jos was being so attentive—we’re seeing a lot more of each other now—and things were pretty busy at work, though Terry and Sophie were still being cool. But if it was uncomfortably chilly in the studio, at least the temperature had lifted outside. The occluded front had moved away, and a belt of high pressure was drifting in.

“So the temperature’s lifting nicely,” I said on Thursday morning at five to eight.

“Counting out please, Faith.”

“And as you can see from the isobars—” I pressed the clicker “—the pressure is starting to rise.”

“Eight, seven…”

“So some really glorious sunshine should be on its way.”

“Thank Christ.”

“After a disappointing September.”

“You’re telling me. Six, five…”

“And with any luck we may even have…”

“Three, two, one…”

“A real Indian summer.”

“Zero.”

As the news headlines rolled I went upstairs to check my charts. I looked at my weather house—the little man was inside now, and his wife was coming out—and I was just reading the latest faxed briefing from the met office, when my extension rang.

“Faith, this is Reception,” said a female voice. “Could you come down? Your husband’s here.” Shocked, I half walked, half ran down the corridor. What on earth was Peter doing here at this time? I wondered as I hit the button on the lift. Alarm bells were clanging and jangling—something bad must have occurred.

“What is it?” I said breathlessly when I saw him in Reception. “Just tell me—why are you here?”

“Well…” he began. He looked tense, and emotional.

“Yes?” I was hyperventilating. “What?”

“You see…” he tried again. This was
agony
.

“Just tell me, Peter. What’s going on?” He blushed.

“It’s…my birthday,” he announced rather sheepishly.
What?

“Yes,” I said wonderingly. “I know.”

“And…I just wanted to thank you for your card.”

“Oh,” I said faintly. “I see.”

“It arrived yesterday, and I thought it was…lovely. And I wanted to say so in person. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to see you tonight,” he went on, “because I’ve got to go out with Andie; and I can’t come round during the day because I’m at Bishopsgate. So I thought I’d just, you know, drop in to see you on my way to work.”

“Ah,” I breathed. “I see. But—it’s in the opposite direction, Peter,” I pointed out. “It’s a detour of at least eight miles.”

“Well, yes, I…suppose it is. But the point is,” he went on, reddening again, “that I’ve always seen you on my birthday, and I wanted to see you this year, too.” By now I was smiling, and heard myself sigh with relief.

“Well, many happy returns, Peter,” I said. He was just staring at me, so I stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Many happy returns,” I repeated, now trying to stifle the urge to laugh. “So, is that it, then?” I smiled. He nodded. “Well, thanks for coming by.”

“No. Don’t go.” He’d put his hand on my arm. “I just had to
see
you,” he said quietly. “But you see it’s awkward because—” Suddenly For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow spilled forth from his sports jacket with a tinny whine. He flinched, then took out his mobile phone and flipped up the lid.

“Yes. Hi. Yes,” he said. “Mmm. Look, I’m in a breakfast meeting. Let’s speak later. Yes, of course I’ll call you. Bye.” He put the phone away and looked at me guiltily. “She likes to know where I am.”

“Peter,” I said. “I’m so glad to see you—I really am. But I’ve got to go—I’m on air in ten minutes’ time.”

“Of course. OK.” I smiled my goodbye.

“Faith!” he said suddenly.

“Yes?” I turned back. Perspiration was beading his brow.

“Faith there
was
something else, actually.”

“There was?”

“Yes. Something I wanted to say.”

“Really?”

“Something I wanted to ask you, in fact.”

“Yes?”

“Look… Would you have dinner with me next week?”

* * *

On Monday I got ready to meet Peter, a bubble of apprehension building in my breast. A date with my husband, I mused sardonically. But what on earth should I wear? The bedroom floor was already strewn with discarded garments as I selected outfits, then changed my mind. I put on my sleeveless pink Principles dress—not because Peter likes it, though he does—but because it was gloriously warm. I hadn’t told Jos I was seeing Peter; there was no need for him to know. In any case, I reasoned, why look for trouble? Better to keep it quiet. However, there was a slightly tricky moment when Jos phoned to suggest a film.

“I’m sorry, darling,” I said, “but I’m afraid I can’t tonight.”

“Oh, why not?” he said.

“It’s just a…work thing. You know…”

“A work thing? What?” Now, I hadn’t expected him to ask me that. As I groped for a plausible alibi, I felt my pulse begin to race.

“It’s a…seminar,” I explained.

“Really? What’s it about?”

“Er, global warming,” I said.

So at six fifteen I checked my appearance in the hall mirror once more, then got the tube to Chalk Farm. Peter had asked me to meet him in Regent’s Park Road, at Odette’s. A waiter showed me to his table, downstairs, in a discreet little alcove at the back. When Peter saw me he stood up, kissed me on the cheek, then suddenly gave me an enveloping hug.

“Oh, Faith,” he said. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“Well…ditto,” I replied.

“I like your dress,” he said with a smile as we sat down.

“What? This old thing? I’ve had it for years.”

“I know,” he replied. “I remember it. You always look so nice in pink.” The waiter came to our table and I ordered a glass of white wine. Now we sat there looking at each other over the tops of our menus, feeling slightly shy. Our fellow diners could never have guessed that we’d been married for fifteen years.

“It’s lovely to see you again,” he said wonderingly. “I’m sorry to drag you up here,” he added, “but you see, it’s safe—from her.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound good.”

“It
isn’t
good.”

“So where does she think you are now?”

“At a book launch in the City. I told her I’d be back by ten. But I needed to talk to you Faith, because…” He sighed. “Well, I just
did
.” He stared mournfully into his gin and tonic. “Faith,” he croaked, “it’s absolute hell.”

“I see,” I murmured as I fiddled with my fork. Perhaps he just wanted advice.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you at
Madame Butterfly,
” he explained with a bitter sigh. “I wanted to ring you the next day, but I was worried I wouldn’t sound sane.” He had another big gulp of his drink while I slowly sipped my white wine.

“I’ve had enough,” he groaned as he gripped his napkin. And suddenly, out it all came. That Andie was suffocatingly possessive; that she was manipulative, and low; that he found her baby-talk embarrassing; that the holiday had been dire; that she didn’t possess a single book; that she’d lied about her age.

“She told me she was thirty-six,” he added bitterly. “She’s not. She’s forty-one.”

“Well, I never thought I’d find myself defending Andie,” I said with a reasonableness which astounded me, “but loads of women deduct a few years—that’s not a crime.”

“Yes, but the point is Andie lied about it for six months. It was only when Katie saw her passport that I found out the truth. So now I keep wondering what else she’d lie about. The relationship’s just plain wrong, Faith, so I’m cashing in my chips.”

“You are?” He nodded.

“I’m getting out. As soon as I decently can. I could just leave a note on the kitchen table,” he added, “but that’s the coward’s way out. However I do it, she isn’t going to like it—there’ll be an awful scene.” Peter looked at me across the table, then suddenly reached for my hand.

“Faith,” he said. “Faith, I’m really sorry about all this…mess.”

“It’s OK,” I whispered. “It’s…OK.”

“It’s my fault—I know that. I was an idiot to tell you about my fling.”

“No, Peter,” I said firmly. “That’s not the point. You were an idiot to
have
a fling.”

“Well…yes. But she flattered me. She was attractive. It was exciting, and I got carried away. I never stopped loving you, Faith, but we hadn’t been getting on well.”

“We hadn’t been getting on badly,” I pointed out.

“No, but we’d been together so long. So
long,
” he repeated wonderingly, as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Fifteen years, Faith,” he said. “
Fifteen years
. I mean, didn’t
you
ever get bored?”

“No, not really,” I said sniffily. “So I’m sorry to hear that you did.”

“Then Andie came along and the excitement of her interest made me feel more…
alive
. Didn’t you ever want that, Faith? Didn’t you ever want something to…
happen?
Something to hit you, just—out of the blue?”