Out of the Blue (4 page)

“No, Lily,” said Reverend Mother calmly. “It’s because you are
not a good enough actress. You have many gifts,” she went on calmly. “I know you
are going to be a huge success in life. But I confidently predict that your
future triumphs will not take place on the stage.” There was silence. Then Lily
left. She wouldn’t speak to me for a month. But what was I supposed to do?
Refuse the part? It was a wonderful role, and everyone said I did it well; I can
still remember those marvelous lines to this day: “
I had
been happy…so I had nothing known. So now, forever, farewell the tranquil
mind!
”

Lily gradually got over her disappointment, though she refused
to come to the play; and we never, ever spoke of it again—until tonight. I don’t
think it was tactless of me to mention it, given that it was eighteen years ago
and our roles have long since been reversed. I mean, she’s the star now. Not me.
She’s the celebrated and successful one. She’s the one with the huge flat in
Chelsea, and the fridge full of champagne and foie gras. I’m the boring suburban
housewife with two children and sensible shoes, who thinks a trip to Ikea’s a
treat. So I appreciate the fact that Lily’s kept in touch all this time, when
you consider how our lives have diverged.

At this point—it must have been almost ten thirty—we’d gone on
to pudding. The candles had almost burned down, and the bottles of wine had been
drunk. I thought Peter had had one too many; I could tell that he was quite well
oiled. He and Matt were talking about the Internet, and Katie was doing some
psychometric tests on Lily—Lily’s her godmother, so she claimed not to mind.
Meanwhile Mimi, still clearly struck by the novelty of being married, was asking
me if I had any wisdom to impart.

“Tell me, Faith,” she whispered, “what’s the secret of a
successful marriage?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured, lifting a spoonful of poached
autumn fruits to my mouth. “I only know that after fifteen years together Peter
and I have this unbreakable bond. We’re like the wisteria growing up the front
of our house—we’re completely intertwined.”

“What quality do you admire in him most?” Mimi added.

“His ability to find my contact lenses whenever I lose one,” I
giggled. “He’s brilliant at it.”

“No, seriously,” Mimi pressed me. “What do you like about him
best?”

“His decency,” I replied, “and his truthfulness. Peter always
tells the truth.”

Mike thought that was such a nice thing to say that he said he
thought Peter ought to make a little speech.

“Go on,” he said.

“Oh no,” groaned Peter.

“Please,” Mimi insisted. “This is an occasion, after all.”

“Oh, all right,” Peter conceded after another sip of wine.
“Er…I just want to say…” he began, getting unsteadily to his feet, “that Faith
was my first love, and that my fifteen years with her feel like a
millstone…”

“Freudian slip!” said Katie.

“I mean, a
mile
stone,” he corrected
himself. “A milestone. That’s what I mean. An incredible achievement, in fact.
When you consider. And I just can’t believe where the last fifteen years of my
life have gone.” That was it. He’d finished. I tried to smile. As I say, he’s
very preoccupied at work, so he’s not quite his usual relaxed and happy
self.

“He’s rather tired,” I whispered diplomatically to Mimi and
Mike.

“He does seem distracted,” Lily agreed.

“Yes,” I said, “no doubt because, well, he’s got a lot on his
mind right now.”

“I must say, he’s looking good though,” Lily murmured as our
coffee arrived. “Hasn’t he lost a bit of weight?”

“Er, yes, he has. He’s looking pretty trim, you’re right.”

“Nice tie he’s wearing,” she whispered appreciatively.

“Yes. Yes,” I agreed. “Nice tie.”

Then Lily reached into her bag, took out a box of Pandora
matches and struck one. It hissed and flared as it ignited, then died down to a
steady yellow flame. She lifted a cheroot to her lips, lit it and inhaled
deeply, then blew the smoke away. Then she looked at me seriously and said,
very, very softly, “I think you’re
marvelous
to
trust him.”

This struck me as a very strange remark, because of course I
trust Peter—I always have. As I say, he’s a truthful man. So I didn’t have a
clue what Lily meant, and I certainly didn’t want to ask her in front of
everyone else. In any case, Peter was waving for the bill now—it was late, and
the evening was drawing to an end.

“—let’s get our coats.”

“—is this inclusive?”

“—no, our treat, Mike.”

“—Katie, can you get Granny’s coat?”

“—very kind, Peter. Next time we take you.”

“—who’s got the baby?”

“—oh look, there’s a cab.”

Before we knew what had happened, we were all standing outside,
kissing each other goodbye.

“What a wonderful evening,” said Mimi as the snowflakes fell
gently onto her hair. “I hope
we
make it to fifteen
years,” she added as she strapped the baby into the back of the car.

“I hope we make it to thirty,” said Mike gallantly. “Thanks for
a lovely dinner, you two—bye bye.” The children were submitting to being kissed
by Lily, though both of them hate her scent, Jennifer had been zipped up, and
Sarah had gone to her car. Then I flagged down a passing cab, and climbed in
with Peter and the kids.

“What a great evening,” he said as we swished along the wet,
sleety road.

“Yes, it was, darling,” I said. “I really enjoyed it too.” And
it’s true. I did. But at the same time I was aware, in a way I could not yet
define, that somehow, something had changed.

* * *

There are three things that people always ask you if you
work for breakfast TV. What time do you have to get up? What time do you have to
go to bed? And does it wreck your social life? Sometimes I just feel like
holding up a banner at parties saying, “Three thirty, nine thirty, and YES!” You
simply never get used to it. Did I say that you do? Well, it’s not true—you
never
get used to the early start. It’s
horrible. It’s horrible when the alarm goes off at half past three and your
body’s still crying out for sleep. And it’s even worse if you’re feeling
unhappy, as I was this morning, and are slightly hungover to boot. Graham
grumbled as I lurched out of bed, but declined to stand guard by the bathroom
door. I showered, squished on a little Escape—my favorite scent at the
moment—put on my navy Principles suit, then went down to the waiting cab. As we
pulled out of Elliot Road, I remembered Lily’s words again:
I think you’re marvelous to trust him…trust him…I think you’re marvelous to
trust…
I stared out of the window as we drove through the
slush-filled streets, turning her comment over and over in my mind; examining it
from all angles, as I might study an interesting stone. But however much I
thought about it, I still didn’t know what she meant. Nor was I at all sure that
I really
wanted
to know. I mean, Lily does have a
habit of saying things I don’t particularly like, but usually I just ignore
them. That’s what I forced myself to do this morning as I wrenched my thoughts
towards work. After all, I told myself firmly, I have an important job to do.
People depend on me. I can make or break their day. When I’m about to go on air
Terry, the “star” presenter, looks into the camera and says, “Well folks, what’s
the weather going to do today? Let’s h-a-v-e-FAITH!” So on I come, and I tell
them, and the viewers
do
have faith in me. They rely
on me to tell them if they need to take a coat or an umbrella, or if the
humidity’s going to be high. I let them know if it’s going to be very windy, and
if it’s safe to set sail, or drive. So I think the weather forecast’s really
important, but I’m afraid my colleagues don’t feel the same. They just see it as
this insignificant little slot that comes on three minutes before the news. To
them it’s just a buffer, before the junction—they’re always trying to cut me
down. I’m meant to have two and a half minutes, but often it’s less than one.
But there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s all controlled from the
technical gallery. For example, I can be in the middle of some fascinating piece
about warm fronts when I suddenly hear the director, in my earpiece, shouting at
me to stop. They’re really rude about it sometimes—I hear them yelling, “Shut
up, Faith! Shut up! SHUT UP!” It’s terribly distracting. What they’re
meant
to do is to calmly count me down from ten, and I
know that by the time I hear them say “zero”, I have to have signed off, with a
nice smile. Equally, if they lose a news item, I’ll hear someone screaming,
“Fill, Faith! Fill! Fill!
Fill!”
But I’m not fazed,
because I can cope; I once filled from thirty seconds right up to
four minutes!
And I pride myself on being able to stay
calm in those situations and to come out
exactly
when required. Another thing, because I use open talkback, I can hear them all
gossiping in the gallery during my slot. The weather’s their down time, you see.
That’s when they put their feet up because they don’t have anything to do. This
is because I change the graphics with my clicker, and I ad lib my script, so I
don’t have an autocue. So while I’m doing my slot I can hear them sorting out
what went wrong with the previous item, or telling make-up to fix Terry’s hair,
or instructing the cameraman to close in on so and so, or boasting about some
bird they pulled down at the pub. And they forget that I’m on air, broadcasting
live, and that I can hear every word they say. So one way and another, being a
weather presenter is a pretty stressful job. But I enjoy it. I really do,
especially at this time of year. I love the winter, you see: not just because of
my optimistic outlook on life, but because in winter the weather’s
great
. In the summer we only get three types: either
it’s rainy, it’s cloudy, or it’s fine. But at this time of year we get the
works. We get ice, and fog, and frost, and rain, and we get sleet and hail and
snow. We get fine, clear weather too if there’s an anti-cyclone, and we can get
hurricane force winds as well. So if you’re in the weather business, like I am,
then winter’s a thrilling time. And although the hours are pretty dreadful, I
enjoy myself once I’m at work. So this morning, despite my worries, and my
headache, I felt the usual frisson as we drove through the gates.

It takes about twenty minutes to get to AM-UK! which is based
in a converted warehouse in Ealing. It’s not a beautiful building, but I rather
like it there. The production office on the third floor is open plan, which has
its drawbacks, of course, not least seeing the ashen faces of my colleagues
every morning when I arrive. They sit there in the green glow of their computer
screens like extras from
The Night of the Living
Dead,
but that’s what comes of spending half the year in almost
perpetual dark. I usually get in at four, have a quick espresso from the
machine, and then get straight down to work. First I read the faxed briefing
from International Weather Productions, which forms the basis of my reports.
Then I log on to my computer—with its “rainbow” screensaver—and study the
satellite charts. For although I never trained as a meteorologist I do actually
know my stuff, because when AM-UK! took me on, they sent me on a six-week
forecasting course. So I’m not just spouting someone else’s script, I get to
write my own. I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a glamorous type of weather
girl. Nicole Kidman in
To Die For
? Well, that’s just
not me. Blond and gorgeous? No. In fact I’m a bit mousey to look at, which is
why I got the job.

“What we like about
you,
” said our
wimpish editor Darryl when he interviewed me, “is that you’re so nice and
ordinary
—you won’t threaten the housewives too much.
They’ll be sitting there and thinking to themselves, ‘Well, I could do better
than that!”

To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that remark,
but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And I can see what he means: he wanted
someone who’d look business-like but pleasant, and I do. I’m not the kind of
forecaster to hog the limelight, or try to “twinkle” too much. I just go to work
and do my job in a competent, friendly way. I’m very happy standing by the
charts, with my clicker, talking about cold snaps and sunny spells, and I don’t
regard weather presenting as a stepping stone to greater things. I’ve got just
the job I want, thank you very much—unlike our showbiz reporter, Tatiana.

“Hello Tatiana,” I said pleasantly as I passed her desk.
Usually she’s reasonably friendly, because she knows that I’m no threat. Today,
however, she was preoccupied and didn’t hear me; this was because she was busy
mutilating a publicity shot of Sophie, our new presenter.

“Morning Tatty,” I tried again, and was rewarded with a thin
smile. Then she put down her Stanley knife, threw the pieces into the bin and
went over to talk to Terry. I try to steer clear of office politics, but those
two are clearly in cahoots. They’ve united recently in a common cause: to make
Sophie’s life complete hell. Tatiana wanted that job. She’s wanted it for years.
And when our old presenter, Gaby, went off to present
Blankety Blank
Tatty assumed it would be hers. Terry was desperate
for her to have it too, because he knew she wouldn’t show him up. He’s of the
old school, you see. He doesn’t regard himself as the program’s “co-presenter”,
but as Presenter One. And it is the job of Presenter One—middle aged and male—to
do all the serious stuff while Presenter Two—young and blond—sits there gazing
at him admiringly before introducing some item on knitting. That’s what it was
like with Terry and Gaby, but Sophie’s a different case.

“Morning everyone!” Sophie called out cheerfully as I studied
my isobars. “I say, did you see Jeremy Paxman lay into the Russian defense
secretary last night?” she said as she took off her coat. “I thought what he
said about Chechnya was absolutely spot on. He said he thinks the Organisation
for Security and Cooperation in Europe should be much more involved in the
negotiations, and I must say I totally agree.”