Out of the Blue (15 page)

I was in the kitchen on Sunday afternoon, and Peter was outside, packing the car, ready to drive the kids back to school, when the telephone rang. Katie picked it up. I heard her chatting for a minute and assumed it must be someone she knew. Then I heard her call out.

“Da-ad! Pho-one!”

“Who is it?” I heard him shout.

“I dunno, some American woman, called Candy, or Randy, or Mandy or something. Says she wants to speak to you.” I sprang out of the kitchen like a tarantula out of its trap. The bitch! The brazen cow! Phoning
my
house to speak to
my
husband,
my
husband of fifteen years, the father of
my
two children, I’d bloody well tell her where to go. But Peter had got there first.

“No, no,” he was saying, slightly breathlessly from his sudden sprint to the phone. “No. No,” he said, more casually now, though his face had flushed bright red. “Oh. Yes. Mmm,” he said evasively. “Well, thanks for calling. Bye.” Then he put the receiver down and looked at me with a guilty expression on his face. My lips were pressed together so hard they hurt. Then the children appeared with their bags, I kissed them goodbye and went upstairs.

When Peter came back three hours later, I was in the kitchen. He came in, wordlessly, and sat down. Then he cradled his head in his hands.

“Have you seen her again?” I asked. No reply. My mouth was as dry as sandpaper and I could hear the pounding of my heart. “Have you seen her again?” I repeated. He inhaled, then shook his head.

“Not really.”

“Not really?” I said. “Not really? What on earth does
that
mean?”

“All right then,” he conceded, looking at me now. “I have seen her. We had a drink.”

“A drink? How nice.”

“That’s all it was, Faith. A drink.”

“Then what the
hell
is she doing ringing our home?”

“She…” He put his head in his hands again. “She—just needed to speak to me, and my mobile phone was switched off. But you’re right, Faith. She shouldn’t have done that.”

“She certainly shouldn’t,” I said, and I was amazed at how calm and self-possessed I managed to sound. It was as though I was listening to someone else. “Does she know that I know?” I asked.

“Yes, she does,” he said with a sigh. “I explained that it can’t happen again, but…”

“But what?”

“But she won’t—”

“Take no for an answer?” He blushed.

“No.”

“So she’s after you, then,” I said in a voice as hard and sharp as flint. “Is that it?”

“I don’t know. She says she doesn’t see it as a fling. She says she’s…”

“What?”

“In love with me.”

“Oh! How romantic!” I exclaimed. “But, Peter,” I said, “are you…” My anger turned to anguish and my voice began to crack. “Are you…” I tried again, then stopped. And there was a silence, during which we heard only the rhythmic ticking of the kitchen clock. “Peter, are you in love with her?” I managed to ask at last.

“No. I’m not. But…”

“
What
?” By now my throat was aching and my contact lenses had slipped.

“But… Oh, I don’t know,” he said desperately. His eyes were shining with tears. “I feel so confused, Faith. Don’t
ask
me what I feel. All I know is, this is hell. I mean, on the one hand sleeping with her was nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Well, if it was nothing, why
do
it?”

“Because at the same time I felt it wasn’t just nothing. How could it be nothing when I’d never been unfaithful before? So no, actually, it wasn’t just nothing, and I knew that. In my heart of hearts I knew that. And I know that now.”

“Oh. Well,” I said. I felt sick. “I see. Do you intend to do it again?” I asked. I knew he wouldn’t lie.

“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I don’t know.”

That was it. That was the moment, when I felt something inside me break. Something which I knew could never be fixed.

To my surprise, I didn’t get hysterical, or angry; instead I remained quite calm. I took Graham round the block, then I went upstairs to bed. I just lay there, with the dog at my feet, staring into the dark, watching the lights from passing cars spin across the walls like tracer fire. I lay like that until half past three, then I got up and went to work. And when I got home I phoned the magazine and finally accepted my prize.

* * *

A week later I found myself sitting in Rory Cheetham-Stabb’s office in Belgravia. As he entered my details in a new file I discreetly surveyed the room. It was in the starkest possible contrast to Karen’s spartan office in Chiswick. It was the size of a small ballroom, furnished with beeswax-scented antiques, lined with thick leather-bound books, and carpeted in sumptuous, velvet pile. On the walls were darkly gleaming oils of Scottish landscapes and dignified portraits of horses and dogs. I looked at Rory Cheetham-Stabb sitting behind his vast, mahogany desk. He was tall, with jet black hair, an aquiline nose, and very pale blue eyes. His suit was exquisitely tailored, with discreet hand-stitching on the lapels. A pair of diamond cufflinks flashed in the refracted light from the chandelier.

“Now, Mrs Smith,” he began smoothly, “you must place yourself entirely in my care. I shall look after you. And you mustn’t worry,” he went on with a wolfish grin, “because I always get my wives just what they want. Oh yes,” he reiterated as he lit a large cigar, “my wives always get what they want!” He seemed to talk about “his” wives a good deal, I noticed. I imagined myself in a large harem.

“Now, you do definitely want a divorce, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I do.”

“Jolly good,” he said, clapping his hands. “Jolly good. Because you know an awful lot of rot is talked these days about mediation and conciliation and counseling and all that touchy-feely tripe, Mrs Smith, when the simple fact is that a divorce is a battle. A bloody battle. But a battle which I invariably win! Now, what we’ve got to do is build our case. Reason for divorce?”

“My husband’s…infidelity.”

“Right,” he said, scribbling furiously. “A serial philanderer.”

“No,” I corrected him, aghast. “That’s not true. He’s only had one affair.”

“Details, Mrs Smith. Details. Now, does your husband drink?”

“Well, he likes to have a gin and tonic when he gets in from work, and yes, when we’re out he’ll have a glass or two of wine.”

“Mmm. Serious…drink…problem,” muttered Cheetham-Stabb as he scribbled away. “No wife can be expected to live with that. Right, so far we’ve got a philandering alcoholic on our hands. How ghastly for you, Mrs Smith. How
ghastly
. The judge will be entirely on your side.”

“Mr Cheetham-Stabb,” I said. “With respect, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I don’t want to hurt my husband or tell lies about him. He’s basically a decent man. But because he’s been unfaithful I feel I can’t live with him any more. So I just want to end my marriage, that’s all.” An expression of non-comprehension mingled with disappointment passed across his handsome face. Then he sat back in his Louis Seize chair and tapped his Mont Blanc pen against his teeth.

“So you don’t mind if your husband keeps the house, then?” he asked casually.

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

“And you have no objections if he gets care and control of the kids?”

“Well, yes of course I do.”

“And you’d be quite happy, I take it, for him to pay you a pittance in alimony.”

“No, no, I’m not saying that.”

“Nor do you mind if you end up in a squalid bedsit somewhere on the wrong side of the river while he’s in the marital home with his new totty?” I was too shocked to reply. “So you don’t mind, then?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows with an insolent smile. I sat there dumbstruck, contemplating the nightmare which had been conjured up before my eyes.

“As I say, Mrs Smith,” he went on smoothly, “a divorce is a battle. It can be a very vicious one. And when you go into battle you try and frighten the oppo by making a bloody big noise. That’s all I’m doing, Mrs Smith. Preparing to make a big noise. Now, do you want a divorce or not?” I stared at him.

“Yes,” I sighed. “I do.”

“Good. We’ll slap a petition on him tomorrow.”

I decided to warn Peter, of course. The thought of him opening the mail and finding a divorce petition was not an indignity I wished to inflict on him. So that night, as I prepared supper, I told him I’d started proceedings. He was so shocked he dropped a plate.

“You’re
divorcing
me?” he said faintly.

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

“Oh.” He looked dumbfounded. “Oh,” he said again. And then he said, “Is that really necessary?”

“Was it really necessary to have an affair?” I countered. “Was it really necessary to tell me you’re not sure it won’t happen again? I’ve decided I can’t live with that insecurity, Peter. So I’m going to protect myself.”

“Faith,” he said as he got out the dustpan and brush, “I know we’ve got our problems right now, but this is
crazy
. You’ve got to give it more thought.”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I replied bleakly. “I’ve thought about the fact that I don’t trust you any more, and that I feel differently about you now. I also feel differently about us. I feel that your infidelity has somehow—I don’t know—changed the way we’re together. I guess that must sound simple-minded, Peter, but I’m afraid it’s true.”

“But divorce will ruin us,” he said as he threw the shattered pieces into the bin. “For God’s sake, Faith, I’ve just got this fantastic new job…”

“Your job’s got nothing to do with it.”

“At last things were going well. We were about to enter a happier phase.”

“Then what a pity you had an affair.”

“Things were really looking up,” he added desperately.

“Yes, they were. Until you confessed.”

“But now it’s all going to go in legal fees.”

“It won’t cost a penny,” I said, and I told him about my prize.

“A competition!” he exclaimed. “Good God, Faith, how absurd! And I don’t want any damn publicity!” he said. “Least of all with my new job!”

“It’s OK,” I explained. “You don’t have to worry, I ticked the no-publicity box. Anyway, you should be pleased I’ve won the divorce because without it, it would be you shelling out, and Rory Cheetham-Stabb doesn’t come cheap.”

“Rory Cheetham-Stabb!” he gasped. “For God’s sake, the man’s a velociraptor—he’ll utterly ruin me! Rory Cheetham-Stabb!” he yelled. “Christ, Faith. Rory Cheetham-Stabb! So is this what you’re planning to do—hit the button marked alimony and watch the cash roll in?”

“Don’t be so unfair!” I said. “I’m not going to clean you out. I simply feel I have to end our marriage, for the reasons I’ve just explained. And you don’t have to contest it. But if you do, then, yes, you’ll need a solicitor, but you can’t use Karen because she knows us both, so you’ll have to get someone else.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he spat. “So you’re divorcing me,” he repeated incredulously. “Christ!” he expostulated as he took down one of his mother’s crystal tumblers and poured himself a large gin.

“Well, what did you think would happen when you told me about Andie?” I said.

“Not this!” he exclaimed, running his left hand through his hair. “Not this. I thought—my God, how mistaken I was—that you’d appreciate my honesty.”

“Oh really!” I said with a hollow laugh. “And I thought
I
was naïve.”

“I thought you’d understand,” he said bleakly, then he raised the crystal glass to his lips.

“Well, I suppose I do understand,” I replied. “I understand what it’s like to lose your trust in someone. And now, after fifteen years, I’ve lost my trust in you. And if we don’t have trust any more, Peter, then we really don’t have anything.”

“We’ve got lots of things, Faith,” he said as I began to scrape some carrots. “We’ve got our children, and our careers, our home and our dog.”

“Let’s not bring Graham into this,” I said wearily. “The point is, everything has changed.”

“Faith,” Peter went on quietly. “I realize you’re angry, and I deserve it. And I know I’ve got myself in a…
mess
. But that doesn’t mean we have to make an immediate decision to get divorced. Can’t we just cool off?”

“I have cooled off,” I replied. “I’m deep frozen.” Peter was staring at me incredulously. I felt like Gary Cooper in
High Noon
.

“Do you want a divorce, Faith?” he said. I was silent. “Do you really want a divorce? Do you want a divorce, Faith?” he repeated. I stared at him. “Is that what you really want, a
divorce?
Do. You. Want. A. DIVORCE?” he enunciated desperately.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I do.”

Suddenly he turned, raised his arm and hurled the crystal tumbler through the kitchen door where it struck Lily’s sunburst mirror.

“Ah!” I gasped as it splintered. “Ah,” I gasped again. And I was going to shout at him. I was going to scream blue murder. I was going to tell him just what I thought of that. But I couldn’t, because Peter had already left the house, slamming the door violently behind him.

* * *

The next day he apologized. He looked awful, and truly contrite. I stared at the broken sunburst, which I’d taken off its hook and which was now leaning forlornly against the wall. It had amazed me, for never, ever, in fifteen years had Peter done anything like that.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I lost control.” I accepted his apology, of course. But now, shocked by what had happened, I asked him if he’d be prepared to move out. He looked out of the window into the garden for a few seconds, then nodded his head. And I appreciated that because Rory Cheetham-Stabb told me that some men stay put in the marital home because they’re terrified that they’ll lose it if they leave. But I knew that Peter would do the decent thing. In any case, how could we remain together while our marriage began to unwind? I wondered whether he’d move in with Andie—I was sure she’d welcome him with open arms. But a few days later he told me he’d found a small flat in Pimlico, near the Tate. It belonged to a friend of someone who was going abroad for a year, and the rent wouldn’t be too high. So I helped him to pack up his things, which was strange, because it was as though I was helping him pack for the Frankfurt book fair or a business trip of that kind. As I took his shirts out of the cupboard, I looked at his two new Hermès ties.