Out of the Blue (19 page)

“
Big
problems with her marriage. Six…”

“So it’s looking rather unsettled.”

“He’s been bonking an American. In five…”

“Especially in London W4.”

“Three. So she chucked him out. And two…”

“Though there might just be a chink of sunshine.”

“My sister spotted them at Resolve. One…”

“But don’t hold your breath.”

“She lives in the same road.”

“So there we have it. See you at nine.”

“Any chance they’ll stay together?”

“Zero.”

“Thank you, Faith,” said Sophie with a lovely smile. “You’re watching AM-UK! And now, at eight thirty, here are the national headlines…”

I felt sick and shaky as I unplugged my mike. Oh God, oh God, they all knew. They knew everything. And I’d tried so hard to be
discreet
. I went up to the office and made myself look busy by tidying my desk. In any case it needed it—there were piles of faxes and memos and three old coffee cups, and my piece of seaweed had fallen off its hook, and my weather house was covered with dust. Peter bought it for me when I first got the job at AM-UK!. I had been temping there for three months when the vacancy came up. And the children were at school by then so I was thrilled to get the job. And Peter bought me the weather house. It’s like a tiny Swiss chalet, and inside is a little man in lederhosen and a little woman in a dirndl skirt. And the little man is holding up an umbrella. And when he comes out, and the woman stays in, that means it’s going to rain. When the little woman comes out, and the man stays in, then that means it’s going to be fine. But sometimes, when the weather’s a nice mix, then they both come out together. Today the little man was right out, all alone with his umbrella aloft. There’s a metaphor in that, I thought bleakly as I opened my pile of mail.

The first letter was hard to read as the writing was a mess. But I soon got the gist.
You think you’re so marvelus don’t you?
wrote the sender, Mark from Solihull.
But beleeve me, yore not.
Oh God, this was all I needed—an illiterate prat.
I don’t “have Faith” in you,
he went on with ignorant contempt.
Nor does anyone else I no. Everywear i go i hear peeple saying how useless you are at the weather and you all ways get it rong. i hear them slagging you off in the bus queues, in the queue for the chekout, at the pictures, and down the pub.
I hear it at work. All day. That Faith’s no good, they all say— For God’s sake! I tore it up and threw it into the bin. The other letters at least were quite flattering, most of them commenting on my recent loss of weight.
Don’t lose too much,
advised Mrs Brown from Stafford.
We don’t want you looking like Posh Spice. Frankly I preferred you fat,
said Mr Stephenson from Stoke.
The longer hair’s nice,
opined Mrs Daft from Derby,
but I should grow out the layers if I were you. How are rainbows formed please?
asked ten-year-old Alfie from Hove.
So sorry to hear about your marital problems,
wrote Mrs Davenport from Kent. WHAT?
I’ve just read about it in
Hello! her letter went on.
So I felt I had to drop you a line. I got myself divorced last July. It’s hell, Faith, but I know you’ll come through
. I ran, heart pounding, to the planning desk and got out this week’s
Hello!
. There, in the celebrity news section, was a small photo of me, with the caption,
Storm Clouds Gathering for Weather Girl
. But who the
hell
had told them?
AM-UK!’s Faith Smith is set to divorce her publisher husband Peter after he confessed to a fling. Our source tells us that a distraught Faith holds out no hope for her marriage, despite attempts at counseling. Peter Smith’s new job as head of Bishopsgate may now be in jeopardy as the firm is owned by Bible Belt Americans with strict views about their workers’ private lives
.

I threw it in the bin, then went back to my desk and cradled my head in my hands. Here it was, in the public domain, for everyone to see. But who could have told them, I wondered, and
why?
Hello!
don’t pay for tips. In any case it’s not as though I’m a real celebrity, so why would anyone care? I mean… Oh.
Oh
. Of course. How slow of me. It must have been Andie—the cow! She’s trying to make damn sure that Peter and I do split up. No question of her just leaving us to sort it out between ourselves; just giving it a little helpful push in the media. That American spinster was spinning, because of course it wasn’t really
Hello!
she wanted for Peter and me—it was
Goodbye!
I read the piece again.
A distraught Faith…
I am
not
distraught I thought, as a hot tear splashed onto my cheek.
Holds out no hope…
I am not hopeless, I said to myself as my contact lenses slipped down. In fact I am coping
very
well with this horrible situation, I reflected as I ran, head down, to the ladies’ loo. Thank God. No-one here. I went into a cubicle, lowered the seat, then sat there and wept like a child. My breath came in shuddering gasps and my face felt hot and wet. Then I pulled the flush and came out, only to see someone standing there. I pushed my lenses back into place, and the badly blurred figure became clear. “Faith!” Sophie exclaimed softly. “It’s you. I heard you crying. But what on earth’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I wept.

“Yes it is,” she said as I walked to the basin. “What’s the problem?” she asked. Oh God, I didn’t want to tell her, it was far too personal. “You can tell me,” she said as I splashed cold water onto my face. “Please tell me what’s happened,” she repeated as I lifted my swollen face to the glass. I sighed.

“I’ve just had some nasty fan mail, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well, at least you
get
fan mail,” she exclaimed cheerfully. “All mine seems to have stopped. But I really don’t think it’s worth crying about,” she added. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else?”

“No, no, no,” I said as I pulled down a green paper towel. “It’s just, well, you know how it is here with the awful hours. If things go wrong, you get more upset.”

“Yes, but what’s gone wrong, Faith?” she asked. “Perhaps I can help.” She laid a hand on my arm and I stared at her, my throat aching with a suppressed sob. She was swimming out of focus again as my eyes began to fill.

“I’m getting divorced,” I croaked. Through my tears I could see that Sophie’s face registered sympathy but not the slightest trace of surprise. She already knew. That was clear. It was obvious that everyone at work knew. “But the reason I’m crying,” I went on, “is because I just saw a piece about it in
Hello!.
And seeing it like that, in black and white, made it suddenly
real.
It was in the papers!” I groaned. “You can’t imagine how awful that feels.”

“I can imagine,” said Sophie, flinching. “I’d be
terrified
of having
my
private life exposed. I mean, my God!” she added with an appalled little laugh. “The tabloids would have a field day with me!”

“I’m getting divorced,” I sobbed as fresh tears snaked down my face.

“Faith,” said Sophie softly. She put her arm round my shaking shoulders. “Faith, do you really have to?” I stared at the floor. Did I
have
to?

“Yes,” I gasped. “I do.”

“Why?”
Why?

“Because my husband’s had an…affair,” I wept. “And I can’t get over it. I just can’t forget it. I feel that everything is
spoiled
.”

“I know we don’t know each other very well,” said Sophie as she handed me a tissue, “but can I give you some advice?”

“OK,” I croaked, aware at the same time, with a degree of embarrassment, that she was more than ten years younger than me.

“I’ve been in the situation that your husband’s in,” she explained. Oh. It must have been with that chap, Alex. “I was recently unfaithful to someone. I was completely in the wrong, and I’m afraid that someone found out. And,” she hesitated now—this was obviously hard, “that someone can’t forgive and forget. Now, I’m not married so there’s no divorce, but it’s still—” she sighed bitterly “—a
mess
.” I looked at her as my sobs subsided, grateful for her confession, especially as she was normally so private about her affairs. Sharing a confidence like that can’t have been easy, and she only did it to help.

“If you are able to forgive him, then do,” she advised me, “because I believe you’ll be happier if you can.”

“Well, maybe,” I murmured. “I don’t know. But you’ve been very kind, Sophie, thanks.”

Suddenly we heard the flush of a cistern, one of the cubicles opened and to our surprise Tatiana emerged.

“Yes, Sophie,” she said with a smirk. “Thanks
very
much indeed.”

* * *

There’s one thing we weather forecasters always do when we leave the house. We look up at the sky. We can always tell what’s going to happen, you see, by the shape of the clouds. For example, if there are cirrus, then we know it’s going to be fine. They’re long and wispy, and very high, and made of ice, and we sometimes call them mares’ tails. If we see cumulonimbus then we know stormy weather is on the way. Those are great barrelling black clouds, and they give thunder and lightning and rain. Then there are stratus, which are flat blanketing layers of grey producing drizzle or fog. But today, as I made my way to Rory Cheetham-Stabb’s office, the sky was filled with puffy white cumulus. I love cumulus clouds because they produce my favorite weather—a mixture of sunshine and showers. At this time of year you look up and you see big clouds, like billowing cushions, with clear blue sky between; and the clouds can be grey or white, and sometimes they’re tinged with gold. And the gusting spring winds make them rip through the sky, giving sudden bursts of rain. Then, when the shower passes and the sun comes out, that’s when rainbows appear. So I always love to see cumulus, and that’s what I saw today. I like being able to look up like that and see at a glance what’s on the cards. If only it were that easy when it comes to my private life. I’m not making any forecasts there. Oh no, the satellite picture is not at all clear. On the one hand the wheels are turning towards divorce, and I can hear them creak and grind. But on the other hand it’s just so
terrible
that I’m tempted to try and go back. I thought about what Sophie had said. I thought about all that’s at stake. And Peter is clearly hesitating, too. But things have changed so much between us that I just don’t know what to do. It’s as though our marriage has crash-landed and now we’re both trying to find the black box.

“The only reason your husband is hesitating,” said Rory Cheetham-Stabb as I sat in his office an hour later, “is because he knows what it’s going to cost him.”

“Oh,” I said with a pang. “I thought it might be because he loves me and hopes to be reconciled.”

“Mrs Smith,” said Rory Cheetham-Stabb patiently. “I don’t wish to sound cynical, but that’s what happens to husbands when the chips go down—they start to squeal like stuck pigs. What they’d all like, of course, is to be able to have it both ways. They’d like to hang on to their marriages while keeping their totty in tow. Tell me, would you find that acceptable?” I shook my head. “And the other reason he may be hesitating is because he knows that divorce might affect his new job.”

“So you saw the piece in
Hello!.”
I said, dismally.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

“Well, he’s on six months’ probation so the timing of all this just couldn’t be worse. Believe me,” I added, “we’ve got our problems, but I don’t want him to get fired.”

“Nor do I,” said Cheetham-Stabb. “I mean, he’s our golden goose. After all, Mrs Smith, you’ve been a devoted wife. For fifteen years you’ve been flashing your loyalty card and now you’re hoping for a little…cashback.” I found myself wondering what sort of card Andie has. An Unfair Advantage card, no doubt.

“As it happens, I know quite a bit about Bishopsgate,” I heard Rory Cheetham-Stabb say. “They’re a bloody irritating bunch. They publish all these absurd books about how-to-save-your-marriage. That’s how they got started. They’re owned by an American newspaper consortium from Georgia. The chairman, Jack Price, is a bit of Puritan—he doesn’t like his staff having messy private lives. He maintains that it’s at odds with Bishopsgate’s image, and it probably is. So he certainly won’t like the fact that his brand new managing director is up Separation Creek. Your husband doesn’t want any personal trouble until his probationary period is up. But I wonder who fed it to the press?”

“I think it’s Andie Metzler,” I said.

“Mmm. But who else knows?”

“Well, it could have been someone who saw us at Resolve. And we did have this awful row in Le Caprice on Valentine’s Day. But on the other hand, we’re not famous so it’s not a big story. And the point is that whoever fed this stuff to the press would have had some motive, so I think it
must
be Andie.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s desperate for Peter to get divorced.” Cheetham-Stabb steepled his fingertips and narrowed his pale-blue eyes.

“I doubt it’s her, Mrs Smith. Remember, your husband is not just her lover—he’s her client. If he gets fired before the end of his probationary period, she’ll have to refund her huge fee. No, that theory just doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re probably right,” I sighed. “In any case, she’s clearly mad about him so she wouldn’t want him to get sacked.” But Cheetham-Stabb wasn’t listening to me. He had a faraway look in his eyes.

“Actually—I think you’re right!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Yes!” he said. “I’ve just worked it out. It
is
her, Mrs Smith. But what a very cunning woman she must be.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wants Peter to divorce you, but at the same time she doesn’t want him to lose his job. So what she’ll be doing is quietly assuring Bishopsgate, with whom she’ll still be in touch, that Peter’s private life will be normalized quite soon when he…”