Out of the Blue (36 page)

“My missing fan-mail,” she announced pleasantly. “I found it this morning. Isn’t that funny? I just thought you’d all like to know.”

“Good God!” said Darryl. “Where was it?”

“It really is the strangest thing,” she said innocently, giving Terry and Tatiana a beady stare. “Before we went on air I was looking for a highlighter pen, and so I went to the stationery cupboard. And right at the bottom of the cupboard there was this box, and, well,
imagine
my surprise when I looked inside! This is six months’ worth.”

“Terry?” said Darryl. “Can you enlighten us?”

“Don’t look at me,” Terry replied.

“Well, do you have any idea who might have done this?” Darryl asked.

“Er, the post boy,” Tatiana suggested. “He had ambitions to be a presenter, you know.”

“
Did
he?” said Sophie, her eyes like saucers. “Well, why don’t we ask him?” she said.

“We can’t,” Darryl replied. “He left last week.”

“Where’s he gone?” she asked.

“To work at the Savoy, I think.”

“Well that’s not going to advance his TV career much,” Sophie pointed out. “Is it, Tatty?” Tatiana shrugged.

“It’s a complete mystery,” said Terry smoothly. “But as I don’t think we’ll ever get to the bottom of it, I suggest we get on with the meeting.” But Darryl wasn’t listening, he was reading the letters as Sophie passed them to him.

“Of course I haven’t opened them all,” she explained. “There are so many—I haven’t had time. But let me just give you a taste. I’m sure Terry would love to hear what the viewers think of me.

“‘Dear Sophie,’” she read, “‘I think you are the best thing on breakfast TV. Dear Sophie, without your sunny smile and witty words I wouldn’t be able to face the day. Dear Sophie, I get up early just to watch you. Dear Sophie, you are so much more intelligent than that fourth-rate old git on the sofa next to you.’ Oh sorry, Terry,” she said with theatrical exaggeration. “I didn’t mean to be tactless. ‘Dear Sophie,’” she read, picking up another one, “‘why aren’t YOU the main presenter?’” She ripped open a small brown envelope. “‘Dear Sophie, why are you doing crappy breakfast TV? You should be presenting Newsnight!’” By now Terry’s mouth was as thin and hard as a hairgrip.

“Well, it’s good to know you’re so popular,” said Darryl. “But do you want to pursue this matter—its theft?” She shook her head.

“I have no wish to make trouble,” she said, staring at Terry. “But I just wanted everyone to know.”

“Good,” said Terry. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. On his face was an insolent smile. “It’s right that everyone should know. It’s absolutely right that everyone should know,” he repeated vehemently, “about
you
.” The temperature in the room suddenly dropped from boiling point to minus twelve. “There are some things about you, Sophie, that everyone should know,” Terry added with a sly smile. At that a look passed between them of utter, visceral, hate. The cut and thrusts of the last ten months had been mere skirmishes. This was a declaration of war. “Are there many letters from men here?” asked Terry innocently, picking one up. He tossed it back on the mountainous pile. “Or do you find you’re more popular with the ladies?”

“It seems I’m popular with everyone,” she snapped. But her throat was blotched and red.

“Hmm,” said Terry with a sceptical smile. “Are you? I’m not sure about that.”

“Er, OK,” said Darryl. He swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple dipping by at least three inches. “Anyway, thanks for drawing this to our attention, Sophie, and er, let’s start the meeting. OK, everyone. Ideas please. And don’t forget—it’s a family show.”

* * *

On Friday evening the children came home; I collected them from Charing Cross. The following morning they got the tube over to Peter and didn’t return until eight.

“Did you have a nice day with Dad?” I asked as I washed some salad.

“Oh, yes,” said Matt. “It was great. We went to the Tate Modern in the morning.”

“And what did you do in the afternoon?” I asked. They were silent. “What did you do?”

“Well, nothing really,” said Matt.

“You must have done something,” I said. “You’ve been out all day.”

“Well, we just went out for tea, that’s all. Nothing special, you know.”

“So where was that then?” I said. “Come on. Spill the beans.”

“Nowhere worth mentioning,” said Matt.

“Oh, let’s stop this charade, Matt,” said Katie. “We went to Andie’s, Mum.”

“Oh,” I said, crestfallen. “I see.”

“Well, if Jos can come here so much, then I don’t see why Dad can’t go to her place.”

“I suppose so,” I said. But it hurt. I knew he went there. Of course he did. But I still loathed the thought of my kids going there too.

“You’ve got to accept it, Mum,” said Katie briskly. “It’s six months since you and Dad split.” I looked at her and sighed. She was quite right. I couldn’t have it all ways.

“So what’s her place like?” I said, swallowing hard.

“Luxurious!” Matt exclaimed.

“That figures. Where is it?”

“Notting Hill.”

“That figures too.”

“There are
five
bedrooms,” he said, round-eyed.

“Surprise me.”

“And she’s got a
huge
double bed!” I felt sick. “And do you know what she’s got on her bed, Mum?” he went on.

“No, and I don’t want to—”

“Cuddly toys!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“Lots of cuddly toys,” Matt repeated. “Dozens. And they’ve all got names.”

“That’s a bit weird,” I said. “For a thirty-six-year-old.”

“Oh no, Mum,” said Katie.

“I think it is.”

“No, she’s more than thirty-six.”

“Is she? How do you know?”

“Because I saw her passport. She’d left it on the kitchen table so I just sneaked a teeny little look.”

“Katie! That’s really naughty. So tell me—how old
is
she?”

“She’s forty-one.”

“Gosh. Does Daddy know?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“But she’s really funny,” said Matt.

“Funny? I can’t imagine that,” I said, remembering the humorless blonde I’d seen on TV.

“I mean funny
peculiar
. You see, she’s started calling Dad all these names. Baby names,” he added with a laugh.

“Baby names? Like what?”

“Well,” he began. He was giggling. “She calls him her ‘little Petie-Sweetie’.”

“No!”

“And her Pumpkin-Pie!”

“Yeeeuch!”

“And her honey-bunny.”

“How ghastly.”

“And her Baby-Waby.”

“Eeeeuuugh.” Graham put his paws on my lap. “I never did that. Did I, my little puppy wuppy? And how does Daddy react?”

“He just sort of smiles,” said Matt.

“And what does he call her?”

“Andie. But she calls herself…”

“No, don’t tell me!”

“Yes,” said Katie. “Andie
Pandy!”
By now my eyes were on stalks. “Dad doesn’t like it much. I think he finds it demeaning and silly. I don’t think he understands why she does it,” she added. “But I do. It’s a form of self-infantilization,” she explained matter-of-factly, “because Andie’s clearly sensitive about her age. She’s also trying to project a child-like vulnerability to cover the fact that she’s rapacious and hard. The cuddly toys tie in with that too, and of course, at a deeper psychological level it all connects, together with the five bedrooms, with her obvious desire for—”

“But
hang
on,” I interrupted. “This woman’s a hard-nosed headhunter. She doesn’t want to be seen as a little girl.”

“She does at home,” said Katie. “She wants to be Dad’s ickle baby, so that he’ll look after her, because she knows that men like powerlessness, which is, of course, why Lily’s still single. The other thing about it,” she went on knowledgeably, “is that it’s also a form of manipulation. She calls Dad all these toddler names so that she can push him around. It’s a way of emasculating him,” Katie concluded. “So that she can get what she wants.”

“Oh,” I said. “Poor Dad.”

“It’s also a way of displaying ownership,” she said. “All her endearments are prefaced with the tell-tale word ‘my’. That’s the real give-away—it’s an obvious sign of desperation.”

“My God,” I said. “How weird. Are you sure you’re not over-analyzing all this, Katie? I mean, Dad seems happy enough. He told me he didn’t have any major worries, and he always tells the truth.” At this the children were silent. “He is happy, isn’t he?” Matt shrugged.

“Dunno.”

“We haven’t asked him outright,” said Katie carefully. “We can only go on what we see. But I’d say that Dad’s about as happy with Andie as you are with Jos.”

“I’m
quite
happy with Jos, thank you,” I said stiffly. “And it’s, you know, serious.”

“Yes,” said Katie archly. “We know.” At this she just looked at me and smiled this peculiar little smile—an annoying habit she gets from her father. She’s like Peter in so many ways.

That night her irritating remarks revolved around my head, making it hard to sleep. I must have drifted off at some stage, because I remember having an odd dream about an iceberg. But it can’t have been a deep, peaceful sleep, because I was woken by the clatter of the letterbox when the paper arrived. Graham and I went blearily downstairs. I made him a cup of tea—milk, no sugar, not too strong—then I looked at the
Sunday Times,
holding it about an inch from my face as I didn’t have my lenses in. I went straight to the
Culture
section, imagining that there might be some small preview piece about the opera. Instead, to my astonishment, there was a double-page spread about Jos. It was headed, “Butterfly’s Designer in Full Flight” and there he was, smiling out at me, hair tousled, looking as divine as ever. There’s something about his large, grey eyes which just draw you right in. It was a flattering piece—the journalist had clearly been charmed. In fact it was very like the piece in the
Independent
six months before.
I guess I’ve been very lucky
…Jos was quoted as saying…
Passionate about what I do…Stefanos Lazaridis’ work is wonderful…Director’s wishes always come first.

That last remark suddenly struck me as odd, and now I remembered what Jos had said when he was showing me the set. He’d said, “The director wasn’t sure about it, but I talked him round in the end.” That was strange. But then it went right out of my mind because now, to my amazement, I was suddenly reading my name.
Cartwright has recently been linked with AM-UK!’s weather girl, Faith Smith,
the journalist had written.
I don’t know what I’d do without Faith,
Jos had said.
Six months ago I fell under the warm spell of her sunshine and now I’m quite bewitched
. I think I read that sentence ninety-five times. Then I read it again. Now he was talking about
Madame Butterfly. Puccini’s most powerful opera…I wanted to show Butterfly’s vulnerability…Her pretty house is dwarfed by ugly tenements against which she looks fragile and alone…Yes, I think she’s Puccini’s greatest heroine,
he went on.
Her wings are made of steel. She renounces everything for the man she loves…Her nobility and courage are unforgettable,
he concluded.
Her heartbreaking sacrifice fills me with awe
. I felt my eyes widen and my jaw go slightly slack. I went upstairs and put my lenses in, then read it again, to make sure. Then I gazed out of the kitchen window where I could see the weather vane on the house next door swinging in the morning breeze. Now I returned my gaze to the newspaper, and looked at the photo of Jos. How could he say that, I wondered, as I felt my insides twist and coil. How was it possible to speak so contemptuously of Butterfly in private, then heap such lavish praise on her here? I stared, sightlessly, into the middle distance, trying to work it out. Suddenly I started as the phone rang out. Who the hell was ringing me at seven thirty on a Sunday morning?

“FAITH!” shouted Lily. “GET UP RIGHT NOW AND GO AND GET THE
SUNDAY TIMES!
”

“It’s OK,” I said. “I am up. I’ve got it.”

“And have you seen the piece about Jos?”

“Mmm,” I murmured. “I have.”

“But, darling, isn’t it just
unbelievable?
”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It is.”

* * *

The first night of
Madame Butterfly
was to be a celebrity-filled gala opening—a major social event. I should be feeling thrilled, I reflected; instead I felt depressed. I felt as low and flat as a stratus, I mused as I looked up at the sky. I’d have felt better if Lily was coming along, but she had to go to some charity ball. I hadn’t even decided what to wear, so odd was my mood, so now I went through my things. Here was my old Principles “best” dress; it was a safe choice, black velvet and quite smart, but I hadn’t worn it for a very long time. On the neighboring hanger was a pretty frock from Next—an impulse buy which had never looked right. There was also—don’t laugh—a satin dress from What She Wants, which, though cheap, looked rather nice. But I knew it wouldn’t do for this. I didn’t really have anything suitable, I realized, so I asked Lily if she’d mind lending me the pink Armani again.

“That dress you wore to Glyndebourne?” she said.

“Yes, that one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can’t.”

“Oh. Sorry I asked.”

“It’s out of the question darling, because someone might spot it!” she said. “How can you possibly go to a gala night at Covent Garden wearing a dress that everyone’s seen?”

“But it’s lovely, and anyway, they won’t all be there.”

“Faith,” she said firmly. “You simply cannot run the risk. You’re going to be on show tomorrow night, darling. You’re going to be spotted and snapped. Not just because of your own, admittedly minor celebrity, but because you’ll be there with Jos. Now, I’ve got a gorgeous Clements Ribeiro sample. I’ll lend you that instead.”

She sent the dress round by company car on Tuesday afternoon, five hours before curtain up. It was made of a dark grey silk jersey fabric, cut on the bias, with pretty, diamante straps. It looked lovely: sparkly without being overdone, glamorous but very discreet.