Out of the Blue (40 page)

“Well, you’ve had the last laugh there, Peter,” I giggled.

“Mmm…not quite,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” he said.

“Now—when are you back?” I enquired.

“On Saturday. I’d love to see you again. Do you think you’ll be going to any more of those seminars, Faith?”

“Well…yes. I think I probably will.”

I found it surprisingly easy to deceive Jos about what was going on. If he suspected anything, he didn’t show it. In fact he was more attentive than ever.

“You seem very happy these days,” he remarked as we drove back to Chiswick on Saturday night. We’d been to see
All’s Well That Ends Well
at the Globe.

“Oh, I am happy, Jos.” He squeezed my hand. “I think I’m getting happier all the time.”

“That’s what love does, doesn’t it?” he said as he parked his car.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I replied as he pulled up the hand brake. As I opened the front door I noticed the green light of the answerphone wink and flash. I waited until Jos went upstairs, then lowered the volume and pressed “play”.

“Hello darling, it’s Mum. Just to say we’re off to the Maldives.” BING-BONG! “Would all passengers on Icarus Air Flight 666 please make their way to gate thirteen. Gerald! GERALD! Where are the passports? Back in ten days’ time…”

“Mum, it’s Katie. Just to let you know that Matt and I won’t be coming home for the next few weekends. We’ve got rehearsals for the school play…”

“Darling! It’s Peter!” I slammed the volume down to level one and pressed my ear to the machine. “Back from Frankfurt…longing to see you…love you to bits, Faith. Bye!”

“Faith!” It was Jos. He was standing on the bottom step, staring at me. I hadn’t heard him come down. I straightened up so fast I almost ricked my back. “What on earth are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m just checking my messages, that’s all.”

“Well, why so furtive, then?”

“Furtive?” I said indignantly. “Honestly, Jos, I’m
not
being furtive,” I said. “I’m
never
furtive. Have you ever seen me be furtive? Furtive, darling, is
not
a word I know.”

“No, but it’s just the way you were listening to the answerphone as though you didn’t want me to hear.” But that’s what
you
used to do, I thought to myself, though I didn’t dare say it out loud.

“The reason I was doing that,” I explained, “was because…I’d had a…” I sighed. “A funny message.”

“Funny?”

“A bit dodgy,” I said.

“My God! Can I hear it?”

“No. I’ve—wiped it off.”

“Was it your stalker?” He looked horrified.

“Well, yes, it was actually,” I replied. “I wasn’t going to tell you because I didn’t want to worry you.”

“How did he get your number?” I shrugged. “You
must
get this thing which enables you to bar calls from people you don’t like.”

“I’ll look into that,” I said.

“Yes. I think you should. Have you got a busy week coming up, Faith?” he asked me a little later as we got into bed.

“Just the usual,” I replied. “I’ve got another seminar on Monday,” I told him.

“Well, as long as you enjoy them,” he said.

“I feel a complete heel,” I said to Peter on Monday as we sat in Frederick’s in Islington. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Peter said with a smile.

“I mean, secret meetings in unfamiliar restaurants in distant parts of town. Listening to my answerphone with the volume turned right down. Being evasive with Jos, where I was always truthful. Thinking about you, and not him.”

“Do you think about me?”

“Yes,” I murmured, “I do. I think about you all the time.” We smiled at each other through the flickering candle. “What about Andie?” I said. “Has she noticed anything yet?” He shook his head. “And when are you going to tell her the truth?”

“At the end of this month. She’s got a very busy patch at work, so I’m going to wait until that’s over and then I’ll tell her about us. She’ll be furious,” he added. “But she’ll be OK. There are plenty more heads out there.”

“I used to hate her,” I said. “But now I pity her, in the same way that she must have pitied me.”

“Don’t bank on it,” he said. “Compassion isn’t in her emotional repertoire.”

“I feel so…deceitful,” I said. “These…assignations I’m having. Perhaps I should go and confess.”

“But you haven’t done anything wrong, Faith.”

“No I haven’t. That’s true.”

“I mean, it’s just platonic at the moment, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. It is. You’re right. It’s quite innocent,” I added airily as I felt Peter’s foot pressing on mine.

“I mean, we haven’t—you know—have we?” he said as he caressed my right instep with his toes.

“No,” I murmured, “we haven’t. Peter,” I added. “Did I tell you Jos is going to New York next weekend?”

“Oh, really? That’s interesting.”

“Mmm. I thought you’d say that. He’s got to see some people at the Met. He wants me to go too,” I added, “but obviously I can’t, because of Graham.”

“Of course you can’t go,” said Peter. “It’s out of the question. Because you’re going to come away with me.” He suddenly covered my hand with his. “Will you do that, Faith?”

“Peter,” I said. My face was aflame. “You’re not suggesting, are you, that I should actually be unfaithful to Jos?”

“That’s
exactly
what I’m suggesting,” he said, smiling shyly. “Come away with me, Faith.”

“Well, maybe. I—I don’t know.”

“Why are you hesitating, darling?” He stroked my cheek.

“Because this flirtatious banter is all very well, but I’ve never two-timed anyone before.”

“Well then, I’ll make it easy for you,” he said. “We’ll go to a country house hotel,” he added. I sighed. It sounded bliss. “I’ll choose a really luxurious one,” he went on temptingly. “In the Cotswolds. One that takes dogs.”

“A country house hotel?” I said wonderingly.

“Yes. With a Jacuzzi, and champagne on ice.”

“And luxury toiletries in the bathroom?”

“Of course.”

“And beribboned bowls of fruit?”

“Mmm.”

“And a fully stocked minibar.”

“Naturally. With Toblerone.”

“And fluffy towels as well?”

“Oh yes.”

“Will they be
very
fluffy towels, Peter?”

“Extremely fluffy.”

“In that case, the answer’s yes.”

* * *

“Darling,” said Jos the next morning, “I’m a bit worried about you.”

“Why?” I said dreamily. “I’m
fine
.”

“Well, because twice last night I heard you say Peter’s name in your sleep.”

“
Really?”
I said, sitting bolt upright in bed. “I must have dreamed about him, I suppose. It was probably a nightmare,” I added with a short, sardonic laugh. “I was probably dreaming that he was having another affair. Yes! That’s what it was!” I muttered bitterly. “Oh, I don’t know—that man!”

“Now don’t upset yourself,” said Jos, kissing me. “It’s over now. And you’re with me. Are you quite sure you can’t come to New York next weekend?”

“I’d love to, darling, but I can’t leave Graham.”

“Can’t your parents look after him?”

“They’ll still be in the Maldives,” I lied.

“What about Peter?”

“Er, he’s got something on.”

“Well, this is one weekend when I wish he
didn’t
have anything on.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

“But what will you do about Graham when we go to Parrot Cay?”

“That’s still six weeks off,” I said. “I think I’ll have worked it all out by then.”

“And next month I want us to visit my mum,” he added. “You do want to, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

I felt hollow and cheap that day as I plied Jos with my smooth lies. I’d never been unfaithful to him, but that’s what I was contemplating now. I thought of my new La Perla, still in its tissue paper, at the back of my knicker drawer.

“We’re going to have a little holiday with Daddy,” I whispered to Graham in the kitchen later. He licked my nose, then swept the floor with his tail. “But Jos mustn’t know. It’s a big secret, OK? Shake on it?” He offered me his left paw.

“I’ll miss you in New York,” I heard Jos say. “But I’ll call you every day.” I renamed myself Judith Iscariot as I sat there and smiled. The fact was Jos trusted me, and by Friday I’d have broken that trust. But I had to spend time with Peter alone. I had to. And then I’d know…

* * *

“So a glorious weekend coming up,” I said enthusiastically just before nine thirty on Friday morning.

“Six, five…”

“A real
scorcher
. Very high temperatures. Summer’s last hurrah.”

“Four, three…”

“So let’s all make the most of this golden period.”

“Two, one.”

“I, for one, certainly intend to.”

“And zero.”

“So have a really great time, everyone.”

“Thanks, Faith.”

“See you again next week.”

I practically ran out of AM-UK! and went home to sleep, and then pack. I’d packed Graham’s lead, and his bowl, and his beanbag, and some food and some Scooby Snacks.

“We’re going to a luxury hotel,” I explained as I brushed his fur, “so you’ve got to look your best.”

I’d arranged with Peter that he’d pick us up just round the corner, so that the neighbors wouldn’t see. After all, they’d got used to seeing me getting into Jos’s MG. “So where are we going?” I said with a smile as Graham and I clambered in at half past five.

“Mystery destination,” he replied.

“Chipping Camden?”

“No. A bit further south.” Graham was standing up on the back seat, as he always does, with his head resting on Peter’s left shoulder.

“He likes your new car,” I remarked as I pulled down my visor against the glare.

“Of course he does. He likes Rovers. Does he still snap at Jos, by the way?”

“Now you come to mention it—no. He seems to have called a truce. Perhaps he’s got bored of it,” I added.

“Nah, he just feels sorry for him. Don’t you, Graham? I bet he sits there thinking, ‘Poor sod, if only he knew.’”

“So what have you told Andie?”

“That I’m in Scotland, with an author, doing some intensive editing on a new book.”

“Did she buy it?”

“As far as I could tell.”

“Won’t she be calling on your mobile phone?”

“I’ll make sure I call her every couple of hours just to keep her off the scent.”

We headed north-west, up the M4, past Bracknell and Reading, eating up the miles. Graham was curled up, asleep, lulled into oblivion by the soothing rhythm of the car. Then we left the motorway and headed for Cirencester, along wooded, country roads. To our left plunging hillsides, bisected by dry-stone walls, were aflame with the colors of the fall. Then we drove through Bisley where honey-colored houses glowed like old gold in the evening sun. Finally, we drove into Painswick and pulled up outside a Georgian manor house.

“Welcome to the Painswick Hotel,” said Peter.

“What bliss,” I breathed as he parked. The house was wide and deep, Palladian in style, with a profuse pink rose rambling up the front. To the left an Italianate balcony, threaded with an ancient wisteria, overlooked a smooth croquet lawn. The panes of the floor-to-ceiling sash windows winked in the setting sun.

“What name is it, please?” asked the receptionist.

“Mr and Mrs Smith,” said Peter. The woman gave us an indulgent smirk. She was used to this kind of thing.

“And this is…” She looked at the dog.

“Graham Smith,” I said as he stood up on his back legs and offered her a kiss.

“Your room is number one, on the first floor. I’ll get someone to take up your bags.”

Whenever Peter and I were really hard up, which was most of the time, I used to fantasize about a country house hotel, and in my dreams it looked like this. In our room was a four-poster bed, with sumptuous drapes and Colefax and Fowler paper on the walls. There were gleaming antiques and a dressing table with a selection of silver-backed brushes and combs. A great bay window with a soft, padded seat gave out onto rolling, sheep-dotted hills. In the bathroom was a Jacuzzi big enough to do breaststroke in and—oh bliss!—a bale of fluffy white towels. Suddenly, I was struck by an awful thought.

“Peter,” I said. “How do you know about this place? I mean, I… Did you come here with
her?
”

“No,” he replied. “Of course not. I just looked it up on the Web.”

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was room service.

“Your champagne, sir.”

Five minutes later, Graham was installed in front of the TV watching Delia Smith while Peter and I were up to our necks in bubbles in the whirlpool bath.

And now I’m going to show you how to make poppyseed rolls
…said Delia.

“This book you’re supposed to be editing,” I said wryly as I sipped my champagne. “What’s it about?” He slid his foot up my leg.

“Body language.”

“Body language? I see.”

And the delicious thing about them…

“Yes. Body language.”

Is that they don’t take long to rise.

Peter put down his glass, then pulled me towards him as our limbs entwined.

So pour the liquid yeast into a well in the center…

“This, for example,” he said, kissing me, “is positive body language.”

“Really?” I murmured. “What about this?” I whispered as I placed my hand on his thigh.

And mix to a good, stiff dough…

“Yes. That’s very positive too.”

It should feel springy and elastic by now.

“It does.”

“And this,” he said, sliding his hands over my breasts, “is a sign of more than casual interest.”

“You don’t say?”

Then leave it in a warm place to rise…

“And this,” he said as he slid his hand between my thighs, “is a sign that we’re getting on terribly well.” We stood up, still kissing, and collapsed onto the bathroom floor.

Then place them side by side…

“Oh, Faith,” said Peter as his face hovered over mine.