Out of the Blue (44 page)

“I want to thank you, Faith,” she announced in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Thank me?” I said wonderingly. “For what?”

“For making Jos so happy.” I blushed. “I’ve never seen him so contented before.”

“Really?” I said, and smiled. I thought it best to change the subject, but she clearly had more to say.

“He’s had a few girlfriends, you know,” she said as she brushed a stray crumb from her skirt.

“Has he?” I said. “He’s never talked much about his past.”

“Oh my goodness,
yes,
” she confided with a breezy little laugh. “But then he’s a very attractive man.”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed.

“And an exceptionally attractive and talented man like that is always bound to attract women.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“Some of them were mad keen to marry him.”

“Were they?” I said politely. This was more than I wanted to know.

“And I’m afraid one or two of them have been very persistent.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes.
Very
persistent.” What on earth did
that
mean? “Sometimes he’d bring them here,” she went on, “and they’d get very upset. And they’d say to me, ‘Yvonne, he just won’t
commit
.’ Of course I felt sorry for them,” she went on benignly, “but what on earth could I do? You see he wasn’t ready to make a commitment—at least not until he met you. He adores your children,” she added.

“Well, he’s very nice to them,” I said.

“And I’m sure he’d be a
marvelous
father.”

“Yes, I’m sure he would.”

On the way back to London, I turned to Jos in the car.

“Your mother was telling me about your exciting past,” I confided with a smile.

“What?” he said, slightly irritably.

“She was divulging all your dark secrets,” I joked.

“Oh. And what did she say?”

“Ooh, all kinds of things,” I added teasingly. “About all your girlfriends. Quite a harem.”

“No, but what did she…
say?”
he repeated. By now his mouth was set in a hard, thin line.

“I’m only joking, darling,” I said reassuringly. “She didn’t say anything bad. Of course she didn’t—she thinks the world of you. All she said was that you’d be a very good father. But I already know that.” At this he turned on the radio. It was the repeat of
Start the Week
. To my amazement I heard Sophie’s voice again. That’s why she hadn’t called back; she’d been busy. She was talking about the EU.

“Two-speed Europe a dangerous concept…France and Germany a hair’s breadth apart…fully fledged political union…extension of majority voting…”

“That’s my friend Sophie!” I declared happily. “You know, the girl from work.” Suddenly Jos’s hand went down to the dial. “Oh darling, please don’t change channels, I’d like to listen.”

“Europe should remain a community of equal states… The EU’s institutions belong to all its members… And of course our power of veto must remain.”

“She’s so brainy,” I said warmly. “She’s brilliant at politics—she was wasted at AM-UK!.”

“Did you…get to know her well?” he asked carefully.

“Not very well,” I replied. “But I liked her enormously. She was always very friendly and nice.” Then I suddenly remembered—I’d somehow put it out of my mind—what Sophie had said about Jos. She’d told me she’d never actually met him, so what could she have meant? Perhaps she was concerned because she knew he’d had quite a few girlfriends—a fact which his mother had just confirmed. That must be it, I thought. But I didn’t really care because Jos seemed so devoted to me. The next day, as I was busy packing for the Caribbean, I decided to call her again.

“Sophie,” I said. “It’s Faith here. Just ringing to say that I keep hearing you on Radio 4—you sound fantastic. I’d love to see you, so do call. I’ll be away for a fortnight from next Tuesday, but back by the fifteenth. So I hope we can get together, maybe before Christmas? Here’s my number again…”

I carried on packing, feeling my spirits lift as I put my new bikini into the case with my sarong and the three dresses I’d got from Episode, plus my flip-flops and two books. I was just reaching down my old sun-hat, when I heard the phone ring. Maybe that’s Sophie, I thought.

“Is that Faith?” said an unfamiliar female voice.

“Er, yes,” I said. “It is.”

“You don’t know me,” she said hesitantly. “My name’s Becky.”

“Oh. Er, how can I help?”

“Well,” she began. “Well…” Suddenly her voice cracked, then trailed away. “Oh God, this is very difficult.”

“What is it?” I said wonderingly. “Would you tell me what this is about?”

“I really don’t like to do this,” she said. By now she was in tears. “But I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been plucking up the courage for days. I don’t want to hurt you,” she added miserably, “but, you see—I just can’t go on.” My grip tightened on the handset and goosebumps raised themselves up on my arms. “I’ve seen you,” she went on tearfully. “I’ve seen you on TV…” My God—a deranged fan! “And I know all about you…” she wept. Oh God! “From Sophie.”
Sophie?
“And then I saw the photo of you both at the polo…”

“The photo?” I said faintly.

“In
Moi!
magazine. I happened to see it. The one of you and Jos. You see, I’m just
so
desperate,” she gasped. “But he won’t talk to me. In fact he’s blocked my calls. But I thought you looked nice,” she went on. “And Sophie told me that you were very nice, so I thought you might understand.”

“Understand what?” I said. By now I felt sick and confused. “
What
am I supposed to understand?” I repeated.

There was silence. Then I heard her say, “Hasn’t he told you, then?”

“Told me what?”

“About me?” Oh God, I thought. A disappointed ex. One of the “persistent” women that Jos’s mother had mentioned the other day.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but, no, Jos hasn’t mentioned you. And to be honest I’m not sure what it is you want or how you possibly think I can help.”

“But hasn’t he told you about…
her?”
she went on.

“Her?” I repeated. My God—
another
woman? “Look,” I said, feeling irritable by now, “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“But hasn’t he told you about Josie?” she sobbed.

“About who?”

“Josie.”

“Who’s she?” There was a momentary silence.

“She’s our baby,” I heard her say.

The hall carpet rushed up to greet me as I sank onto the stairs.

“I haven’t had an unbroken night in months,” she wept. “But Jos just doesn’t want to know.” My head was spinning and I put my left hand out and steadied myself against the wall. And now I could hear the girl’s breath coming in ragged little gasps as she became increasingly distraught.

“Please,
please
would you ask him to call me,” she sobbed. “Please tell him we need his
help!
I just can’t carry on, and I’m—uh-uh—so
tired
. I haven’t worked since January. Well, it’s impossible when she’s so small. And I can’t get any benefits unless I give them his name. I don’t want to do that behind his back, but he’s refusing to talk to me. And now every time I—uh-uh—ring him,” she wept, “this annoying woman says, ‘the person you are calling is not’—uh-uh—‘accepting your calls.’” By now Becky was in full flow. I didn’t know what she looked like, but I could imagine her red eyes, wet cheeks and puckered chin.

“You’ve had Jos’s baby?” I said faintly. “My God. I didn’t know.
When?
”

“In February. She’s nine months old.” Suddenly, in the background, I heard a lusty cry go up. “Shhhh! Darling, sshhh! I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry. You obviously had no idea.”

“No,” I murmured. “I didn’t. I’ve known him for seven months and we’ve become very close, but he’s never said a thing. I’m just…stunned,” I added miserably.

“I knew about you,” she said, swallowing her tears, “from Sophie. But I didn’t think it would last. It never lasted with any of the others. He’d always come back to me. But then when I told him about the baby… He was livid. He told me to—but I refused. I thought he’d come round in the end. But he hasn’t and now I just don’t know what to do.”

“Hasn’t he given you any money?” I said incredulously.

“Not a penny,” she wept. “He refuses to accept that she’s his. But she
is
his,” she added passionately. “You only have to see her to know. He says that he won’t accept paternity without a DNA test, and they cost six hundred pounds. But if he just came and looked at her face then he’d see that she could only be his.”

“How did you get my number?” I asked. I felt sick and faint.

“I was at Sophie’s the other day, when you called. She was in the bathroom and the answerphone was on. When I realized it was you I wrote down your number and decided to phone. Sophie said I shouldn’t. She assumed you knew but didn’t want to get involved.”

“So, are you a friend of Sophie’s, then?” I asked hesitantly.

“No. I’m her sister,” she said.

December

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said to Sophie the next day as we sat in the Kensington Café Rouge.

“How could I?” she replied. “I didn’t know you very well, and in any case, what would I say? Don’t touch Jos with a bargepole, Faith—he abandoned my pregnant sister.”

“Well, if she was
my
sister I think I would.” Sophie sighed, then sipped her cappuccino.

“When I first realized you were going out with him I
was
very tempted to tell you the truth. But I stopped myself because I could see how happy you were, and I knew how miserable you’d been before. I didn’t want to spoil things for you, Faith, and it was up to him to tell you, not me.”

“I wish you had told me,” I said as I stared into my café latte. “As it was such a big thing.”

“But the other reason for keeping mum was because Becky had sworn me to secrecy. She adores him,” she explained simply. “She’s always adored him, and hoped—and believed—he’d come round. So the last thing she wanted was me going round slagging him off.”

“But you dropped…hints about him. I remember now.” Sophie tucked her short blond hair behind one ear.

“Yes,” she said, “I did. But I couldn’t push it too far. In any case,” she added, “I thought you’d find out—I mean, my God, you can’t hide a
child!
”

I looked again at the photo of the baby that Sophie had brought with her. She beamed out from her buggy, chubby arms and legs waving exuberantly, her face Jos’s in perfect miniature.

“And he’s never
seen
her?” I said wonderingly.

“Never. Not once,” she replied.

“Does his mother know?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sophie vehemently. “Becky sent Yvonne a photo,” she explained, “hoping she’d put pressure on Jos. But the woman’s so deluded about her darling boy that she refuses to accept what’s happened. She thinks the sun shines out of his arse.”

“I know. Her house is a shrine to his gifts.” I glanced out of the window onto Kensington Church Street where a bucolic, red-besuited Father Christmas was handing out flyers for some new store. And now I suddenly remembered something Yvonne had said. She’d said that Jos would make a “marvelous father”. But he already
was
a father, I thought sardonically, though marvelous wasn’t quite the word.

“Becky was stupid, of course,” Sophie went on quietly. “She just couldn’t leave him alone.”

“Did they ever have a proper relationship?”

“Not really,” she replied. “She met him in ’97 when she was an art student at the Slade. Jos did a series of lectures on set design and they had a brief fling. A month later he told her it was over, but by then Becky had become obsessed. It became a fatal attraction. She even left college and got a scene-painting job at the Coliseum so that she could work with him. He was thirteen years older,” Sophie went on, “so he had all the power. He told her he’d never marry her,” she added dismissively, “but at the same time he went on seeing her whenever there was no-one ‘better’ around. But of course
she
kidded herself that it was a real relationship. She believed that, because he always came back, ultimately he’d ‘see the light’. That’s what she’d say to me: ‘He’ll see the light, Sophie. He will—he’ll see the light.’ But when she told him she was pregnant…” Sophie drew her right index finger across her throat. “He was vicious about it,” she went on simply. “He was screaming at her to get rid of it and refused to accept it was his. As though Becky could ever have
looked
at another man!”

“What did she do?”

“She decided not to contact him again until after the baby was born. She was terrified she’d miscarry if they had another big row. So she lay low for seven months; then in February, when she had Josie, she finally phoned him to say. He didn’t even ask her what sex the baby was—and he hasn’t seen Josie to this day.”

Now, as I listened to Sophie’s soft voice, I thought of how I’d met Jos. In March he’d been driving along in his open-topped sports car, without an apparent care in the world, gaily throwing his business card into the laps of strange women like me. Yet all the time he knew that Becky had just given birth to his child. I felt sick to think of it. And sick, too, to recall the efforts he’d made for my children when he’d completely neglected his own.

“He ignored all Becky’s calls,” Sophie went on. “She threatened to come round to his house with the baby, but in the end she didn’t—she was too upset. So she sent him a photo, which he ignored. He changed his mobile phone so she couldn’t ring him, and he’d leave the answerphone on at home.” I remembered the furtive way in which he’d listened to his messages whenever I was there, crouched over the machine secretively with the volume turned right down.

“Then in July,” Sophie continued, “Becky found that she couldn’t get through—he’d blocked her calls.”

“Ah. Choose to Refuse,” I said.

“What?”

“Choose to Refuse. It’s a British Telecom service. My friend Lily told him about that because he said he was getting ‘nuisance’ calls.”

“He did regard Becky as a nuisance,” said Sophie flatly. “But because she no longer had any way of contacting him she told me she was going to ask you to intercede. She warned Jos by letter that if he didn’t get in touch with her that’s exactly what she’d do. I told her not to phone you. You must have had a bit of a shock.”

“That’s an understatement,” I said. “I just couldn’t believe that I’d known him for seven months and that he’d never mentioned his child.”

“It’s such a
mess,
” Sophie sighed. “There she is, twenty-four years old, with no job, no man, and a kid. I’ve been paying her rent all year, and her friend Debbie has been a huge help.”

“Debbie?” I said. “That sounds familiar.”

“She’s Becky’s best friend from the Slade. Becky asked her to be Josie’s godmother; she’s a young set designer, making her way.” Debbie… She was the girl at Glyndebourne. The girl who’d made that odd remark. What was it? Oh yes—
I hear you’ve been involved in some
very
exciting productions
. And now I knew what she’d meant. Then I recalled the lie Jos had told me about Debbie being angry with him for not giving her a job on
Madame Butterfly. Madame Butterfly,
I thought with a hollow laugh. No wonder he’d got so worked up about the plot—it obviously touched a deep chord.

“He’s a shit,” I said to Sophie. This realization didn’t upset me. On the contrary, I felt curiously calm. “He’s just a shit,” I said again.

“Yes,” she shrugged. “He is. He could easily afford to support Josie—in the end he’ll be forced to—but so far he hasn’t paid a thing.”

“But what about your parents?” I asked.

“They’re both dead,” she replied. “They died in a car crash six years ago. That affected us enormously, of course,” she went on. “Becky, perhaps, more than me. It made her very clingy, and of course Jos is a needy man, too. But her excuse is that she’s very young. He just exploited her.”

“But didn’t she
mind
that he was seeing other women?”

“Of course—it tore her apart. Worse, he’d tell her about his other girlfriends knowing that she’d always forgive him. I’m ashamed to say it about my own sister, but I’m afraid Becky has no pride. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for Jos,” she added. “He can commit no crime in her eyes.”

“Even
now?”
I said wonderingly.

“Yes,” she said. “Even now. He’s the love of her life,” she went on. “She’d have him back like a shot. She believes that, ultimately, when he sees the baby he’ll come round—but I know he won’t. I mean, just look at his background,” she went on vehemently. “To Jos, a father is someone who runs away, because that’s what
his
father did. I’ve never actually met him,” she explained. “I don’t want to. But I know all about him from Becky. He craves love and approbation,” she added, “but once he’s got it, he feels contempt. All he wants to hear is that women love him, but the second they say it, he moves on. He was perfectly happy to keep seeing Becky casually. He thought it was no strings attached—he was wrong.”

“I’ve never told him I love him,” I said thoughtfully as I stared out of the window again.

“Clever you,” Sophie replied. “That’s why it’s lasted so long. But if you had said it, you wouldn’t have seen him for dust.”

“It wasn’t deliberate,” I explained. “I just couldn’t bring myself to say it because I knew it wasn’t true. I don’t love Jos,” I said calmly. “I never have. I love my husband, but we’re getting divorced.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sophie sympathetically. “So you couldn’t… forgive him then?”

“Yes,” I replied, swallowing hard. “That’s the funny thing—I could. But then…well—” I didn’t want to tell her “—it just all went wrong again. So I took this desperate, and rather despicable decision to stick with Jos.”

“Have you confronted him yet about the baby?” she added as I called for the bill.

“Not yet,” I replied. “I needed to talk to you first. He thinks I’ve gone shopping in Chiswick, he’s got no idea I’m meeting you.”

“And what will you do?” she asked as we stood up to leave. I looked at the photo of Josie.

“I’ll see him once more,” I said.

* * *

As I walked to High Street Kensington tube through the throng of Christmas shoppers my thoughts now turned towards Lily. I hadn’t confided in her about Jos yet because I didn’t feel like being in touch. I was cross with her—no, not cross,
angry
—for pushing him at me. That’s what she’d done, I realized. She’d been doing it all along. Of course she didn’t know about the baby—if she had done, she’d have told me, for sure. But ever since I’d met him she’d promoted him relentlessly, and now I seriously wondered
why
. I remembered too how she’d almost panicked the other day when she thought I could have been dumped by Jos. Now, as I rattled westwards on the train, I recalled all the things she’d said.

He’s handsome and he’s talented.

He’d never let you down.

It’s a nightmare being single, you know.

Peter’s done it once, he’ll do it again!

You’re so lucky to have met Jos, Faith.

Jennifer and I are just thrilled!

I thought too of the things Lily had
done
. Of the way she’d lent me Armani frocks and other smart clothes, and offered to babysit. I thought of the way she’d had us photographed together for
Moi!.
And now I recalled her scarcely concealed fury when I finally confessed to my “affair”.

I thought about Jos and about how, though I’d suppressed it, I’d been uneasy from the start. I remembered the lie about the “homemade” curry, and Matt’s computer, and the way he’d flirted with a man to get work. I recalled his hysteria over
Madame Butterfly
and his subsequent lies in the
Sunday Times
. I remembered the way he’d shouted at Graham—it was both horrible and absurd. Now I recollected his dream about being naked at the opera house. I’d naïvely interpreted this as a sign of honesty, but it was Katie who’d intuited the truth:
dreams of undressing are a sign that you fear someone will discover something about you that you would rather remained a secret
. And that’s clearly how he felt about his child. The fact that he had a baby didn’t bother me—why should it?—it was his failure to do the right thing. But, above all, it was his lies—his bare-faced, blatant lies. Peter never lied to me, I reflected. Peter always told me the truth. What else would Jos lie about, I wondered, if he could lie to me about this?

I opened the front door and Graham bounded up to greet me with a volley of joyful barks.

I crouched down and put my arms round him and looked into his soft brown eyes. “I owe you an apology, darling,” I said. “Because you were right all along.”

* * *

“Krug!” Jos exclaimed happily the following night. “I say, that’s a bit of a treat.”

“I know it is,” I said. “But then why not? I’m afraid it’s only non-vintage, though.”

“Never mind,” he said with a grin. “I think I’ll be able to cope.”

“Apparently Krug is very popular for christenings.”

“Really?” he said vaguely. “I wouldn’t know.”

“So you haven’t been to any christenings lately?” I said.

“Oh, no—not for years. I say, how adorable!” he exclaimed, peering at the advent calendar I’d hung on the wall. “I love advent calendars, but you haven’t opened today’s window. I’ll do it, and it’s—ooh—a trunk. Which reminds me, Faith, have you packed yet?”

“Not quite,” I replied.

“Do you travel light?” he asked as he slipped his arm round my waist.

“Not usually, but I will this time.”

“And are you looking forward to the break?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Mmmm—duck!” he exclaimed appreciatively half an hour later as we sat down to eat.

“Actually it’s duck
ling,
” I pointed out as I put the vegetables on the table. There were tiny new potatoes, and mangetout, and baby sweetcorn, and miniature carrots, and little zucchini.

“It’s a vegetable kindergarten!” he quipped.

“Well, I just love baby vegetables, Jos, don’t you?” He smiled and shrugged. “I just love sweet, dinky little baby carrots and peas and sweetcorn. Do you like baby things, Jos?” He nodded, then sipped his champagne. “
Do
you?” I repeated. “I’m really not sure that you do. Oh no, Jos,” I sighed, shaking my head, “I’m not sure about that at all. You see, I get the impression you really
don’t
like babies much—especially your own.”

He slowly lowered his knife and fork, then he gazed at me with a blowtorch intensity as though he was trying to read my mind. But I’d decided I’d played with him for long enough. I’m not the sadistic type.

“Jos,” I said quietly. “I
know
.” There was a silence during which I was aware of the slow tick of the kitchen clock.

“What?” he said, irritably. “What do you know?”

“About the baby,” I said. Jos rested his knife and fork on the side of his plate.

“I suppose Becky told you?” he said.