Out of the Blue (51 page)

When I got into work I smiled cheerfully at my colleagues as they sat hunched over their terminals. I had my usual double espresso, then turned on my computer, with its rainbow screensaver. Here’s my rainbow, I thought to myself. It was here all the time. And the thing about rainbows, I now remembered, is that you can only see them when you have your back to the sun. I’m happy again, I thought as I looked at the newspapers. I can see clearly now.

I glanced at the front page of
The Times
which, to my surprise, carried a small piece about Lily.
New Improved
Moi! it announced approvingly.
Lily Jago, editor of
Moi!
has called on all women’s magazines to have their covers printed on matt paper, after her near-fatal accident last week when she slipped on a copy of
Vogue. “Moi!
will be leading the way in introducing non-slip covers,” she said. From next month
Moi!
will be the very first non-glossy glossy, but will lose none of its natural shine
. I smiled, then turned over the page. I found myself staring at a photo of Rory Cheetham-Stabb.
Celebrity Divorce Lawyer Censured,
said the headline. I scanned the piece.
Rory Cheetham-Stabb…Rottweiler reputation…Accused of professional misconduct
. Why? What on earth had he done?
Allegedly having sex with a number of his female clients
. Oh God.
William Thompson complained to the Law Society that Cheetham-Stabb’s affair with his wife was one thing, but charging for the time spent in flagrante with her was quite another
. Now I flicked through the other papers—the tabloids had gone to town. “LAWYER SCREWS CLIENTS SHOCK!” announced the Sun ironically, whilst Mr Thompson was quoted as saying that since he was footing the bill for the divorce he objected to being “screwed twice over”. There was to be a hearing at the Law Society today, the paper explained. I found myself feeling sorry for Cheetham-Stabb, but on the other hand I wasn’t surprised. I mean, why else would he think of us all as “his” wives?

When I got up at lunchtime, I phoned Peter. He’d seen the piece.

“Poor guy,” he said. “Did he make any advances to you?”

“I’m sorry to say that he didn’t.”

“Oh, how disappointing, darling, never mind. But Faith,” he said, “have you checked that he’s
definitely
cancelled the application for the decree absolute?”

“I’m sure he would have done it,” I said. “He’s very efficient.”

“That may be, but I think you should call his assistant and make sure.”

“OK,” I said. “I’ll do it now.” So I phoned Rory Cheetham-Stabb’s secretary. She said that Cheetham-Stabb was out.

“He’s having rather a—busy day,” she explained tactfully.

“Of course,” I said. So I asked if there was anyone else who could help, and she explained that there was another solicitor who knew about my case, but he’d just gone to lunch.

“You see,” I said, “I just want to check that Mr Cheetham-Stabb carried out my instructions about my decree absolute.”

“Well, I’m sure he would have done,” she said. “But I’m afraid the only person who can help you is Mr Blake, and he won’t be back until half past two.” So I took Graham for a walk, then did some tidying up. I put the rest of Peter’s clothes back into our wardrobe, and hung up his coat in the hall. I filled the dishwasher and put in the last of the Finish rinse aid I’d won twelve months before. And now I took our wedding photo out of the drawer, polished it, and put it back in its old place. And I made a mental note to get Lily’s lovely sunburst mirror repaired. The sun had come back into our lives, I realized. It was shining for us again. By now it was two thirty, so I telephoned Mr Blake.

“You see, I’ve been reconciled with my husband,” I explained. “So three days ago I left a message for Mr Cheetham-Stabb asking him to cancel the application for the decree absolute which I imagine must be coming up quite soon.”

“Let me see when it was due. Your decree nisi was pronounced on November the twenty-second,” he explained, “so six weeks and one day from then—plus three public holidays—brings us up to January the…sixth.”

“January the sixth?” I repeated. “But that’s today.”

“Er, yes,” he said. “That’s right.”

“Well then, obviously I really need to make sure that Mr Cheetham-Stabb has stopped the decree absolute. That’s what I’m ringing to check.” I heard the rustle of papers as Mr Blake went through the file.

“To be honest, I can’t see a note here saying that he has done that. In fact, looking at the documents I’m fairly sure that he hasn’t.”

“What?”

“The answer is no.”

“He hasn’t done it?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs Smith.”

“But I don’t understand,” I said weakly. “I left a message on his voice-mail three days ago instructing him to cancel the application straight away.”

“Well, I’m awfully sorry Mrs Smith, but it looks as though that hasn’t happened. It’s very,
very
unusual for anyone to cancel a decree absolute, and in any case Mr Cheetham-Stabb has had rather a lot on his plate.”

“Yes,” I said, “I know. But this was incredibly
important,
” I added. “You see my husband and I no longer want to get divorced.”

“Well, I’m awfully sorry,” he repeated as I began to panic. “But the application has already gone through. It was lodged with the court this morning.”

“Then we must get it stopped.”

“But we can’t. You see they process them very quickly. I’m afraid your divorce will be stamped decree absolute by the end of today.”

“But I don’t
want
that,” I insisted desperately. “I don’t
want
to get divorced!”

“Well, I regret to say it’s too late.”

“Too late? No! It can’t be! Let me tell you, I’ve been married for a very long time, Mr Blake, and I intend to stay that way.”

“Look,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t wish to be unhelpful, but there’s absolutely nothing you can do.”

“But I—”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Smith. I really am. You’ll have to take this up with Mr Cheetham-Stabb, when he’s back, but I have to go to a meeting now.”

I clutched the phone as the line went dead, staring wildly into space. Oh, God, oh
God
. We didn’t
want
to get divorced. We wanted to stay married for the rest of our lives. I phoned Peter and told him the news.

“Oh fuck!” he said. “This is a disaster! I’ll sue Cheetham-Stabb for misconduct, too.”

“But what are we going to
do,
Peter?” I wailed. “Our divorce goes through today.”

“Phone Karen,” he said. “Ask her. She’s always given us good advice.” So I rang her.

“How awful,” she said. “Cheetham-Stabb should have done it straight away. Especially as he knew the decree absolute was imminent.”

“Mr Blake said there was nothing we could do,” I explained as tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I glanced at our wedding photo. The minutes were ticking away.

“There is
one
thing you can try,” she said, “as a last resort. You could go to First Avenue House.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the building which houses the Principal Registry in which all the divorce papers are stamped. It’s a long shot,” she added ruefully, “but on the other hand you’ve got nothing to lose. It’s at forty-two High Holborn,” she said. “Go there right now, ask one of the clerks to dig out your file, and maybe, with luck, it won’t have been stamped. But you’ll have to hurry,” she urged me, “because the building closes at half past four.” I looked at the clock—oh God, oh
God
—it was already five to three. I thanked her and phoned Peter back.

“Can you get there now?” I asked Peter.

“No—I’m in a meeting from three until four.”

“You’ll have to cancel it, this is urgent.”

“Impossible—it’s with the chairman, Jack Price. But I can leave straight after that,” he added. “You’d better get a taxi,” he said.

“I can’t risk getting stuck in heavy traffic, I’ll get the tube. Meet me at Chancery Lane underground at ten past four.” I ran out of the house, adrenaline pumped and overwrought. Luckily a train came within two minutes, but every time it stopped in a tunnel, I’d panic and look at my watch. By three forty I was at Victoria, by three fifty at Oxford Circus. But I’d forgotten how long the interchange was from the Victoria to the Central line. And of course the crowds were heaving, and of
course
the escalators were down. So by the time I got to Chancery Lane tube it was four fifteen. Peter was standing there, looking distressed.

“Come on!” he said. “I think it’s this way.” So we turned left and passed the red-bricked Prudential building and headed towards St Giles. I couldn’t find number forty-two anywhere, it was almost dark, but then I spotted number two hundred and thirty-six.

“Peter, this is wrong!” I said. “The numbers are too high. It must be the other way.” So we sped back towards the tube, half walking, half running down the street. We passed United House, and Rymans, and the arched entrance to Gray’s Inn. And here was Alliance House, but we couldn’t see number forty-two. So we suddenly stopped, in case it was on the other side of the road.

“Excuse me…” I turned. Looking at me enquiringly was an elderly woman. She must have been eighty or more. She was tiny, white-haired and slightly bent, and she was gazing at me with a slightly confused smile.

“Excuse me,” she said again. “But don’t I
know
you?”

“No, I—”

“You look so familiar, I’m sure I
do
.”

“No honestly, you don’t and in fact I’m in a real hurry, you see…”

“Oh, I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. “You’re that girl on the TV!” I sighed and nodded. “Well, I just want to say…” I braced myself for her to tell me how useless I was, like that chap who’d spotted me in Tesco’s that time. “I just want to say how much I
like
you,” she went on. “You really make my day. Yes, you really make my day,” she repeated happily as she laid her frail hand on my arm. I looked at it; beneath the papery skin I could see a delta of pale blue veins. “Yes,” she repeated beatifically, “your lovely weather forecasts really cheer me up.”

“Well, that’s terribly nice of you,” I said, “but I’m afraid I can’t chat, you see—”

“And you know, you’ve especially cheered me up recently because my husband died three weeks ago.”

“Oh.”

“Well, we’re sorry,” said Peter. “That’s awfully sad.”

“Yes, it was sad,” she said. “It was very sad, and…” There were tears standing in her eyes. “We were married for sixty years,” she explained. “We got married at twenty, you see. It’s not like today.” She was removing a paper hankie from her sleeve. “Everyone gets married so
late
. Sixty years,” she repeated wistfully as she pressed the tissue to her eyes.

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “But you see we—”

“And do you know what the secret is?” I shook my head. “It’s love. I always told my husband how much I loved him. Every day I’d say to him, ‘I love you, Harry. I’ll always love you.’ And do you know, I always did. I hope you don’t mind me telling you that,” she added, “but it’s just that I feel I know you, in a way.”

“Oh no, I don’t mind at all,” I said as I felt my throat begin to ache. “And I’m so sorry you’ve been bereaved, but the thing is—”

“Are you two married?”

“Yes,” said Peter. She nodded.

“I thought so. You look like you’re in love.” I smiled.

“We are,” Peter said. “But you see we’ve just got to dash to First Avenue House by four thirty otherwise we’ll be getting divorced, so I don’t want you to think us rude, but I’m afraid we’ve got to go.”

“Oh, I understand,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you. Don’t let me keep you, my dears. Good luck,” she added. “It’s made my day. Meeting you. I hope you have sixty years together as well.” Now as we turned away from her and began to run down the street, we saw the building at last.

“
There
it is!” I said. “There it is! Come on!” At that precise moment we heard two deep, sonorous chimes from above. We went on, as if to our execution, aware that the half-hour had struck. And now, here we were, standing outside First Avenue House. The massive oak doors were shut.

“We’ve missed it,” I murmured. Peter nodded. “We’re too late, Peter. We’re too late. We’re
divorced,
” I added, shaking my head. “We never meant this to happen.”

“No.”

“We’re divorced,” I repeated tearfully as we stood there in impotent despair. Peter looked at me; his face was grey.

“Oh Christ,” he whispered. And now a terrible gloom descended upon us as we turned and walked back the way we’d come. Silence gripped us for a minute. Then Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a red envelope.

“It’s an anniversary card,” he said bleakly. “Perhaps it’s not appropriate now. We’re divorced,” he added, disbelievingly. He looked as traumatised as I felt. “But on the other hand,” he went on as he put his arm round my shoulder, “on the other hand, we’re not splitting up. Yes, we may, technically, be divorced, Faith, but we’re still together.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. We are.”

“In fact, we’ve never been
more
together, have we?”

“No,” I said, “we haven’t.”

“And I mean, what is marriage, anyway,” he added expansively, “but a piece of paper?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, loads of people live together.”

“That’s true.”

“So we can just cohabit, darling, can’t we?”

“Yes,” I sniffed. “We can.” By now I was starting to cheer up a little as we strolled down the street. And above us, rising into the inky sky was a perfect, silver full moon. What was it Lily’s horoscope had predicted? That by the time of the January full moon I’d discover why one particular person held an undying appeal. And that toe-reading woman had told me that I would definitely get divorced. And now I had.

“We’ll cohabit, darling,” Peter repeated as his arm went round my waist. “But, then again, you know what we
could
do?” he continued cheerfully.

“No. What’s that?”

“Well, it’s obvious. We could get married again.”