Out of the Blue (9 page)

“You deserve them,” he replied. Then another silence enveloped
us both. And in that silence I suddenly decided—don’t ask me why—to ignore what
the magazine advised.

“Don’t you normally buy your mother something for her
birthday?” I asked innocently as I put down my knife and fork.

“Oh Christ!” he slapped his forehead. “I completely
forgot.”

“Well, we all gave her that silver frame, don’t you remember,
and you did sign the card.”

“I know. But I usually send her some flowers or get her a box
of chocs. You know, something that’s just from me. I’m not remembering anything
at the moment, Faith,” he sighed as he picked up our plates. “I guess it’s all
the stress at work.”

“But you’re remembering…
some
things,” I suggested tentatively as I opened the freezer door.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said as I took out a box of ice-cream.
“To be honest, Pete, I was going to ask you.”

“Faith, what are you talking about?” he asked as he got down
two bowls.

“Well, nothing really,” I replied nonchalantly as I flipped
open the lid, “except that you seem to have remembered someone else
recently—someone I don’t know.”

“Faith,” he said edgily, “I haven’t got time for this. I’m very
tired. And I’ve got an excruciating evening ahead of me because I’ve got to
start the Amber Dane. So if you’ve got something to say to me, please would you
be direct?”

“OK,” I said, “I will.” I inhaled deeply, and then spoke.
“Peter,” I began, “I looked at our credit card bill today, and I found an entry
on it for some flowers. I knew they weren’t for your mother’s birthday, because
she told me you’d forgotten, so I just couldn’t help wondering who on earth they
were
for?” Peter took his ice-cream, then stared
at me as though I were mad.

“Flowers?” he said incredulously. “Flowers? I sent someone
flowers? Who would I have sent flowers to apart from you or my mum?”

“Well, that’s just what I was wondering,” I said as I put the
ice-cream away.

“When was this exactly?” he asked calmly as I got the chocolate
sauce. If he was lying, he was very convincing.

“December the eighteenth,” I replied.

“December the eighteenth? December the eighteenth…” He chewed
his lower lip thoughtfully, theatrically almost, then he suddenly said, “Clare
Barry.”

“Who?”

“She’s one of my authors. That’s who those flowers were for.
They were for her book launch, I always send her flowers.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “But—”

“But what?”

“But I thought you had a different credit card that you use
just for your work expenditure.”

“Yes, I do. It’s American Express.”

“But sending Clare Barry congratulatory flowers, well, that
would have been for work, wouldn’t it?”

“Ye-es.”

“So why would you have ordered flowers for one of your authors
using your personal credit card?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said irritably. “Maybe it was a simple
mistake. Or perhaps I mislaid my American Express card and was in a hurry, so I
used my other card instead. Does it really matter?” he said.

“No,” I said airily. “It doesn’t. I’m…satisfied.”

“Satisfied?” he said wonderingly. “
Satisfied?
Oh!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Oh! I get it. You think I’m
carrying on with someone.” I glanced at Graham. His shoulder muscles had
stiffened and his ears were down.

“Ooh, no, no, no, no,” I said. “No. Well, maybe.” I took a deep
breath. “Are you?”

“No I’m not,” he said with what struck me as a slightly
regretful air. “I’m not carrying on with anyone. That’s the truth. In any case,
Faith, don’t you think I’ve got enough to worry me right now without getting
involved with some chick?” Chick? “So please, will you give me a break?” A
break
?

“A break?” I repeated. Ah. “You want me to give you a
break?”

“Yes,” he replied firmly, “I
do
.
And I hope you believe me when I say that those flowers were for an author? Do
you believe me, Faith? Do you?”

“Yes. I believe you,” I lied.

February

“I’m getting good at this,” I said to Graham as I went through Peter’s clothes again this morning. You see I’m used to it now, so the second time wasn’t so bad. My heart wasn’t in my mouth as it had been when I’d done it the first time. My nerve endings didn’t feel as though they were attached to twitching wires. In fact I was quite business-like about it, and I told myself that I was perfectly entitled to go through my husband’s things.

“Other women do this all the time,” I said to Graham briskly. “In any case, I
need
to go through them to see if any of them want dry cleaning.” I found nothing untoward this time, except, well, one very odd thing actually—in his grey trouser pockets—a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I showed it to Graham and we exchanged a meaningful glance.

“I think I’ll go to the gym this evening,” Peter said when he got home. “I haven’t been for over a week.”

“Oh,” I said. And whereas before I’d have thought nothing of it and gaily waved him off, now I was instantly on the alert.
Why
did he want to go to the gym all of a sudden?
Who
was he meeting there? Perhaps he had a rendezvous. Right. Let’s nip this in the bud.

“Can I come too?” I asked. “I’d like to have a swim.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said, so we put on
Ready Steady Cook
for Graham, got our sports bags and left.

“Any news from Andy?” I enquired as we drove along.

“No,” he sighed, “not yet.” He changed up a gear.

“And did you manage to finish the Amber Dane?”

“Yes,” he said wearily. “At long last. Satire!” he expostulated again. “It’s not so much Juvenal as juven
ile
. I mean, why Charmaine wants to keep her on, I really don’t know. God, that woman gives me stress.”

“Is that why you’ve started smoking?” I asked innocently as we loitered at a red light.

“Sorry?”

“Is that why you’ve started smoking?” I repeated. I wanted to see how well he could lie.

“I don’t smoke,” he said indignantly. “You know that.”

“In that case, darling, why, when I emptied your grey trouser pockets at the dry cleaners today, did I find a packet of cigarettes?”

“Cigarettes?” he said. And I could see, even in the semi-darkness, that his face had flushed bright red. “What cigarettes?”

“Lucky Strike,” I replied.

“Oh. Oh. Those cigarettes,” he said as the car nosed forward again. “Yes, well, I didn’t want you to know this, but actually…I do smoke, just occasionally, when I’m stressed.”

“I’ve never seen you do it,” I said as the sign for the Hogarth Health Club came into view.

“Well, I didn’t think you’d approve,” he replied. “In any case, you’ve never seen me with serious stress before. But when I’m stressed, then just now and again, yes, I do like to have a quick fag.”

“Ah,” I said. “I see.” And then I suddenly remembered another thing that didn’t quite fit.

“You don’t like chewing gum, do you?” I asked as he parked the car.

“No,” he agreed. “I hate it.”

“So you’d never buy it, then?”

“No. Of course not. Why on earth would I?”

“Well, exactly,” I said.

“Look, Faith, I hope that’s the end of today’s inquisition,” he said as he pulled up the handbrake.

“No further questions,” I said with a grim little smile.

“And in future, Faith,” he added as he turned off the ignition, “I’d rather you didn’t go through my pockets. You’ve never done it before and I don’t want you to start now.” Of course he didn’t. Because then I’d find out for certain what at present I only suspected.

“Don’t worry,” I said breezily. “I won’t do it again.” When we got home at nine thirty I pretended I was going to bed, but instead I crept into Matt’s room to use his computer. I knew he wouldn’t mind. There was a pile of CD Roms on the chair, and dozens of computer games on the bed. He seemed to be in the middle of reorganizing his vast collection. I picked them up and looked at them—they’ve got the weirdest names:
Zombie Revenge, Strider, Super Pang
and
Chu-Chu Rocket
. Oh well, I thought, they keep him happy. Then I sat at his desk, turned on the computer and hit “Connect”. Eeeeeeeeeekkkk. Berddinnnnnggg. Chingggg. Bongggggg. Pingggggg. Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep. Blooooop. Krrrrrkkkkkkk. Krrrrrrkkkkkk. And I was in. I clicked onto Yahoo, did a search for the
www.IsHeCheating.com website
, then click, click, click… And there it was. As the page downloaded I quickly got the gist. It was one of these interactive sites. American. You could log on pseudonymously, e-mail your suspicions, and ask other people for advice. It was riveting to read. Sherry from Iowa was worried because she’d found a stocking in her husband’s car; Brandy from North Carolina was in despair because her boyfriend kept talking about a woman at work; and Chuck from Utah was upset because he’d intercepted his wife talking to her lover on the phone.

I’m almost certain he’s cheating,
said Sherry.
But although I want to know in one way, in another I don’t, because I’m scared of what I may find out.

Go with your guts, girl,
advised Mary-Ann from Maine.
A woman’s intuition is NEVER wrong.

Maybe it’s HIS stocking?
suggested Frank from New Jersey.
Maybe your husband’s a cross-dresser, and is too embarrassed to say.

Follow him to work,
said Cathy from Milwaukee.
But make sure you wear a wig.

I can’t. He’s a long-distance truck-driver,
Sherry had e-mailed back. I decided to log on as “Emily” because that’s my middle name.

I think my husband may be having an affair,
I typed.
Or it could just be that I’m paranoid and insecure. But he has been behaving strangely, and I’m not sure it’s all due to pressure at work. He’s a publisher,
I went on.
So he gets to meet all sorts of glamorous people in the book world. And though I know he’s never strayed before, I think he may be doing so now. Firstly, he ordered flowers for someone in December, using our joint credit card. And when I challenged him about this he claimed—not very convincingly—that they were congratulatory flowers for an author. Secondly, I’ve been finding some odd things in his pockets—chewing gum, which he hates; and today I found a packet of cigarettes. But in fifteen years of marriage I have never, ever, seen him smoke. So I simply don’t trust him in the way I’ve always done before. And it’s making me feel terrible, so I’d be grateful for your thoughts.

The next afternoon I phoned Lily. “I need your advice,” I said.

“Of course, darling,” she replied. “Whatever I can do to help.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s about Peter.”

“
Is
it?” she breathed. “Oh dear. What’s happened?”

I sat down on the hall chair. “I’ve found out a few things.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But I don’t know what they mean.”

“They probably mean
nothing,
” she said confidently. “But I’ll tell you what I think.”

“Right…” I began nervously. “He sent me flowers.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Mmm,” she added with a regretful sigh. “You know what they say about that.”

“Yes, but the thing is,” I said miserably, “that he sent someone else flowers, too.”

“No!” she gasped.

“He claims they were for an author, Lily, but I’m just not sure. And then…”

“Yes?”

“Oh Lily, I feel so disloyal telling you this,” I said as I twisted my wedding ring back and forth.

“Darling, you’re not being disloyal,” she said quietly. “All you’re doing is protecting yourself.”

“Protecting myself?”

“Yes. Because if it
is
serious—though I’m absolutely
sure
it’s not—you don’t want to be taken by surprise. So tell me, what else have you found?”

“Well…” I began again. And then stopped. “Oh God, I can’t go on, Lily. I feel so treacherous. I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you see, you’ve never had a husband.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Faith,” she said with a giggle. “You know perfectly well I’ve had
lots
. Now, what were you going to say?”

I heaved a huge sigh. “I’ve found some pretty strange things in his pockets. For example, a packet of chewing gum, but Lily, he
hates
the stuff. And yesterday I discovered a packet of Lucky Strike. But the point is, Peter doesn’t smoke.”

“Mmm. How very strange.”

“And then this morning when I got back from work I went through his pockets again…”

“Naturally…”

“And I found this note in his jacket.”

“A
note?
What does it say?”

“It says:
Peter, Jean has already phoned three times this morning and is absolutely desperate to talk to you,
desperate is underlined. Twice,” I added anxiously.

“Jean,” she said. “Well…that could mean nothing, really. It could be quite innocent.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes. I do. And if it
is
innocent—which I’m
quite
sure it is—then he’ll be perfectly happy to tell you exactly who this ‘Jean’ is. So my advice is to ask him outright, and watch how he reacts. Now, don’t worry about all this, Faith,” Lily added. “I’m praying for you, by the way.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“I said five Hail Marys for you last night and I chanted for twenty minutes, too.”

“Great.” Lily has a slightly promiscuous approach to religion.

“I also looked at your horoscope this morning,” she went on seriously. “There’s a lot of tension in your sign at the moment between Saturn and Mars, so this is leading to adverse celestial activity on the relationship front.”

“I see.”

“But you’re doing the right thing.”

“Am I? You know, Lily, I think I’d rather bury my head in the sand and let life jog along like before.”

“Well, of course, ignorance is bliss, they say. But…” She sighed.

“But I’ve got to see it through,” I concluded as Lily murmured her assent. “And now I’ve started it’s becoming an obsession. I feel I’ve just
got
to find out the truth.”

“Well, you’re going about it the right way,” she said encouragingly. “And although of course I don’t want to interfere, it seems to me that you’re sleuthing away quite nicely there. I mean, your investigations are getting results.”

“My investigations
are
going well,” I agreed, “but now I’ve got a bit stuck.”

“Well, Faith,” she added, softly, “privately I’d say that your detection work has been very good.” Privately? Detection? Eureka!

“I need a private detective,” I said.

* * *

“Have you seen this?” said Peter last night. He waved the
Guardian
at me. “It’s about AM-UK!”

“What? Oh, I missed it.”

“The TV critic’s had a go.” I looked at the piece. It was headlined ‘CEREAL KILLERS!’ Oh dear.
AM-UK! normally serves up a load of waffle for breakfast
, began Nancy Banks-Smith,
with the odd Poptart. But with the arrival of brilliant bluestocking Sophie Walsh, it’s a clear case of Frosties all round. The on-screen chemistry between “husband and wife” team Walsh and old-timer Doyle, is about as warm as liquid nitrogen. But young Sophie handles Doyle’s sadistic joshing with rare aplomb. His crude attempts to wrest back the limelight are mesmerising to watch. But it’s Sophie who’s winning this breakfast battle—so-fa.

“Gosh,” I said. “They’ve all noticed. Mind you, it’s impossible to miss.”

“It’s probably good for the ratings,” said Peter. “Maybe that’s why Terry does it.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“I’m going upstairs,” he went on, opening his briefcase. “I’ve got another manuscript to read.”

“Before you do that,” I said carefully, “please could you just tell me one thing?”

“If I can,” he said warily. I took a deep breath.

“Please could you tell me who Jean is.”

“Jean?
Jean?
” He looked totally confused. I was almost convinced.

“So you don’t know anyone called Jean, then?” I said.

“Jean?” he repeated with a frown.

“Yes, Jean. As in the girl’s name.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t.” I had no idea he was such a good actor. “Why do you want to know?”

“No particular reason,” I said. Peter gave me an odd look, then he snapped his briefcase shut and repeated, very slowly, “I do not know
anyone
called Jean.”

“OK.”

“But I know why you’re asking,” he added wearily. “And it’s really getting me down. Faith, I am not enjoying being the object of your crude and unfounded suspicions. So to allay them, I’m now going to tell you the names of all the women I
do
know.”

“Really, there’s no need,” I said.

“Oh, but I want to,” he went on, “because maybe that way you’ll actually believe me, and these constant inquisitions will stop. Because, to be honest, I’m at the end of my tether, with everything that’s going on at work. So I hope you don’t think me unreasonable, Faith, but I can’t cope with any hassle at home.”

“I’m not hassling you,” I said.

“Yes you are,” he shot back. “You’ve been hassling me for three weeks. You’ve never done it before, but—and I really don’t know why—you seem to have got this bee in your bonnet. So just to convince you, darling, that I’m not fooling around, I’m now going to list, from memory, all the women I know. Let’s see. Right, at work there’s Charmaine, Phillipa and Kate in Editorial, um, Daisy and Jo in Publicity; Rosanna, Flora, and Emma in Marketing, and Mary and Leanne in Sales. Now, I talk to these women on a regular basis, Faith, and I’m not involved with any of them.”

“OK, OK,” I said.

“Then of course there are all my women authors. There’s Clare Barry, to whom I sent flowers, Francesca Leigh and Lucy Watt; then there’s Janet Strong, J.L. Wyatt, Anna Jones, and um… Oh yes, Lorraine Liddel and Natalie Waugh.”

“I’m not interested,” I said in a bored sort of way.

“Who else?” he said, folding his arms and gazing at the ceiling for inspiration. “Well, there are a number of female literary agents with whom I converse on a regular basis. There’s Betsy and Valerie at Rogers, Green; Joanna and Sue at Blake Hart; Alice, Jane and Emma at A.P. Trott, and Celia at Ed McPhail.”