Out of the Blue (16 page)

“She gave you these, didn’t she?” I said.

“Yes,” he said guiltily. “She did.”

“You shouldn’t have accepted them,” I pointed out.

“No,” he agreed, “you’re right.”

Soon we’d filled two cases, and the spare room in which he’d been sleeping was bare, the wire coat-hangers clinking gently against each other in the slight breeze. While we packed, Graham lay on the bed, his head between his paws, his eyebrows twitching anxiously up and down. Then Peter went into the kitchen and made a last cup of coffee while he waited for his cab to arrive. I sat down with him, and through the open door I could see his luggage standing in the hall. This is unbelievable, I thought. This is surreal. But this is what happens to a hundred and fifty thousand couples every year.

“I’ll tell the children at the weekend,” I said. I was dreading how they would react. “You can spend as much time with them as you like—and with Graham. But I don’t want them meeting Andie, OK?”

“Look, I don’t even know if I’ll be seeing her,” he said as Graham laid his head on his lap. “Oh God, Faith,” he said, “oh God.” He reached across the table and grabbed my hands in both of his. “This is a mess,” he went on miserably. “Please, please—change your mind.” At that point, feeling the pressure of his hands upon mine, seeing tears standing in his brown eyes, and catching the sharp note of painful appeal in his voice, I almost did. We seemed to stare at each other across a deep chasm, but I knew there was no bridge. And now we heard the sudden urgent honking of a car. Peter went to the door, shouted something, then carried one of the cases outside. And I was about to run after him down the path and say, “I’m sorry—I’ve changed my mind! I’ve made such a stupid mistake. But you see I couldn’t cope with my feelings and I didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted to show you how much you’d hurt me, and I needed to hurt you back, but I think I’ve hurt you enough now, so please Peter, please Peter, don’t go!” And I’d actually got to my feet and I was about to run outside when his mobile phone suddenly rang out. He’d left it on the table. It was playing “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow”. I looked at the tiny screen where, to my great surprise, two small intertwined hearts had appeared and were pulsing in time to the music. Then a red light flashed on as a message was left, and I knew who that message was from. Peter had come into the house to collect his other case, and as he went back out, with Graham following forlornly at his heels, I pressed the button marked “Play”.

“Sweetie,” I heard Andie Metzler say. “Hope you’re OK. Can’t wait to see you. Come round later. I’ll have champagne on ice. Love ya! Bye!”

“Faith…” Peter said as he stood on the step. “Faith…I…”

“Goodbye, Peter,” I said, very simply. And then I shut the door.

* * *

Some women fight for their man, don’t they? If they have a rival, their fists go up, their claws come out, and they hit back with everything they’ve got. They defend their territory as ferociously as Mrs Thatcher defending the Falklands. But I’m not one of those women. I knew that now. Because when I heard Andie’s message I wasn’t roused into battle—I was demoralized beyond belief. And, as I listened to her voice I was aware of a profound physiological change: that my heart rate had trebled, that my breath was coming in ragged little gasps and that goosebumps covered my arms. Hearing her call him “Sweetie” was like a knife to the heart. The insolent intimacy of “Love ya!”. The thought of the chilling champagne in her bedroom conjured images that made my stomach churn. Yet, masochistically, I indulged them. I visualised Andie in her La Perla, slowly undressing Peter. I saw her rubbing a piece of ice over his chest. I imagined her manicured hands stroking his sandy hair. I imagined her kissing him, and pulling him down. As I imagined them making love, I could almost hear her groans and sighs. And now I imagined myself, storming into her bedroom with my biggest Sabatier and plunging it into her heart. My loathing for her was so primitive, so violent, that I was profoundly shocked. I had never believed myself capable of such savage hatred, but now I knew that I was. Peter’s affair had shown me a dark part of myself I had never known was there. But Peter belonged to
me,
I reasoned. He was my husband of fifteen years. And this wretched,
wretched
woman had come into our lives and was going to take him away. So, naturally, I wanted to kill her. But I knew I wouldn’t. I’d deal with the crisis in my own way. For I knew, too, that my pride would prevent me from fighting for Peter to stay. In any case, it’s too risky. I mean, look at Della Bovey—feisty Della—poor girl. The girl who bravely struck back against Anthea Turner, but who won only a temporary reprieve. And I knew that Andie would get Peter, too. After all, she was a ruthless headhunter. Oh no, I wasn’t going to put up a fight.

“You’re quite right, darling,” said Lily as we arrived at the Mind Body Spirit festival in Greycoat Square at lunchtime the following day. “Too undignified, and too risky,” she added as we went up the steps. “The press would have a ball.”

“Why?” I said miserably. “Peter and I aren’t famous.”

“Well, you’re a little bit famous, Faith. Five million people watch you doing the weather every day. And then of course Peter’s on that Family Ethics Committee of his.”

“Oh yes, I’d forgotten that.”

“So it would be very embarrassing for him, personally, if there was anything in the papers about his divorce. Oh no,” she added as we showed the security guard our tickets, “it really wouldn’t look good at all—especially as Bishopsgate publish all those how-not-to-get-divorced books.”

“Do they?”

“Yes. That’s how they made their money. There’s a whole imprint devoted to them.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they’re always sending review copies to
Moi!.
No, a dignified retreat is much better, Faith, but it’s going to be hell for a while.”

“It’s hell right now,” I said weakly, feeling the familiar tightening in my throat. “It’s hell, Lily,” I whispered as I groped for a tissue. “I had no idea anything could hurt so much.”

“Don’t worry, Faith,” she said, giving my arm a comforting squeeze, “you’re my best, best friend, I love you, and I’m going to help you in every way I can. Now, you must have some therapies while you’re here.”

“Must I?” I said desolately as we made our way into the hall. I hadn’t even wanted to come to this thing, but Lily had persuaded me. There were so many people that we could only shuffle slowly between the stands. In the background we could hear the plangent hum of Tibetan initiation bowls; the smell of patchouli and sandalwood hung heavily on the air.

“Maybe you should have your aura cleansed,” she said thoughtfully. “Or perhaps you should get your biomagnetic field checked out—it’s brilliant for emotional stress. Anyway, you’ve done very well to stay married so long,” she added as we paused by the Paraguayan rainsticks. “You were trapped in holy wedlock without a key. You won’t see it like this yet,” she went on, “but this is a new beginning, Faith. A new start. The doors of life are opening at last.”

“They weren’t shut,” I retorted bleakly as we moved through the milling crowd. “I call being married and having children life!”

“Yes, but it’s not life as we know it, Faith. When I came back from the States last year I looked at you and I thought, Faith is in a time-warp. Still in the same, boring old rut—”

“I liked my rut—”

“Still in dull old suburbia.”

“I
am
suburban,” I said.

“But now you’re going to blossom and shine. You’re thirty-five, Faith. Halfway through life’s journey, but there’ve been some speed bumps on your bit of road. Believe me, darling,” she said cheerfully, “divorce is going to be the best thing that ever happened to you. What are you going to have?” she added. I hadn’t a clue. Should I have my karma healed, or become a cosmic thinker? Should I have an Ayurvedic face-lift, or discover the goddess within? We passed a stand selling rainbow crystals and Native American dream-catchers. To our right a recumbent woman was having the unlit end of a flaming candle inserted into her ear.

“They’re Hopi candles,” said Lily knowledgeably. “Jolly good for migraines. Did you know your ears are the gateway to your past lives?”

“DNA Restructuring!” announced a sign on the stand to my right. Intrigued, I stopped and looked.

“We restructure your DNA for you,” said a man helpfully.

“That’s fantastic,” I replied.

“It’s quite a simple procedure,” he explained. “What we do is, realign and restrand your chromosomes, thereby allowing you to regain your total connection to the God Force.” It sounded so radical I was rather tempted, but Lily grabbed my arm and dragged me away.

“Faith, don’t be so credulous,” she hissed. “Everyone knows that’s a load of tosh. Now, I’m just off to have my angels accessed,” she added. “I’ll see you back here in half an hour.”

“Toe-reading!” I heard a woman shout as Lily headed upstairs.
Let me tell you what your toes say about your personality,
announced a slogan on the stand.
Special limited offer today—only ten pounds! Accurate personality analysis and future prospects revealed
. Now, don’t ask me why, but somehow the idea appealed. So I paid the money, took off my shoes and rolled up the legs of my jeans.

“Ah, very interesting,” said the therapist as I sat back in the reclining chair and offered up my feet for her inspection. She looked at them through narrowed eyes as she began to prod and tweak. “Now, your toes are quite spaced out,” she said, “so this indicates an adventurous personality. You’ve obviously led an unconventional life. Is that true?”

“No,” I said, disappointed. “The opposite.”

“Oh. Well, these toes here are very impulsive,” she went on as she wiggled the third toe on my right foot. “They’re very spontaneous. Very Latin. You’re a slightly reckless kind of person, aren’t you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m very sensible and cautious.” Then she gave my big toe a squeeze.

“You’ve got very nice squashy big toes.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, they’re really big and
juicy,
which means you’ve got an artistic nature. You are very artistic, aren’t you? You’re brilliant at painting.”

“No,” I replied as my enthusiasm dwindled. “I’m useless
at it.”

“You’re very musical too, aren’t you?” she added desperately.

“Not in the least,” I said.

“You play the flute.”

“I don’t.”

“Grade six. With distinction.” She was talking tripe.

“You know, I don’t want to appear rude,” I said wearily, “but I think this is a waste of time.”

“Look,” she said guiltily as I reached for my shoes. “I’m quite new to toe-reading and my technique’s still a bit shaky. But I feel bad about taking your money, and I’m an amateur psychic, so would you like a free crystal ball reading instead?” This was clearly going to be a load of baloney as well, but as she wasn’t going to charge I agreed. So I put on my shoes, then sat there while she placed her hands on either side of a large crystal ball.

“You’re having
terrible
problems in your marriage,” she declared after a few seconds.

“Yes,” I said, startled. “That’s true.”

“After a long period of domestic stability your life is undergoing radical change. You’ve had a huge emotional shock,” she added.

“Yes. Yes I have.”

“Your husband’s confessed to an affair.”

“That’s true.”

“But it’s his first one, and he feels very bad about it. He’s confused and unsure what to do.”

“My God,” I breathed, “that’s
right
. But what’s going to happen?” I asked her desperately. “Please tell me what the future holds?”

“Well, you’re going to get divorced,” she said quietly. At that I felt a shiver run down my spine. “But you
will
be happy again,” she added. “And sooner than you think. You’re going to come through this difficult time,” she concluded. “God will heal your pain.” God will heal my pain?

“Fa-aith!” It was Lily. She looked enraptured as she rushed up to me. “Oh Faith, I saw so many angels!” she said excitedly as she dragged me away. “I saw the fantastic light of the angelic chorus. I was sort of engulfed in it. It was just like, really, really white. And what was so wonderful was that the angels took all my problems away.”

“Did they?”

“Yes, they ascended to heaven with them. All my worries about our cover price and subscription rates. The seraphim and cherubim just took them
all
away. And the Archangel Michael told me that I’m definitely going to beat
Vogue
in the circulation stakes. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“It’s incredible,” I said.

“And what did you have?”

“Toe-reading.”

“Any good?”

“No. But then I had a crystal ball reading, and that was very accurate. But the woman said I’m going to be OK. She said that God will heal my pain, Lily. But I don’t know how.”

“God will heal your pain?” she repeated thoughtfully. “Well, that can mean only one thing, Faith—you’re going to meet someone else!”

“Don’t be silly, Lily,” I groaned, “it’s much too soon. Look, I’m not even divorced.”

“Yes, but Peter’s not divorced either, is he,” she said, “and he’s got someone else.” And when Lily said that I felt a pain in my chest as though someone had stamped on my heart. “Peter’s got someone else,” she repeated softly, “so why on earth shouldn’t
you?
”

“You’re going too fast,” I muttered tetchily. “I can’t think that far ahead.”

“Well, darling,” said Lily, “you mustn’t let the grass grow under your feet. So there’s only one thing for it. You’ve got to get out there again.”

“I wouldn’t know how to ‘get out there’,” I said with a grim little laugh. “I’ve never been ‘out there’ as you like to say.”

“Mmm,” she said. “That’s true. I can’t imagine you chatting anyone up.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” I said.

“Really?”

“No. Of course not,” I said indignantly.

“Why not?”

“Well, I suppose I’d want
them
to chat up
me
.”