Out of the Blue (18 page)

“Oh. Gosh,” I said, impressed. So of course I asked him what he’d been doing there, and he said he’d been lobbying some Labour MP. Then he told me some more about his organization Start Again, which exists to pressurize governments into giving up their nuclear arms. Suddenly he opened his bag and produced a thick, A4-sized document.

“This is our annual report,” he said. “It’s for you.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised, “thanks.”

“I want you to read it.”

“Er, well, sure.” I flicked it open and on the inside front cover was a large photo of Stan, looking very serious.
Stanley Plunkett, Founder-Director,
it announced. Founder-director! Wow!

“What an interesting job,” I said.

“It’s more than interesting,” he said seriously as the waiter arrived. “It’s vital. It’s essential. Because the world could blow up at any time. Oh, a bottle of Chilean chardonnay, please. Don’t you ever worry about global security?” he said to me.

“To be honest, I don’t think I do.”

“Well you should, Faith,” he said emphatically, “because the fact is the world is
very
unsafe.”

“Is it? Oh dear. I thought the Cold War was over.”

“It is,” he said, “but the nuclear threat is much greater now than it was then. In fact,” he went on confidentially as he dipped his ciabatta in olive oil, “we’re on the brink of Armageddon.”

“Oh, no.” He nodded his head with a regretful air.

“It could happen at any time, Faith. Most of the world’s nuclear submarines are on twenty-four-hour, hair-trigger alert, so all it would take is one false move.” And then he carried on talking, non-stop, about nuclear warfare for the next forty-five minutes. “Cruise and Pershing…ballistic missile defenses…Warsaw Pact…Pakistan’s a real menace of course…threat to Taiwan…Start 2 Treaty…Vladimir Putin…Polaris. Do you know, there are thousands of old SS24s knocking about,” he went on knowledgeably. “And of course Britain is still expanding its nuclear capability with its ongoing commitment to Trident.” He leaned forward. “Did you know that each Trident warhead can cause
eight times
as much destruction as
one
Hiroshima bomb?” By now I was beginning to feel depressed. “Quite frankly,” he said crossly, “Trident makes a mockery of Britain’s supposed commitment to non-proliferation.”

“Oh dear.”

“I want Britain to give up Trident!” he announced, giving the table a thump.

“I see.”

“That’s what I’m trying to achieve—a world without nuclear arms.”

“Well, that would be nice.”

“I can’t sleep, Faith,” he went on with missionary zeal, “knowing that those weapons of mass destruction are—
out
there.” I discreetly stifled a yawn. Suddenly he reached into his bag again and produced four A3-sized sheets of paper. They were copies of assorted newspaper articles he’d written.

“These are for you too,” he said.

“Oh, well, thanks very much,” I replied. I glanced at them briefly, then put them in my bag. There was a sudden lull in the conversation, and I thought at last he’d ask me something about myself. But he didn’t. He simply poured us both another drink, then started talking about a recent trip to Washington.

“I was at a press conference in the State Defense department,” he explained. “And you know, it was
very
funny, Faith—” he gave a faux-modest little laugh “—because the press secretary suddenly said, ‘But we want to know what Stan Plunkett thinks about this issue!’”

“Gosh. Well—wow!” I said. He shook his head and grinned. And as he rattled on again I looked at him across the table and thought, he isn’t attractive at all. I could see now that his jaw receded badly, and that when he smiled he had three or four chins. He had thin lips too, and small, yellowing teeth, and he talked in this excitable kind of way. He was as boring as hell, I thought crossly. And he wasn’t even that bright. Yet he was so boastful—he talked only about himself. Peter had never bored on about his career. He’d always been so modest about what he’d achieved. He’d think this guy was a plonker, I thought as he rattled away. I realized now that this was the only reason he’d asked me out. I was no more than a human mirror in which he could admire his heroic reflection. I glanced discreetly at my watch and saw that it was nearly nine.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to go now,” I said. “I have an appointment with my pillow. But it was great to meet you,” I added with hypocritical politeness. “Good luck with saving the world!” Then I went home and dropped his report, and his articles, into the bin.

* * *

“What a bore!” said Lily when I phoned to tell her about my date.

“He seemed to have a Superman complex,” I said. “I half expected him to dash into a phonebox and emerge wearing pants over his tights.”

“What an egomaniac!” she said contemptuously. “And as though anyone’s going to be impressed, when these days the nuclear threat is, quite frankly,
vieux chapeau
. Mind you…” she went on suddenly. “Maybe…yes…maybe it’s due for a revival!”

“What?”

“Yes,” she said. “It is. I’ve just hit on something—the Cold War is due for a comeback.
Moi!
should do a special. Yes,” she said animatedly, “we could call it
Nucleaire,
or rather,
New-Cleaire
. We could do fashion shoots with those lovely Russian greatcoats and Brezhnev hats,” she went on enthusiastically, “and of course those absolutely
fabulous
furs. We could get it sponsored by La Maison de la Fausse Fourrure,” she went on excitedly. “We could do an interior design section on converted bunkers—”

“Lily—”

“And we could have a competition to win a cruise. We’ll do it in November. What a
brilliant
idea, Faith. I’d never have thought of it without you. But, Faith darling,” she added carefully, “you really mustn’t date second-rate creeps like that again. Now, have you got anyone else lined up?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t.”

“What about that man you two-fingered in the Brompton Road? Now, he
really
liked you,” she said.

“Well, I didn’t like him,” I replied, as I absent-mindedly opened my bag and took out his business card.

“I thought he was rather tasty,” she added. “I think you should give him a chance.”

“I have absolutely, categorically, not the slightest intention of doing so at all whatso
ever,
” I said as I read his name again. Josiah Cartwright, I mused as I put the phone down. Josiah—that’s unusual these days. So, just out of curiosity, I reached down that book about names and looked it up. And when I saw what it meant I caught my breath and felt the hairs rise up on the back of my neck. Josiah is a Hebrew name, I read, meaning “God heals”. God heals? God
heals
. My pulse was suddenly racing and my skin was covered in tiny bumps. “God will heal your pain,” the psychic had said to me. “God will heal your pain.” This was a
sign
. That’s what it was—a sign! It was a sign that I was meant to move on. I looked at the card again, read the address and telephone number, then went straight to the phone and dialled. It rang twice, then picked up and I heard this rather nice voice: “I’m very sorry I’m not here,” it said, “but
please
do leave me a message after the beeps, and I absolutely
promise
I’ll ring you straight back.” He sounded so straightforward, and normal, and kind. I blushed to think of how I’d screamed at him. And now I heard the tone beeping quite a few times—lots of messages—then it suddenly stopped and I spoke.

“Look,” I said, “I know this will sound funny. But a week ago you gave me your card—we were at traffic lights in the Brompton Road. And I wasn’t very polite to you. In fact I was extremely rude—you see I was a bit taken aback. Erm, my name’s Faith, by the way. Anyway, as I say, I know this probably sounds very silly, and you probably think I’m an awful woman, but if you wanted to give me a ring sometime, well, that would be fine.” Then I read out my phone number and hung up.

Within twenty-four hours I was regretting my spontaneity with all my heart. I hadn’t heard back. Not that day. Or the next. Or the next. “I’m a fool,” I said to myself between weather forecasts as I sat at my desk at work. I was in agonies of insecurity, mingled with a kind of shame. “What a stupid, naïve thing to do,” I breathed as I began to flick through the
Independent
. “I have given a totally strange man my home telephone number—I must be absolutely round the twist. But then it’s hardly surprising,” I told myself as I turned the pages of the newspaper. “After all, I’m in the middle of a major marital crisis so I feel vulnerable and obviously I’m not thinking straight, and I—” My heart stopped dead in its tracks. Oh God. Oh God. This was beyond mere coincidence. This was
spooky
. I had entered the Twilight Zone. For now I found myself staring at a large black-and-white photo captioned
Josiah Cartwright
. I was so shocked my contact lenses nearly fell out. There was an interview with him, on the arts pages, headlined, “Cartwright Brings Magic to the Royal Exchange”. I could hear my heart drumming as my eyes devoured the page.
Stunning design for
The Tempest…
Cartwright’s striking visual imagination…dense, rich, surrealist…hottest young designer of his day
.

The piece explained that he was thirty-seven, born in Coventry, studied at the Slade, and that in addition to being an accomplished fine artist, he was much in demand in the theater. In the photo he looked casually handsome, wearing a sports jacket and open shirt. His hair was dark blond and fairly long, and he had large, expressive grey eyes. He was smiling sheepishly at the camera, as though slightly surprised by the attention.
I guess I’ve been very lucky…
he was quoted as saying.
I’m passionate about what I do… The director’s wishes always come first,
he added. Oh,
that
was a nice thing to say. He was also generous about other designers.
Carl Toms was a genius…’m a huge admirer of William Dudley. Stephanos Lazaridis’ work is just wonderful.
I thought that that was great. I photocopied the article and tucked it into my bag, feeling more than a little disturbed. Then I went back down to the studio and forced myself to concentrate, trying to ignore, as usual, Terry’s persecution of Sophie. Darryl really ought to put his foot down, but he never does. Today Terry hijacked another of her interviews and criticized her, yet again, on screen. Then a news item went down, so I had to fill, and the white-water rafting Labrador was late. And Iqbal needed jollying along because he’s having trouble with his boyfriend, Will, so it was a pretty stressful morning all in all, which enabled me to banish Josiah from my mind.

By the time we came off air I was glad to get home and rest. I went to bed, knowing now that he wouldn’t ring. When I woke at one, I mooched around the house in my nightie, feeling mournful again about Peter and gazing at things he’d left behind. There were two old sports jackets hanging in the hall—I inhaled their familiar musty smell. Beneath them were his gumboots—he takes a size ten—I put my foot in one. The house still reverberated with his presence. I kept imagining him coming through the door. I’d think of things during the day that I wanted to tell him, and then remember that he wasn’t here. I felt hollow and empty—not just bereft, but
bereaved
—it was almost as though he was dead. To distract myself from my bleakness I watched some cretinous daytime show. As I sat there gawping at the screen I absent-mindedly put my hand down the side of the sofa, felt something soft, and up came one of his socks. And now, as I held it in both hands, I felt my eyes brim with tears. The dynamic of our marriage had been changed for ever, and we would never get back what we’d had. My mother always says that action is the best antidote to despair, so I forced myself to get dressed and I went into the garden to do a little hard pruning. And as I clipped away at the clematis and the ceanothus I gave myself a good talking to. I am going to recover from this, I vowed. I am going to endure the pain. I have made the right decision to end our marriage, but before long I
will
move on. After all, I told myself, I have a lot of life still to live. Now, feeling stronger and more cheerful I planted the Stargazer lilies, while Graham did his Sphinx impression on the lawn. And as I stood back to admire my work, the phone suddenly rang out.

“Is that Faith?” said a cultivated male voice.

“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

“Well.” He began to laugh. “I, er… Well…” he tried again. By now my cheeks felt warm and I was smiling, too. “Look,” he said, “oh dear, this is a bit difficult, but, well, it’s Josiah Cartwright here.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know it’s you. Hello!” I said with a laugh.

“Hello,” he chuckled back. “I’ve just got your message, Faith. Of
course
I remember. How could I forget? And yes…I’d
love
to meet up!”

April

I hardly ever go to church. Perhaps I’m making up for all those years of going to Mass every day at St Bede’s. Oh yes, we had masses of Masses—enough to last for the rest of our lives. But though I’m more or less lapsed these days, I can never quite give it up. Once a Catholic, they say, and it’s true. Though I haven’t been to confession for over ten years; I’m not really sure what I’d say. When I was young, I rather enjoyed it. I liked coming out of that little wooden box feeling spiritually squeaky clean. The nuns taught us that our souls were like pure white shirts which got besmirched with daily wear. They explained that venial sins made little spots—like felt-tip, or fried egg or tea. But mortal sins, they said, made nasty big stains, like ketchup or black paint, or oil. They said that going to confession was just like putting our souls in the washing machine. And when Lily asked which cycle they should go on—sixty degrees or forty—they made her write out “I will not be facetious” two hundred times. But the rest of us believed that after confession our souls would be shiny and new. I still like to think that it’s true. Sometimes I’m tempted to do something really sinful, then confess just to have that smug feeling of being absolved. But no, I’m not a great Catholic. As I say, I rarely go to Mass, but at Christmas and at Easter, I do. And as Peter was having the children and Graham for Easter Day, I phoned Lily to see if she’d come.

“We could go to Westminster Cathedral,” I suggested.

“Thanks but no thanks,” she replied, “I’ve already booked to go to Holy Trinity Brompton.”

“That’s C of E,” I said, surprised.

“Ye-es,” she replied judiciously. “But I think I’m an Anglican waiting to happen.”

“I know the real reason,” I added with a knowing laugh. “You think there’ll be some nice men there.”

“Faith!” She sounded shocked. “What a suspicious creature you are these days. Mind you,” she added, audibly drawing on a cheroot, “there is
rather
a tasty vicar. But the point is they’ve got a very nice crèche there where I can leave Jennifer Aniston.”

So on Easter Sunday I went to church alone. I decided to go to my local one, St Edward’s, in the Chiswick High Road. At ten thirty I sat there in a pew halfway down on the right, inhaling the pungent but familiar Catholic aroma of incense and beeswax and dust. I looked at the huge crucifix, and the statuary, and at the flames of the votive candles bending in the breeze. And I began to think about what had happened to me in the past three months.

“Lord have mercy,” said the priest. I mean, in January I was a perfectly happily married woman.
Christ have mercy
. Three months on I find I’m a betrayed wife, several steps down the road to divorce.
Lord have mercy
. With my husband residing elsewhere.
Let us pray
. As we bowed our heads to ponder the miracle of the Resurrection, I wondered if my marriage could be resurrected, though I still didn’t think that it could. Because Andie was somehow
there
now, in our marriage, making it, to quote, “a bit crowded”. In any case, the toe-reading psychic had told me that I would definitely get divorced. What a mess it all was. What a mess. I forced myself to concentrate on the service as we stood up to say the Creed.

We believe in one God…
I mean, what’s the point of going to church if you’re just going to think about other things?
The Father, the Almighty
… Though I found myself wondering how often Peter sees that American cow.
Maker of heaven and earth…
I never ask him because quite frankly I don’t want to know.
Of all that is, seen and unseen
… But one thing’s for sure—if he is seeing her, then
I’m
entitled to see people too.
We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God…
And I thought about how much I was looking forward to seeing Josiah.
Eternally begotten of the father
. He’s working in Manchester at the moment.
God from God, Light from Light…
Which is why he didn’t return my call…
True God from true God…
But then he heard my message on his answerphone and phoned me up from there.
Of one being with the Father…
I know—amazing!
And through him all things were made
. He obviously makes brilliant sets.
For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven…
He’s heavenly looking.
And was made man…
Yes, he’s a
very
attractive man.
For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate
. Wonder if he’s ever been married?
He suffered death and was buried
. Probably has.
Together with the Father
… Wonder if he’s got any kids?
He is worshipped and glorified
. I bet he’d be a
great
dad.
We believe in one Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church…
He’s got such lovely grey eyes.
We profess one baptism for the remission of sins…
Gorgeous smile, too.
We look for the resurrection of the dead…
I feel
so
much better since he phoned me.
And the life of the world to come
. Ah. Men.

“And now a reading from the Old Testament,” the priest continued as we all sat down. Suddenly I sat bolt upright. I couldn’t believe my ears—it was all about Josiah.

“Josiah reigned thirty-one years in Jerusalem,” said the reader. This is another sign, I thought breathlessly as I sat forward on the edge of my pew. “And Josiah did what was right in the eyes of the Lord… And he did not turn aside either to the right hand or to the left.” The passage was all about what a great king Josiah was, and about how he destroyed the idols and graven images that the Israelites had set up and about how he unfortunately had to slay quite a few people too. And in the sermon the priest took up this theme and explained that Josiah was a force for renewal, and how he turned people from spiritual infidelity to faithfulness. And I thought, God is
definitely
trying to tell me something here. I’d been the victim of infidelity, and now Josiah had arrived to heal my pain. But then, before Communion, as we all offered each other the Sign of Peace, I found my thoughts turning to Peter once more. “Peace be with you…” we said to each other. That’s what it’s like these days. I have this kind of Janus vision, in which I’m looking both forwards and back. “Peace be with you,” we all mumbled as we sheepishly shook hands. “Peace be with you.” Could our marriage be saved? I wondered. I don’t know. I don’t know.

By seven o’clock that evening I had a pretty good idea. The children had come back clutching smart carrier bags, inside which were the most enormous Easter eggs I’d ever seen. They were from Godiva and must have cost a bomb. Moreover Graham had a huge pack of Good Boy! doggy chocs.

“That was nice of Dad to buy you those,” I said as I began to prepare their supper.

“Oh, they’re not from Dad, Mum,” said Katie.

“Aren’t they?” I said, surprised.

“No,” said Matt as he pulled the velvet ribbon off his. “Andie gave them to us.”

“Andie?” I said. My mouth was so pinched I could hardly pronounce her name.

“Yes,” said Katie. “Andie. We met her today.”

“Oh!” I said viciously. “I
see!
And where, pray, did you meet her?”

“At Dad’s flat,” Matt explained. “If you think these eggs are good, Mum, then you should have seen the one she gave
him!
”

“At his flat?” I spat. The harlot was trying to corrupt my children. I had visions of her disporting herself semi-naked in front of the kids.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” said Katie. “They weren’t doing anything. She wasn’t even invited. She just dropped round to give us the goods.”

“Why would she do that if she’s never even met you before?”

“Because they’re sweeteners of course,” Katie explained with weary patience. “Bribes, if you prefer. It’s classic aspirant step-parental behavior,” she went on knowledgeably as she broke off a large chunk of chocolate. “Potential partners try to ingratiate themselves with their romantic target’s offspring in order to conquer their natural hostility and to gain acceptance. But don’t worry, Mum,” she added brightly, “it won’t cut any ice with Matt or me.”

“And it especially won’t cut any ice with Graham,” said Matt contemptuously. “She didn’t even give him
real
chocolate.”

* * *

“I will not have Andie having anything to do with the children!” I hissed as Peter and I arrived at Resolve three days later. It was in a tall, narrow, mid-house halfway down Wimpole Street. “Don’t you dare involve them again!”

“Hello, may I help you?” said the receptionist pleasantly as we stood by the desk.

“Look, she just turned up unexpectedly,” Peter explained wearily. “I didn’t know she was going to do that.”

“It’s bad enough that you’re seeing that…
bitch,
” I spat, “without dragging in the children—and Graham.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I didn’t drag them in,” he groaned.

“Exposing them to her like that!”

“She’s not a disease, you know.”

“Can I help you?”

“Allowing them to get emotionally confused.”

“They’re
not
confused,” he said.

“They bloody well are,” I lied. “They were…traumatised when they got home.”

“No they damn well weren’t!”

“What name is it, please?”

“I don’t like you seeing her,” I snarled.

“Why
shouldn’t
I see her?” he shot back. “After all, you’ve thrown me out.”

“OK. OK. That’s true. But why then, as you evidently
are
still seeing her, did you want me to come to Resolve? Mmm?”

“Because…because…oh, because I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said, running his left hand through his hair.

“Oh, I see,” I said sarcastically, “just hedging your bets, are you? Well, Peter, let me tell you right now that you can’t have your crumpet and eat it!”

“Er, sir, madam…”

“Yes, what
is
it?” we both snapped.

“May I take your names?”

“Oh. We’re Mr and Mrs Smith.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re here to try and save your marriage?”

“Correct.”

“Well, Ms Strindberg will see you in ten minutes,” she crooned, “so please take a seat next door.” The large waiting room was furnished with reproduction antiques and vases full of faded dried flowers. On the chairs arranged against the walls sat six couples, purse-lipped and hatchet-faced in an atmosphere of furtiveness and mild shame. To distract myself I flicked through the magazines, most of which were long out of date. There was the
Chat
magazine win-a-divorce issue, and the December issue of
Moi!.
I reached for
Marie Claire
and as I did so I suddenly looked up and—oh my
God
!—Samantha and Ed from number nine. Good Lord! I always thought they were the perfect couple, we’d been to their parties once or twice. I felt my face flush red. How embarrassing for them, I reflected, being spotted like that at Resolve! Samantha gave me a tight little smile which I returned with as much warmth as the situation would allow; and I was just wondering whether I should add, “Nice to see you,” or something of that kind when suddenly I heard voices. They were coming from the door to our left, marked “Ms Zillah Strindberg”. Inside, things were clearly hotting up. At first we could only catch certain words, “reconciliation…rubbish!…get over it…quite ridiculous!…try again…don’t bother!…” Oh dear, oh dear. The couple clearly weren’t getting on at all. And now, as everyone stiffened into silence, we could hear what they were saying quite distinctly.

“We’ve really been working it all out.”

“Oh yes?”

“And we’ve decided we don’t want to get divorced.”

“What?”

“Yes, we’ve decided to stay together,” said a male voice now.

“Well, I really don’t think you should.”

“No, really Ms Strindberg, we’ve taken a long, hard look at ourselves.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“And we’ve decided to make a go of it.”

“I’ve heard
that
before.”

“You see, we’d let the
little
issues get in the way.”

“They’re not that little, you know.”

“Of the larger fact?”

“What larger fact?”

“Well, that we’re still in love.”

“That’s got
nothing
to do with it!”

“So thanks very much for your help, but we’re going to stay together after all.”

“No, I’m sorry,” we heard Zillah Strindberg say, more stridently now, “but I think you
should
get divorced.”

“No, we really don’t want to.”

“Because it’s crystal clear to me…”

“Honestly, we’ve just decided.”

“That you’re
totally
incompatible.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No we’re not. We get on terribly well.”

“I’m sorry!” we heard her almost shout. “But I really
don’t
think you do. In fact I’m confident that you should split up.”

“But we don’t
want
to split up any more. We did. But now we don’t.”

“Look,” we heard her say, “in my view—” Suddenly the door flew open and the couple left at a brisk trot. Then Zillah Strindberg emerged looking visibly flustered, her bony cheeks flushed with red. She smoothed down her hair, consulted her clipboard, then delicately cleared her throat. “Mr and Mrs Smith, please,” she enunciated with a tight little smile. Peter and I looked at each other, and fled.

* * *

“There’s a really good band of rain coming in,” I said as I pressed the clicker on Monday.

“God, Faith’s lost a bit of weight. Ten…”

“So a rather dismal start to the day.”

“She looks almost shaggable these days. Eight…”

“If we take a look at the radar picture now.”

“You know why she’s thin, of course. Seven…”

“We can see those April showers pushing through.”