Out of the Blue (20 page)

“Marries her?”

“Exactly.” I thought I was going to throw up. “That way,” Cheetham-Stabb went on, “it gives her an additional hold over your husband. It means she can subtly put pressure on him to make things official whilst ensuring that his divorce stays firmly on track.”

“What a brilliant scheme,” I said wearily. “But then she set out to get Peter and she’s not going to stop at anything. She’s on probation herself,” I added, “and she knows it. She’s after a permanent contract, too. But how do you know all this about Bishopsgate?”

“Because Jack Price’s ex-wife is British—I did her divorce last year.”

“He’s divorced!”

“Oh yes, Mrs Smith. She’d endured his womanising for thirty years and felt that was quite long enough.”

“But if he’s divorced, why is he so puritanical about what his staff do?”

“Because hypocrisy is a luxury he can easily afford. Yes, I got rather a nice result there,” he added as he lit a cigar. “I got Mrs Price eight million. That’s pounds, not dollars, by the way. Now,” he said, “let’s press on, shall we, with stage two of
your
divorce! This is the Statement of Arrangements,” he explained as he pushed a white form towards me. “Just sign it there, at the bottom, would you, Mrs Smith? That’s it. That’s it. Splendid!”

* * *

“Take him for everything you can get,” said Lily when I went round to her flat last night feeling downcast and confused. She’d insisted on kitting me out for my date with Josiah. She reached into her gleaming Smeg fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne and some canapés while Jennifer grunted at her feet.

“Don’t beg, darling,” she said as she slipped the dog a piece of foie gras. “I mean, I really don’t want to comment negatively on Peter’s
appalling
behavior,” she added as she got down two glasses. “But this situation is entirely his fault.”

“Yes,” I said dismally. “I know. But I don’t want to be one of these grasping wives, Lily. I just want, you know,
enough
.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said contemptuously. “Peter should be made to pay! Let Rory Cheetham-Stabb get what he can,” she added.

“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“Has Peter got a solicitor?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Oh well, let them fight it out.”

As Lily cracked open the bottle of Laurent Perrier I surveyed the hand-distressed kitchen with its blond wooden floors and gleaming granite worktops and its shining juice-squeezers and espresso machines. The flat could double as a shoot for
Ideal Home
. We went through to the huge sitting room, with its expanse of white carpet and its towering arrangements of scarlet amaryllis, and its Damien Hirst spin painting and the Elisabeth Frink horse on its marble plinth. And magazines, of course. Everywhere. They shone on every available surface and spilled casually onto the floor; their covers glinted like glass under the downlighters which spangled the ceiling like stars. We picked our way carefully over them, clutching our flutes of champagne.

“You’ve been married for fifteen years,” Lily said as she produced three large bags of designer clothes. “So you deserve
lots
of lovely maintenance, Faith—and then we can have some fun!”

“Can we?” I said doubtfully as she opened up the first bag.

“Oh yes,” she said. “You’re going to do all the things you never did before. Proper shopping, for a start,” she said with a laugh. “No more looking in Oxfam for you!”

“But I like Oxfam,” I said. “Ooh, is that a Clements Ribeiro shirt?”

“No more Principles, either.”

“But I love Principles,” I replied as I pounced on a pair of Cerruti jeans.

“We can go to parties, and nightclubs,” she went on happily. “We can be girls about town. We can do all the things we said we’d do when we were young—things you’ve so tragically missed out on all these years.”

“I’m not sure I’ve been missing out on anything,” I said as I tried on a Prada silk top. “Anyway, nightclubs aren’t really me,” I added, “I’m all for a quiet sort of life.”

“But look at
my
life!” said Lily zealously as she passed me an Agnès B shirt. “Just look at my mantelpiece!” I looked. It was white with invitations. They were stacked up like tiny billboards, advertising the success, oh yes, the huge success, of Lily’s social life. She picked her way over the gleaming magazines and began to read them out.

“Monday—book launch at The Ivy; Tuesday—drinks do at Home House for Tibet; Wednesday—a fashion show in aid of Dolls Against Addiction; Thursday—
three
private views; Friday—dinner with Tom Cruise; Saturday, a bash for Marie Helvin at Tramp.”

“I get the picture,” I said.

“But Faith, this could be your life, too,” she said warmly.

“No—I’m not glamorous enough. In any case, do you really enjoy it, Lily? Do you really
know
any of these people?”

“No. I only stay a few minutes at each one.”

“Then what on earth’s the point?”

“The point
is
that I was
there
.”

“But doesn’t it ever wear thin, Lily, staggering from one party to another? Don’t you ever just want to settle down?”

“Settle down?” She looked stupefied. “I’d rather go to my own autopsy.”

“But are you really
happy,
Lily?” I added.

“Oh,
yes
. I’m as happy as a bulimic at a buffet. Screw Peter for every penny you can get,” she added firmly.

“Oh, I don’t know, Lily. In any case I’m not sure how much money there’s going to be because there’s a chance Peter could lose his job.” I hadn’t meant to tell Lily about that, but I guess the champagne had loosened my tongue. “He might get fired,” I explained.

“Really?” said Lily, with calm surprise. “That would be terrible. Now, why don’t you try on this Miu Miu coat?”

“You see, there was a piece in
Hello!.
” I went on as I took off my Laura Ashley skirt.

“
Was
there?” she said. “What did it say?”

“It said we were having problems and that Peter’s job might be on the line.”

“Why?”

“Because Bishopsgate don’t like their staff getting in a marital mess. Peter’s only on a twelve-month contract,” I explained. “If there’s anything more in the press about our split, his job might not be confirmed.”

“Well, that would be
awful,
” she said sympathetically. “But surely his transatlantic totty could find him a new job,” she said with a sip of champagne.

“Possibly,” I said. “But it wouldn’t be nearly as good. His value in the market place would be that much lower, having been dumped by Bishopsgate.”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “of course. This is a worrying time for you, Faith, but Jennifer and I have lit some candles for you—look!” The Buddhist shrine in the alcove by the fire was aglow with flickering votive lights. “And we’re going to say five decades of the rosary for you. Aren’t we, Jen?” Jennifer momentarily lifted her furry face from the sofa, then emitted a porcine snore.

“Aaah!” sighed Lily. “The poor little darling’s exhausted. But then she had a very busy time at the office today.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve made her contributing editor to
Chienne
. It’s a very tough brief. Oh Faith, that looks
lovely,
” she added warmly as she appraised my appearance. “You know, there really was
quite
a nice figure lurking under all that fat. So Peter might lose his job?” she added.

“Yes. And if he does, then things could get tough for me.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I see. But on the other hand, Faith,” she went on animatedly, “Andie earns a fortune so she’ll be subsidizing you in a way—which would only be poetic justice.”

“Mmm…”

“And with this change in your life, Faith, you really ought to have more ambition.”

“Like what?”

“To become a regular presenter.”

“I don’t want to,” I said. “I like my little weather bulletins.”

“But, Faith, nothing stays the same,” she said. “That’s the only constant in life. I mean, look how your private life is changing—it’s high time you branched out at work as well. Take Ulrika Johnsson, for instance—she was just a weather girl, and now she’s a household name.”

“Oh really?”

“And whatshername—Tracey Sunshine—Tanya Bryer—she started out pushing weather symbols about. Look at her now.”

“Mmm.”

“Then there’s Gaby Roslin—she was a forecaster, and she’s had a fabulous career. And so could you,” she added benignly. “No, I say it again,” she said as she nibbled on a canapé. “This divorce is a marvelous chance for you to change your life at
last!
”

“Well, yes, maybe,” I said. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I am right. And I’m going to help you Faith, because I always do.”

“Yes, you do,” I said doubtfully.

“I’m going to get you some really nice coverage in the gossip columns! I’m going to talk you
up!
I’ll have you photographed in our society pages—I’ll be your unofficial PR. Your life will be transformed,” she went on messianically. “It will be a new start for you.”

“Ye-es.”

She poured us both another glass of champagne and then lifted hers up. “To your brilliant, new life, Faith!” she said happily. “Here’s to Faith in the Future!”

* * *

“You know, I’m very fond of Lily,” I said to Graham this evening. “But I do think it’s ridiculous the way she anthropomorphizes that dog. I mean anyone would think Jennifer Aniston’s a human
being!
” I added with a snort. “I suppose it’s because she lives on her own,” I went on, “so the dog’s a substitute person. Now, Graham,” I said as I held up two videos. “Do you want Gary Rhodes or Keith Floyd?”

Ten minutes later I was on the tube heading towards Tottenham Court Road to meet Josiah. He’d suggested we have a drink at Bertorelli’s in Charlotte Street. I felt pretty nervous, but at least I knew I looked good. I was wearing a Versace skirt which skimmed my knees, a pure-white Prada shirt and a gorgeous houndstooth Galliano jacket. I’d hardly recognized myself—was that really me?

“I suppose it is me,” I said wonderingly as I appraised my reflection. “Now that I’ve discarded my Principles.” Lily had told me to turn up a little late, so it was just after ten past seven when I walked up the steps and was shown to the bar. There was Josiah, reading
The Week
. Suddenly he looked up, saw me and jumped to his feet. I said hello and held out my hand. And then—and this was lovely—he lifted it to his lips!

“That’s to make up for my very ungallant behavior in the car,” he said with a smile. “You must have thought I was a terrible spiv.”

“Er, no,” I said, “not exactly,” and now I was laughing. “But I was a little bit taken aback.”

“It was very forward of me, I admit it. I don’t normally smile at strange women, but you see I thought I
knew
you because I recognized you from the TV. I’m sure that happens to you a lot?” he said.

“Well…you know, sometimes,” I replied. I was thrilled.

“And then you reacted so furiously,” he went on, “and that’s what made me laugh. By the time you’d given me the two-fingered treatment I’m afraid I was prostrate before you. I love spirited women,” he added as we sat down.

“Do you?” I said. That was good.

“Oh yes. They present the most wonderful challenge.” He smiled again and his large grey eyes seemed to twinkle and shine. “Now, I don’t know about you, Faith,” he said, “but I fancy a glass of champagne.”

“I’d like that too,” I replied. And do you know what he asked for—a bottle of Krug!

“Sorry it’s only the non-vintage,” he grinned as the ice-bucket arrived. “But I’m trying to economize.” We sat there for an hour or so, chatting like long-lost friends. I found him so easy to talk to—I felt as though I’d known him for years. He had such lovely manners, too, because every time I started asking him about himself, he’d turn the conversation back to me. And now I noticed, with a quiet thrill, that he was flirting. I could tell because he was mirroring my body language. We both sat, turned in towards each other, with our legs crossed in exactly the same way. When I lifted my glass to my lips, he did the same. When I leaned forward a little, so did he. That woman from the flirting course was right. Having someone unconsciously echoing your movements makes you feel just
great
. What was it she’d said? Oh yes. “People like people who like
them
.” And now Josiah was smiling at me again, and asking me all about AM-UK!.

“I love the way you do the weather,” he said.

“Well, I’m only on for a couple of minutes.”

“Yes, but you do it so well. I especially love the way you smile at us more when you know the weather’s going to be vile. May I also say,” he went on, slightly shyly, “that you’re a
lot
prettier in real life. You’re a bit slimmer, too,” he added thoughtfully. “But then they say that TV adds a stone.” I didn’t explain that the real reason I looked slimmer was because I’d just
lost
a stone. “You were married, weren’t you?” he asked hesitantly. “I’m sure I read somewhere that you were.”

“Yes. I was,” I replied. “I still am, but I’m separated,” I explained with a tiny sigh, “and it looks like we’re getting divorced.”

“I’m sorry,” he said tactfully. “Do you mind very much if I ask you why?”

“No, I don’t mind,” I said. And I didn’t. “It’s because my husband had an affair.”

“Oh,” he said. “How awful. That must be very painful for you.”

“It has been,” I agreed. “It’s been hideous. It just happened out of the blue. But I’m coping all right—I think.”

“Now, are you hungry, Faith?” he asked. “Would you like to have dinner with me?” He held my gaze for a second and I felt a strange warmth suffuse my insides. “Have dinner with me,” he repeated gently.

“Well, I’d love to,” I smiled. “You mean here?”

“No, there’s an amusing little place just round the corner,” he explained. “But you’d have to be in an adventurous mood. Are you feeling adventurous tonight?” he added with a grin.

“Yes.” I smiled. “I am.” So we walked up Charlotte Street, then turned right into Howland Street, then came to Whitfield Street off Fitzroy Square.