Out of the Blue (23 page)

“I’m very glad for you, Faith,” she said as she closed her bag. “I—I really hope it goes well.”

And it is going well. No doubt about it. I do feel happy with Jos. I mean, he’s witty and attractive and talented. And he’s gentlemanly, too. He proved that the other night. I thought what happened might put him off; that he’d write me off as neurotic and baggage-laden, which I guess I
am
. But he didn’t do that at all. He understood that I needed more time. And so we’re taking things slowly, enjoying each other’s company, and today he asked me if I’d like to have lunch. So we met in Covent Garden, because he’d just had a
Madame Butterfly
meeting at the opera house. He showed me his sketches for the costumes as we sat outside Tuttons wine bar in the sun.

“These are Butterfly’s kimonos,” he explained.

“They’re exquisite,” I murmured. “There’s so much movement in them. I’d love to frame them and hang them on my wall.” Then he showed me the designs for the set, which is almost ready to be built.

“We make a model of it first,” he said, “a miniature version which is accurate in every detail. Then, when the director’s happy with that, we build the set for real. My design’s quite traditional,” he said, “with this simple tea-house, here, center stage, but I’ve added this slightly sinister-looking tenement building behind. Essentially the opera’s a simple one and doesn’t lend itself to anything too
avant-garde
. Mind you,” he went on thoughtfully, “there was an interesting production at Glyndebourne about ten years ago.”

“Was there?” I said absently as I studied the sketches.

“Shall we go?” he said suddenly.

“Where?”

“To Glyndebourne. The new season opens on May the twenty-fifth.” My heart leaped. Glyndebourne? I’d never been before.

“I’d love to,” I said. “But isn’t it hard to get tickets?”

“Not with my contacts!” he exclaimed. He grinned, then tapped the side of his nose. “Insider dealing, Faith. I’m sure I can swing it.
Cosi Fan Tutte!
” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“
Cosi Fan Tutte
—that’s what they’re opening with. I absolutely love it, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Well, I think I do. I haven’t seen it for years—in fact I’ve forgotten what it’s about.”

“It’s about infidelity,” he explained. “Oh dear, Faith—do you think you could cope?”

“Yes,” I said with a laugh. “It’s only in real life that I can’t.”

“And unlike real life,” he added, “the opera has a happy ending. But maybe you’ll have a happy ending too, Faith.”

“I do hope so,” I said.

“Maybe I’ll have one, too,” he said ruefully, and then he grinned. “Maybe…” he added meaningfully as he reached for my hand, “…we’ll
both
have a happy ending.” I smiled and hoped my face didn’t betray the joyful clamour in my heart.

“Right,” he said, clapping his hands together. “That’s settled, then. To Glyndebourne we shall go. And we’ll take the most scrumptious picnic, and of course
lashings
of Krug.”

“Will that be vintage or non-vintage?” I enquired.

“Don’t ask difficult questions,” he said. “Now,” he added, leaning across the table and drawing my face to his, “what have you got on this afternoon?”

“Er, nothing,” I said.

“Oh, good,” he whispered, his grey eyes laughing. “I was hoping you’d say that. Because I’ve finished for the day and I thought it would be nice to go back to my place…”

“Yes?”

“And…”

“What?”

“Make passionate love to you, actually,” he said. “What do you think about that?” There was a moment’s silence. Then I stood up. “Oh dear, have I shocked you?” he said ruefully.

I held out my hand and said, “Let’s go.”

* * *

I rang Peter at work the next day to ask him if he’d look after the kids. Now that my new relationship is really getting off the ground, I find I can talk to him without too much pain. I am communicating with my ex, I reflected happily as his extension rang. Is this what’s known as an ex-communication? I wondered wryly. Peter seemed glad to hear me—he always does, which is touching, though he seemed to be in a frivolous mood.

“Why do you want me to babysit?” he said suspiciously.

“Because it’s half-term and the kids will be home.”

“No, I mean
why
do you
need
me to look after them? Where are you going?”

“Why do you ask?” I said.

“Don’t answer a question with a question,” he said. “You’re still my wife, I’d like to know.”

“I’m going to Glyndebourne,” I replied. He emitted a long, low whistle.

“Glyndebourne. Wow. I say!”

“Well, I’ve never been,” I added pointedly.

“Is that a rebuke?” he said. “Faith, you know perfectly well that I would have taken you there, but quite simply, we never had the cash.”

“Well, you should have borrowed it,” I said unreasonably. “If our marriage had really been important to you, Peter, you would have borrowed the money so that I could have occasional life-enhancing treats of that kind.”

“You reckon?” he said with a hollow laugh. “And just who, might I ask,
is
taking you to Glyndebourne?”

“What’s it to you?” I replied.

“Well, as I say, I’m still your husband and I believe I have a right to know.”

“Peter,” I said crossly, “you forfeited your right to know when you left me.”

“Don’t rewrite history, you kicked me out. Come on, Faith, who is this blighter? Is he anyone I know?”

“Peter,” I said stiffly. “I do not ask you about your association with…her. So kindly be so good as to extend to me the same respect for my privacy.”

“Don’t be so hoity-toity. Anyway I’ll get the kids to tell me,” he said, “or Graham. He’d spill the beans. Come on—who is it? He must be loaded if he’s taking you to that palace of operatic and sybaritic delights.”

“He is not loaded,” I said indignantly. “But he’s doing quite nicely. He’s an artist,” I explained.

“How can an artist afford to take you to Glyndebourne, Faith? Are you sure he’s not a drug-dealer on the side?”

“Quite sure, thank you,” I replied. “He’s very successful. He’s an opera and theater designer. And he’s a brilliant painter, too. He specializes in trompe l’oeil, actually.”

“Is he heterosexual, Faith?” he said suddenly. “You’ve got me a bit worried now.”

“Of course he is,” I said impatiently. “
Very,
” I added meaningfully. “He’s also extremely attractive.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” I said. “He is. Added to which he’s an
extremely
talented cook.”

“Ooooooh!” said Peter. “Definitely gay.”

“He is most definitely
not
gay,” I retorted. And now Peter’s voice seemed to fade as I remembered the glorious afternoon we’d spent in bed the day before. It was bliss. It was heaven. I’d forgotten how wonderful sex could be.

“No, Jos is a raging heterosexual,” I announced facetiously.

“Oh, Faith,” Peter said. “Have you? You haven’t? That’s not like you. And before we’re even divorced. No, that’s not very
nisi
of you. Still, you convent girls…”

“Peter, as
you
have, why shouldn’t I?” I retorted.

“Honestly, Faith, answer the question. Have you been to bed with him?”

“All right, then. Since you ask, yes.” And when I said that I felt a stab of sadistic pleasure and something very close to revenge. “I have been to bed with him,” I reiterated. “And it was brilliant, since you ask.” There was silence.

“I didn’t.”

“Now,” I went on briskly. “Will you kindly confirm that you are prepared to look after your children next Thursday?”

“No,” he said. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I mean I can’t. As in, I am unable. Indisposed. Otherwise engaged. In short, I’m busy.”

“Doing
what?
”

“The Bishopsgate sales conference, Faith. That’s what. I shall be holed up in a hotel in Warwickshire rallying the troops. It’s rather important, as I’m sure you’ll understand. Not least because I’m on a probationary contract and I’m under considerable scrutiny at the moment. So I’m sorry,” he added. “I really am, but it’s just not feasible. And even if you’d given me three months’ notice—which you wouldn’t have done because three months ago we were still happily married and you had
no
intention of going to Glyndebourne let alone bonking other men—but even if you had then I’m afraid I would still have had to say no. I’m sorry, Faith,” he added. “But no can do. Can’t you listen to the CD instead?”

“Don’t be beastly, please, Peter. I’d like to be able to go.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to pay someone to babysit,” he said. “Have you asked my mother?”

“No, because of the shop.”

“What about your parents?” he suggested. “Now that the children are practically grown up perhaps they won’t mind doing the odd shift—if you can get hold of them, that is.”

I couldn’t of course. I never can. I tried, but there was no reply. I had a vague idea they were birdspotting in Tobago. Or were they canoeing in Colorado? Or perhaps they were sailing round the Seychelles on their “Indian Ocean Odyssey”. I really couldn’t be sure, and I was just about to try them again when, to my amazement, Mum rang me.

“How’s it all going, darling?” she enquired breathlessly.

“Well, it’s been rather interesting,” I began. “In fact I’m glad you rang because I was wondering if you and Dad would come and…”

“Hang on, Faith, the money’s running out—Gerald! I need another fifty pence! Thanks. Sorry darling, we’re at Heathrow, the flight’s about to board so I can’t talk long.”

“Where are you off to now?” I said wearily. “I thought you’d only just come back.”

“Wales,” she said.

“Wales? Why on earth are you flying to Wales?”

“No, darling. We’re going to
watch
whales. In Norway,” she explained.

“But I thought you did whale-watching last year in Cape Cod?”

“Different whales, darling. Apparently Norwegian ones jump right out of the sea with the most enormous splosh. After that we go up to Lapland for a fortnight’s reindeer-herding.”

“Well, how lovely,” I said.

“Yes, and what’s
so
nice is that it’s not radioactive any more.”

“Great.”

“Now, we haven’t spoken for ages, Faith. Any particular news?”

“Yes,” I said. “Since you ask. Peter and I are getting divorced.”

“
Are
you darling? Gerald,
do
watch our bags!”

“In fact he’s already moved out and lives in Pimlico, not far from his new job as managing director of Bishopsgate. But I’ve got a new boyfriend called Jos…”

“Oh yes?”

“…who’s a successful theater designer.”

“How
super!
”

“In fact he’s taking me to Glyndebourne next week.”

“You lucky thing.”

“And Peter’s gone off with his headhunter, Andie.” My mother let out a gasp.

“No, it’s all right, Mum, Andie’s a woman.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she observed.

“Anyway, the children are being very phlegmatic about the whole situation.”

“Lovely. Matt’s such a bright boy, isn’t he?” she added proudly. “I think he’s doing
awfully
well.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “And so’s Katie. But I’m a little bit worried about Graham.”
Bing-bong!

“Oh darling, the flight’s being called, I’ve got to dash. Sorry, did you say you’re worried about Graham?”

“Yes. I am. He’s not taking the divorce very well.”

It’s true. He isn’t. In fact he’s a little disturbed, not his normal jolly self. I’ve been noticing it in all sorts of ways. For example, you know how when dogs are about to lie down, they first go round in circles? Don’t ask me why, but they do. Well, Graham spends
ages
going round and round in circles, and then he lies down with a big, grumbly sigh. Also, he’s been spending a lot of time staring out of the window. I know this because he leaves nose-prints all over the panes. Another thing, he’s snapping at flies an awful lot, which makes him look vaguely moronic, and nor is he quite his usual relaxed and easygoing self. In the eight days since I spoke to Mum I’ve seen him getting worse. I noticed it again on Thursday afternoon as I waited for Jos to arrive. Lily had very sweetly offered to look after the kids and she was due to arrive at two. Jos was coming at two fifteen, to pick me up in his car. The drive down to Glyndebourne takes two hours, then we’d have drinks on the lawn, with the opera starting promptly at five. Lily was thrilled to bits about it all and has been an enormous help. Not only did she immediately offer to babysit when I told her about my childcare problem—even offering to take the afternoon off work—she also lent me a wonderful ankle-length Armani silk dress, in pale pink, with a matching stole. And I was so excited about it all I’d got ready too early, like I used to do when I was small. So to pass the time I thought I’d take Graham through a few obedience tests.

“Sit,” I said to him in the kitchen. To my surprise he gave me a defiant stare. “Sit,” I said again. Nothing. “Graham,” I repeated patiently, “sit. Down.” He stifled a yawn. “Sit!” I snapped. Still he remained upstanding. Matt looked up from his copy of
Time
.

“Graham,” he said seriously, “sit.” Nothing. “Sit,” Matt said again. “Sit.
Please,
” he added. Graham slowly lowered his seat to the ground.

“We’ve never had to say please before,” I observed. “Usually he’s very biddable. He’s being rather wilful at the moment.”

“He’s just testing the parameters of your authority, Mum,” said Katie as she sprinkled fish food onto Siggy’s tank. “It’s classic behavior in juveniles during a divorce. With only one parent in charge the offspring start pushing out boundaries, basically, trying their luck. Fortunately it’s just a phase.”

“I don’t agree with that analysis,” said Matt. “I’d say he’s simply depressed because he knows Jennifer Aniston’s coming. He thinks she’s a bit of a bitch.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with him,” I said. “I just wish he’d buck up. Graham, darling,” I added as I ruffled his silky ears, “you don’t want Jos to think you’re a naughty puppy, do you? You’re a big boy now, you’re three.”