Out of the Blue (30 page)

“Be sure that you
do
enjoy yourselves,” said Sarah warmly as she ushered us out. “I’m going to sit in the garden and read.”

“Be careful of the sun,” Jos warned her gallantly. “It’s going to be another scorching day.”

“It’s my job to say that!” I laughed. “Now, how’s your ankle?” I asked him as we got into the MG and sped south.

“It’s fine,” he said, slightly grudgingly above the noise of the car. “I’m sorry we quarrelled, Faith. Let’s just forget about it, shall we, and have a lovely day.” That wasn’t going to be hard, I thought as we drove through Windsor Great Park half an hour later in the hot sun. Despite the heat, a cool scene met our eyes. Glossy looking women strolled along in floaty little dresses and feminine shoes. The men were all in white chinos and dark blazers—some wore Panama hats. Every car was a gleaming convertible. Designer shades adorned every face. This event was evidently an opportunity for those who had it, to flaunt it. Jos and I attached our blue entry tags to our lapels, then went in search of Lily’s hospitality tent, which had been laid on by Madison’s, the publishers of
Moi!.
We passed stalls selling saddles, and riding hats and Hermès scarves; we saw horses, their fetlocks neatly bandaged, their tails in elegant braids. Then we came to the white
Moi!
marquee, its pennant hanging lifeless in the heat.

“Faith, darling! Jos!” Lily exclaimed, embracing us in a shared hug. She was wearing Egoïste—she must have drenched herself in the stuff. “How lovely to see you,” she squealed. “You look terribly pukka, may I say.”

“And you look gorgeous,” I responded. It was true. She was wearing a strappy, coffee-colored shift which emphasized the cinnamon tones of her skin. Two shining bronze amulets adorned her elegant arms. On her feet were flat gold sandals, from which protruded ten perfectly manicured toes. She was so beautiful. I was filled with pride to think that this amazing woman was my best friend.

“What a great marquee,” I exclaimed. It had a yellow striped lining and parquet flooring, and even windows with a kind of double glazing.

“It’s what’s known in the trade as a Viagra,” she snorted. “A semi-permanent erection! Now go and grab some alcoholic refreshment,” she said, “while I flooze and schmooze.”

Lily’s guests were as well-groomed as the horses we’d spotted outside. The women had legs like thoroughbreds and glossy, shining manes. The men had equine faces, were well shod and radiated good breeding. There were lots of blue genes here, I reflected wryly as Jos and I walked round.

“—yah, we went to Cowdray.”

“—visited Jemima in Lahore.”

“—little bolt-hole in the Highlands.”

“—
great
chums with Prince William.”

“—the smart money’s on Bishopsgate.”

“—just three thousand acres or so.”

On the flower-bedecked tables were copies of
Moi!
fanned out like playing cards. As Jos went to get us drinks, I idly looked at the cover. “Star Wards!—Private Healthcare Uncovered”; “House Work-out—Get Lean While You Clean”;“Going for a Thong—See our Beachwear Special”;“Hit and Myth—the Truth about Female Violence”; and “Bristols Fashion—Our Top Ten Bras”.

“Lots of divot dollies,” said Jos approvingly as he returned with two glasses of Pimm’s.

“What?”

“Polo chicks. Girls who follow the game.”

“I see,” I said with a suspicious smile.

“But you’re my divot dolly,” he said as he put his arm around me. Suddenly there was a soft, marshmallowy “pop” and a burst of fluorescent light. A photographer had lifted his camera and snapped us; and now he did it again.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked as he clicked away. “Lily asked me to photograph you both for the society section, ‘I Spy’.”

“No, it’s fine,” I replied with a smile. Lily had said she’d get me a bit of coverage, and in any case, I thought, why shouldn’t I be photographed with Jos? He was my boyfriend after all. And it was certainly no secret that I was getting divorced—it had been in
Hello!
and the
Daily Mail
. And now, from outside
we could hear the Tannoyed commentary as the polo got
under way.

“Let’s go and watch,” said Lily. “May I introduce the managing director of Madison’s, and
Moi!’s
publisher, Ronnie Keats.” We smiled and shook hands with the pleasant-looking fiftyish man, then went and stood by the low white, perimeter fence. From a distance the huge, seated crowd looked as festive and colorful as a shower of confetti. The smell of horse dung mingled with scent and cigars hung on the stifling air. As I’d never been to polo, Jos and Lily quickly explained the rules.

“They’re not mallets, Faith, they’re sticks; the players aren’t wearing jodhpurs, they’re wearing trousers; they’re not riding horses, but ponies, and the pitch isn’t a pitch, it’s a lawn. There are four players on each side, and the game is divided into six seven-minute sections, called chukkas. And at half-time the ponies are changed. Got that? Now, this is the third chukka, OK, and it’s England against Australia in the semi-final for the Coronation Cup.”

And now the eight ponies thundered up and down the lawn, in a drumroll of hooves, sending the divots flying. The players stood, almost upright, in the saddle, holding their sticks aloft like lances. Indeed, with their helmets and face-grilles they looked like latter-day knights.

“And away we go again,” said the commentator as a stick described a huge arc through the air, sending the ball flying towards the far goal. “Great shot…at least eighty feet…good control from Gilmore there…and a lovely sharp turn from White.
Very
nice backhand now…and Hardy picks it up…picks it up…back the other way and come on, come on, come on and…oh, yes, yes, yes…GOAL!” There was the blast of a hooter and we all clapped as the players cantered back into the center of the lawn. I looked at the snorting ponies, their ears pricked up, their necks and flanks gleaming; who was sweating more, I wondered, them or us? It was just
so
hot. My cheeks were burning and my brow was damp; a bead of sweat was working its way into the hollow of my back. My dark glasses could barely keep out the intense, stinging glare of the sun. And now, as play resumed, I glanced into the middle distance at a screen of magnificent oaks, two of which had been struck by lightning. Their nude, jagged branches pointed towards the sky like accusing, skeletal fingers. I glanced upwards and, for the first time in a month, I could see long wispy strips of cirrus. Ah. That meant there was a little moisture in the air. That meant the weather was on the turn.

“And a fine ball there by Gilmore,” said the commentator as we heard the sharp, bright click of stick on ball. “Australia’s in the lead, nine goals to seven and with thirty seconds on the clock…twenty…and…” The hooter sounded again and then, over the Tannoy we heard: “That brings us to the end of the first half. Ladies and gentlemen, would you care to tread in!”

Suddenly everyone surged forward and invaded the pitch like triumphant football fans. We all began to stamp down the upturned divots, like tribal dancers, laughing and giggling as we did. Jos was talking to Lily, so I began chatting to Ronnie Keats. It transpired that he knew Peter.

“I know your husband professionally,” he explained as we trod in the bits of broken turf. “We distribute books for Fenton & Friend in South Africa, you see. Peter’s a really nice guy,” he went on. “He’s very smart, too. They say he’s doing
great
things at Bishopsgate,” he added warmly.

“Oh yes, yes, he is,” I said.

“He’s got very good judgment, has Peter,” he went on.

“Yes, that’s right,” I replied. Though not when it comes to fidelity, I reflected ruefully. Oh no—not when it comes to that.

“He’s really respected in the industry, you know.”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.” And I suddenly found it upsetting to be discussing Peter so favorably with a total stranger so I steered the conversation towards Lily instead.

“You must be really pleased with what she’s doing at
Moi!”
I said.

“Oh yes,” he said. “We’re over the moon. The circulation’s gone up by twenty per cent in the ten months since she took over. We took a big risk when we appointed her,” he confided. “But she’s doing great.” And I thought this was an odd, and very indiscreet thing to say. In any case, what did he mean? Perhaps he meant they’d taken a risk because of her color, since no black woman had held the post before. But if that were true, then he should never have said it, especially to her closest friend. Maybe he’d had too much champagne, I reflected as we made our way back to the stand. And now, though the polo looked lovely, I found my attention wandering, so I began to flick through my copy of
Moi!.
There was the
Chienne
section, with a photo byline of Jennifer Aniston in blue satin bow, dispensing tips on “Dealing with the Puparazzi—How to Get Them Off Your Tail”; “Obedience Classes for Naughty Owners”; and “Labradorable—New Directions in Canine Couture.” She was also giving her views on a range of grooming products. It’s just a gimmick, I thought dismissively. Of course a dog can’t give advice. Especially a
dim
dog like Jennifer. Although I did decide to try the herbal flea dip she was recommending—I’ve noticed Graham’s been scratching of late. Then I read the rest of the magazine, occasionally glancing up at the match. And I was just about to put it down when I came to a questionnaire entitled, “Are You And Your Partner Compatible?” Now, I love doing questionnaires. It’s like competitions, I can never resist. So I got my pen out of my bag and began to read it through. There were three options: “Yes”, “No”, and “Not Sure”.
Do you fancy your partner?
was the first question. I looked at Jos, as he stood there watching the match, his dark blond hair bleached white by the sun, and put a firm tick in the box marked “Yes”.
Does your partner show you affection?
I ticked the “Yes” box again.
Does your partner listen to your point of view?
I chose “Yes”, again.
If you have rows are they resolved fairly quickly?
“Yes”, I ticked once more.
Does your partner have any annoying little habits?
I thought about it for a second, then ticked “No”.
Do you and your partner laugh a lot?
Yes, we do, I thought.
Does your partner always tell the truth?
Ah, that one was a little bit tricky. Although Jos only ever lies for a good reason, so, basically, a “Yes” there as well.
Do your friends and family like your partner?
Affirmative—they do.
Does he broaden your horizons?
Oh, “Yes”. “
Does your partner make an effort to please you?
All the time, I thought. By now I was semi-euphoric—this was going so well.
Are you proud of your partner’s achievements?
it enquired. “Yes”, I am, thanks very much. And finally,
Do you ever have “uneasy feelings” about some of the things your partner says or does?
I stared, with increasing irritation, at this question as my hand hovered over the page.

“Come on…come on…” I heard the commentator shout. “Not long on the clock…come
on!”
Uneasy feelings? I mused again. I looked at Jos as he followed the game. I thought of him flirting with that gay guy, and of how he’d justified that to me. I thought of the girl who’d approached him at Glyndebourne, and of the way that had nettled him. I thought of what Sophie had hinted at, though I still didn’t know what she’d meant. And I thought of the way Jos always listens to his answerphone with the volume turned right down. I also thought about his “homemade” curry, and about Matt’s laptop, too. And now I thought about what had happened this morning, and the way he’d shouted at Graham. And Jos must have sensed that I was staring at him because he suddenly turned, looked at me and gave me this heartbreaking smile.
Do you ever have uneasy feelings?
the questionnaire asked. I smiled back at Jos, then put a small, firm tick in the box marked “No”. And now I added them all up. If you could answer yes to more than seven questions, you were a very compatible pair. If you had ten yes’s—then yours was a match made in heaven. And that’s what Jos and I had got—an amazing ten out of ten!

“That’s an
incredible
score!” I heard over the Tannoy. Yes, I thought, it is. “England, fifteen, Australia, fourteen—what a close finish, but it’s England who go through!”

As we walked back to the marquee for tea, I felt happy again. Jos and I were a perfect match. Sure, we had little areas of tension, but that was only to be expected, wasn’t it? When Peter and I married, we were so young that we didn’t really have any sharp edges. We were as green and flexible as saplings. We grew up together, side by side, bending to each other’s shape. But now, at thirty-five, any new partner was bound to have acquired a few emotional lumps and bumps. This meant being accommodating—we couldn’t just expect them to fit in. That’s what mature people do, I mused. They try to be flexible, and that’s all I was doing with Jos. As we walked back across the grass, Lily was talking about nuisance telephone calls.

“It’s a pain,” she said. “Sometimes they’re random nutters, or people I’ve sacked, but quite often they’re just back issues.”

“What?” said Jos.

“Oh, ex-boyfriends,” she explained dismissively. “But they’re easy to deal with, you know.”

“Really?” said Jos. “How?”

“Well, you can bar their calls.”

“
Can
you?” he said.

“Yes. It’s called Choose to Refuse. You just dial 14258, then star, star, then tap their number in. Then the next time they call you an automated voice tells them to bugger off. I use it all the time,” she said happily. “It’s jolly good.”

“It certainly sounds it,” he agreed.

“Do you have trouble like that, then?” she enquired.

“Well,” he said. “I…not really, but I keep getting calls from this…guy who’s trying to sell me…insurance. It’s a real drag. You know what they’re like. He er, just won’t take no for an answer.”

“Right, well, next time he calls, just punch in that code,” said Lily, “and after that he won’t get through.”