Out of the Blue (32 page)

“And what’s it like now?” John Peel asked. There was a slight pause during which I heard the click of Graham’s claws on the lino, then felt the gentle weight of his head on my lap.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said it’s better than before,” she replied. “Obviously it would have been better if the affair had never happened. But it’s different. Yes, our marriage is ‘mended’,” she went on as I absently stroked Graham’s ears. “Of course we can see the joins, but those joins are also part of our history, of who we are, and we know they have their place in the picture too.”

And now I was flicking through photos of the dog lying blissfully across Peter’s lap, or catching tennis balls on the common, leaping six feet into the air with a corkscrew twist, the children screaming and clapping with delight. Then I turned the page and found myself staring at a photo of me. It wasn’t a very interesting one, I was just ironing Peter’s shirts. I’ve got no idea why he took it—he must have picked up the camera on a whim. I’m looking into the lens and laughing—that must have been in the autumn of ’01. Before Peter began to have problems at work. When things were still going well. As I looked at it, I suddenly saw Andie there, in my place, ironing Peter’s shirts and laughing. I couldn’t stand the thought of her doing something as mundane for him as that. Or putting his clothes in the washing machine. Or scrubbing his back in the bath. I couldn’t stand the thought of her knowing all the little things about him that I do. That he’s missing the little toe on his left foot, for example, or that he likes Gladys Knight and the Pips. And I couldn’t stand the thought of her sharing the infinite moments of domestic intimacy with Peter when it had always,
always
been me. And I knew that our cozy togetherness would only exist in fading photos like these. As the program ended, and they played the Dean Martin again, I felt the familiar ache in my throat and the dragging sensation in my chest. Now I was looking at a snap of Peter and me, in the back garden, taken last May. We’re sitting on the bench and I’m leaning right into him, encircled by his arms.
One man, one wife
. The image wobbled and blurred, then great, fat tears of self-pity began to course down my face.
One love. One life
. I heard a whimper—Graham hates it when I cry and he’d put his paws on my lap and was reaching up to lick my face.
Mem-ories are made of this
. They certainly are, I thought bitterly. In all these photos we were united. United. But soon we would be untied. A huge racking sob escaped me. Then another.

“Oh, Peter,” I said.

* * *

When you’re going through a divorce, you feel unhinged. Your emotions are seesawing like a, well, seesaw, and your perspective is completely skewed. You simply daren’t trust your own judgment.

“You’ve got to keep a tight rein on your feelings,” said Lily a week later as we sat in the Nail Bar in Maddox Street. She was having her weekly manicure while Jennifer Aniston sat, grunting, on my lap.

“The only reason you feel down,” she said as we perched on Barbie-pink stools at the zig-zag shaped bar, “is not because you want Peter back, but because you don’t like the idea of him being with someone else.” I hadn’t thought of it like that, but now she said it it kind of rang true. “It’s a common psychological syndrome,” she went on as the manicurist, or rather, “nail technician”, swiftly removed her old Rouge Noir. It had been so long since her nail-beds had seen the light of day that they’d turned a virulent shade of yellow. “I mean, you don’t want Peter,” Lily added above the Muzak.

“Don’t I?” I replied.

“No,” she said. “You don’t. But you don’t want Andie to have him.”

“That’s certainly true.”

“And
that’s
why you’ve been upset all week—because he’s gone to the States with her.” At this I imagined Peter and Andie in Virginia, sailing perhaps, off Chesapeake Bay, or hiking in the Blue Ridge mountains. On the trail of the lonesome pine.

“I’m sorry to be so blunt, darling,” Lily continued between sips of elderflower juice which she delicately imbibed through a straw. “You know that such plain-speaking is normally not my style. But it’s only by analyzing things in this brutal way that I can demonstrate to you that it’s true. You want Jos,” she said as a layer of undercoat was applied to her perfectly shaped talons.

“Do I?” I said as I inhaled the aroma of acetone.

“Yes,” she said. “You do. But unfortunately you’re allowing yourself to sentimentalize Peter.”

“But I
do
feel sentimental,” I said as she placed her elegant hands under the fast-drying machine. I stared at my ragged cuticles. “I mean, I was married to him for fifteen years.”

“Yes darling, that’s all very well, but don’t get carried away. Though I think it’s very nice of you to show such feeling for him when he’s let you down.”

“I’m not showing feeling,” I said carefully. “I’m
feeling
feeling.”

“Well, that’s silly of you,” she said as a layer of Hard As Nails Vermilion was applied in short, rapid strokes. “It’s a bit self-indulgent, too. And you’d better not do it too much otherwise you’ll end up driving Jos away.” She looked at me out of the corner of her beautiful, slanting eyes. “And you don’t want to do that, do you?” I was silent. “Do you, Faith?” I was thinking. I was trying to imagine what life would be like without Jos.

“Do you want to be single, Faith?” I heard her say.

“No,” I said bleakly. “I don’t.”

“Do you want to have to go to social functions all on your own? Believe me, Faith, it’s no fun.”

“You make it look like fun.”

“Well, I’ve always been single, so it’s different. But for you it would be hell. You’d be consumed with shyness and fear and you’d feel vulnerable and alone. Combined with the fact that every time you met some man you liked there’d be five hundred other women after him, too. The grass really isn’t greener elsewhere, Faith.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know. It’s just that I feel a little…unsure.”

“Why? What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s nothing that he does, as such. He always behaves perfectly towards me. He’s extremely attentive, and sensitive, and he’s got lovely manners. Although he did shout at Graham the other day, which I didn’t like at all.”

“Well, he and Graham obviously don’t get on,” she observed. “But you and Jos do. I thought you looked terribly compatible at the polo.”

“Compatible?” I murmured, remembering the questionnaire. “Yes, I suppose we are. And he’s so talented and so good-looking and I know I’m very lucky, but there’s
something
…” I stared at her painted nails. “I just can’t quite put my finger on.”

“I think you’ve done very well for yourself,” said Lily. “Lots of women would kill to have someone like him.”

“You make Jos sound like a raffle prize, Lily. It’s not a competition, you know.”

“Of course it is!” she exclaimed. “Don’t be so naïve. In fact our beauty editor, Arabella, was looking at the pics of you and Jos at the polo. And she said, ‘My God, that man is gorgeous!’”

“Did she?” I said, slightly indignantly.

“Yes,” said Lily vehemently. “She did. She fancied the pants off him. And so do quite a few other young things at
Moi!.
”

“Oh,” I said, not knowing whether to feel proud or annoyed.

“So you
are
competing with other women,” said Lily softly, “but so far you’re in the lead. Still, he won’t stick around if he thinks you’re still hankering after Peter, so I’d make a big fuss of him if I were you.”

“Yes,” I sighed, “you’re probably right.”

“I know I am,” she said. She inspected her gleaming, blood-red claws. “Right. All done,” she announced with a smile. Then she grabbed Jennifer Aniston from me, sat her on her lap and put her front paws up on the bar.

“Here’s your next customer,” she said to the manicurist. “And she’d like Perfectly Pink by Chanel.”

* * *

The following Friday, my parents dropped the children off. They didn’t have time to come in because they were flying to Tierra del Fuego the next day. Matt and Katie were so brown, and they’d grown a little bit too. Graham went berserk when he saw them, barking and ululating with joy.

“Did you have a great time?” I asked as I hugged them.

“
Formidable!”
said Matt.

“Oh, that’s rather good,” I said. “So, Granny did her stuff?”

“Oh yes,” said Katie. “We spoke French all the time.”

“
Tout le temps
,” said Matt with a grin.

“Well, that’s…just…
très bien,
” I said. “There’s some post for you,” I added as they took their stuff upstairs. I looked at the blue airmail letter which Peter had jointly sent them. It had arrived the previous day.

“Is Daddy having a nice time?” I asked with as much casual interest as I could muster as Katie read it in the kitchen.

“Is he having a nice time?” she reiterated. “Well,” she said, handing it to me, “I’ll let you judge for yourself.”

Such an interesting part of the US
, I read.
The site of the first permanent European settlement in North America (1607)…state named in honor of Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen…also known as the Old Dominion State…one of the original thirteen states of the USA. A leading producer of tobacco, peanuts, apples, tomatoes…timber…coal mining very important too. Many historic towns such as Williamsburg, Jamestown and Fredericksburg…population six and a half million…its chief landmarks are the Blue Ridge mountains…the Shenandoah River…Chesapeake Bay…Andie’s parents seem quite nice
.

“He’s obviously having a fascinating trip,” I said as I handed the letter to Matt.

“Yes, he seems very taken with the history of the state,” said Katie.

“Well, it sounds interesting.”

“And the flora and fauna,” she added.

“Indeed.”

“And the political background.”

“Mmm.”

“Conclusion?” said Katie.

“He’s hating it,” said Matt. My heart leaped like a salmon leaping upstream to spawn.

“It’s the Freudian telling omission,” said Katie. “He doesn’t mention Andie at all. And as for this: ‘Andie’s parents seem quite nice.’ He obviously doesn’t like them one bit.”

“Is that what you think?” I said.

“It’s what I know,” she replied. “Poor Dad,” she went on, pulling a face. “But she’s got her hooks into him and she’s not going to let him go. How’s Jos?” she said suddenly.

“Oh. Jos is…fine,” I said. “Just fine. He’s coming to supper tomorrow, actually. Won’t that be nice?”

“
Je m’en fou
,” she replied with a Gallic shrug.

“
Cela m’est egal
,” said Matt.

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” I said.

“We’re not really,” said Matt.

“I think that’s a little bit mean of you,” I said, “because he’s always so kind to you. Anyway, what’s wrong with him?”

“Oh, nothing really,” said Katie grudgingly. “He just tries too hard.”

“Well, that’s no crime.”

In the event it wasn’t too bad. Jos had painted a “Welcome Home!” banner for them and hung it over the banister—to be honest I wished he hadn’t—and he’d bought them little presents, too. He asked them all about their trip and, as usual, made a huge effort. In return, they were a little cool and noncommittal, but that’s teenagers for you, isn’t it?

“And what did you do in the evenings?” I asked as we ate our boeuf bourgignon.

“Oh, er, we played cards,” said Katie as she pushed a piece of beef round her plate.

“Cards? What fun. And what did you play? Rummy?”

“Oh, er, yes, that’s right,” said Matt as he fiddled with the pepper pot.

“Or did Granny teach you how to play Bridge?”

“Mmm, she did,” they both said as I stood up to clear the plates.

“That was delicious, Mum,” said Katie.

“It certainly was,” said Jos. “In fact,” he went on expansively, “it was the dog’s bollocks!” I looked at him, slightly startled. Matt and Katie laughed. “And on that subject, Faith, I do think we ought to tell the kids about Graham’s little…operation.”

“What operation?” They both looked shocked. “Graham’s not ill is he, Mum?” said Matt, rushing over to Graham who was lying in his bed.

“No,” I said. “He’s not. He’s a healthy little dog.”

“Then what are you talking about?” said Katie.

“Well,” Jos began, “although of course Graham’s a
lovely
dog, he does have this unfortunate habit of snapping at people.”

“No,” said Katie. “It’s not a habit. He only snaps at you.”

“Katie!” I said, giving her a warning glance.

“But it’s true, Mum,” she said. “It’s only Jos he does it with.”

“Well, we won’t argue about that,” Jos carried on smoothly, still managing to maintain his pleasant smile. “But the fact is that the best thing for a dog with aggressive tendencies is to have it…”

“Jos!” I interrupted him, looking anxiously at Graham. “
Pas devant le chien s’il vous plait!”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“It means ‘not in front of the dog, please’,” said Matt.

“I know
that,
” said Jos. “But why ever not?”

“Because he understands everything we say,” I replied brusquely.

“Don’t be silly, Faith,” said Jos wearily. “You just like to think that he does.”

“Oh but he does,” said Katie. “He understands loads of things. He’s got a fantastically high IQ and we think he’s got a vocabulary of at least five hundred words.”

“I very much doubt that ‘castration’ is one of them,” said Jos. He was still smiling. I wished he wouldn’t.

“Castration?” Katie repeated.

“What’s that?” said Matt.

“It’s where they cut off the, um, you know, um, thingys,” I said. Matt’s face registered incredulity combined with naked fear. “It’s supposed to make them nicer dogs,” I explained.

“But he is a nice dog!” said Matt.

“But he has behavioral problems,” said Jos. “Now, it’s a simple, routine operation, it doesn’t hurt, and he won’t miss them, believe you me.”

“How on earth do you know?” demanded Katie. “You’d miss them, wouldn’t you?”