Out of the Blue (42 page)

“Well… Is it definitely his baby?” she enquired awkwardly.

“Yes, there’s no doubt about that.”

“And how does he know she’s pregnant?”

“Because she did the test.”

“And how far gone is she?”

“Two and a half months.”

“So it must have happened when they were in the States.”

“I don’t know when it happened,” I murmured bleakly. “I only know that we’re both distraught.”

“Have you told the children?”

“Not yet. There’s no need. Peter’s going to tell them at the end of term.”

“Well, I’m—sorry,” said Lily as we stood up to leave. “I’m sorry you’re unhappy. I truly am. But I also think you’re genuinely lucky that you’ve still got Jos.” I gazed out of the window, my eye momentarily drawn to a red No Entry sign.

“Yes,” I said, flatly. “I suppose I am lucky that he’s still around.”

“And you’re sure he doesn’t know?” she added as she scooped Jennifer up.

“Do you know, it’s very odd,” I said. “But he hasn’t suspected a thing.”

As I got the tube back to Chiswick I thought about this some more. I thought it very strange that Jos hadn’t seemed to notice when, for the past month, I’d hardly been myself. My excitement at seeing Peter again must have shown—quite apart from the fibs I’d told. That’s why I’d been dreaming about spiders’ webs, I mused—because I’d become so expert at spinning lies. But not only had Jos seemed oblivious to my furtive behavior, he’d been even more affectionate than before.

I
was
lucky, I realized with a bitter sigh, and Lily, though brutal, was right. My
rapprochement
with Peter had been an illusion. A
del
usion. No more than a shimmering mirage. What would I do now, I wondered bleakly as I rattled westwards on the train? The thought of being single filled me with dread—I couldn’t face being on my own. And the idea of having to start all over again with someone new made me feel sick and faint. So I decided to count my blessings and to stick with Jos. I wasn’t proud of this decision. In fact it filled me with self-disgust. But what would you have done in my place? For Jos was still there, and he still wanted me, and I didn’t want to be on my own. And though I despised myself for it, I guess people make these emotional calculations all the time.

When I got back to the house, there was a friendly message from Jos on the machine: “I’ll pop round on Sunday evening, darling,” he said. “We could go and watch the fireworks display.” And when I heard that I felt a surge of relief, that we could carry on as before. There was a second message, from Rory Cheetham-Stabb. I hadn’t heard from him for weeks.

“So sorry to have been a bit out of touch, Mrs Smith,” he said suavely when I called him back.

“That’s all right,” I replied.

“I’ve had a lot of clients to see to.”

“I’m sure you have,” I said.

“I imagine you’re champing at the bit now, aren’t you?”

“Well, not really. I mean—yes.”

“Thanks for returning all those papers.”

“That’s OK.”

“But now I think it’s time to press on. So let’s get this divorce on the
road
. I mean, there’s no reason why not, is there, Mrs Smith?”

“Not any more,” I replied.

“Your decree nisi will come through at the end of this month, and it will become absolute, or final, in another six weeks and one day. This means you’ll be divorced by January.” January? Our wedding month. “Now, do you want to authorize me to apply for the decree absolute for you? It makes it so much simpler, and means you don’t have to sign any more of those nasty forms. Shall I do that for you, Mrs Smith?”

“Yes,” I said bleakly. “Please do.”

“Right. Now, are you quite sure you’re happy with that?”

“Oh, I’m ecstatic,” I said.

* * *

“Penny for the Guy?” said two small boys as I walked to the newsagent on Sunday morning.

“What?” I said, looking up.

“Penny for the Guy, miss?” they repeated. I surveyed their battered little scarecrow effigy and reluctantly opened my purse.

“Here you are,” I said with an irritated sigh, handing one of them a twenty-pence coin.

“Is that
all?”
he said indignantly.

“Yes,” I said crossly. “It is.”

“Most people give us at least a pound,” piped up his friend resentfully.

“Well, I’m not going to,” I said.

“Oh, go on, miss, give us a bit more.”

“No, you ungrateful little beasts!” Graham’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. As I say, he’s very sensitive to my moods. In any case, I thought splenetically, it was begging—that’s what it was. It shouldn’t be allowed, I reflected angrily. I had never let Matt do anything like that. And now, horror of horrors, a pregnant woman walked past, and the sight of her huge stomach—like a wind-filled spinnaker—made me feel physically sick. Then a young mother pushed by me with her baby buggy, and I was nearly felled by a wave of distress. I had prenatal depression, I realized bitterly. I had mourning sickness, that’s what. For the thought of Peter’s baby growing inside Andie filled me with venom and bile. Misanthropic. That’s how I felt. I was Miss Anne Thropic, I mused with a grim little smile. Then I went into the newsagent and what do I see?
Parenting Magazine
—that’s what. Oh God! And
Mother and Child
. But then my anger evaporated like steam as I stared, in stupefaction, at the tabloids.

SEX SCANDAL AT AM-UK!
screamed the
Sunday Express
.

SHAME OF BREAKFAST TV STAR!
shouted the
Mail
.

MY STEAMY ROMPS ON THE SOFA WITH SOPHIE!
yelled the
Sunday Mirror
.

TV SOPHIE’S SHAMEFUL SECRET!
howled the
News of the World
.
Exclusive Report! See pages 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9 and 23!

I felt my jaw go slack, my eyes widen and my heart begin to pound. I rushed back home with an armful of papers and spread them out on the kitchen table. I was so stunned by the story my contact lenses nearly fell out.

AM-UK!’s Sophie Walsh may appear to be cool, calm and collected in front of the cameras every morning,
said the
Mail. But the twenty-four-year-old Oxford bluestocking has been hiding a sordid secret which now threatens to ruin her career. A former lover is seeking the return of valuables and jewellery given to her during a two-year relationship,
it went on.
Lavinia Davenport, forty-five, chairwoman of Digiform, the broadcast equipment company, has applied to have items worth ten thousand pounds returned. Her relationship with Walsh ended acrimoniously eight months ago, after Walsh started an affair with glamorous fashion PR Alexandra Jones, twenty-three. Following these revelations, Walsh’s future at AM-UK! is now in jeopardy.

Ah, I thought to myself. Alexandra. So “Alex” was a girl. Then I thought,
why
is Sophie’s future in jeopardy? So what if she’s gay? What a bunch of idiotic prigs these tabloid editors are. Then I read on, and felt my heart sink into the soles of my shoes.

Lavinia Davenport has given an interview to a Sunday newspaper in which she relates how the two women met while Walsh was working as a lesbian stripper in a Soho nightclub—the Candy Bar. Davenport admits putting a twenty-pound note in Sophie’s bra…
I turned to the
News of the World,
and there, on pages two and three, were two huge photos of Sophie, looking slightly younger and wearing nothing but a strategically placed feather boa and a pair of white evening gloves. Oh God, I thought. Poor girl. This was dreadful. Darryl wouldn’t like it at all. And in that instant I remembered something that Sophie had once said:
The tabloids would have a field day with me
.

Now I turned to pages four and five. There was a photo of Lavinia Davenport looking lachrymose, spilling her guts about her “disappointment” in Sophie.

I was distraught at Sophie’s infidelity…I’d bankrolled her for two years…I kitted that girl out…Chanel, Ferragamo…now I feel used and betrayed…I believe the mothers who watch her every morning should know the shabby truth about her past.

How
vile,
I thought dismally. How vile. This woman was chair of a successful company—she didn’t need to do this. There was only one reason why she’d done it—revenge. She was out to destroy Sophie’s career. And now I recalled Terry’s vicious remarks to Sophie on Friday about her having a “cracker” of a fireworks night. This was certainly explosive, I realized, as I threw the papers away. Terry and Tatiana. Of course. Who else? Then I recalled Terry’s vicious comments at that planning meeting. Oh yes, those two had been digging away.

All that day, random fireworks had been going off like sniper fire, making Graham and me start. At seven, Jos came round and I cooked him supper, and everything seemed fine. We decided not to go to the big display in Ravenscourt Park. Instead, we stood in the garden and watched as the sky lit up in a
blitzkrieg
of orange and red.

BOOOOOOM! BANG! we heard, like World War One cannons; then “KER-ACK-A-TACK-A-RACK-A-TACKKKK!” Like machine-gun fire. The roman candles flew up like distress flares, blazing a fiery trail through the dark. Then—WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!—we heard, like the sinister whistle of falling bombs. And now dozens of huge silvery tadpoles were wriggling across the sky; they reminded me, depressingly, of sperm.

“OOOOOOOH!” we breathed, and then, “AAAAHHHHH!” as the last rockets shot away like ground-to-air missiles; they flared for an instant as they strafed the dark, then dimmed, dissolved and died.

We could hear desultory detonations from neighboring houses long after we’d gone to bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, hearing them “pop” and “crack”.

“Are you all right, Faith?” I heard Jos whisper. “It’s half past one.”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t seem to be able to sleep.”

“Don’t I?”

“Is there anything worrying you?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” I lied. “It’s just the fireworks, that’s all.”

But I must have finally drifted off, because at three-thirty came the sharp shock of the alarm, puncturing my semi-consciousness like jabbing needles. I wrenched myself out of bed.

When I got into work at four fifteen, I had two double espressos then looked at the papers. Sophie was still on every front page.

SUSPENSION FOR SOPHIE!
screamed the
Mirror
.

LESBIAN LAID OFF!
shrieked the
Sun
.

SOPHIE’S COMMERCIAL BREAK!
yelled the
Mail
. There were photos of her leaving her Hampstead flat looking pale and distraught. In the
Daily Express
there was a nauseating interview with Terry in which he said how “sad” he felt.
Such a pity…her career was going so well…she should have been more open from the start…no, no, none of us guessed…well this
is
a family show…no, no, of course I’m not pleased about it…in fact I’m
terribly
upset
.

“I bet you are,” I said to myself furiously as I watched him strutting around like a prize cock.

“Poor kid,” said Iqbal when I went down to Make-Up. “And she was doing so well.”

“She’s a brilliant broadcaster,” Marian pointed out. “She doesn’t deserve all this crap. Anyway, Tatty’s got what she wanted,” she added. “Look!” On the monitor, in the corner, we watched as Tatiana took her coveted place on the sofa next to Terry.

“Do you think Sophie will come back?” I asked as Iqbal dabbed foundation over my cheeks.

“I very much doubt it,” he replied.

“But this has nothing to do with her career.”

“Yes, but you know what Darryl’s like. Apparently he’s been saying she’s brought the program into disrepute.”

“Disrepute!” I exclaimed. “How can a program which dishes up a daily diet of psychic grannies and roller-blading cockatiels be brought into disrepute?”

I struggled through the morning, my distress about Peter compounded by the fact that I missed Sophie’s friendly presence. I wouldn’t say we were close friends, but we’d become allies over the past few months. I’d never forgotten how nice she’d been to me, and I wished I could help her now. But what on earth could I do? I had her home number and resolved to ring her when I got back from work.

“I’ll call her this afternoon,” I said to myself when I got home at ten fifteen.

I took Graham onto Chiswick common, where spent fireworks speckled the grass. Then I went back and sank into bed. But though I was shattered, my mind was in such ferment that sleep eluded me. In desperation I flung out my hand and turned on my tranny, which was tuned to Radio 4.

“And you can hear
Woman’s Hour
again tomorrow at the same time,” said an announcer. “The program was presented by Jenni Murray and produced by Mimi Clark.” Mimi, I reflected exhaustedly. I hadn’t heard from her for months. But then she’d been busy with the baby, and I’d been avoiding mutual friends during the divorce. I remembered her saying that she wanted to invite Lily onto
Woman’s Hour
. That was a good program, I mused.
Woman’s Hour
… Of
course!
I threw off the duvet, ran downstairs and telephoned Broadcasting House.

“Faith!” Mimi exclaimed warmly five minutes later. “What a lovely surprise! I’ve been thinking about you,” she added. “What with all the ructions at AM-UK!.”

“That’s why I’m ringing, actually,” I explained slightly breathlessly, “because Sophie Walsh is a friend of mine. She’s been badly stitched up, Mimi, and she needs some instant PR. Would you have her on the show?”

“Well, we could,” she replied judiciously. “But I’m not quite sure in what context. Look, let me talk to my editor, but I promise I’ll do what I can. Any idea who her agent is?” she added.

“Swann Barton—they’re in the book.”

“And are you OK, Faith?” Mimi added gently. “I’m sorry not to have been in touch.”

“Oh, I’m OK,” I sighed. “I’m…fine.”

“I heard a lovely rumor that you might be getting back with Peter.” It was as though a knife had pierced my heart.