Out of the Blue (43 page)

“That’s not true,” I said bleakly. “We’re getting divorced.”

“I’m sorry, Faith,” she murmured. “You always seemed so happy.”

“We were happy,” I replied. “For fifteen years, Mimi. We were as happy as clams at high tide.”

As I put down the phone I realized that Peter and I hadn’t spoken now for over five days. It was probably just as well—after all, what on earth would we say? Wounded animals run for cover, and that’s what we had done. And because the kids weren’t coming home at weekends, there was no need for him to call; and though I missed him desperately, I was very relieved about that. For talking to him would hurt so much more, when there was no chance of our being together. As for seeing him—it would be torture, I’d have to view him in a different way. I must look
ahead,
I told myself firmly. I must get on with my life. I must try and get some—what do they call it?—“closure” on this, because my marriage would soon come to an end. So, now, after the disorienting effects of my affair, the needle of my emotional compass began to swing slowly back towards Jos. As we had supper that night I told him about Andie’s baby. He seemed genuinely shocked.

“Did he know she wanted to get pregnant?” he asked.

“Not really. She just went ahead.”

“I don’t think women should do that,” he said. At that, a tiny shudder convulsed his frame, but I knew the reason why.

“It’s OK,” I said gently. “You don’t have to worry. I’d never do that to you.” He reached across the table and squeezed
my hand.

“I know you wouldn’t,” he said.

“But Andie did,” I went on. “And she calculated, quite correctly, that Peter would stick around. You see, Peter’s very decent,” I added. “He always does the right thing.” Jos put our plates on the worktop, then enfolded me in his arms.

“So is her pregnancy the reason why you’ve been a little distant lately, Faith?” I nodded, relieved to be handed an excuse. “I guess it was a bit of a shock,” he added.

“You
bet
it was,” I said.

“What?”

“I mean, yes…it was a shock, because—well, we’re not even divorced.”

“But it’s not as though it makes any real difference to you,” Jos went on smoothly. And I thought—
if only you knew
. “I mean, Peter’s obviously moving on,” he added reasonably, “and so are you. Now, let’s talk about something nice. I want to book the holiday in the Turks and Caicos. Can we discuss dates?”

I felt cheered by the prospect of a holiday. I hadn’t been away for more than a year. The total change of scene, and the warm sunshine would probably improve my mood. The chance to spend some time with Jos, just on our own, would help us bond again. So the next day I asked for leave, then Jos booked our flights to the Caribbean; we would be leaving on December the fifth. As I brushed my teeth that night I looked into the mirror and stared at the reflection of the mural behind. I looked at the trompe l’oeil palm trees and azure sea and thought, that view will be real, quite soon.

In the meantime, lips were zipped at AM-UK! about Sophie’s departure from the show. She’d been airbrushed out of the station like a Soviet dissident being excised from a history book. By Monday afternoon her name had gone from her dressing room door. Sophie was finished. She didn’t exist. I phoned her three times but kept getting her answerphone, so guessed she didn’t want to talk. So it came as something of a surprise to turn on Radio 4 on Wednesday evening and to hear
The Moral Maze
.

“Our witness this week, on the subject of press freedom, is Sophie Walsh,” announced Michael Buerk.

“It’s Sophie!” I exclaimed to Graham. He wagged his tail.

“Sophie Walsh,” began Michael Buerk, “your private life has been splashed across every tabloid and most of the broadsheets this week. Presumably you’re in favor of a privacy law?” I bet she is, I thought. I heard Sophie inhale to steady her nerves, and then she spoke.

“It was the French historian Alexis de Toqueville who suggested that in order to enjoy the inestimable benefits that the liberty of the press ensures, it is necessary to accept the inevitable evils it creates,” she began quietly. “I am emphatically against prior restraint when it comes to press freedom, and wholly in favor of what we already have—self-regulation.” This drew a gasp from the other panellists.

“Are you saying you don’t mind what you’ve had to put up with this week?” said David Starkey almost indignantly.

“No, I’m not saying that at all,” she replied calmly. “Of course I mind. You’d mind having eight photographers outside your house, snapping you every time you stepped outside. You’d mind having someone going through your rubbish, or trying to steal your mail. You’d mind having some tabloid hack phoning up anyone you ever knew. But I can only say that my passion for the rights of a free press are greater than any annoyance I may personally feel at having my privacy infringed.”

“But your privacy hasn’t just been infringed, it’s been grossly invaded,” said Janet Daley hotly.

“Yes,” agreed Sophie. “It has.”

“And the government, through the European Declaration of Human Rights, may now make it impossible for newspapers to justify running stories such as yours, which have no public interest whatsoever.”

“That’s true,” Sophie replied. “But I believe it to be wrong. For the end result will be that we will ultimately have parliament policing the press, and I can imagine nothing worse. After all,” she went on, “for much of the world the reality for journalists is either that they are mouthpieces of the powerful,
acting merely as propagandists, or they are independent watchdogs—and are therefore at great physical risk. Do we want to see that here? Of course not. A free press—free occasionally to be
bad
—remains a vital safeguard of democracy. How else would crooks such as Maxwell, or Jonathan Aitken, have been exposed if the papers could easily be gagged? If a cabinet minister is cheating on his wife while promising a less sleazy government to the electorate, then surely it is right that the electorate should know?”

“Yes, but your story had no public interest factor, did it?” pointed out Michael Buerk.

“No,” she replied. “It didn’t. It was mere titillation, that’s all. But the fact is, it was true,” she added, “so how can I complain? No-one has defamed me. Though I emphatically reject Ms Davenport’s claims for the return of certain items she willingly gifted to me, and though I dispute the value she assigns them, I can fight that corner myself. But basically,” she concluded, “to answer your question, I’d say that I was pretty fair game.”

“How can you sit there and say that?” said Janet Daley incredulously. “Are you a masochist?”

“No, I’m a realist,” Sophie replied. “I knew that this episode was in my past and that it might one day come to light. But I had willingly taken a job which put me in front of five million people every day. And if you do that, then to some extent you forfeit your right to total privacy. I minded losing my job,” Sophie concluded. “Not only because it wasn’t necessary, but also because I know I was doing it well. But that’s an entirely separate issue from the one we’re discussing here and my lawyers will be taking that up.”

“Sophie Walsh, thank you,” said Michael Buerk. I picked up the phone and dialled Mimi.

“Mimi, I’ve just heard Sophie. She was
fantastic!”
I said. “You must have done that—thanks.”

“Well, I heard
The Moral Maze
were planning something on press freedom,” she explained, “so I gave the editor a call. They were all raving to me afterwards about how incredibly impressive she was.”

I dropped Sophie a line, via her agent, telling her how brilliant I thought she’d been, and expressing the hope that she’d get in touch some time. In the meantime, Tatiana was made a permanent fixture as Terry’s co-presenter, and life went on as before. Jos was due to start work for Opera North in January and I began to look forward to Parrot Cay.

“Of course we’ll look after Graham,” said Mum when I called. “Turks and Caicos—how super. It’s only a short hop to Cuba from there, darling, old Havana’s
fascinating
you know, and then of course Haiti’s not far, and you could have a quick whizz to the Dominican Republic.”

“Mum,” I interjected. “I don’t
want
to do all that. I just want to stay in one place. I’ve been through a lot this year,” I added wearily. “I just need a…holiday.”

“Of course you do, darling. So it must be going well with Jos, then,” she added, “if you’re going away. Have you met his parents yet?”

“I’m meeting his mother next week. She lives somewhere near Coventry.”

“And what about his dad?”

“He doesn’t see his father,” I explained. “And he never talks about him, so I don’t ask.”

“Well, we look forward to meeting Jos some time soon, Faith. How’s Peter?” she added.

“All right, I guess. Well, to be honest, I don’t really know.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mum about Andie’s pregnancy. I could hardly bear to think about it, let alone discuss it with someone else. I was trying to vanquish thoughts of Andie’s swelling stomach as I mended bridges with Jos.

“I know my mother will love you,” he said as we drove up the M1 towards Coventry the following week. “She already feels she knows you,” he added happily, “because she’s seen you so often on TV.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ll like her,” I said. Then I took a deep breath and added, “Jos, I hope you don’t mind my asking you this. But what about your father? Don’t you ever see him?”

“No,” he said sharply. “I don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at his darkening face. “I didn’t mean to probe.”

“It’s all right,” he said apologetically. “You’re entitled to ask, but there’s not very much to say. Basically, my father wasn’t much good to us,” he explained. “He let my mother down. I was three when he left, so I can hardly remember him.”

“Why did he leave?” I asked.

“He claimed that Mum had lost all interest in him and had become obsessed with me. Before long he’d taken up with another woman and they went to live in France. That was in 1969, Faith, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Do you want to?” I said gently.

“No. No, I don’t. He does,” he added. “He writes to me from time to time, but I’m afraid it’s just too late.”

I looked out of the window as we sped along, absorbing what Jos had just said. How sad, I thought. How incredibly sad, to feel rejected by your own father. That would explain certain things about Jos, I realized, not least his transparent need for approval and love. Poor Jos, I reflected. He’d probably been compensating for that loss all his life. By now a blanket of pale grey stratus had descended and a clammy rain was starting to fall. I peered through the metronomic swing of the windscreen wipers onto the black ribbon of road ahead. The silver birch trees along the verges looked derelict, having already been stripped of their leaves. We passed Northampton, then signs for Coventry, then turned onto the M6. Soon we were pulling up outside a semi-detached house somewhere to the north of the city. As Jos parked the MG, he honked twice, the door flew open, and there was his mum. They looked so alike, Jos’s strong features a masculine rendition of her own. But the planes of her face, though softer, were similar to his, and she had the same large grey eyes and curly hair.

“Hello, Mrs Cartwright,” I said, extending my hand. My slight nervousness evaporated like the dew as I found myself clasped in a warm embrace.

“Faith!” she exclaimed, beaming delightedly. “How lovely to meet you. Jos talks about you
all
the time. And please don’t call me Mrs Cartwright,” she added, “my name’s Yvonne.” Disarmed by the warmth of her welcome, I smiled and followed her inside. I was relieved to find her so friendly as I’d had no idea what she’d be like. I took off my coat and handed it to her, then looked up and blinked. For every available bit of wall was covered with Jos’s work. Sketches from his opera and theater designs were crammed alongside his Olivier awards. And there were framed posters of his productions going all the way up the stairs. There was
Carmen
at the Coliseum;
The Pearl Fishers
in Rome;
Othello
at the National Theater, and
Hedda Gabler
at the RSC. Every square of the house seemed to bear some tribute to Jos’s success. But what struck me most was all the photos; there must have been at least eight of him hung on the side of the staircase, and a further six ranged on a table in the hall. In the small sitting room his face gazed out from at least ten or twelve silver frames. There he was on his first day at school; and there, aged about twelve, on his bike; and there he was at art school, going up to receive a prize. Now here he was in his paint-spattered overalls, working on some set; there he was again, on holiday somewhere, his dark blond hair bleached white by the sun. There were photos of him with Bernard Haitink, with Sam Mendes and Trevor Nunn. Here he was again, snapped with Darcey Bussell, and there were several of him with Yvonne.

“Wow!” I said politely. “You’re obviously very proud of Jos.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I
am
.”

“Sorry about all the photos,” Jos said with a grin. “It’s very embarrassing for me, but Mum likes to put them on show.”

“I certainly do!” she exclaimed with a peal of laughter. “I’m his number one fan.”

As Jos helped his mother in the kitchen, I thought about the photos I have at home. There are just one of each of the children on my desk in the sitting room, and the wedding photo, long since consigned to a drawer. We sat and had tea and she enquired about my work and the kids. I enjoyed talking to her, though she missed no opportunity to lavish praise on her son.

“He’s such a good boy, really…done ever so well…never forgets me, do you darling?…I go to most of his shows…couldn’t get down to
Madame Butterfly
…wasn’t feeling too well…yes, much better now, thanks…oh yes, London’s such a long way.”

Jos is her whole life, I realized as she chatted away. She has no husband and no other kids. Jos is the fulcrum of her existence, and all her thoughts seemed to revolve around him. He went into the kitchen to make more tea, and so we were left alone. To avoid any awkward gaps in the conversation I decided to tell her about Parrot Cay. But before I could open my mouth she’d started to speak, and what she said took me by surprise.