Out of the Blue (45 page)

“Yes. She did. But why on earth didn’t
you?
”

“Because it’s none of your business,” he replied calmly as he picked up his fork again.

“Are you sure about that, Jos? I mean, what makes you think you can have a serious relationship with me for eight months and not tell me about your child?”

“Look.” He was beginning to bluster. “It’s been a very…difficult time for me. I’ve had awful problems with her.”

“So I hear,” I replied quietly. “And I hear that she’s had awful problems with you. You lied to me,” I went on pleasantly. “Just like you’ve lied to me about so many things. But this is a very big lie, Jos, because you told me you didn’t have kids. When we first met, don’t you remember? I asked you, and you said no.”

“I didn’t think it
was
mine,” he said defensively, “and I still don’t believe it now.”

“Oh, I do,” I said calmly. “And by the way it’s not ‘it’, it’s ‘she’.” I stood up, went to the dresser and took out the photo which Sophie had lent me.

“Are you sure she’s not yours?” I said as I placed it in front of him. He flinched, then looked away. “She looks awfully like you, you know, Jos. Same big grey eyes, same mouth, same fair curls. She’s even got the same name.” I put the photo back in the drawer, then sat down again.

“It’s my problem,” he insisted. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Well, to be honest Jos, I think it does. Because in theory she could be my stepchild, so of course I’d like to know. But the main thing is that I’m wondering what else you’d lie to me about, if you were prepared to lie about this?”

“It’s been a nightmare,” he groaned, running his left hand through his blond hair. “I didn’t want to bother you with it, Faith, because it just wasn’t fair.”

“Oh, come on, Jos,” I said wearily. “You just didn’t want to be bothered your
self
. Sophie says you’ve never given Becky a penny. Not a thing. Is that true?”

“It’s none of your business what I have or haven’t given her!” he retorted. “And you shouldn’t have listened to that, that, fucking…
lesbian!”
His aggression didn’t surprise me. After all, I told myself, this is a man who screams at dogs.

“You’re right, Jos,” I said calmly. “It
isn’t
any of my business. Not now. Because you and I are going to part.” He looked down at the table.

“I don’t see why this should make any difference to us,” he groaned.

“The fact that you can’t see that only proves how incompatible we are.”

“So you’re trying to dump me, are you?” he said angrily, his lips pursed in a now familiar hard, thin line. “Are you trying to get rid of me? Is that it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I am.”

“I will not have you doing that!” he said.

“I’m sorry, Jos, you don’t have much choice. I know you usually do the dumping, but in this case it’s going to be me. Not because of the baby, but because I don’t trust you. You’re a liar,” I said. “I’ve always known that and, to be honest, I wasn’t in love with you.” At this he stared at me, shock shining in his eyes. “There was something about you that never felt right,” I went on. “And now I know what it was. You don’t feel quite real. You’re all surface. You’re like one of your lovely trompe l’oeil paintings. You’re just a charming illusion, that’s all.”

“I’ve treated you very well,” he spat.

“Yes,” I said. “You have. But only because you wanted me to fall for you. ‘I’m going to make that woman love me’—isn’t that what you said? And recently you’ve been exceptionally nice to me, and now I’ve worked out why—because you knew that Becky might spill the beans, so you were trying to soften me up. But to be honest, Jos, your niceness means nothing when you’ve been such a four-letter-word to your child.”

“How would you feel if you were me?” he said vehemently. “How would you feel if you categorically told a woman it was casual and then she goes and does
that!
You ought to feel sympathetic to my situation given that it’s just happened to Peter.”

“But the difference between you and Peter is that Peter will do the right thing. Becky needs money,” I said. “And you can easily afford to pay.”

“Oh, she’ll get her money in the end,” he said petulantly. “I’m just not going to make it easy for her when it’s all her fucking fault.”

“Why is it all her fault? After all, you had sex with her, knowing she was obsessed.”

“Yes, I did. But I was honest. I
told
her there was nothing in it for her. I kept telling her,” he said, his voice rising now to a kind of tenor bleat. “I kept telling her she ought to get herself a proper boyfriend.”

“How chivalrous of you,” I said.

“I never thought she’d
do
that,” he whined, the planes of his handsome face twisted with discontent.

“Jos,
why
did you think she wouldn’t?”

“Because it would be emotional suicide, that’s why. I didn’t pretend to love her. So why would she want to have my kid?”

“Because
she
loved
you
. You knew that. So you should have taken care.”

“I did take care. I gave her money.”

“You gave her
money?
” I said weakly. “For what?”

“For the morning-after pill.”

“Is that your idea of contraception?” I said with a hollow laugh. “My God, you must have had a deathwish to carry on like that! Poor Becky,” I said. “The more you say, the more despicable you sound. You were like Pinkerton,” I remarked calmly. “You were no better than that.”

“But she
knew
the rules!” he hissed. He had stood up now and was glaring at me. “She
knew
the rules,” he repeated as his left hand sliced through the air. “She knew it was just a temporary arrangement, so she has only herself to blame!” And I thought, I’ve heard that before. That’s exactly what he said about
Madame Butterfly
when we were in the Model Room. “She’s just a crazy, pathetic bitch,” he added contemptuously, “bent on victimhood. I told her not to have it!” he hissed as he poured more Krug into his glass. “I told her I’d pay for the abortion, but the silly little cow refused. I hoped she’d have a miscarriage,” he went on, hysteria creeping in now. “I prayed she’d have one,” he yelled. “I got down on my knees and I
prayed
. Oh,
yes!”
he shouted as he waved the bottle of champagne about. “If Becky had had a miscarriage, it would have been vintage Krug ALL
ROUND!
” His words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. I looked at him, feeling derelict now of every emotion except contempt.

“I’d like you to go now,” I said quietly as I felt my insides twist and coil. “And please phone the travel agent tomorrow and tell them you’ll be going to the Caribbean alone.”

After he’d left I sat in the sitting room, with Graham, just staring into space. Knowing I was unhappy, he’d laid his head on my lap.

“You’re so clever, Graham,” I said as I stroked his ears. “You got it in one. I thought Jos was my Faith healer, but he was just a brilliant deceit.” I idly picked up the copy of
Moi!
magazine I’d got at the Cartier. I reread the compatibility questionnaire with dark laughter rising in my throat and a burning sense of shame.

Does your partner have any annoying little habits?
it asked. Yes, I’m afraid he does.
Does your partner always tell the truth?
Unfortunately not—in fact, he lies.
Do your friends and family like your partner?
Not really—especially the dog. And finally,
do you ever have uneasy feelings about some of the things your partner says or does?
With a grim smile I rubbed out the “no” I’d pencilled in in July, then picked up my pen and ticked, “yes”.

Three days later I arrived back from work at half past ten to find a pile of letters on the mat and the answerphone winking away.

“Darling!” I heard Lily shout as I picked up the mail. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” I said miserably.

“Long time no hear! I’ve been thinking of you because Jennifer Aniston got out last night.”

“How tragic,” I said.

“Yes—she’d gone all the way down the King’s Road, naughty thing.”

“I’m surprised she could find it,” I said.

“I expect Jos is taking you somewhere fabulous tonight, and I guess you’re off to the Caribbean any day.”

“No, I’m
not,
” I said crisply as I opened the first letter—a birthday card from the kids.

“If I don’t speak to you before you go, have a wonderful time. But I’m ringing you because the January
Moi!
has just come back from the printers and I wanted to read you your stars. Your horoscope’s absolutely brilliant, darling. Everything’s going to be great.”

“Oh, really?” I said.

“Now, just listen to this.” I heard her clear her throat theatrically. “Sagittarius, planet of big dreams, romance is very much on your mind this month.” I emitted a mirthless laugh. “And by the time of the full moon on the sixth of January you’ll have worked out why one particular person seems to hold for you an undying appeal. Isn’t that fabulous, darling?”

“No it isn’t,” I hissed.

“Just thought I’d share that with you. Byeeeee!”

There was another message from Mum, wishing me a happy birthday and asking me when I was bringing Graham down. Christ! I’d forgotten to tell her. I rang her back straight away.

“I don’t need you to puppysit after all,” I said. “I meant to tell you—it’s off.”

“Oh, darling. What a pity. Why?”

“I’ve just…changed my mind,” I explained.

“But the Turks and Caicos are divine.”

“I’m sure they are, Mum, but I don’t want to go.”

“So what about Jos, then? What’s happened to him?”

“I did Choose to Refuse.”

“You did what?” she said.

“Choose to Refuse. I don’t want to see him any more.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “Why not? I mean, weren’t you compatible?”

“No, we weren’t,” I replied. I thought of my three new summer dresses. “It was just an Episode.”

“So what are you doing tonight then, darling? It’s your birthday, after all.”

“Oh God, Mum, I really don’t know, and to be honest I don’t much care.”

Now I opened the rest of my mail. There was a lovely card from Peter—no message—but simply signed with a “P” and a cross. Sarah had sent me a card too, and there was one from Mimi and Mike. And now I opened the letter from Rory Cheetham-Stabb and found myself staring at my decree nisi. Here it was.
This came through ten days ago,
said an accompanying note,
but I thought you’d like a copy to keep
. Not really, I thought. I studied it with an air of defeat and a dragging sensation in my chest. For this was it. The palpable proof that my marriage had failed. I felt I was clutching a time-bomb, primed to explode in just a few weeks. The children would soon be home from school, so I hid it in my desk. I wanted to protect them from the details of our split, though they’d soon have to know about Andie.

Then I trudged upstairs, aware of the irritatingly merry jingle of an ice-cream van, and sank into bed. But it was one of those days when, despite my exhaustion, I just couldn’t sleep. Not least because the phone just wouldn’t stop ringing. Usually I let the answerphone take it, but today I kept getting up. First it was Sophie to find out how my meeting with Jos had gone, and to tell me she’d got more work with the BBC. Then it was Sarah, fulminating against Andie who she’d seen the previous day.

“The fuss she’s making about this pregnancy!” she exclaimed. “It’s ridiculous! She wouldn’t eat this, and she wouldn’t eat that, and she was quizzing me about what I’d cooked, and accusing me of giving her unpasteurized cheese. And I mean, she can’t be that pregnant yet, Faith, but she was wearing this sort of marquee, and Peter just looked so dismal,” she went on breathlessly, “I’ve never seen him like this. He spent most of the time working—on a Sunday—to avoid being with her, I should think! Like father like son,” she added bitterly. “I’m afraid he’s done
just
what my husband did. Maybelline!” she spat contemptuously. “I mean—what a ridiculous name!”

I humored her for another five minutes and then went into the kitchen, made some coffee, and opened the window on my advent calendar. As I did so a shower of glitter was loosened, and fell, like frost, to the ground. Well, things
have
lost their sparkle, I reflected. Inside the tiny window was a bowl of cherries. Mmm. Just like my life, I thought.

I spent the rest of the day feeling dismal; I felt like a small boat that’s being swept out to sea. For my divorce was no longer hypothetical but all too real, and Peter would soon take the rest of his things. I walked round the house, followed by Graham, identifying everything that was his. Those two old jackets in the hall, and his gumboots, and some shoes, and now I went through his books. Peter has so many—hundreds of them—they line the sitting room walls. I inhaled their sweet, musty fragrance with profound feelings of regret. There were shiny new paperbacks, and hardbacks, and a few treasured first editions. There were orange Penguins, and classic black ones, and all his authors’ novels, of course. And it’s funny the things that you notice when you’re in a certain kind of mood. For I found my eye inexorably drawn now to
The End of the Affair;
yes, I thought ruefully, our affair
did
come to an end. Then I spotted
Can You Forgive Her?
by Trollope. No, I thought bitterly, I can’t.
Bleak House
caught my eye now, and I thought, yes, this house
is
bleak.
Hard Times
were coming, I realized, there’d been a
Decline and Fall
. And here was
The Rainbow
but where, yes,
where,
was
mine?
Then I pulled out
Things Fall Apart
. Things had indeed fallen apart, I mused, leaving only
A Handful of Dust
. My reconciliation with Peter had failed catastrophically and Jos had proved to be a false dawn. For the first time in my adult life, I was utterly alone.