Out of the Blue (7 page)

“Because I have only your best interests at heart.”

“Yes. Thanks…”

“But I think you ought to do a Christine…” I looked at her.

“What?
Hamilton?”
I said aghast.
“You mean, search his pockets?” Lily was fiddling with the Buddhist power beads
at her slender wrist.

“That’s what many women would do, Faith,” she said reasonably.
“But don’t worry, darling. I’m sure there’s absolutely
nothing
to be concerned about.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said, suddenly panicking. “Maybe there
is
.”

“No, no, I’m sure it’s
fine,
” she
said soothingly. “But all I’m saying, as your best and oldest friend, is that
maybe you should, well, sharpen up a bit.”

“What?”

“Learn to spot the signs.”

“I wouldn’t know how,” I groaned.

“Of course you wouldn’t, you’re so trusting. But that’s
something I can help you with, darling, because as luck would have it,
Moi!
did a big feature on this only last month.” She
stood up and began to sort through a pile of back issues on the floor.

“Now, where is it?” she said. “Oh, here we are!” she exclaimed
happily. “You’re in luck. ‘Is Your Man a Love-Rodent?’” she read. “
Seven classic signs: one, he’s distracted and distant. Two,
he’s ‘working late’; three, he’s looking fit; four, his wardrobe’s improved.
Five, he’s not interested in sex, and six
—and I gather that this is
the clincher, Faith…” Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door.

“Lily…” It was Polly again. “Lily, I’m sorry, but I’ve got
Madonna for you on line one.”

“Oh God,” said Lily, rolling her eyes, “I’ve told her not to
call me in my lunchbreak. Still…” She sighed. “We do want her on the cover in
June. Sorry, Faith darling. Must go.” She blew me a kiss as I stood at the door,
then waved Jennifer’s little paw up and down.

“Now, I don’t want you to worry,” she called out as I opened
the door. “In any case I’m sure it’s all going to work out for the best, as you
always like to say.”

I journeyed back to west London as if in a trance. I’d got what
I wanted, all right. I’d had my nagging doubts dispelled, and replaced with
naked fear. Peter was having an affair. Lily hadn’t said it in so many words,
but she clearly thought something was up and she’s, well, a woman of the world.
My morale was so low it was practically underground, and as I left Turnham Green
tube and walked home I began to entertain all kinds of mad ideas: that Peter was
in love with another woman; that he would up and leave; that I had been a bad
wife; that he had been driven to find solace elsewhere; that our house would
have to be sold; that our children would suffer and fail; that our dog would
become a delinquent; that we’d never go to Ikea again; that—as I placed my hand
on the garden gate, my heart suddenly skipped a beat. For there, on the
doorstep, was an enormous bouquet of white and yellow flowers. I gathered it up
in one hand and unlocked the door with the other, and as Graham leaped up to
greet me with a joyful bark, I peeled off the envelope. The phone started to
ring, but I ignored it as my eyes scanned the message on the small white
card.

Happy Anniversary, Faith,
it read.
So sorry I forgot. All my love, Peter
. Relief
knocked me over, like a wave. I sank gratefully onto the hall chair.

“Of
course
he’s
not
having an affair!” I said to Graham as my hand
reached for the phone. “Peter loves me,” I said, “and I love him, and that’s all
there is to it. Hello?”

“Faith, darling, it’s Lily. Sorry we got cut off there.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said cheerfully. “I’d said everything I
wanted to say and in fact Lily, although it’s
very
kind of you to give me advice, and I do appreciate it, I really don’t think
you’re quite right, and to be honest I think I just really overreacted and I’d
been in a silly sort of mood you see, and I was very tired too from work,
so—”

“No, but Faith, there was one thing I meant to tell you,” she
said. “Something
really
important—the sixth sign.
Apparently it’s the absolutely
copper-bottomed-it-simply-never-fails-dead-cert-surefire-sign that one’s husband
is up to no good.”

“Er, yes?” I said faintly. “What is it?”

“It’s if he’s sending you flowers!”

* * *

“What are
you
getting up
to?” Terry enquired saucily as he leaned into the camera a few days later. “Why
not get up to AM-UK! where there’s lots of snap, crackle and pop! It’s coming up
to…” He glanced at the clock. “Seven fifty. And later in the show, Internet
dating—how to ‘click’ on-line; women with beards—why they prefer the rough to
the smooth; and our Phobia of the Week—griddle pans. Plus all the news, weather
and sport.”

“But first,” said Sophie as she read her autocue, “we ask that
old question, what’s in a name? Well, quite a lot according to sociologist Ed
McCall, who’s just written a book about names, about what they mean, and how
they can influence our lives. Ed, a warm welcome to the show.” I was standing by
the weather chart, listening to this, and I must say it was great. Interesting
items are rare, as one of the TV critics noted ironically, “AM-UK!’s healthy
breakfast menu is virtually fact-free!” But this interview was riveting, and
Sophie handled it well.

“Looking at surnames,” Ed McCall began, “I’ve concluded that
people are often drawn to careers which reflect their second names. For example
there’s a man called James Judge, who’s a judge; then there’s Sir Hugh Fish, who
was head of Thames Water; there’s a newly ordained vicar called Linda Church,
and I discovered a Tasmanian police woman called Lauren Order.
Gardener’s Question Time
has Bob Flowerdew
and
Pippa Greenwood, and there’s another well-known
horticulturalist called Michael Bloom.”

“I believe the medical profession has some intriguing
examples,” Sophie prompted him.

“Oh, yes. I uncovered an allergist called Dr Aikenhead,” he
said, “and dermatologists Doctors Whitehead and Pitts; I found a urologist
called Dr Weedon, and a paediatrician called Dr Kidd.”

“This is great, Sophie,” I heard Darryl say in my earpiece.

“Any others?” she said with a smile.

“There’s a surgeon called Frank Slaughter, a police officer
called Andy Sergeant, several bankers with the surname Cash, and a convicted
criminal called Tony Lawless. There are many other instances of this type,” he
went on, “so I’ve concluded that these people were drawn to their professions,
whether consciously or not, because of their family names.”

“I suppose you could call it nominative determinism,” suggested
Sophie in her academic way.

“Er, certainly,” he said uncertainly, “though that’s a very
technical way of putting it. But yes, I believe that names do determine our
lives in some way; that they’re not just labels but form an inherent part of our
identity.”

“And is this as true of Christian names as it is of surnames?”
Sophie asked.

“Oh, definitely,” he said.

“So what does Sophie mean?” Terry interjected with a smirk.
“Smug little show-off?”

“Sorry?”

“Sycophantic show-stealer?”

“Shut up, Terry!” I heard Darryl hiss in my earpiece.

“Er, no,” said Ed McCall, clearly shocked by Terry’s shameless
on-screen slurs. “Erm, the name Sophie actually means wisdom, and may I say,” he
added gallantly, “that it’s a name that obviously suits this Sophie well.”

“And what does Terry mean?” asked Sophie pleasantly.

“Terry is either the diminutive of Terence,” Ed replied, “or it
could be derived from the French name, Thierry, from Norman times.”

“It’s not a very popular name any more, is it?” Sophie went on
sweetly. Ah. She’d obviously read the book. “In fact you point out that Terry’s
rather a
dated
name these days.”

“That’s right,” Ed agreed, “it was especially popular in the
1950s.”

“The 1950s!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I’m sure Terry wasn’t born as
long ago as that, were you?” she enquired innocently.

“Oh, no no no,” Terry said, “much later.”

“Of course you were,” said Sophie benignly as the cameraman
sadistically lingered on Terry’s reddening face. “I’m sure you were born much,
much later than that, Terry.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. I was.”

“I’m sure no-one would believe you could possibly have been
born in—ooh—1957?” she concluded with a smile. Touché. He deserved it. For once
he was lost for words. “And what about our weather forecaster, Faith?” Sophie
went on smoothly as Terry seethed; she indicated me with an elegant sweep of her
left hand as the light on “my” camera flashed red.

“Faith is one of those abstract virtue names which the Puritans
invented,” Ed explained. “It’s like Charity, Verity or Grace. And these names
were given mostly to women, of course, as a means of social control; so that
baby girls given these ‘virtuous’ names would develop those desirable
characteristics. There were some really awful names of this kind,” he added,
“but thankfully they haven’t survived. Can you imagine calling your child
Abstinence, Humility or Meek?”

“How dreadful!” Sophie exclaimed with a laugh.

“But the more attractive names of this type have stayed with us
and I think they do have an influence on character. I mean, if you’re called
Patience or Verity, then people expect certain things. How can you be called
Grace and be clumsy, for example, or be a miserable Joy, or a promiscuous
Virginia, or a depressive Hope?”

“Or an adulterous Faith,” said Terry, trying to get back in the
show. “Are you faithful, Faith?” he asked me, very cheekily I thought.

“Only to my husband,” I said with a smile.

“There’s a fashion for naming children after places, isn’t
there, Ed?” Sophie went on.

“Oh yes,” he replied, “we’ve got just about every American
state now—Atlanta, Georgia, Savannah etc—though Nebraska and Kentucky don’t have
quite the same ring. Then there’s Chelsea, of course, and India. And people
often name their children after the place in which they were conceived. Like
Posh Spice and David Beckham calling their baby Brooklyn after a trip to New
York.”

“Well, it could have been worse,” said Sophie judiciously. “At
least they didn’t call him Queens.” Ed laughed at her witticism as she thanked
him for coming on the show. “It’s been fascinating,” she concluded warmly. “And
Ed’s book,
The Game of the Name,
is published today
by Thorsons and costs six pounds ninety-nine.”

“And now,” Terry intervened, “it’s time for a look at the
weather. So let’s see if Faith lives up to
her
name
today!”

As the program ended an hour later, Terry and Sophie sat there
beaming at each other amiably while the credits rolled. Then, the split-second
they were off air, he stood up, towered over her and shouted, “Don’t you
ever
do that to me again!”

“I’m sorry, do what?” said Sophie sweetly as she removed her
microphone pack from the back of her skirt.

“Don’t you
ever
discuss my age on
screen again,” he hissed.

“Well, for my part I’d be grateful if you didn’t insult me on
screen,” she replied as she took out her earpiece.

“I am thirty-nine!” he shouted after her as she made her way
towards Make-Up to get her slap removed. “Thirty-nine! Not forty-six. Got that,
you superior little cow?”

“Of course I know you’re thirty-nine, Terry,” she flung over
her shoulder. “I don’t know how I could have got that wrong. After all, everyone
here tells me you’ve been thirty-nine for
years
.”
His face went white with anger. It was as though Sophie had made a declaration
of war. And though I was glad to see her start to get her own back, I hoped she
wouldn’t come to regret what she’d done. Still, as I say, I always keep out of
office disputes. As I picked up my bag I saw that there were two copies of
The Game of the Name
lying on the planning desk.
No-one seemed to want them, so I put a pound in the charity box and took one of
them home. There was an index at the back, and I looked up Peter; it said that
Peter means a rock, which I knew. I thought how Peter always has been my rock,
really—steady and unswerving and strong. I pondered my own name, and wondered,
not for the first time, to what extent it has shaped who I am. Would I have
turned out differently if I’d been called something racy, like Scarlett or
Carmen or Sky? But I was christened Faith, so I guess I couldn’t be racy if I
tried. And I decided I might as well be true to the name I have and I resolved
not to have doubts about Peter. So when I opened the front door and saw that
Lily had sent me the December edition of
Moi!
I
simply felt like throwing it away. But then, on the other hand, I knew she could
only mean well.

I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to
worry about,
she had written in her large round hand.
But just to be on the safe side, do read this as it’s full of
handy hints. PS, why not check out the IsHeCheating.com website?

“How ridiculous,” I said to Graham as I flicked through the
magazine again. “Peter
isn’t
having an affair.” Even
so, I couldn’t resist reading the article. Just out of interest, of course.

* * *

How to Tell If Your Man’s Playing Away:

1. He’s distracted and distant.
2. He’s working
late.
3. He’s looking fit.
4. His wardrobe’s improved.
5. He’s not
interested in sex.
6. He’s sending you flowers.

* * *

Now, the scary thing was that I knew I could answer a
resounding “yes” to all of these. But I decided to remain quite calm, because
there’s a rational explanation in every case. Peter is distracted and distant
because he has many worries, and has lost weight, ditto. He’s working late
because his boss is vile; he’s improved his wardrobe because he has to look
smart for job interviews. He’s not interested in sex because his libido is low
due to his depression about work. He bought a mobile phone so that his
headhunter can contact him at the drop of a hat; and he sent me flowers for the
simple reason that he forgot our anniversary and felt bad.