Out of the Blue (8 page)

“So there we have it,” I said to Graham as I read and reread
the piece. “He’s in the clear. We have nothing to worry about.” I looked into
his eyes—they’re the color of demerara—and I stroked his velvety nose. Graham’s
been anxious too, you see. He’s very sensitive to my moods and over the last
couple of days he’s been feeling a bit insecure. I know this because he’s been
sitting closer to me than normal—preferably on my lap. Also, he’s following me
around more than he usually does. So this afternoon I said to him, “It’s OK,
Graham, you don’t have to get up every time I leave my chair.” But he does. He
came with me as I climbed the stairs to the spare room on the top floor. As I
say, I didn’t really think that Peter was having an affair, but in order to put
all my fears to rest, I’d decided to check his pockets. Peter’s fairly tidy, and
he doesn’t have huge numbers of clothes, so I knew my investigations wouldn’t
take long. I found that my pulse was beginning to race as I consulted the
magazine again.
You must leave everything exactly as you
found it,
it advised.
If he suspects you’re on
to him he may stop what he’s doing, which means you’ll never get to the
truth
. So, feeling like a thief, which evoked in me a curious mixture
of tremendous excitement and deep dread, I carefully went through his clothes.
First I looked in the pockets of his sports jackets. But all I found was an old
bus ticket, a hanky and some coins.

“Nothing suspicious there,” I said to Graham. He looked at me
with what I can only describe as an expression of enormous relief. In the
laundry basket in the corner were some shirts. Graham and I both sniffed them.
But there was no whiff of alien scent, no tell-tale lipstick marks, just the
familiar aroma of Peter’s sweat.

“We’re doing well,” I said to Graham. His ears pricked up and
he wagged his tail. Then I took Peter’s corduroy trousers off the dumb valet and
turned out the pockets of those. All I came up with was a packet of chewing
gum—unopened—and some lint.

“No condoms or billets-doux—my husband is innocent,” I
declared. By now I was rather enjoying myself. Relief was flooding in. I’d
already checked the glove compartment for foreign knickers but found not so much
as a thong. I’d done 1471 on the telephone, and it had read back to me Sarah’s
number. I couldn’t check his briefcase, of course, because he’d taken that to
work.

“Ah—his mobile phone statement,” I said as I spotted an
envelope marked One-2-One lying on the window sill. It had been opened, so I
just slipped it out and read the bill. There was one 0207 number on it which
appeared over thirty times. So I went downstairs, cunningly pressed 141 to
conceal my number (as advised by
Moi!
) then dialed
it with a thumping heart.

“Andy Metzler Associates,” said a female voice. I immediately
put the phone down.

“It’s just his headhunter,” I said to Graham. “Peter’s
blameless. Gimme five!” He held up his right paw and I shook it, then looked at
the magazine again.
Most love cheats are caught out either
by unfamiliar numbers on their phone bill, or by suspicious entries on their
credit card statements
. Now, I didn’t actually know where our credit
card statement was, as I don’t get to see it. This is not because Peter’s hiding
it from me, but because it comes in a brown envelope and I never, ever open
brown envelopes. It’s a kind of phobia, I suppose. I’ll open any number of white
ones, but brown ones I avoid. So Peter always deals with our credit card, and
I’ve never ever seen the bill. In any case, I hardly use my card as it’s so easy
to over-spend. I rummaged in the bureau in the sitting room and found a small
black folder labelled “Credit Card”.

“So far Peter has passed the fidelity test with flying colors,”
I said to Graham. “This, my darling doggo, is the final stage.” I examined the
top statement, which was dated January the fourth. As I expected, there were
very few entries; we’d used the card to book theater tickets at Christmas, we’d
bought Katie some books from Borders, and there was a sixty-pound entry for WH
Smith for a new computer game for Matt. Then there was a fourth entry, for some
flowers. My flowers, obviously. They’d cost forty pounds and had been ordered
from a place called Floribunda. I know where that is—it’s in Covent Garden, near
Peter’s office. So that was that then. No unexplained restaurant bills. No
references to country house hotels. No suspicious mentions of Knickerbox or La
Perla. My investigations were at an end. But as I snapped the folder shut and
went to put it back, I suddenly felt my heart contract as though squeezed by an
alien hand. Those flowers on the bill weren’t
my
flowers. How could they be? My bouquet had only been sent yesterday. The bill
for my ones wouldn’t appear until the February statement in three weeks’ time. I
could hear my breathing increase as I lowered myself onto a nearby chair. I went
into the hall, looked up Floribunda in the phone book and dialed the number with
a trembling hand. What would I say when they answered? What on earth would I
say? Please could you tell me who my husband ordered flowers for on December
eighteenth as I’m suspicious that he’s having an affair. Perhaps I could pretend
to be the recipient and claim that they’d never turned up? I’m so sorry, but you
know the flowers my husband Peter Smith ordered on the eighteenth of December?
Yes, that’s right. Well I’m afraid they never arrived; there seems to have been
a mix-up, could you just confirm which address you sent them to…

“Hello, Floribunda, can I help you?” said a pleasant-sounding
female voice.

“I—I—” I put the phone down, aware that the handset was wet
with sweat. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to know. I could feel the
urgent banging of my heart as I sat on the foot of the stairs. Peter was having
an affair.
I had been happy so I had nothing known,
I remembered as my hands sprang up to my face.
So now,
forever, Farewell, the tranquil mind…
I sat there, gazing at the gold
sunburst mirror Lily had given us for our wedding. I stared at it for a minute
or two, too shocked to know what to do. Then suddenly I gasped, and smiled, then
smacked my forehead, hard, with the palm of my hand.

“You IDIOT, Faith!” I shouted. “You STUPID IDIOT!” I’d suddenly
remembered, you see. His mother’s birthday’s on December the eighteenth. I’d
organized the birthday card, and signed it, and we’d given her a silver photo
frame. And now it was obvious that Peter had decided to send her flowers as
well. Of course. That was it! I flung my arms round the startled dog.

“I’m a very silly Mummy,” I said as Graham nervously licked my
ear, “and I got it completely wrong.” I felt so mean for having suspected Peter,
especially when he’s got so much on his mind. I felt mean, and low, and somehow
tarnished. Now, I resolved as I picked up the credit card folder, I’d never
distrust him again. Then I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of
coffee—real coffee by way of celebration. And the heady aroma of arabica had
filled the air and I was feeling quite mellow again, calmly flicking through the
rest of
Moi!
when I heard the trill of the
telephone.

“Hello, Faith,” said Sarah. “I just wanted to thank you for
organising that lovely party last week. I did enjoy myself,” she added warmly,
“and it was wonderful to see the children—they’re so grown up.”

“Oh, they are,” I said with a wistful smile.

“And I thought it was so sweet the way you arranged it as a
surprise for Peter.”

“I wanted to cheer him up,” I explained. “I expect he’s told
you that he’s got a few worries at work.”

“Well, yes,” she said. “He phoned me last night. I’m sure it
will all work out, but I must say he
is
a bit
distracted at the moment.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “He is. In fact,” I went on enthusiastically,
in a way I was shortly to regret, “he’d even forgotten that it was our
anniversary and he’s never done that before.”

“Well,” Sarah exclaimed with a little laugh, “he actually
forgot my birthday!”

“
Sorry?”
It was like falling down a
mineshaft. “I’m sorry, Sarah, what did you say?”

“He forgot my birthday,” she repeated. “And he’s normally so
thoughtful like that. I mean, I got your card of course, and that lovely frame,
but Peter usually gives me a little something extra, just from him, but for the
first time ever, he didn’t. Not a thing. But please
don’t
mention it to him,” she added quickly. “He’s got enough on his
plate right now.”

“So you didn’t get…?” I began faintly.

“Get what?”

“You didn’t get any…?” I heard the sudden, sharp ring of her
doorbell.

“Oh, I’ve got to go,” she said, “my bridge partners have just
turned up. Let’s chat another time soon, Faith. Bye.”

I replaced the receiver very slowly. “Oh God,” I said to
Graham. “Oh God,” I repeated, breathing more quickly. “Who the hell did he send
those flowers to, and what on earth shall I do?” I consulted the magazine again.
Under the box headed, “Action Stations!” was the following advice:
On no account let your husband know that you have doubts
about his fidelity. However hard it is you MUST carry on as though
absolutely nothing is amiss
.

* * *

“So how was it today, darling?” I enquired with phoney
brightness as Peter arrived back from work.

“Godawful,” he said wearily. “Do you know what the old bat’s
doing now?”

“What?”

“She’s trying to fob Amber Dane off onto me.”

“I thought Amber Dane had given up writing those awful novels,”
I said.

“We all hoped so,” he replied with a grim smile. “But she’s
written another one which she claims is ‘satire’ if you please. Satire? From
what I’ve read so far it’s about as satirical as a box of Milk Tray. We really
shouldn’t be publishing it—in fact that’s what I said. But Charmaine’s given me
the manuscript and wants a full report. Talk about getting the short bloody
straw,” he added as he loosened his tie.

“Oh dear.”

“And that creep,” he said exasperatedly as he fixed himself a
drink, “that fat Old Etonian creep got all hoity toity with me because I called
him Olly.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Exactly! Nothing. I mean, lots of people call him Olly.
Charmaine calls him Olly. And today, in a meeting, I called him Olly too, and
afterwards he took me to one side, and he’d gone puce in the face, and all
sweaty, and he said, very crossly, as though he was my bloody boss, ‘Peter.
Kindly
don’t
call me Olly. My name is
Oliver
.’ Pompous git! You know, Faith, I used to love
Fenton & Friend, but now I just can’t wait to get out.”

“Any news from Andy?” I asked. At this Peter blushed slightly,
I guessed because he was embarrassed to admit that there wasn’t any news.

“Er…no,” he said with a sigh as he sank into an easy chair.
“There’s nothing. Nothing yet. But I’m…hopeful.”

I managed to remain all breezy and “normal” as the magazine
article advised, and I couldn’t help congratulating myself for keeping up this
pleasant façade when my mind was in such turmoil. As we sat down to supper I
looked at Peter across the kitchen table, and it was as though I was seeing him
in a whole new light. He looked different to me now, in some undefinable way,
because for the first time in fifteen years I couldn’t read his face. It was
like looking at one of those smart clocks with no numerals—they can be rather
hard to read. All I knew was that I didn’t instinctively trust him in the way I
had before. I mean, before trust just wasn’t an issue between Peter and me. That
may sound naïve, but it’s true. I never ever gave it a thought, and I felt sorry
for wives who did. But now, I found myself, like thousands of other women,
consciously wondering if my husband was having an affair. And it was a very
peculiar feeling after being married to him for so long. As we sat there
chatting over the lasagne—reduced by a pound in Tesco actually, and double
points on the loyalty card—I thought about Peter’s name again, and about how
he’s always been my rock. Strong and steady and reliable—until now, that is. In
the Bible it was Peter upon whom Christ built his church. That’s what we were
taught at school. But it was also Peter whose resolve cracked in the garden of
Gethsemane, and who denied Jesus, three times. So Peter the Apostle had feet of
clay and I thought, my Peter does too.

“Are you all right, Faith?” said Peter suddenly. He’d put down
his knife and fork.

“What?”

“You’re staring at me,” he said.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Is everything all right?” he asked. “I mean, have you had a
good day?”

“Er…”

“You seem a little bit tense.”

“Oooh no, I’m not tense at all no, no, no, no. No.”

“How was the program?” he asked. “I’m sorry I missed you this
morning. You know I always try to watch.”

“Well, it was quite good,” I replied. “There was this really
interesting interview about names and what they mean. Yours means a rock,” I
added.

“I know.”

“Mine means—well it’s obvious,” I said. “And I always have been
faithful, as you know.”

“Yes. Yes, I do know that,” he said rather quietly, I thought.
And now there was a silence, during which I could hear the ticking of the
kitchen clock. “So how was the weather today?” he added.

“Um…well, the weather was fine,” I said. “I mean, it wasn’t
fine. In fact the outlook is rather unsettled,” I went on thoughtfully.
“Temperatures are dropping quite a bit, and then there’s the chill factor.”

“Of course,” he said. “The chill factor.” We looked at each
other again.

“Gorgeous flowers,” I said brightly, indicating the bouquet of
creamy jonquils and narcissi, pale anemones and golden mimosa. “They smell
heavenly. That was so sweet of you, Peter.”