Out of the Blue

‘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 programme?’ 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.’

‘You deserve them,’ he replied. Then another silence enveloped us both. And in that silence I suddenly decided – don’t ask me why – to ignore what the magazine advised.

‘Don’t you normally buy your mother something for her birthday?’ I asked innocently as I put down my knife and fork.

‘Oh Christ!’ he slapped his forehead. ‘I completely forgot.’

‘Well, we all gave her that silver frame, don’t you remember, and you did sign the card.’