Out of the Blue

‘I know. But I usually send her some flowers or get her a box of chocs. You know, something that’s just from me. I’m not remembering anything at the moment, Faith,’ he sighed as he picked up our plates. ‘I guess it’s all the stress at work.’

‘But you’re remembering … some things,’ I suggested tentatively as I opened the freezer door.

‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said as I took out a box of ice-cream. ‘To be honest, Pete, I was going to ask you.’

‘Faith, what are you talking about?’ he asked as he got down two bowls.

‘Well, nothing really,’ I replied nonchalantly as I flipped open the lid, ‘except that you seem to have remembered someone else recently – someone I don’t know.’

‘Faith,’ he said edgily, ‘I haven’t got time for this. I’m very tired. And I’ve got an excruciating evening ahead of me because I’ve got to start the Amber Dane. So if you’ve got something to say to me, please would you be direct?’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘I will.’ I inhaled deeply, and then spoke. ‘Peter,’ I began, ‘I looked at our credit card bill today, and I found an entry on it for some flowers. I knew they weren’t for your mother’s birthday, because she told me you’d forgotten, so I just couldn’t help wondering who on earth they were for?’ Peter took his ice-cream, then stared at me as though I were mad.

‘Flowers?’ he said incredulously. ‘Flowers? I sent someone flowers? Who would I have sent flowers to apart from you or my mum?’

‘Well, that’s just what I was wondering,’ I said as I put the ice-cream away.

‘When was this exactly?’ he asked calmly as I got the chocolate sauce. If he was lying, he was very convincing.

‘December the eighteenth,’ I replied.

‘December the eighteenth? December the eighteenth … ’ He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, theatrically almost, then he suddenly said, ‘Clare Barry.’

‘Who?’

‘She’s one of my authors. That’s who those flowers were for. They were for her book launch, I always send her flowers.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘But –’

‘But what?’

‘But I thought you had a different credit card that you use just for your work expenditure.’

‘Yes, I do. It’s American Express.’

‘But sending Clare Barry congratulatory flowers, well, that would have been for work, wouldn’t it?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘So why would you have ordered flowers for one of your authors using your personal credit card?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said irritably. ‘Maybe it was a simple mistake. Or perhaps I mislaid my American Express card and was in a hurry, so I used my other card instead. Does it really matter?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said airily. ‘It doesn’t. I’m … satisfied.’

‘Satisfied?’ he said wonderingly. ‘Satisfied? Oh!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘Oh! I get it. You think I’m carrying on with someone.’ I glanced at Graham. His shoulder muscles had stiffened and his ears were down.

‘Ooh, no, no, no, no,’ I said. ‘No. Well, maybe.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Are you?’

‘No I’m not,’ he said with what struck me as a slightly regretful air. ‘I’m not carrying on with anyone. That’s the truth. In any case, Faith, don’t you think I’ve got enough to worry me right now without getting involved with some chick?’ Chick? ‘So please, will you give me a break?’ A break?

‘A break?’ I repeated. Ah. ‘You want me to give you a break?’

‘Yes,’ he replied firmly, ‘I do. And I hope you believe me when I say that those flowers were for an author? Do you believe me, Faith? Do you?’

‘Yes. I believe you,’ I lied.

February (#ulink_ab9dffc1-5978-5dae-909d-00f1545672eb)

‘I’m getting good at this,’ I said to Graham as I went through Peter’s clothes again this morning. You see I’m used to it now, so the second time wasn’t so bad. My heart wasn’t in my mouth as it had been when I’d done it the first time. My nerve endings didn’t feel as though they were attached to twitching wires. In fact I was quite business-like about it, and I told myself that I was perfectly entitled to go through my husband’s things.

‘Other women do this all the time,’ I said to Graham briskly. ‘In any case, I need to go through them to see if any of them want dry cleaning.’ I found nothing untoward this time, except, well, one very odd thing actually – in his grey trouser pockets – a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I showed it to Graham and we exchanged a meaningful glance.

‘I think I’ll go to the gym this evening,’ Peter said when he got home. ‘I haven’t been for over a week.’

‘Oh,’ I said. And whereas before I’d have thought nothing of it and gaily waved him off, now I was instantly on the alert. Why did he want to go to the gym all of a sudden? Who was he meeting there? Perhaps he had a rendezvous. Right. Let’s nip this in the bud.

‘Can I come too?’ I asked. ‘I’d like to have a swim.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ he said, so we put on Ready Steady Cook for Graham, got our sports bags and left.

‘Any news from Andy?’ I enquired as we drove along.

‘No,’ he sighed, ‘not yet.’ He changed up a gear.

‘And did you manage to finish the Amber Dane?’

‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘At long last. Satire!’ he expostulated again. ‘It’s not so much Juvenal as juvenile. I mean, why Charmaine wants to keep her on, I really don’t know. God, that woman gives me stress.’

‘Is that why you’ve started smoking?’ I asked innocently as we loitered at a red light.

‘Sorry?’

‘Is that why you’ve started smoking?’ I repeated. I wanted to see how well he could lie.

‘I don’t smoke,’ he said indignantly. ‘You know that.’

‘In that case, darling, why, when I emptied your grey trouser pockets at the dry cleaners today, did I find a packet of cigarettes?’

‘Cigarettes?’ he said. And I could see, even in the semi-darkness, that his face had flushed bright red. ‘What cigarettes?’

‘Lucky Strike,’ I replied.