Out of the Blue

‘I said five Hail Marys for you last night and I chanted for twenty minutes, too.’

‘Great.’ Lily has a slightly promiscuous approach to religion.

‘I also looked at your horoscope this morning,’ she went on seriously. ‘There’s a lot of tension in your sign at the moment between Saturn and Mars, so this is leading to adverse celestial activity on the relationship front.’

‘I see.’

‘But you’re doing the right thing.’

‘Am I? You know, Lily, I think I’d rather bury my head in the sand and let life jog along like before.’

‘Well, of course, ignorance is bliss, they say. But … ’ She sighed.

‘But I’ve got to see it through,’ I concluded as Lily murmured her assent. ‘And now I’ve started it’s becoming an obsession. I feel I’ve just got to find out the truth.’

‘Well, you’re going about it the right way,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And although of course I don’t want to interfere, it seems to me that you’re sleuthing away quite nicely there. I mean, your investigations are getting results.’

‘My investigations are going well,’ I agreed, ‘but now I’ve got a bit stuck.’

‘Well, Faith,’ she added, softly, ‘privately I’d say that your detection work has been very good.’ Privately? Detection? Eureka!

‘I need a private detective,’ I said.

‘Have you seen this?’ said Peter last night. He waved the Guardian at me. ‘It’s about AM-UK!’

‘What? Oh, I missed it.’

‘The TV critic’s had a go.’ I looked at the piece. It was headlined ‘CEREAL KILLERS!’ Oh dear. AM-UK! normally serves up a load of waffle for breakfast, began Nancy Banks-Smith, with the odd Poptart. But with the arrival of brilliant bluestocking Sophie Walsh, it’s a clear case of Frosties all round. The on-screen chemistry between ‘husband and wife’ team Walsh and old-timer Doyle, is about as warm as liquid nitrogen. But young Sophie handles Doyle’s sadistic joshing with rare aplomb. His crude attempts to wrest back the limelight are mesmerising to watch. But it’s Sophie who’s winning this breakfast battle – so-fa.

‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘They’ve all noticed. Mind you, it’s impossible to miss.’

‘It’s probably good for the ratings,’ said Peter. ‘Maybe that’s why Terry does it.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘I’m going upstairs,’ he went on, opening his briefcase. ‘I’ve got another manuscript to read.’

‘Before you do that,’ I said carefully, ‘please could you just tell me one thing?’

‘If I can,’ he said warily. I took a deep breath.

‘Please could you tell me who Jean is.’

‘Jean? Jean?’ He looked totally confused. I was almost convinced.

‘So you don’t know anyone called Jean, then?’ I said.

‘Jean?’ he repeated with a frown.

‘Yes, Jean. As in the girl’s name.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t.’ I had no idea he was such a good actor. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘No particular reason,’ I said. Peter gave me an odd look, then he snapped his briefcase shut and repeated, very slowly, ‘I do not know anyone called Jean.’

‘OK.’

‘But I know why you’re asking,’ he added wearily. ‘And it’s really getting me down. Faith, I am not enjoying being the object of your crude and unfounded suspicions. So to allay them, I’m now going to tell you the names of all the women I do know.’

‘Really, there’s no need,’ I said.

‘Oh, but I want to,’ he went on, ‘because maybe that way you’ll actually believe me, and these constant inquisitions will stop. Because, to be honest, I’m at the end of my tether, with everything that’s going on at work. So I hope you don’t think me unreasonable, Faith, but I can’t cope with any hassle at home.’

‘I’m not hassling you,’ I said.

‘Yes you are,’ he shot back. ‘You’ve been hassling me for three weeks. You’ve never done it before, but – and I really don’t know why – you seem to have got this bee in your bonnet. So just to convince you, darling, that I’m not fooling around, I’m now going to list, from memory, all the women I know. Let’s see. Right, at work there’s Charmaine, Phillipa and Kate in Editorial, um, Daisy and Jo in Publicity; Rosanna, Flora, and Emma in Marketing, and Mary and Leanne in Sales. Now, I talk to these women on a regular basis, Faith, and I’m not involved with any of them.’

‘OK, OK,’ I said.

‘Then of course there are all my women authors. There’s Clare Barry, to whom I sent flowers, Francesca Leigh and Lucy Watt; then there’s Janet Strong, J.L. Wyatt, Anna Jones, and um … Oh yes, Lorraine Liddel and Natalie Waugh.’

‘I’m not interested,’ I said in a bored sort of way.

‘Who else?’ he said, folding his arms and gazing at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Well, there are a number of female literary agents with whom I converse on a regular basis. There’s Betsy and Valerie at Rogers, Green; Joanna and Sue at Blake Hart; Alice, Jane and Emma at A.P. Trott, and Celia at Ed McPhail.’

‘All right,’ I said.

‘No Faith, it isn’t all right,’ he said. ‘So let me tell you some more. Oh yes, on that silly Family Ethics Committee on which I sit four times a year, there is Baroness Warner, who’s sixty-three; the sociologist, Dame Barbara Brown, and two very married and rather boring women MPs, both of whom are called Anne.’

‘This is unnecessary,’ I said.

‘Other females of my acquaintance include Andy Metzler’s colleagues, Theresa and Clare, and then of course there are a number of women I know socially, but then you know them all too – there’s Samantha at number nine, and we know Jackie at number fifteen, and that nice woman – whatshername – who we occasionally bump into at the health club. Add to that our old college friends like Mimi and I’d say that pretty well completes the list. Oh, and Lily of course. But if you thought for a second I was having it off with her, Faith, I’d take you down to the head doctor like a shot.’

‘OK, OK, OK,’ I said weakly. ‘Look, I didn’t ask for all this.’

‘Oh yes you did,’ he said. ‘By your suspicious behaviour. But let me assure you that the only person who’s strayed around here is Graham!’

‘Look,’ I said, beginning to feel upset, ‘I only asked you if you know someone called Jean.’

‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘I can honestly say that I don’t.’

But I knew this was a lie. Not even a white lie, but a flashing fluorescent pink and green one. And this was very significant, because Peter’s usually so truthful, but now he was being barefaced. But I couldn’t admit that I’d seen the note about Jean, because then he’d know I’d been snooping again. I really would like to have him followed, I thought. But then I reminded myself that it was out of the question, because private detectives don’t come cheap.

‘Are you all right now, Faith?’ Peter asked me as he stood by the door.

‘All right?’

‘Are you feeling convinced? Can we just kick all this nonsense of yours into touch? Because I’d just like our marriage to be … ’