Out of the Blue

‘What?’

‘Well, normal.’

‘I guess it is normal,’ I said.

Work is a refuge these days, from my current marital distress. There’s something about staring at the satellite charts, with their masses of Turneresque cloud swirling above the blue planet, which makes me forget my concerns. And of course the cold snaps in the studio are pretty distracting. Sophie had a very bad morning. Gremlins in the autocue. Funny that, I thought. I mean, normally Sophie reads it very fluently and I’ve never ever seen her fluff. She makes it all look so natural, as though she’s ad libbing, not reading a script. But of course it’s not like that at all. Up in the Gallery, Lisa the autocue operator works the machine by hand, scrolling the script down at a pace to suit the presenter. If the presenter slows down – she slows down. If they pick up – she picks up. But this morning something went wrong.

‘Welcome back … to … the show,’ Sophie said awkwardly after the break. ‘And … now,’ she went on at thirty-three rpm and I could suddenly see confusion in her face,’ … a … report … on … sexual equality … in … the … boardroom … … concludes … that ambitious … young … women … are … spearheading … Britain’s … drive … into … the twenty-first … century.’

It was agonising to watch. Once or twice she glanced down at her script, but it was clear that she’d lost her place. Then she looked up at the autocue again, but it was still crawling along the hard shoulder. It was like watching her being tortured, but she bravely battled on.

‘Nearly four … in … ten … ’

‘What’s going on, Lisa?’ I heard Darryl bark into my earpiece.

‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ she whined. ‘I just can’t get it to work.’

‘Boardroom bosses … are now … female,’ Sophie continued. ‘The … highest figure … since data was … ’ I heard her sigh. ‘ … collected. Women are also … ’

‘Oh, come on, Sophie!’ interrupted Terry suddenly. ‘We haven’t got all day. Sorry folks,’ he said into his autocue with a regretful smile, ‘but Sophie seems to have lost the gift of the gab. So we’ll skip that item and go straight to Tatiana’s report from the Old Vic. Yes, the lovely Tatiana’s been talking to Andrew Lloyd-Webber about his plans for this much-loved London landmark where Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud first trod the boards.’

‘What’s going on?’ I heard Sophie say into her microphone as Tatiana’s filmed report went out. ‘What happened to the autocue?’

‘There were problems with it, apparently,’ Darryl said.

‘Well, it worked perfectly OK for Terry,’ she pointed out. I could see that she was close to tears. ‘Lisa,’ she said carefully as she swallowed hard, ‘kindly don’t do that again.’

‘I didn’t “do” anything,’ I heard Lisa whine. To be honest, I’ve never liked that girl. ‘It just seemed to get, I don’t know … stuck,’she concluded feebly.

‘Well, kindly unstick it for my next item,’ Sophie said crisply. I didn’t blame her. There is nothing worse than broadcasting live to the nation with a dodgy autocue. I’ve done it once or twice and believe me, you look a total prat. Worse, people remember it for years. They say, ‘Oh! I saw you on breakfast TV.’ And you think you’re about to get some lavish compliment, instead of which they say, ‘Yeah. Two years ago. It was really funny – the autocue broke down!’ And you have to go, ‘Oh yes – that was funny. Oh, yes – ha ha ha!’

‘You poor thing,’ said Terry to Sophie with phony concern. ‘That must have been awful for you. So humiliating. And at peak time too. When everyone’s watching. Five million people. Oh dear – what a shame.’ She pretended not to hear him as she looked down at her script.

‘But that’s the thrills and spills of live TV for you,’ Terry went on philosophically. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I’m not sure you’ve got what it takes.’

At the meeting afterwards, Darryl was livid.

‘Lisa, I think you should apologise to Sophie,’ he said, crossing his arms.

‘I’m very sorry, but I’m not going to apologise,’ she whined. ‘It was a technical hitch.’ She remained adamant that it wasn’t her fault. But as I was leaving I spotted Terry and Tatiana having breakfast in the canteen. They looked rather pleased with themselves. Then Lisa sat down with them too. And you don’t need to be a brain surgeon to guess what had happened, though I wonder what she’d been paid.

When I got home I took Graham for a walk along the river – he loves it there – then I checked out the IsHeCheating.com website again. I’d asked for advice, and I’d got it.

Emily, give your husband a break! said Barbara from New York. You don’t have ANY hard facts that he’s playing around so why go looking for trouble?

If you feel your man’s being evasive, then he IS, said Sally from Wichita.

Why don’t you cheat on HIM? suggested Mike from Alabama. Just to even the score.

Sneak into his office and bug his phone! advised someone else.

Call an attorney right now!

Go back home to your mom!

Just have the bastard trailed!

I was mulling over all these options tonight in the kitchen as I chopped up vegetables for supper. I wasn’t going to have an affair myself – that would be cheap and low; there was no way I could gain access to his office even if I had surveillance equipment; I couldn’t afford a lawyer, so that was out of the question, and I couldn’t go back to my mum because she was always away. As for having Peter followed, I’d decided I hadn’t the heart. Nor did I have the cash. I’d made a couple of calls and ascertained that it would cost at least two grand. I just didn’t know what to do.

‘Mum, are you all right?’ Katie enquired. She was cleaning out her goldfish, Sigmund.

‘What?’ I said.

‘I said, are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course I’m all right, darling,’ I replied. ‘What on earth makes you think I’m not?’

‘The gratuitously vicious way in which you’re chopping up those carrots.’

‘Am I?’ I said wonderingly, sword-sized Sabatier poised in mid-air.

‘Yes. You remind me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. In fact ever since Matt and I came home this evening, I’ve been picking up a lot of stress.’ Oh God. I had that shrinking feeling. I knew what was coming next.

‘I’ve been detecting a lot of tension,’ Katie went on, ‘and a lot of suppressed anger. You’re feeling pretty hostile, aren’t you Mum?’

‘I am not hostile!’ I spat.

‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ she continued calmly. ‘There you are, Siggy. Nice and clean.’

‘Tell you?’ I repeated wonderingly.

‘What I really mean is, Mum, is there anything you need to talk through?’

‘No thank you,’ I said as I got down the salt.

‘Because I’m getting a lot of anxiety here.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes. Have you been having many negative thoughts?’

‘Negative? No.’

‘Are you in denial?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Disturbing dreams?’