Out of the Blue

‘The cashmere’s only Nicole Farhi,’ she said. ‘But I’m getting so bored of Voyage. Jil Sander sent me the skirt. Wasn’t that sweet? The cut’s so sharp it ought to be classed as an offensive weapon. When I’ve finished with it, Faith, it’s yours.’

‘Thanks, Lily,’ I said ruefully. ‘But it wouldn’t go past my knees.’ Lily’s a size ten, and I’m a fourteen. She’s almost six foot – more in her heels – and I’m only five foot four. Which is funny, because when we were nine we were both exactly the same size. She used to have my cast-offs then, but now she gives me hers. She used to be the one who was penniless, but now it’s me. Still, we all make our choices in life, and as I say, I’m quite happy with mine.

The waiter poured Lily a glass of Chablis, and then he looked at the large, Louis Vuitton carrier on her lap and said, ‘May I take that for you, madam?’

‘Oh, no thank you,’ she replied, looking slightly furtive. ‘This is my handbag, you see.’

‘Really, madam?’ he said suspiciously.

‘Absolutely,’ Lily shot back with a dazzling smile, her refulgent teeth sparkling like frost against the rich, dark bronze of her skin. ‘I always hang on to this one,’ she explained. I knew why. She’s very naughty like that. But then, as I say, Lily has always broken rules. As the waiter retreated she put the bag under the table and quickly undid the zip. Then she looked at me, grinned, and swiped the last bit of meat from my plate.

‘Here, darling!’ she whispered as her beautifully manicured hand shot down below. ‘Auntie Faith wants you to have this.’ We could hear snuffling, snorty little sounds, followed by a tinny whine. Katie, Sarah and I lifted the cloth and peered under the table where Lily’s Shih Tzu, Jennifer, had just scoffed the last of my lamb. A pink tongue shot out and wrapped itself around her furry little face; then she stared at us blankly with a pair of huge, bulging, black eyes.

‘What a sweet hairstyle,’ said Sarah with a laugh. Jennifer’s flowing locks had been gathered into a top knot and secured with a sparkling clip.

‘Oh yes, she’s so gorgeous,’ Lily replied with a sigh. ‘Isn’t she, Faith? Isn’t she just the prettiest little thing in the world?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I lied, looking at Jennifer’s undershot jaw, her crooked teeth, her bearded chin and flat little face. ‘Jennifer’s just … great,’ I added with a hypocritical smile. Again, some people might think that Jennifer’s an unusual choice of name for a dog. In fact her full name is Jennifer Aniston. This is because of her long, silky blonde hair, and because she’s ‘worth it’. At least I hope so, because Lily spends half her salary on that pooch. The Louis Vuitton doggy bag, for example – that’s at least five hundred pounds’ worth. She’s also got eight Gucci dog collars, five Chanel leads, two Burberry coats, three Paul Smith bowls, and you should see her bed! It’s like an oriental tent, complete with Chinese wall-hangings and a silk rug. The purpose of this, apparently, is to remind Jennifer of her ancient origins in Imperial Peking. Shih Tzus were temple dogs, and Lily worships hers. But between you and me, Jennifer Aniston is simply not my type. She’s not Graham’s, either. He tends to stare at her, slightly incredulously, as though he’s not entirely sure she’s a dog.

‘How’s magland?’ I asked brightly, changing the subject.

‘Fabulous,’ Lily replied. ‘Here’s the February issue – look! It’s just come in from the printers, I’m having them biked all over town.’ The magazine felt heavy in my hands, and shone under the spotlights like ice. Moi! it proclaimed on the masthead, above a photo of Kate Moss. I glanced at the headlines: ‘Pees and Queues – Five Star Loos!’ ‘Prolier Than Thou – the REAL New Labour!’ ‘It Girls – Just Lamé Ducks?’ and ‘Pulling Power – Our Top Ten Tweezers!’

‘Hype springs eternal!’ muttered Peter, rolling his eyes.

I gave him a discreet kick, then Sarah and I flicked through the magazine, careful to admire, aloud, the wonderful photos, the features, and the fashion. And the ads, of course. There were lots of those. Some of them, I happen to know, cost thirty thousand pounds a page, which is more than I earn in a year. There was one particular ad for an expensive face cream, with a photo of a Persian kitten, and though I’m a doggy sort of person, I just couldn’t help going, ‘Aaaaah!’

‘That’s the “classical conditioning” reflex, Mum,’ said Katie knowledgeably. ‘Extremely effective for selling. It works by establishing an association between a product and a pleasant feeling. Stayman and Batra did a fascinating study in 1991 which proved that emotional states affect consumer choice.’ As I say, she’s not like other girls. In the meantime Lily had been rattling on about circulation and pagination and subscription rates and God knows what. ‘We’ve got a hundred and twenty advertising pages,’ she explained happily, ‘and a hundred and thirty editorial. This is our biggest issue yet. We’re on a roll.’

At the front was an article about dieting and a profile of Sharon Stone. There was an extract from the new Ian McEwan novel, and the society diary section, ‘I Spy’. There were pages on lotions and potions, and a competition to win a car. Now, I love competitions. I do quite a lot of them, though obviously I couldn’t enter this one because friends of the editor are barred. But whenever I’ve got time I send off the forms. I actually won something recently – I was really chuffed – a year’s supply of Finish rinse aid. I’ve never won anything big though, but maybe one day I will.

By now, Mimi, who works at Radio 4, had plucked up her courage and was talking to Lily about her career.

‘Other women’s magazines have falling circulations,’ Mimi said, ‘but yours seems to be soaring.’

‘It’s gone up by twenty per cent since I took over,’ said Lily triumphantly. ‘They’re all quaking in their Manolos at Vogue!’

‘Would you like to come on Woman’s Hour?’ Mimi asked. ‘When I’m back from maternity leave? You’d be talking about Moi!, of course, and about your innovatory editing style. But I think the listeners would also like to know about you – your background, and your convent days.’ Lily snorted with laughter.

‘I wasn’t exactly a model pupil. Ask Faith!’ I smiled and nodded. It was true. But there are reasons for that. There are very good reasons why Lily, though obviously gifted, was rather difficult at school. For a start, she was just plucked from her home: it was done with the best of intentions, but she was taken away and placed in an environment where she was bound to feel she didn’t fit in. At eight, her exceptional brain was spotted by a teacher, who told the local priest, who then contacted the bishop, who wrote to Reverend Mother who agreed to take her on as a scholarship girl. And that was how Lily left the Caribbean to be educated at St Bede’s.

‘Lily was a brilliant pupil,’ I said. ‘She wanted to be top in everything, and she was!’

‘Except good behaviour,’ Lily pointed out with a throaty laugh. This was absolutely true. We had to go to confession every Saturday morning, and she used to spend hours in there. I was convinced she must be making things up, so I remember once telling her that inventing transgressions was, in itself, a mortal sin.

‘It’s a bit like wasting police time,’ I explained, ‘so you really shouldn’t fabricate sins.’

‘I wasn’t fabricating anything,’ she retorted, rolling her huge brown eyes.

I’m afraid Lily wasn’t what you’d call popular. She could be very sharp, for example, and the girls feared her razor tongue. When we were sixteen, Sister St Joseph gave us a career talk and she looked at Dinah Shaw, who was terribly dim, and said, ‘Dinah, what are you going to be when you leave St Bede’s?’ And Lily shouted, ‘Twenty-five!’

But if, as I say, Lily was naughty, it was because of all the appalling snobbery and spite. Venetia Smedley was the worst. She came from the Channel Islands and was known as the Jersey Cow. At breakfast one morning – I’ll never forget it – Venetia announced, in a very loud voice, ‘My parents are off to St Kitts next week. They always stay at the Four Winds in Banana Bay. Isn’t that a coincidence, Lily? Perhaps your mother will be cleaning their room.’ Lily just looked at her, lowered her spoon and said, ‘Yes, Venetia. Perhaps she will.’ But a few months later she exacted a dreadful revenge. Venetia had had bridgework, having fallen off her pony two years before. She was very embarrassed about this and would never let anyone see her cleaning her teeth. Lily made some toffee; it was unbelievably sticky because – I only learned this afterwards – she’d adulterated it with glue. Then she offered some to Venetia, and the look of triumph on Lily’s face when Venetia’s three false teeth came out … ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Venetia,’ she said sweetly. ‘I forgot that you wore dentures.’ Afterwards, I found her in the grounds, rocking with laughter. And she looked at me gleefully and whispered, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay!’ And she did.

She’s still calling in her debts to this day.

‘I had Camilla Fanshawe on the phone this morning,’ she said to me with a snigger as she spooned up her guacamole. ‘She’s marrying some squitty banker and she was begging me, Faith, begging me to cover her wedding in “I Spy”. But she was only saying that because Letty Brocklebank got hers into Tatler. And Camilla was practically blubbing and saying how she always liked me so much at school and how she knew I’d be a success because I was so clever, and what about it? Old school tie and all that? And I let her go on and on and then I said, very sweetly, “Well I’m terribly sorry, Camilla; I’m afraid we don’t cover small, provincial weddings in Moi!”’

Yes, Lily’s had the last laugh, all right. She’s outsmarted them all – in every way. Intellectually, of course, though that was easy enough – but she outsmarted them socially, too. Her mind was like a radar, and she quickly cracked the code. Her table manners changed, her deportment improved and within two years her voice was transformed. Gone was her rich, Caribbean inflection and in its place was cut glass. Peter says she has ‘irritable vowel syndrome’, but, as I say, he’s not really a fan.

Mimi, clearly fascinated by Lily, was asking us about St Bede’s. So we explained that there was Mass every morning, benediction on Wednesdays, the rosary on Thursdays, confession on Saturdays, and sung Latin Mass on Sundays.

‘Was there time for any lessons with all that?’ Mike enquired.

‘Oh yes,’ I said tipsily, ‘and Lily was jolly good at them! She got twelve “O” levels, four A-grade A levels, and an exhibition to Cambridge at seventeen.’

‘What about sports?’

‘We had hockey and netball.’

‘I was useless,’ said Lily with a laugh. ‘All that running and jumping – such a bore – I really couldn’t be fagged. I was no good at music, either,’ she giggled. I kept quiet; it was perfectly true. In fact she had a voice like a corncrake and standing next to her during ‘Faith of Our Fathers’ was not a musically rewarding experience. ‘As for dancing,’ she went on. ‘I was appalling at that! I had two left feet – I still have.’

‘There was lots of drama,’ I went on enthusiastically. ‘It was great. Especially the annual school play … ’ Suddenly I saw the smile slide off Lily’s face and she gave me a censuring stare. And then I remembered. Drama’s a sore point. We don’t talk about that. You see, Lily wasn’t very good at acting, and without sounding conceited, I was. The awful thing was that she loved it, but she was always so over the top. I mean, she couldn’t even make the sign of the cross without looking as though she was directing traffic. So acting was not her forté and this spoiled our friendship for a while. When we were in the Lower Sixth, Reverend Mother was casting the school play. She decided to do Othello and, as the only non-white girl at St Bede’s, Lily presumed the title role would be hers. She prepared hard for the part, and I helped her to go through her lines. But when, after auditions, the list went up, the lead had gone not to Lily, but to me. She didn’t take it well, I’m afraid. In fact she stormed into Reverend Mother’s office – I was there at the time – and shouted, ‘It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?’

‘No, Lily,’ said Reverend Mother calmly. ‘It’s because you are not a good enough actress. You have many gifts,’ she went on calmly. ‘I know you are going to be a huge success in life. But I confidently predict that your future triumphs will not take place on the stage.’ There was silence. Then Lily left. She wouldn’t speak to me for a month. But what was I supposed to do? Refuse the part? It was a wonderful role, and everyone said I did it well; I can still remember those marvellous lines to this day: ‘I had been happy … so I had nothing known. So now, forever, farewell the tranquil mind!’

Lily gradually got over her disappointment, though she refused to come to the play; and we never, ever spoke of it again – until tonight. I don’t think it was tactless of me to mention it, given that it was eighteen years ago and our roles have long since been reversed. I mean, she’s the star now. Not me. She’s the celebrated and successful one. She’s the one with the huge flat in Chelsea, and the fridge full of champagne and foie gras. I’m the boring suburban housewife with two children and sensible shoes, who thinks a trip to Ikea’s a treat. So I appreciate the fact that Lily’s kept in touch all this time, when you consider how our lives have diverged.

At this point – it must have been almost ten thirty – we’d gone on to pudding. The candles had almost burned down, and the bottles of wine had been drunk. I thought Peter had had one too many; I could tell that he was quite well oiled. He and Matt were talking about the Internet, and Katie was doing some psychometric tests on Lily – Lily’s her godmother, so she claimed not to mind. Meanwhile Mimi, still clearly struck by the novelty of being married, was asking me if I had any wisdom to impart.

‘Tell me, Faith,’ she whispered, ‘what’s the secret of a successful marriage?’

‘I don’t know,’ I murmured, lifting a spoonful of poached autumn fruits to my mouth. ‘I only know that after fifteen years together Peter and I have this unbreakable bond. We’re like the wisteria growing up the front of our house – we’re completely intertwined.’

‘What quality do you admire in him most?’ Mimi added.

‘His ability to find my contact lenses whenever I lose one,’ I giggled. ‘He’s brilliant at it.’

‘No, seriously,’ Mimi pressed me. ‘What do you like about him best?’

‘His decency,’ I replied, ‘and his truthfulness. Peter always tells the truth.’

Mike thought that was such a nice thing to say that he said he thought Peter ought to make a little speech.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Peter.

‘Please,’ Mimi insisted. ‘This is an occasion, after all.’