January

      It’s funny how things can suddenly change, isn’t it? They can alter in a heartbeat, in a breath. I think that’s what happened tonight because, well, I don’t really know how to explain it except to say that nothing feels quite the same. The evening started out well. In fact it felt like quite a success. There we were, in the restaurant, enjoying ourselves. Talking and laughing. Eating and drinking. Just eight of us. Just a small party. I wanted to cheer Peter up, because he’s got his problems right now. So I’d planned this evening as a surprise. He hadn’t suspected a thing. In fact, he’d even forgotten that it was our anniversary, and he’s never done that before. But when he came home it was obvious that today’s date had passed him by.

      ‘Oh, Faith, I’m sorry,’ he sighed as he opened my card. ‘It’s the sixth today, isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘I’m afraid I completely … forgot.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said brightly. ‘Honestly, darling. Because I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.’ He’s having a bad time at work, you see. He’s publishing director at Fenton & Friend, a job he used to love, but a year ago a new chairwoman called Charmaine arrived and she’s been giving him serious grief. She and her creepy sidekick, Oliver. Or rather ‘Oiliver’ as Peter calls him, though not to his face, of course. But, between the two of them, Charmaine and Oliver are making Peter’s life hell.

      ‘How was it today?’ I asked him cautiously as he hung up his coat.

      ‘Awful,’ he said wearily, running his hand through his sandcoloured hair. ‘The old bat was going on at me about the bloody sales figures,’ he said as he loosened his tie. ‘She went on and on. In front of everyone. It was hideous. And Oliver just stood there, with a smirk on his fat face, oozing sycophancy from every pore. I tell you, Faith,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I’m for the chop. It can’t be long.’

      ‘Well, leave it to Andy,’ I said.

      A faraway look came into Peter’s eyes and he said, ‘Yes. I’ll put my faith in Andy.’ That’s Andy Metzler, by the way. He’s a headhunter. American. One of the best in town. Peter seems to think the world of him. It’s ‘Andy this’ and ‘Andy that’, so I really hope Andy delivers the goods. But it’ll be hard for Peter if he does have to leave Fenton & Friend, because he’s been there for thirteen years. It’s been a bit like our marriage, really – a stable and happy relationship, based on affection, loyalty and trust. But now it looks as though it might be coming to an end.

      ‘I suppose nothing stays the same,’ Peter added ruefully as he fixed us both a drink. ‘I’m not joking, Faith,’ he added as I took the last baubles off the Christmas tree. ‘I’ll be getting the old heave-ho, because Oiliver’s after my job.’

      Peter tries to be philosophical about it all, but I know he’s very depressed. For example, he’s not quite his normal genial self, and he’s finding it hard to sleep. So for the past six months or so, we’ve been in separate rooms. Which is no bad thing as I have to get up at three thirty a.m. for my job at breakfast TV. I do the weather, at AM-UK! I’ve been there six years now, and I love it, despite the hideously early start. Normally, I let the alarm pip twice, slip out of bed, and Peter goes straight back to sleep. But at the moment he can’t stand being disturbed, so he’s in the spare room on the top floor. I don’t mind. I understand. And sex isn’t everything, you know. And in some ways I quite like it, because it means I can sleep with Graham instead. I love Graham. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and he’s incredibly bright. He snores a bit, which annoys me, but I poke him in the ribs and say, ‘Darling – shhh!’ And he opens his eyes, looks at me lovingly, then drops off again – just like that. He’s lucky. He sleeps very well, though sometimes he has nightmares and starts twitching violently and kicking his legs. But he doesn’t mind being disturbed in the dead of night when I get up to go to work; in fact – and this is really sweet – he likes to get up too. He sits outside the bathroom while I have my shower. Then I hear the cab pull up, I put on my coat, and hug him goodbye.

      Some of our friends think that Graham’s a slightly odd name for a dog. And I suppose it is compared to Rover, say, or Gnasher, or Shep. But we decided on Graham because I found him in Graham Road, in Chiswick, where we live. That was two years ago. I’d been to the dentist for a filling, and when I came out there was this mongrel – very young, and terribly