Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff
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were for an author, Lily, but I’m just not sure. And then … ’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh Lily, I feel so disloyal telling you this,’ I said as I twisted my wedding ring back and forth.
‘Darling, you’re not being disloyal,’ she said quietly. ‘All you’re doing is protecting yourself.’
‘Protecting myself?’
‘Yes. Because if it is serious – though I’m absolutely sure it’s not – you don’t want to be taken by surprise. So tell me, what else have you found?’
‘Well … ’ I began again. And then stopped. ‘Oh God, I can’t go on, Lily. I feel so treacherous. I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you see, you’ve never had a husband.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Faith,’ she said with a giggle. ‘You know perfectly well I’ve had lots. Now, what were you going to say?’
I heaved a huge sigh. ‘I’ve found some pretty strange things in his pockets. For example, a packet of chewing gum, but Lily, he hates the stuff. And yesterday I discovered a packet of Lucky Strike. But the point is, Peter doesn’t smoke.’
‘Mmm. How very strange.’
‘And then this morning when I got back from work I went through his pockets again … ’
‘Naturally … ’
‘And I found this note in his jacket.’
‘A note? What does it say?’
‘It says: Peter, Jean has already phoned three times this morning and is absolutely desperate to talk to you, desperate is underlined. Twice,’ I added anxiously.
‘Jean,’ she said. ‘Well … that could mean nothing, really. It could be quite innocent.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes. I do. And if it is innocent – which I’m quite sure it is – then he’ll be perfectly happy to tell you exactly who this “Jean” is. So my advice is to ask him outright, and watch how he reacts. Now, don’t worry about all this, Faith,’ Lily added. ‘I’m praying for you, by the way.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘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