Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff
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woman who’s always on her guard. I guess I’m a natural optimist – I always trust that things will work out. I’m trusting in my marriage, too. I simply don’t think that Peter would ever stray. And he hasn’t – so I was right. And I believe you can make your own destiny, by the strength of your mental attitude. Anyway, I rather liked the fact that Lily was naughty, because I knew it was something I could never be. I remember, once, when we were thirteen, making a dash for the town. We’d lied to Sister St Wilfred, and said we were going for a walk. But we got the bus to Reading instead – using my pocket money, of course – and we bought sweets and Lily bought cigarettes, and she got talking to some boys. Then, on the way back, she did something awful – she went into a newsagent and nicked a copy of Harpers and Queen. I wanted her to return it but she refused, though she promised to mention it in confession. But I remember her poring over it in the dormitory later, utterly entranced; she was fingering it reverentially, as though it were a holy text. Then she swore out loud that one day she’d be the editor of a magazine like that; and the girls all fell about laughing. But now she is.
‘Lily’s been in New York for a long time, hasn’t she?’ said Mimi as she broke into her bread roll. ‘I’ve seen lots of stuff about her in the press.’
‘Six years,’ I said. ‘She was working on Mirabella and Vanity Fair.’ And as we ate our anti pasti I told them about her career, and about how single-minded she’d been. Because I’m very proud of my friendship with her. And I told them about the way she’d even left Cambridge early because she was offered some lowly job at Marie Claire. But it was the start of her long climb up the greasy pole, or rather shiny cover. She was determined to reach the top – and now she has. Three months ago she became the first black woman to edit Moi!
That’s Moi-Même! magazine, of course, commonly known as Moi! Or perhaps ‘Mwaaah, mwaaah!’ as Peter always likes to say. He’s a bit of a snob about magazines, he thinks they’re utterly trite. He calls Lily the ‘High Priestess of Gloss’. But chacun à son goût, I say, and Lily’s brilliant at what she does. Mind you, some of the stories are pretty silly. Not my kind of thing at all. It’s all this, ‘What’s Hot What’s Not!’ kind of stuff, and ‘Grey – the new black! Fat – the new thin! Old – the new young!’ But the magazine always looks beautiful because the photography’s out of this world. And the writing’s good too, because Lily says she can sort out ‘the wit from the chaff’. Oh yes, Lily’s seriously successful. And yes, she’s got a wicked tongue. But she would never do anything to hurt me. I know that for a fact.
Anyway, by nine Lily still hadn’t arrived, and we’d all finished our starters and were waiting for the main course which in my case was chump of lamb. And the conversation had turned back to marriage, and to Peter and me.
‘Fifteen years!’ Mimi exclaimed with a laugh. ‘I just can’t believe it! I remember your wedding day so well. In the university chapel. We all froze to death, it was snowing, just like today.’
‘That’s because it was a white wedding!’ I quipped. Peter laughed.
‘But how amazing that this is your fifteenth anniversary,’ Mimi added. ‘Good God! I haven’t even had my first!’ We all smiled at that, and she gave her husband, Mike, a gooey look and said, ‘I’ve only just had my happy ending!’
‘New beginning, you mean,’ he replied. And I felt very strange when he said that; very strange indeed. But at the same time I thought, yes, he’s right. It is a new beginning. That’s exactly what it is. They only got married last May. They both peeped at their six-week-old baby, Alice, who was asleep in her car seat on the floor. I looked across the table at my two ‘babies’, who are fourteen and twelve. And it struck me again, as it has done recently, that Peter and I are completely out of step with our peers. Most of them are like Mimi, they’re marrying and having kids now. But we did that fifteen years ago, and it won’t be long before our children leave home.
‘You two got married when you were still at college, didn’t you?’ Mike asked.
‘In our second year,’ I said. ‘We just couldn’t wait,’ I explained. ‘Isn’t that right, darling?’ And Peter looked at me, through the flickering candles, and gave me a little smile. ‘We were madly in love,’ I went on, emboldened by the sparkling wine. ‘And good Catholics don’t live in sin!’ Actually I’m not a very good Catholic, though I was, then. I’m a sort of Christmas Catholic now. I go to church no more than three or four times a year.
‘I remember when you two met,’ said Mimi. ‘It was in our first term at Durham, at the freshers’ ball. You looked at Peter, Faith, and you whispered to me, “That’s the man I’m going to marry,” – and you did!’
‘We were like Superglue,’ I giggled. ‘We bonded in seconds!’ At that Peter’s mother, Sarah, smiled. I like Sarah. We’ve always got on well. And yes, she did have misgivings at the time because she thought we’d end up divorced, like her. But we didn’t do that, and I’m sure we won’t. As I say, I have faith in the future. Anyway, Sarah was chatting away to the children – she hadn’t seen them for a while – and Peter was beginning to unwind a bit as we talked to Mimi and Mike. We’d had a bit to drink by now, and were all feeling mellow and warm, when suddenly there was an icy blast – the door had opened: Lily had finally arrived.
It’s always fun watching Lily entering a room. You can almost hear the clunk of jawbones hitting the floor. That’s what it was like tonight. She’s so used to it, she claims never to notice, but it always makes me smile.
‘Darlings, I’m so sorry!’ she called out as she swept in on a cloud of Obsession, oblivious to the collective male stares. ‘So sorry,’ she reiterated as her floor-length arctic fox slid from her shoulders and was quickly gathered up by the maitre d’. ‘You see Gore’s in town – Vidal not Al – so we had a quick drink at the Ritz, then I had to go down Cork Street where there was this tedious private view … ’ She removed her fur hat and I could see snowflakes on her shoulder-length, raven-black hair. ‘And Chanel were launching their new scent,’ she went on, ‘so of course I had to show my face there … ’ She handed the waiter an assortment of exquisite little bags. ‘But I only stayed ten minutes at Lord Linley’s Twelfth Night party because I just wanted to be here with you.’ I glanced at Mimi – she was speechless.
‘Happy anniversary, Faith, darling!’ Lily exclaimed, handing me a Tiffany bag. Inside, in a silk-lined presentation box, was a small cylinder made of sterling silver.
‘It’s a telescope,’ I said wonderingly, holding it up to my left eye. ‘Oh! No it isn’t, it’s a … ooh how lovely.’ As I rotated the end with my right hand, a thousand sequins – red and purple and green – arranged themselves into dazzling patterns, like the fractals of a technicolour snowflake.
‘How wonderful,’ I murmured. ‘A kaleidoscope. I haven’t seen one of these for years.’
‘I couldn’t decide what to get you,’ said Lily, ‘but I thought this might be fun. It’s for Peter as well,’ she added, giving him a feline smile.
‘Thank you, Lily,’ he replied.
‘What a fantastic present,’ I said, hugging her. ‘Hey, great outfit, too!’ Today she was wearing a viridian green cashmere twin-set, a knee-length gaberdine skirt, and a pair of what I think were probably Jimmy Choo snakeskin boots.
‘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