Читать книгу Out of the Blue - Isabel Wolff - Страница 6

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 thin – looking at me expectantly as though we’d known each other for years. And he followed me all the way home, just trotting along gently behind, then sat down outside the front gate and wouldn’t move. So eventually I invited him in, gave him a ham sandwich and that was that. We phoned the police, and the dogs’ home, but no-one ever claimed him, and I’d have been distraught if they had because, to be honest, it was love at first sight, just like it was with Peter. I adore him. Graham, I mean. We just clicked. We really get on. And I think the reason why I love him so much is because of the sweet way he put his faith in me.

Peter was fine about it – he likes dogs too – and of course the children were thrilled, though Katie, who wants to be a psychiatrist, thinks I ‘mother’ Graham too much. She says I’m projecting my frustrated maternal desires for another child onto the dog. I know … ridiculous! But you have to take teenagers very seriously, don’t you, otherwise they get in a strop. Anyway, Graham’s the baby of the family. He’s only three. He doesn’t have a pedigree, but he’s got bucketloads of class. He’s a collie cross of some sort, with a feathery red-gold coat, a white blaze on his chest and a foxy, elegant charm. We take him almost everywhere with us, though not to restaurants, of course. So this evening Peter settled him on his beanbag, put on the telly for him – he likes Food and Drink – and said, ‘Don’t worry, old boy, Mummy and I are just going out for a quick bite.’

But Peter had no idea what I’d really planned. He thought we’d just be having an impromptu dinner, tête à tête. I’d told him I’d booked a table, but he’d assumed it was just for two. So when we got to the restaurant, and he saw the children sitting there, with his mother, Sarah, he looked so surprised and pleased. And I’d invited Mimi, an old college friend of ours, with her new husband, Mike.

‘It’s like This Is Your Life!’ Peter exclaimed with a laugh, as we took off our coats. ‘What a great idea, Faith,’ he said. To be honest, I didn’t do it just for him. I did it for myself, too, because I felt like marking the occasion in some way. I mean, fifteen years. Fifteen years. That’s nearly half our lives.

‘Fifteen years,’ I said with a smile as we sat down. ‘And it hasn’t been a day too long.’

I’ve been very happy in my marriage, you see. And believe me, I still am. For example, I’m never, ever bored. There’s always loads to do. We don’t have much money, of course – we never have had – but we still have lots of fun. Well, we would do if it wasn’t for the fact that Peter’s working so hard: Charmaine’s got him reading manuscripts most nights, and I have to be in bed by half past nine. But at weekends, that’s when we catch up and really enjoy ourselves. The children come home – they’re weekly boarders at a school in Kent – and we do, ooh, all sorts of things. We go for walks along the river, and we garden. We go to Tesco for the weekly shop. Sometimes we pop down to Ikea – the one in Brent Cross, though occasionally, for a bit of a change, we’ll try the one in Croydon. And we might take out a video, or watch a bit of TV, and the children go and see their friends. Well, they would do if they had any. They’re both what you’d call loners, I’m afraid. It worries me a bit. For example, Matt – he’s twelve – just loves being on his computer. He’s an addict, always has been; he was mouse-trained very young. I remember when he was five and I’d be putting him to bed, he’d say, ‘Please can you wake me up at six o’clock tomorrow, Mummy, so I can go on the computer before I go to school?’ And that struck me as rather sad, really, and he’s still just like that now. But he’s as happy as Larry with all his computer games and his CD Roms, so we don’t like to interfere. As I say, he’s not what you’d call an all rounder. For example, his written skills are dire. But as well as the computers he’s brilliant at maths – in fact we call him ‘Mattematics’. And that’s why we sent him to Seaworth, because he wasn’t coping well where he was. But he wouldn’t go without Katie, and it suits her very well too because, look, don’t think I’m being disloyal about my children – but they’re not quite like other kids. For one thing Katie’s far too old for her years. She’s only fourteen now, but she’s so serious-minded. She does nothing but read. I guess she takes after Peter, because for her it’s books, not bytes. She’s not at all fashion-conscious, like other girls of her age. There’s no hint of any teenage rebellion, either; she seems to be just as ‘sensible’ as me. And because I never kicked over the traces, somehow I wish that she would. I keep hoping that she’ll come home one weekend with a lime-green mohican or at the very least with a stud in her nose. But no such luck – all she ever does is read. As I say, she’s dead keen on psychology, she’s got lots of books on Jung and Freud, and she likes to practise her psychotherapeutic skills on all of us. And when we sat down at the table this evening, that’s what she was doing.

‘So, Granny, how did you feel about your divorce?’ I heard her ask my mother-in-law. I made a sympathetic face at Sarah, but she just looked at me and smiled.

‘Well, Katie, I felt fine about it,’ she said. ‘Because when two people are unhappy together, then it’s sometimes better for them to part.’

‘What were the chief factors, would you say, in the breakdown of your relationship with Grandpa?’

‘Well, darling,’ she said as she lowered her menu, ‘I think we just married too young.’

People sometimes say that about Peter and me. We married at twenty, you see; and so people do sometimes ask me – and to be honest I wish they wouldn’t – if I ever have any regrets about that. But I don’t. I never, ever wonder, ‘What if … ?’ because I’ve been happy really, in every way. Peter’s a decent and honest man. He’s very hard-working, he’s great with the kids, and he’s kind and considerate to his mum. He’s quite handsome, too, though he needs to lose a little weight. But then, funnily enough, this evening I noticed that he is looking a bit more trim. I expect he’s shed a few pounds recently because of all his stress. He’s well turned out at the moment, too – I’ve noticed he’s got a couple of lovely new ties. He says he has to be ready to slip out to interviews at the drop of a hat, so he’s been dressing very smartly for work. So despite his present anxieties, he’s looking pretty good. And after such a long time with Peter I could never fancy anyone else. People sometimes ask me if I do fantasy – sorry, fancy, anyone else – after fifteen years with the same man, and the answer is absolutely, categorically, definitively hardly ever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m made of flesh and blood. I can see when a man’s attractive. For example, that chap who came round last week to mend the washing machine. He got my delicates cycle going again. And yes, objectively, I could see that he was a handsome sort of chap. Yes, I admit it – he was a bit of a hunk. And to be honest, I have been having some rather strange dreams about him recently. Quite vivid ones, featuring all sorts of peculiar items like a mobile phone for example, a TV remote control, and – this is really odd – a tub of blackcurrant sorbet! God knows what it means. I asked Katie actually, and she gave me this rather peculiar look and said it’s just my id, running wild. As I say, I always humour her. No doubt my dreams are just the product of my rather fertile imagination. So no, I don’t look at anyone else, although I do meet lots of attractive men at work. But I never fancy them, because I’m a very happily married woman, and sex isn’t everything, you know. And of course Peter’s very preoccupied right now. But yes, to answer your question, my marriage is in great shape, which is why I wanted to celebrate our fifteen happy years. So I booked a table at Snows, just down the road at Brook Green. We don’t eat out very often. Peter has to go out to dinner with authors and agents sometimes, he’s been doing quite a bit of that of late, but we don’t do much ourselves. We can’t afford it; what with the school fees – though luckily Matt got a scholarship – and of course publishing doesn’t pay well. And my job’s only part-time because I’m home by eleven every day. But I thought Peter needed a bit of a treat, so I decided on a party at Snows. It’s actually called Snows on the Green, which was rather appropriate because today the snow was on the green. More than an inch of it. It started to fall this morning, and by late afternoon it had built into gentle drifts. And I love it when it snows because there’s this eerie hush, and the world falls silent as though everyone’s dropped off to sleep. And I just want to rush outside, clap my hands and shout, ‘Come on! Wake up! Wake up!’ And snow always reminds me of our wedding, because it snowed on that day too.

So I was sitting there in the restaurant, looking out of the window for a minute, watching the flakes batting gently against the panes and idly wondering what the next fifteen years of my life would bring. And I was feeling the slightly dizzying effects of the champagne. Not real champagne, obviously – just the Italian sparkling, but it’s very good, and only half the price. I glanced round the table, listening to the low babble of conversation.

‘Are your parents coming, Faith?’ Sarah asked me as she nibbled on an olive.

‘Oh no, they’re on holiday again. I think they’re scuba diving in St Lucia,’ I said vaguely. ‘Or maybe they’re heli-skiing in Alaska. Or are they bungee-jumping in Botswana … ’ Mum and Dad are pensioners, or rather what you might call Silver Foxes or Glamorous Greys. They seem to stagger from cruise to safari to adventure holiday in a variety of increasingly exotic locations. Well, why not? After all, they’ve worked hard all their lives and so now’s the time to have some fun.

‘No, Sarah,’ I said, ‘I really can’t remember where they are, they go away so much.’

‘That’s because they have classic avoidant personalities,’ announced Katie with mild contempt. ‘The incessant holidays are the means by which they avoid spending any time with us. I mean, the second Grandpa retired from Abbey National, that was it – they were off!’

‘Oh, I know darling, but they send us lots of lovely postcards,’ I said. ‘And they phone up from time to time. And Granny loves chatting to you, doesn’t she, Matt?’

‘Er … yes,’ he said slightly nervously as he looked up from his menu. ‘Yes, I suppose she does.’ Lately I’ve noticed that my mother often asks to speak to Matt on the phone. She loves chewing the fat with him, even ringing him at school, and I think it’s great that they’re developing such a nice bond.

‘I do envy your parents,’ said Sarah ruefully. ‘I’d love to go away, but it’s impossible because I’m tied to the shop.’ Sarah owns a second-hand book shop in Dulwich. She bought it twenty years ago with her alimony after her husband, John, left her for an American woman and moved to the States. ‘Oh, I’ve a small anniversary gift,’ Sarah added as she handed me a beribboned parcel, inside which – Peter helped me open it – were two beautiful crystal glasses.

‘What lovely tumblers, Sarah – thank you!’

‘Yes, thanks Mum,’ Peter said.

‘Well, you see the fifteenth anniversary is the crystal one,’ she explained as I noticed the red sticker on the box marked ‘Fragile’. ‘Anyway, are we all present and correct, now?’ she added pleasantly.

‘All except for Lily,’ I replied. ‘She says she’s going to be a bit late.’ At this I noticed Peter roll his eyes.

‘Lily Jago?’ said Mimi. ‘Wow! I remember her at your wedding, she was your bridesmaid – she’s famous now.’

‘Yes,’ I said proudly, ‘she is. But she deserves every bit of it,’ I added, ‘because she’s worked so incredibly hard.’

‘What’s she like?’ asked Mimi.

‘Like Lady Macbeth,’ said Peter with a hollow laugh. ‘But not as nice.’

‘Darling!’ I said reprovingly. ‘Please don’t say that – she’s my best and oldest friend.’

‘She treats staff like disposable knickers,’ he added, ‘and treads on heads as though they’re stepping stones.’

‘Peter, that’s not fair,’ I said. ‘And you know it. She’s very dedicated and she’s brilliant, she deserves her tremendous success.’ It used to grieve me that Peter didn’t like Lily, but I got used to it years ago. He can’t understand why I keep up with her and I’ve given up trying to explain. The fact is, Lily matters to me. I’ve known her for twenty-five years – since our convent days – so we have an unbreakable bond. But I mean, I’m not blind – I know that Lily’s no angel. For example, she’s a little bit touchy, and she’s got a wicked tongue. She’s also a ‘bit of a one’ with the boys – but then why shouldn’t she be? She’s single, and she’s beautiful. Why shouldn’t she play the field? Why shouldn’t a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old woman, in her prime, have lots of lovers and lots of fun? Why shouldn’t a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old woman be made to feel desirable and loved? Why shouldn’t a thirty-five-year-old woman have romantic weekends in country house hotels with jacuzzis and fluffy towels? Why shouldn’t any thirty-five-year-old woman have flowers and champagne and little presents? I mean, once you’re married, that’s that; romance flies out the window, and you’re with the same old body every night. So I don’t blame Lily at all, though I don’t think her choice of boyfriends is great. Every week, it seems, we see her staring at us out of the pages of Hello! or OK! with this footballer, or that rock star, or some actor from that new soap on Channel 4. And I think, mmm. Mmmm. Lily could do better, I think. So, no, she hasn’t got brilliant taste in men, although at least these days – praise the Lord! – she’s stopped going for the married ones. Yes, I’m afraid to say she used to be a little bit naughty like that. And I did once remind her that adultery is forbidden by the seventh commandment.

‘I didn’t commit adultery,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m single, so it was only fornication.’ Lily’s not interested in marriage herself, by the way; she’s totally dedicated to her career. ‘I’m footloose and fiancé free!’ she always likes to exclaim. I must say, she’d be a bit of a challenge to any man. For a start, she’s very opinionated, and she bears interminable grudges. Peter thinks she’s dangerous, but she’s not. She’s simply tribal; by which I mean she’s loyal to her friends but ruthless to her foes, and I know exactly which category I’m in.

‘Lily had twelve other invitations tonight,’ I said. ‘She knows so many people!’

‘Yes, Mum,’ said Katie matter-of-factly. ‘But you’re her only friend.’

‘Well, maybe that’s true, darling,’ I said with a tiny stab of pride, ‘but I still think it’s sweet of her to come.’

‘Very gracious,’ said Peter wryly. He’d had a couple of drinks by then. ‘I can’t wait for the dramatic entrance,’ he added sarcastically.

‘Darling,’ I said patiently, ‘Lily can’t help making an entrance. I mean, it’s not her fault she’s so stunning.’ She is. In fact she’s jaw-dropping. Everybody stares. She’s terribly tall for a start, and whippety thin, and she’s always exquisitely dressed. Unlike me. I get a small allowance from work for the things I wear on TV and I tend to spend it in Principles – I’ve always liked their stuff. Just recently I’ve started to get quite interested in Next, and Episode. But Lily gets a huge clothing allowance, and the designers send her things too, so she always looks amazing – in fact, she’s amazing full stop. And even Peter will admit that she has huge talent, and guts and drive. You see, she had a very tough start in life. I remember the day she arrived at St Bede’s. I have this vivid picture in my mind of Reverend Mother standing on stage in the main hall one morning after Mass; and next to her was this new girl – we were all agog to know who she was.

‘Girls,’ said Reverend Mother as a hush descended. ‘This is Lily. Lily Jago. Now, we must all be kind to Lily,’ she went on benignly, ‘because Lily is very poor.’ I will never forget, to my dying day, the look of fury on Lily’s face. And of course the girls weren’t kind to her at all. Far from it. They teased her about her accent and they laughed at her lack of finesse; they disparaged her evident poverty and they made terrible fun of her folks. They called her ‘Lily White’, which she loathed. Then, when they realised how clever she was, they hated her for that as well. But I didn’t hate her. I liked her and I felt drawn to her, perhaps because I was an outsider too. I got laughed at a lot at school. My nickname was ‘Faith Value’, because they all said I was very naive. I was impossible to tease, apparently, because I could never get the joke. I thought it was obvious that the chicken’s reason for crossing the road was to reach the other side. I couldn’t see why that was funny, really. I mean, why else would the chicken cross the road? And of course a bell is necessary on a bicycle – otherwise you could have a very nasty accident. It’s obvious. So why’s that funny? Do you see what I mean? The other girls all said I was a credulous sap. Ridiculous! I’m not. But I am trusting. Oh yes. I want to have faith in people and I do. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and I tend to believe what they say. Because that’s how I want to be. I decided, a long time ago, that I didn’t want to be cynical like Lily. She’s the suspicious sort, and though I’m desperately fond of her, I could never be like that myself. That’s probably why my purse is full of foreign coins, for example, because I never, ever check my change. Shopkeepers are constantly palming off on me their dimes and their pfennigs and their francs. But I don’t care, because I don’t want to be the kind of 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 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.’

‘Oh, all right,’ Peter conceded after another sip of wine. ‘Er … I just want to say … ’ he began, getting unsteadily to his feet, ‘that Faith was my first love, and that my fifteen years with her feel like a millstone … ’

‘Freudian slip!’ said Katie.

‘I mean, a milestone,’ he corrected himself. ‘A milestone. That’s what I mean. An incredible achievement, in fact. When you consider. And I just can’t believe where the last fifteen years of my life have gone.’ That was it. He’d finished. I tried to smile. As I say, he’s very preoccupied at work, so he’s not quite his usual relaxed and happy self.

‘He’s rather tired,’ I whispered diplomatically to Mimi and Mike.

‘He does seem distracted,’ Lily agreed.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘no doubt because, well, he’s got a lot on his mind right now.’

‘I must say, he’s looking good though,’ Lily murmured as our coffee arrived. ‘Hasn’t he lost a bit of weight?’

‘Er, yes, he has. He’s looking pretty trim, you’re right.’

‘Nice tie he’s wearing,’ she whispered appreciatively.

‘Yes. Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Nice tie.’

Then Lily reached into her bag, took out a box of Pandora matches and struck one. It hissed and flared as it ignited, then died down to a steady yellow flame. She lifted a cheroot to her lips, lit it and inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke away. Then she looked at me seriously and said, very, very softly, ‘I think you’re marvellous to trust him.’

This struck me as a very strange remark, because of course I trust Peter – I always have. As I say, he’s a truthful man. So I didn’t have a clue what Lily meant, and I certainly didn’t want to ask her in front of everyone else. In any case, Peter was waving for the bill now – it was late, and the evening was drawing to an end.

‘– let’s get our coats.’

‘– is this inclusive?’

‘– no, our treat, Mike.’

‘– Katie, can you get Granny’s coat?’

‘– very kind, Peter. Next time we take you.’

‘– who’s got the baby?’

‘– oh look, there’s a cab.’

Before we knew what had happened, we were all standing outside, kissing each other goodbye.

‘What a wonderful evening,’ said Mimi as the snowflakes fell gently onto her hair. ‘I hope we make it to fifteen years,’ she added as she strapped the baby into the back of the car.

‘I hope we make it to thirty,’ said Mike gallantly. ‘Thanks for a lovely dinner, you two – bye bye.’ The children were submitting to being kissed by Lily, though both of them hate her scent, Jennifer had been zipped up, and Sarah had gone to her car. Then I flagged down a passing cab, and climbed in with Peter and the kids.

‘What a great evening,’ he said as we swished along the wet, sleety road.

‘Yes, it was, darling,’ I said. ‘I really enjoyed it too.’ And it’s true. I did. But at the same time I was aware, in a way I could not yet define, that somehow, something had changed.

There are three things that people always ask you if you work for breakfast TV. What time do you have to get up? What time do you have to go to bed? And does it wreck your social life? Sometimes I just feel like holding up a banner at parties saying, ‘Three thirty, nine thirty, and YES!’ You simply never get used to it. Did I say that you do? Well, it’s not true – you never get used to the early start. It’s horrible. It’s horrible when the alarm goes off at half past three and your body’s still crying out for sleep. And it’s even worse if you’re feeling unhappy, as I was this morning, and are slightly hungover to boot. Graham grumbled as I lurched out of bed, but declined to stand guard by the bathroom door. I showered, squished on a little Escape – my favourite scent at the moment – put on my navy Principles suit, then went down to the waiting cab. As we pulled out of Elliot Road, I remembered Lily’s words again: I think you’re marvellous to trust him … trust him … I think you’re marvellous to trust … I stared out of the window as we drove through the slush-filled streets, turning her comment over and over in my mind; examining it from all angles, as I might study an interesting stone. But however much I thought about it, I still didn’t know what she meant. Nor was I at all sure that I really wanted to know. I mean, Lily does have a habit of saying things I don’t particularly like, but usually I just ignore them. That’s what I forced myself to do this morning as I wrenched my thoughts towards work. After all, I told myself firmly, I have an important job to do. People depend on me. I can make or break their day. When I’m about to go on air Terry, the ‘star’ presenter, looks into the camera and says, ‘Well folks, what’s the weather going to do today? Let’s h-a-v-e- FAITH!’ So on I come, and I tell them, and the viewers do have faith in me. They rely on me to tell them if they need to take a coat or a brolly, or if the humidity’s going to be high. I let them know if it’s going to be very windy, and if it’s safe to set sail, or drive. So I think the weather forecast’s really important, but I’m afraid my colleagues don’t feel the same. They just see it as this insignificant little slot that comes on three minutes before the news. To them it’s just a buffer, before the junction – they’re always trying to cut me down. I’m meant to have two and a half minutes, but often it’s less than one. But there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s all controlled from the technical gallery. For example, I can be in the middle of some fascinating piece about warm fronts when I suddenly hear the director, in my earpiece, shouting at me to stop. They’re really rude about it sometimes – I hear them yelling, ‘Shut up, Faith! Shut up! SHUT UP!’ It’s terribly distracting. What they’re meant to do is to calmly count me down from ten, and I know that by the time I hear them say ‘zero’, I have to have signed off, with a nice smile. Equally, if they lose a news item, I’ll hear someone screaming, ‘Fill, Faith! Fill! Fill! Fill!’ But I’m not fazed, because I can cope; I once filled from thirty seconds right up to four minutes! And I pride myself on being able to stay calm in those situations and to come out exactly when required. Another thing, because I use open talkback, I can hear them all gossiping in the gallery during my slot. The weather’s their down time, you see. That’s when they put their feet up because they don’t have anything to do. This is because I change the graphics with my clicker, and I ad lib my script, so I don’t have an autocue. So while I’m doing my slot I can hear them sorting out what went wrong with the previous item, or telling make-up to fix Terry’s hair, or instructing the cameraman to close in on so and so, or boasting about some bird they pulled down at the pub. And they forget that I’m on air, broadcasting live, and that I can hear every word they say. So one way and another, being a weather presenter is a pretty stressful job. But I enjoy it. I really do, especially at this time of year. I love the winter, you see: not just because of my optimistic outlook on life, but because in winter the weather’s great. In the summer we only get three types: either it’s rainy, it’s cloudy, or it’s fine. But at this time of year we get the works. We get ice, and fog, and frost, and rain, and we get sleet and hail and snow. We get fine, clear weather too if there’s an anti-cyclone, and we can get hurricane force winds as well. So if you’re in the weather business, like I am, then winter’s a thrilling time. And although the hours are pretty dreadful, I enjoy myself once I’m at work. So this morning, despite my worries, and my headache, I felt the usual frisson as we drove through the gates.

It takes about twenty minutes to get to AM-UK! which is based in a converted warehouse in Ealing. It’s not a beautiful building, but I rather like it there. The production office on the third floor is open plan, which has its drawbacks, of course, not least seeing the ashen faces of my colleagues every morning when I arrive. They sit there in the green glow of their computer screens like extras from The Night of the Living Dead, but that’s what comes of spending half the year in almost perpetual dark. I usually get in at four, have a quick espresso from the machine, and then get straight down to work. First I read the faxed briefing from International Weather Productions, which forms the basis of my reports. Then I log on to my computer – with its ‘rainbow’ screensaver – and study the satellite charts. For although I never trained as a meteorologist I do actually know my stuff, because when AM-UK! took me on, they sent me on a six-week forecasting course. So I’m not just spouting someone else’s script, I get to write my own. I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a glamorous type of weather girl. Nicole Kidman in To Die For? Well, that’s just not me. Blonde and gorgeous? No. In fact I’m a bit mousey to look at, which is why I got the job.

‘What we like about you,’ said our wimpish editor Darryl when he interviewed me, ‘is that you’re so nice and ordinary – you won’t threaten the housewives too much. They’ll be sitting there and thinking to themselves, “Well, I could do better than that!”’

To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that remark, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And I can see what he means: he wanted someone who’d look business-like but pleasant, and I do. I’m not the kind of forecaster to hog the limelight, or try to ‘twinkle’ too much. I just go to work and do my job in a competent, friendly way. I’m very happy standing by the charts, with my clicker, talking about cold snaps and sunny spells, and I don’t regard weather presenting as a stepping stone to greater things. I’ve got just the job I want, thank you very much – unlike our showbiz reporter, Tatiana.

‘Hello Tatiana,’ I said pleasantly as I passed her desk. Usually she’s reasonably friendly, because she knows that I’m no threat. Today, however, she was preoccupied and didn’t hear me; this was because she was busy mutilating a publicity shot of Sophie, our new presenter.

‘Morning Tatty,’ I tried again, and was rewarded with a thin smile. Then she put down her Stanley knife, threw the pieces into the bin and went over to talk to Terry. I try to steer clear of office politics, but those two are clearly in cahoots. They’ve united recently in a common cause: to make Sophie’s life complete hell. Tatiana wanted that job. She’s wanted it for years. And when our old presenter, Gaby, went off to present Blankety Blank Tatty assumed it would be hers. Terry was desperate for her to have it too, because he knew she wouldn’t show him up. He’s of the old school, you see. He doesn’t regard himself as the programme’s ‘co-presenter’, but as Presenter One. And it is the job of Presenter One – middle aged and male – to do all the serious stuff while Presenter Two – young and blonde – sits there gazing at him admiringly before introducing some item on knitting. That’s what it was like with Terry and Gaby, but Sophie’s a different case.

‘Morning everyone!’ Sophie called out cheerfully as I studied my isobars. ‘I say, did you see Jeremy Paxman lay into the Russian defence secretary last night?’ she said as she took off her coat. ‘I thought what he said about Chechnya was absolutely spot on. He said he thinks the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe should be much more involved in the negotiations, and I must say I totally agree.’

‘Oh, do you really?’ said Terry.

‘As for the sneaky way the Russians are flogging their nuclear expertise to Iraq,’ she added as she switched on her computer, ‘well, it’s an international scandal, don’t you think?’

‘Ra-ther.’

Terry is thirty-nine – or so he claims – and has a third from Wolverhampton poly. He is not adjusting well to having a twenty-four-year-old Oxford graduate with a starred first in Politics, Philosophy and Economics sitting beside him on the studio sofa. Sophie’s appointment came as a bit of a shock. As Terry never tires of saying, she didn’t know an autocue from a bus queue when she arrived. This was true. She’d come from radio, she was an editor at London FM, and Darryl had been invited to take part in a phone-in there about the future of digital TV. So impressed was he with Sophie’s brilliance that he invited her to audition for AM-UK! The next thing we knew, she’d got the job.

But it’s obvious that Sophie’s much too bright for a programme like ours. I mean – don’t think me disloyal – but most days AM-UK! is more of a dog’s dinner than a successful breakfast show. The mix of items is bizarre. Take today’s running order, for example: celebrity disfigurement – failed face-lifts; heroic hamsters and the lives they’ve saved; psychic granny predicts the future; Tatiana’s profile of Brad Pitt; coping with ovarian cysts; ten new ways with chrysanthemums; and, somewhere in the middle of all that, an interview with Michael Portillo.

‘I’m doing the Portillo interview,’ said Terry as he leaned back in his swivel chair.

‘But I’m down to do that one,’ said Sophie as she tucked her short blonde hair behind one ear.

‘So I see,’ said Terry indolently, ‘but it’s clearly a mistake. I think you’ll find that that one falls to me. I’ve more experience than you,’ he added.

‘With respect, Terry,’ replied Sophie carefully, ‘I’ve interviewed Michael Portillo twice before.’

‘Sophie,’ said Terry wearily, ‘on this show we all pull together. I’m afraid there’s absolutely no room for big egos, so I’ll be doing the Portillo interview – OK?’ And that was that. Terry has quite a lot of clout, actually, and he knows it, because he’s the housewives’ choice. Moreover, he has a cast-iron two-year contract, so Darryl can’t push Sophie’s cause too far. The atmosphere gets pretty stormy sometimes, but Sophie handles it well. I mean, on breakfast TV the hours are so awful that most disputes tend to be settled with machetes. Things that wouldn’t bother you at three in the afternoon induce homicidal rage at five a.m. But so far Sophie has coped with Terry and Tatty’s provocations with a sang froid that would chill champagne. She simply pretends she has no idea that they’ve anything against her. She’s so polite to them, despite their dirty tricks. For example, Tatiana’s recently taken to sidling up to her three seconds before she goes on air and saying, ‘Not sure that colour suits you,’ or, ‘Oh no! Your mascara’s run,’ or, ‘Did you know your hair’s sticking up?’ But Sophie just smiles at her and says, ‘Oh, thanks so much for telling me, Tatiana. You look lovely by the way.’ It’s impressive, but as I say Sophie’s brilliant at politics and I think she’s playing a clever game. She’s very business-like about her work, and she’s also very discreet. None of us has the slightest clue about her private life. I mean, she never makes personal phone calls, but I think she’s got a chap. Because after the Christmas party last month, I went back up to the office to get my bag and I heard Sophie talking to someone called Alex in an obviously lovey-dovey way. I coughed to let her know I was there and she suddenly looked up and froze. So I just grabbed my bag and walked straight out, because I didn’t want her to think I’d heard. But I had. And that’s the downside of working in an open-plan office – there’s not much you don’t get to know. But my approach is an old-fashioned one: hear no evil; see no evil; and above all, speak no evil.

So I sat there this morning, engrossed in the weather charts, preparing the bulletins that I do every half-hour during the show. My first one’s at six thirty, so at ten past six I went down to Make-Up on the second floor. The second floor is where all the exciting stuff goes on. That’s where the Studio is, and the Technical Gallery, and Wardrobe and the dressing rooms, and the Green Room, and the Duty Office, where all the complaints and comments are logged. And as I walked down the carpet-tiled corridor, doors were opened and banged shut, and researchers sprinted past me in both directions, clutching clipboards and looking tense. I glanced into the Green Room where various contributors were slumped, comatose, in leather chairs, while Jean, our friendly Guest Greeter, tried to rouse them with cups of Kenco.

‘Danish pastry?’ I heard her say. ‘Or how about a nice scone?’ Then someone came flying out of the gallery screaming, ‘Where the hell’s Phil? Where’s Phil? Are you Phil? Right – you’re on!’ In fact things were pretty noisy all in all.

‘– could someone page Tatiana?’

‘– would you prefer Earl Grey?’

‘– the psychic granny’s lost her crystal ball!’

‘– I’ve got some nice Assam.’

‘– Sophie’s jacket looks a bit creased.’

‘– the skateboarding cat’s just arrived!’

So to go into the Make-Up room is to enter a haven from all this chaos: inside, Iqbal and Marian quietly transform our sleep-deprived faces for the camera. I sat in a gently reclining chair, while Iqbal – we call him Iqqy – put a flowery nylon gown round my shoulders and clipped back my short brown hair. Laid out on the counter before me were serried ranks of foundation bottles, powder compacts, eye-shadows, lipsticks and combs. Canisters of hairspray gleamed in the theatrical lightbulbs round the mirror.

‘Ready with the Polyfilla?’ I asked wryly as I surveyed my exhausted-looking face.

‘You do look a bit tired,’ he said solicitously. ‘Were you out on the tiles last night?’

‘Yes. It was my wedding anniversary – we went out for supper, en famille.’

‘How lovely,’ he said soothingly.

‘It was,’ I replied. ‘In a way, or it would have been … ’ You see the thing about Iqqy and Marian is that you just want to talk to them. You naturally want to open up. They’re so calm and sympathetic and kind. It’s as though you’re in the psychiatrist’s chair, not the make-up chair, and you want to tell them all your troubles. And as they work miracles on your ravaged exterior, you fancy they can repair you on the inside, too. So it was on the tip of my tongue to tell them that actually I hadn’t enjoyed myself that much last night because my best friend, Lily, had made this very odd remark about my husband, and I’d been trying ever since to work out what she might have meant, and this – and the fact that I’d drunk too much – had resulted in my getting no sleep.

‘How many years have you been married?’ asked Marian.

‘Fifteen,’ I replied.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You must have married young.’

‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I did.’

‘Fifteen years,’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘But then, I’ve already been married eight.’

‘And Will and I have been together for five,’ said Iqqy as he pulled mascara through my pale lashes. ‘Although,’ he went on ruefully, ‘we’ve had our ups and downs. But fifteen years, that’s wonderful. No wonder you felt like celebrating.’

‘Well, yes, except, actually, it was a bit strange … ’ I began. ‘Because, look, I don’t know what you two think about this … ’ Then I immediately stopped, because Terry had just come in. He needed more powder. And as he sat there, bitching about Sophie, I ignored him, in the way I usually do, by pretending to be engrossed in my script. Ten minutes later, primped and preened for the cameras, I slipped into the studio. It’s like the soft furnishings department of a provincial department store. There are two large, pink, chequered sofas with squashy cushions, and a smoked-glass coffee table. There are anaemic prints on the walls, a Habitat-style shelf unit with cheesy ornaments and arrangements of faded silk flowers. Behind is a trompe l’oeil backdrop of London, to one side is a small stage, and, next to that, my weather chart. I picked my way towards it, between the four cameras, stepping over the thick coils of electric cable and trying not to bash my head on the perilously low-slung rigging. It was hot. It’s always hot in the studio, because of all the lights. We’d just hit the first ad break, and Terry was taking the opportunity to throw one of his little fits.

‘Look, Sophie, I’ve told you before,’ he whined, ‘I sit on the lefthand side of the sofa.’

‘Oh, but, with respect, Terry,’ she said pleasantly, ‘why?’

‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘Why? Because I’ve been sitting on the lefthand side of this sofa for ten years, so I don’t see why I should move for you.’

I knew why he wanted to sit on that side. He’s convinced the lighting is better there and that it makes him look younger.

‘Well, I really don’t see why it matters, Terry,’ said Sophie wearily as she got up, ‘but if it’s so important to you, well, of course.’

The sound engineer attached a microphone to my lapel, and I slipped in my earpiece as I took up my place by the weather chart. I heard the director count us all out of the break, there was a brief burst of signature tune, then Terry leaned into the camera and said, ‘Welcome back, everyone; you’re watching AM-UK! Now. Has a message from beyond the grave changed your life?’

The interview with the psychic granny went quite well, then there was a sports report; that was followed by a piece about Princess Anne and Save the Children, and then it was Sophie’s turn. She was doing the interview about ovarian cysts and had only got halfway through, and in fact it was rather interesting as the gynaecologist was very good, and Sophie had just paused for a second, between questions, when to my astonishment, Terry cut in.

‘Now, what’s the weather doing today?’ he asked, beaming at Camera One. I caught the cameraman’s surprised expression. ‘Let’s h-a-v-e FAITH!’ He’d done it deliberately, of course, to cut down Sophie’s time on air. He doesn’t just steal her limelight, he goes in for daylight robbery. Whenever he thinks she’s been talking long enough, he just butts right in. Especially if she’s doing something remotely ‘serious’, like a medical interview or current affairs. And when Darryl tries to tell him off at the meeting afterwards he just looks at Sophie, all wounded innocence, and says, ‘Oh! Sorry, Sophie, I thought you’d finished.’ I really hate it when Terry does that, not just because it’s nasty, but because it means I’m thrown on air with no warning. The red light suddenly flashes on top of Camera Two and there I am, live to the nation.

‘Good morning!’ I said, with a huge smile to cover my annoyance with Terry, and because I always smile more when the weather’s bad. ‘And I’m afraid the outlook’s not good,’ I began as I turned towards the chart. ‘The snow that fell across the country yesterday has now turned to sleet and slush, and as temperatures drop again this means a very high chance of black ice, so do be careful if you’re driving,’ I added as I pressed the clicker, aware, in my earpiece, of the furious babble in the gallery.

‘– Terry’s a bastard!’

‘Wind speeds are picking up in the south and south-east … ’

‘– he cut her interview by two minutes!’

‘Those beastly easterlies are at it again … ’

‘– and it was really interesting.’

‘Possibly bringing a little sunshine in the north … ’

‘– I had an ovarian cyst once.’

‘Elsewhere, an overcast and bitterly cold day … ’

‘– very painful, actually.’

‘With a seventy per cent chance of further snowfalls … ’

‘– it was the size of a lemon, apparently … ’

‘And with this frontal system in mid-Atlantic … ’

‘– and full of pus.’

‘We’re about to enter a prolonged period of low pleasure.’

‘– low pleasure?’

‘I mean, low pressure. So, to summarise … ’

‘– God, Faith looks tired.’

‘A cold, nasty day for most of us … ’

‘– Terry, sit up straight.’

‘But maybe a glimmer of sunshine in the north … ’

‘– and her hair’s a mess. Ready when you are, Faith? Ten, nine, eight … ’

‘But temperatures in the south and south-east dropping … ’

‘Seven, six, five … ’

‘To no higher than four degrees … ’

‘Three, two … ’

‘So do remember to wrap up warm … ’

‘One and … ’

‘See you in half an hour.’

‘Zero. Cut to the skateboarding cat!’

Once I’ve done my first forecast, the rest of the morning flashes by. In between ‘hits’ I check the charts, phone the met office and update my bulletins as required. The nine thirty forecast is my last one, and that’s when the programme comes off air. We have a quick meeting in the boardroom, then I take off my make-up, sit at my desk and go through my mail. I get lots of letters. Most of them are from children asking me to help them with their geography homework. They write asking me what clouds are made of, for example, or why frost is white, or what the difference is between snow and sleet, or how rainbows are formed. Then I get letters thanking me for cheering people up. What I like about you, wrote Mr Barnes from Tunbridge Wells, is that, even when you’re giving us bad news you do it with a nice smile. Then – and I hate these ones – there are the letters about my appearance. The slightest change in it – such as a hair trim – produces a sack-load of disapproving mail. Then there are the ‘requests’ from those viewers who seem to think I’m God. Dear Faith, wrote a Mrs McManus from Edinburgh, this morning, please, please, PLEASE could we have some better weather in Scotland. We’ve had not a ray of sunshine since Hogmanay! I write back to everyone, unless they’re obviously nuts. Then, when I’ve done that, I tidy my desk and go home. People often ask me how I spend the rest of the day. The answer is, I potter. I feed Graham, of course, and take him for a walk. I might meet a friend, or go to the shops. I do the housework – I hate it, but we can’t afford a cleaner – I fill in competition forms, and I read. In an ideal world I’d do an afternoon job, but I can’t because I’m too tired. In any case it would be very awkward, because people know my face from TV. But the first thing I do when I get home is to go to bed and sleep for a couple of hours, so that’s what I did today. Or at least I tried to. But I found myself thinking, yet again, about what Lily had said last night. As I’ve said, she does sometimes say things I don’t like – including the odd uncharitable comment about Peter. Usually I just forget them, but this time I found I couldn’t. Why on earth had she said what she said and whatever could it mean? She’s so shrewd and clever – was it just a casual remark? I tried counting sheep, but that didn’t work. I tried remembering all the stations on the shipping forecast, but that didn’t help either. I tried recalling the names of all Peter’s authors, but still sleep eluded me, chased away by Lily’s remark. So I turned on the bedside radio to distract myself but that made no difference either. I opened my book – Madame Bovary – but even that didn’t help. My mind returned to Lily’s comment again and again and again. It was nagging me. Annoying me. Needling me. Gnawing at me. It kept going round and round in my mind like a mosquito in a hotel room. ‘Neeeee … ’ it went. ‘Neee … neeee … neeeeeeeeee.’ I tried to swat it away but back it came, so I pulled the duvet over my head. I thought of the children, and Graham, and I thought of the programme and how it had gone. I thought of my parents on their latest trip, and of the man who came to fix the roof. I thought about my Tesco reward card and tried to remember how many points I’d accrued; but still Lily’s strange words continued to clang away, like tinnitus. What was that remark about? What on earth could it mean?

‘Stuff it!’ I said to Graham as I threw off the duvet. ‘I’m going to damn well go and find out.’

‘Darling!’ said Lily, meeting me at the lift on the forty-ninth floor of Canary Wharf an hour and fifty minutes later. ‘What a divine surprise! But what are you doing over here?’

‘I was just passing,’ I said.

‘Really? Well, how lovely. You can share my take-away lunch. And how are you this morning?’

‘Not at my best,’ I replied. ‘Rather hungover, in fact.’

‘Oh dear,’ she murmured. ‘The wrath of grapes! But it was a wonderful evening,’ she added as she tucked the dog under her left arm. ‘Jennifer adored it, didn’t you poppet?’ Jennifer gave me a vacant stare. ‘And how marvellous of you to get up three hours later like that and calmly do the weather,’ Lily added as we crossed the editorial floor. ‘I watched you from the gym at six thirty. That girl Sophie’s rather bright,’ she went on, ‘perhaps we ought to do something on her in Moi! Terry whatshisname’s a bore though, isn’t he?’ she added. ‘A clear case of mistaken nonentity. Now,’ she said as we swept past a rail of designer clothes, ‘where are your lovely kids?’

‘They’ve gone back to school,’ I explained as a pink feather boa lifted in the breeze from Lily’s scented wake. ‘Peter took them to the station this morning. Term starts again today.’

‘They’re such darlings,’ Lily exclaimed as she stroked Jennifer’s topknot. ‘Isn’t Katie a scream with her psychoanalysis? Though I can’t help feeling she’s a little Jung. We must do a makeover on her for the magazine and get her out of those blue-stocking clothes. Now Jasmine … ’ She’d stopped at the desk of a whey-faced girl of about twenty. ‘I’ve told you not to drink coffee at lunchtime, you know it stops you sleeping in the afternoons.’

We passed the picture desk where a photographer was having his portfolio assessed and long-limbed girls leaned over the illuminated lightbox. Then we entered Lily’s glass-sided office, with its earthenware pots of splayed orchids, the Magnum shots of pouting models, the framed Moi! covers and the shining industry awards. She waved her hand at the wall-sized shelf-unit displaying all her rivals’ magazines.

‘World of Inferiors,’ she quipped. Then she removed a bottle of greenish liquid from the small fridge in the corner.

‘Wheatgrass juice?’

‘Er, no thanks.’ She poured herself a glass, then sat behind her desk and held up a plate.

‘Vegetarian sushi?’ she enquired.

‘Oh, I’m not hungry, thanks.’

‘These seaweed rolls are awfully good … ’

‘No thanks.’

‘And this shiitake’s divine.’

‘Look, Lily,’ I tried again, ‘I just wanted to ask you something. Um … ’

‘Of course, darling,’ she said. ‘Ask me anything you like.’ Suddenly there was a tap at the door and Lily’s secretary Polly appeared.

‘Lily, here’s the February edition of Vogue. It’s just come in.’

Lily winced. She loathes Vogue, in fact it’s a minor obsession. This is because in 1994, when she was features editor there, they failed to promote her to deputy editor, a lapse of professional judgement she will neither forget nor forgive. She began to flick the pages of the magazine in an indolent, insolent way.

‘God, how boring,’ she muttered. ‘Tsk … that old story … seriously vieux chapeau. Oh good Lord, what a cliché – at Moi! we avoid clichés like the plague. Oh, purleeze, not Catherine Zeta-Jones again! Oh, God!’ she declared suddenly with an appalled expression on her face. ‘They’ve got Sally Desert working for them – I wouldn’t let that crummy little dwarf write my shopping list! Faith,’ she announced as she tossed the magazine onto the floor, ‘I am going to outsell Vogue.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you are Lily, but –’

‘We’re not far off,’ she added as she leaned back in her chair, steepled her long fingers and scrutinised the ceiling. ‘Lots of their advertisers are coming to us, and who can blame them?’ she asked. This was clearly a rhetorical question. ‘We make our advertisers feel wonderful,’ she went on seamlessly as she fed Jennifer bits of sushi. ‘We woo them. We flatter them. We give them very good rates. We –’

‘Lily.’

‘– look after them. Make them feel special. In short, we do not bite the brand that feeds us.’

‘Lily.’

‘And in any case they now realise that Moi! is the fashion magazine of the Millennium.’ She went and stood by the window, then raised the Venetian micro-blind. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said as she gazed down on the Dome. ‘Isn’t it just wonderful?’ she repeated. ‘Come here, Faith, and look. Look at all … this.’ She’d threaded her slender arm through mine. ‘Don’t you think it’s just fantastic?’

‘Not really,’ I said truthfully as I inhaled the aroma of her Hypnotic Poison. ‘To me it’s all style and no substance.’

‘I was there,’ she murmured dreamily, ignoring my remark. ‘I was there, Faith, at that party.’

‘I know.’

‘I was there with the Queen and Tony Blair. Don’t you think that’s amazing, Faith? That your little schoolfriend was invited to that?’ Suddenly I looked at Lily’s profile and was transported back twenty-five years. I remembered the awkward girl, standing on stage in her blue gingham dress, and the look of fear and confusion on her face. Now here she was, atop London’s tallest building, with the world spread out beneath her feet.

‘Don’t you think that’s amazing?’ she pressed me again.

‘What? Well, yes, er, no. I mean, not really, Lily – I always knew you’d succeed.’

‘Yes,’ she said dreamily as we gazed at the boat-speckled river shining below. ‘I’ve succeeded, despite the attempts of a few people to put a spanner in the works.’

‘What people?’ I said.

‘Oh, no-one significant,’ she breathed. ‘Just nobodies, out to spoil my success. But they know who they are. And I know who they are, too,’ she went on with an air of slight menace. ‘But no-one’s going to stop me,’ she murmured. ‘No-one’s going to hold me back.’

‘Lily,’ I interjected, wishing she’d stop talking just for a second and listen.

‘I’ve trounced my enemies, Faith,’ she went on calmly, ‘by my vision and my hard work. And the reason why Moi! is going to be the Number One glossy is because we’ve got so many original ideas. Now,’ she added enthusiastically as she returned to her desk, ‘I just want your advice on a new feature we’re planning – top secret, of course. What do you think of this?’ She handed me a mock-up page. It was headed ‘Your Dog’s Beauty Questions Answered’. I am a Yorkshire terrier, I read. I have very fine, fly-away fur. I can never get it to stay in one place. What should I do? I am a white miniature poodle, wrote another. But at the moment my coat looks slightly discoloured and stained. This is causing me considerable distress. What grooming products can I use to restore it to its former glory?

‘The readers are going to love it,’ said Lily with an excited smile. ‘I’d like to do a dog special at some point, a pull-out supplement, maybe for the July edition, yes,’ she went on distractedly. ‘I could call it Chienne. We could get it sponsored by Winalot.’

‘Lily!’ I stood up. It was the only way to attract her attention. ‘Lily,’ I repeated. ‘I wasn’t just passing.’

‘Weren’t you, darling?’

‘No,’ I said as I sat down again. ‘I’m afraid that was a lie.’

‘Was it?’ she said, her eyes round. ‘Really, Faith, that’s not like you.’

‘I came here for a reason,’ I went on, my heart now banging like a drum. ‘Because there’s something I need to ask you.’

‘Faith, darling,’ said Lily seriously, ‘Jennifer and I are all ears.’

‘Well,’ I began nervously, ‘I know this will sound silly, but last night you said something that disturbed me.’

‘Oh, Faith,’ she said before taking a sip of wheatgrass juice, ‘I’m always saying things that disturb you, we both know that.’

‘Yes, but this wasn’t in the usual category of your flippant off-the-cuff remarks. It was not only what you said, but the way you said it.’

‘And what was it, then?’ she enquired.

‘Well, you said,’ I said, ‘you said … You said that you thought I was “marvellous” to “trust” Peter.’ Lily’s arched eyebrows lifted an inch up her high, domed brow.

‘Well I do, darling!’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think any woman who trusts any man is a complete and utter marvel, given that the species are such beasts. I mean, why do you think I dump them at such a rate?’

‘Oh, I see. So it was just a general observation, was it?’

‘Yes!’ she said gaily. ‘Of course it was! You are silly to let that worry you, Faith. I thought you always prided yourself on never believing anything I say.’

‘Oh, I do!’ I exclaimed. ‘I mean, I know that you’re usually being funny. You like to pull my leg. I don’t mind – I never have done – and I know it’s still easy to do.’

‘Faith Value,’ she said with an indulgent shake of her head.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose I am. And you’re still Lily White.’

‘I know,’ said Lily with a smile. ‘I’m sorry if I worried you,’ she went on as she chewed delicately on her seaweed roll. ‘It’s just my sense of humour, darling. You know that.’

‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘But last night I couldn’t help wondering, if what you said was a joke or not.’

‘Of course it was,’ she said, ‘don’t give it a second thought.’

‘Oh, good,’ I said, vastly relieved, and I allowed myself to smile.

‘I was just joking, Faith.’

‘Oh, great.’

‘Because I’m good at badinage.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I was just pulling your leg … ’ She was flicking through a copy of Moi!

‘I know … ’

‘I was just winding you up, like I do.’

‘Yup. Got that,’ I said as I stood up to go. ‘Great to get it sorted out.’

‘Although … ’ Lily added softly, without looking up.

‘Although what?’ I said.

‘Well … ’ She sighed as she lifted her gaze to mine. ‘Now we’re on the subject, I must say that Peter didn’t exactly seem relaxed. In fact I thought he was decidedly sharp. Mind you,’ she continued judiciously, ‘Peter’s often sharp with me. I know he doesn’t really like me,’ she went on philosophically. ‘I’m his bete noire,’ she added with a throaty laugh.

‘It’s a personality thing,’ I said diplomatically. ‘It’s just one of those little clashes one sometimes gets. But he has huge professional respect for you,’ I said.

‘Does he?’ she said with a sceptical smile.

‘In any case,’ I went on quickly, ‘between you and me, Peter’s got a lot of hassle at work so he’s a little bit anxious at the moment.’

‘Anxious? Darling,’ she added, ‘he was jumpier than the Royal Ballet.’

‘Well … ’

‘And I couldn’t help noticing how trim he looked. And did you see he was wearing a Hermès tie?’

‘Was he? I wouldn’t know. I don’t really notice labels.’

‘Yes, Hermès. They’re seventy pounds a throw. Now, I knew you hadn’t bought it for him,’ she went on. ‘So I couldn’t help wondering who had?’ I stared at her.

‘He bought it himself.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. As an investment. He said his headhunter has advised him to smarten up a bit. Peter’s looking for a new job, you see – I didn’t tell you this, but we think he’s about to be kicked out.’

‘Really?’ said Lily. ‘Oh! How awful.’

‘Well, yes, because he’s been happy at Fenton & Friend.’

‘I’ll say he has,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

‘All I mean is that any man would be happy working at Fenton & Friend.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well,’ she said as she adjusted Jennifer’s butterfly barrette, ‘it’s stuffed with gorgeous girls.’

‘Oh. Is it?’

‘And I thought I heard someone say, the other day, that they’d seen Peter having lunch with an attractive blonde. But I could have been wrong,’ she added softly.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you were. Or rather you were mistaken. Because Peter has to take authors and agents out to dinner sometimes. It’s all part of his job.’

‘Of course it is, Faith, I know. But … ’

‘But what?’

‘Well, he is a publisher, and so … ’

‘Yes?’

‘I really hate to say this, darling, but maybe he’s making someone an advance?’ I gazed into Lily’s liquid brown eyes. They’re huge and hypnotic, slanting in shape, with interminable thick, curling lashes.

‘An advance?’ I repeated. I could hear the beating of my heart.

‘Maybe he’s looking for a new chapter,’ she went on softly, then took another sip of wheatgrass juice.

‘Lily, what are you talking about?’

‘Maybe, in the bookshop of life, he’s been picking up more than a Penguin … ’

‘Look, I –’

‘And the only reason I say this is because his speech last night was so odd. Katie spotted the Freudian slip, Faith, didn’t you?’

‘Well, I … ’

‘And after all, you have been married for a very long time.’

‘But … ’

‘All I’m suggesting is that in your situation, well, I’d be just a little on my guard.’

‘On my guard?’

‘Vigilant. Now, I’m only saying this as your friend.’

‘I know … ’

‘Because I have only your best interests at heart.’

‘Yes. Thanks … ’

‘But I think you ought to do a Christine … ’ I looked at her.

‘What? Hamilton?’ I said aghast. ‘You mean, search his pockets?’ Lily was fiddling with the Buddhist power beads at her slender wrist.

‘That’s what many women would do, Faith,’ she said reasonably. ‘But don’t worry, darling. I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to be concerned about.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly panicking. ‘Maybe there is.’

‘No, no, I’m sure it’s fine,’ she said soothingly. ‘But all I’m saying, as your best and oldest friend, is that maybe you should, well, sharpen up a bit.’

‘What?’

‘Learn to spot the signs.’

‘I wouldn’t know how,’ I groaned.

‘Of course you wouldn’t, you’re so trusting. But that’s something I can help you with, darling, because as luck would have it, Moi! did a big feature on this only last month.’ She stood up and began to sort through a pile of back issues on the floor.

‘Now, where is it?’ she said. ‘Oh, here we are!’ she exclaimed happily. ‘You’re in luck. “Is Your Man a Love-Rodent?”’ she read. ‘Seven classic signs: one, he’s distracted and distant. Two, he’s “working late”; three, he’s looking fit; four, his wardrobe’s improved. Five, he’s not interested in sex; six, he’s bought a mobile phone and seven – and I gather that this is the clincher, Faith … ’ Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door.

‘Lily … ’ It was Polly again. ‘Lily, I’m sorry, but I’ve got Madonna for you on line one.’

‘Oh God,’ said Lily rolling her eyes, ‘I’ve told her not to call me in my lunchbreak. Still … ’ She sighed. ‘We do want her on the cover in June. Sorry, Faith darling. Must go.’ She blew me a kiss as I stood at the door, then waved Jennifer’s little paw up and down.

‘Now, I don’t want you to worry,’ she called out as I opened the door. ‘In any case I’m sure it’s all going to work out for the best, as you always like to say.’

I journeyed back to west London as if in a trance. I’d got what I wanted, all right. I’d had my nagging doubts dispelled, and replaced with naked fear. Peter was having an affair. Lily hadn’t said it in so many words, but she clearly thought something was up and she’s, well, a woman of the world. My morale was so low it was practically underground, and as I left Turnham Green tube and walked home I began to entertain all kinds of mad ideas: that Peter was in love with another woman; that he would up and leave; that I had been a bad wife; that he had been driven to find solace elsewhere; that our house would have to be sold; that our children would suffer and fail; that our dog would become a delinquent; that we’d never go to Ikea again; that – as I placed my hand on the garden gate, my heart suddenly skipped a beat. For there, on the doorstep, was an enormous bouquet of white and yellow flowers. I gathered it up in one hand and unlocked the door with the other, and as Graham leaped up to greet me with a joyful bark, I peeled off the envelope. The phone started to ring, but I ignored it as my eyes scanned the message on the small white card.

Happy Anniversary, Faith, it read. So sorry I forgot. All my love, Peter. Relief knocked me over, like a wave. I sank gratefully onto the hall chair.

‘Of course he’s not having an affair!’ I said to Graham as my hand reached for the phone. ‘Peter loves me,’ I said, ‘and I love him, and that’s all there is to it. Hello?’

‘Faith, darling, it’s Lily. Sorry we got cut off there.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I’d said everything I wanted to say and in fact Lily, although it’s very kind of you to give me advice, and I do appreciate it, I really don’t think you’re quite right, and to be honest I think I just really overreacted and I’d been in a silly sort of mood you see, and I was very tired too from work, so –’

‘No, but Faith, there was one thing I meant to tell you,’ she said. ‘Something really important – the seventh sign. Apparently it’s the absolutely copper-bottomed-it-simply-never-fails-dead-cert-surefire-sign that one’s husband is up to no good.’

‘Er, yes?’ I said faintly. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s if he’s sending you flowers!’

‘What are you getting up to?’ Terry enquired saucily as he leaned into the camera a few days later. ‘Why not get up to AM-UK! where there’s lots of snap, crackle and pop! It’s coming up to … ’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Seven fifty. And later in the show, Internet dating – how to “click” on-line; women with beards – why they prefer the rough to the smooth; and our Phobia of the Week – griddle pans. Plus all the news, weather and sport.’

‘But first,’ said Sophie as she read her autocue, ‘we ask that old question, what’s in a name? Well, quite a lot according to sociologist Ed McCall, who’s just written a book about names, about what they mean, and how they can influence our lives. Ed, a warm welcome to the show.’ I was standing by the weather chart, listening to this, and I must say it was great. Interesting items are rare, as one of the TV critics noted ironically, ‘AM-UK!’s healthy breakfast menu is virtually fact-free!’ But this interview was riveting, and Sophie handled it well.

‘Looking at surnames,’ Ed McCall began, ‘I’ve concluded that people are often drawn to careers which reflect their second names. For example there’s a man called James Judge, who’s a judge; then there’s Sir Hugh Fish, who was head of Thames Water; there’s a newly ordained vicar called Linda Church, and I discovered a Tasmanian police woman called Lauren Order. Gardener’s Question Time has Bob Flowerdew and Pippa Greenwood, and there’s another well-known horticulturalist called Michael Bloom.’

‘I believe the medical profession has some intriguing examples,’ Sophie prompted him.

‘Oh, yes. I uncovered an allergist called Dr Aikenhead,’ he said, ‘and dermatologists Doctors Whitehead and Pitts; I found a urologist called Dr Weedon, and a paediatrician called Dr Kidd.’

‘This is great, Sophie,’ I heard Darryl say in my earpiece.

‘Any others?’ she said with a smile.

‘There’s a surgeon called Frank Slaughter, a police officer called Andy Sergeant, several bankers with the surname Cash, and a convicted criminal called Tony Lawless. There are many other instances of this type,’ he went on, ‘so I’ve concluded that these people were drawn to their professions, whether consciously or not, because of their family names.’

‘I suppose you could call it nominative determinism,’ suggested Sophie in her academic way.

‘Er, certainly,’ he said uncertainly, ‘though that’s a very technical way of putting it. But yes, I believe that names do determine our lives in some way; that they’re not just labels but form an inherent part of our identity.’

‘And is this as true of Christian names as it is of surnames?’ Sophie asked.

‘Oh, definitely,’ he said.

‘So what does Sophie mean?’ Terry interjected with a smirk. ‘Smug little show-off?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sycophantic show-stealer?’

‘Shut up, Terry!’ I heard Darryl hiss in my earpiece.

‘Er, no,’ said Ed McCall, clearly shocked by Terry’s shameless on-screen slurs. ‘Erm, the name Sophie actually means wisdom, and may I say,’ he added gallantly, ‘that it’s a name that obviously suits this Sophie well.’

‘And what does Terry mean?’ asked Sophie pleasantly.

‘Terry is either the diminutive of Terence,’ Ed replied, ‘or it could be derived from the French name, Thierry, from Norman times.’

‘It’s not a very popular name any more, is it?’ Sophie went on sweetly. Ah. She’d obviously read the book. ‘In fact you point out that Terry’s rather a dated name these days.’

‘That’s right,’ Ed agreed, ‘it was especially popular in the 1950s.’

‘The 1950s!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, I’m sure Terry wasn’t born as long ago as that, were you?’ she enquired innocently.

‘Oh, no no no,’ Terry said, ‘much later.’

‘Of course you were,’ said Sophie benignly as the cameraman sadistically lingered on Terry’s reddening face. ‘I’m sure you were born much, much later than that, Terry.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s right. I was.’

‘I’m sure no-one would believe you could possibly have been born in – ooh – 1955?’ she concluded with a smile. Touché. He deserved it. For once he was lost for words. ‘And what about our weather forecaster, Faith?’ Sophie went on smoothly as Terry seethed; she indicated me with an elegant sweep of her left hand as the light on ‘my’ camera flashed red.

‘Faith is one of those abstract virtue names which the Puritans invented,’ Ed explained. ‘It’s like Charity, Verity or Grace. And these names were given mostly to women, of course, as a means of social control; so that baby girls given these “virtuous” names would develop those desirable characteristics. There were some really awful names of this kind,’ he added, ‘but thankfully they haven’t survived. Can you imagine calling your child Abstinence, Humility or Meek?’

‘How dreadful!’ Sophie exclaimed with a laugh.

‘But the more attractive names of this type have stayed with us and I think they do have an influence on character. I mean, if you’re called Patience or Verity, then people expect certain things. How can you be called Grace and be clumsy, for example, or be a miserable Joy, or a promiscuous Virginia, or a depressive Hope?’

‘Or an adulterous Faith,’ said Terry, trying to get back in the show. ‘Are you faithful, Faith?’ he asked me, very cheekily I thought.

‘Only to my husband,’ I said with a smile.

‘There’s a fashion for naming children after places, isn’t there, Ed?’ Sophie went on.

‘Oh yes,’ he replied, ‘we’ve got just about every American state now – Atlanta, Georgia, Savannah etc – though Nebraska and Kentucky don’t have quite the same ring. Then there’s Chelsea, of course, and India. And people often name their children after the place in which they were conceived. Like Posh Spice and David Beckham calling their baby Brooklyn after a trip to New York.’

‘Well, it could have been worse,’ said Sophie judiciously. ‘At least they didn’t call him Queens.’ Ed laughed at her witticism as she thanked him for coming on the show. ‘It’s been fascinating,’ she concluded warmly. ‘And Ed’s book, The Game of the Name, is published today by Thorsons and costs six pounds ninety-nine.’

‘And now,’ Terry intervened, ‘it’s time for a look at the weather. So let’s see if Faith lives up to her name today!’

As the programme ended an hour later, Terry and Sophie sat there beaming at each other amiably while the credits rolled. Then, the split-second they were off air, he stood up, towered over her and shouted, ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’

‘I’m sorry, do what?’ said Sophie sweetly as she removed her microphone pack from the back of her skirt.

‘Don’t you ever discuss my age on screen again,’ he hissed.

‘Well, for my part I’d be grateful if you didn’t insult me on screen,’ she replied as she took out her earpiece.

‘I am thirty-nine!’ he shouted after her as she made her way towards Make-Up to get her slap removed. ‘Thirty-nine! Not forty-six. Got that, you superior little cow?’

‘Of course I know you’re thirty-nine, Terry,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know how I could have got that wrong. After all, everyone here tells me you’ve been thirty-nine for years.’ His face went white with anger. It was as though Sophie had made a declaration of war. And though I was glad to see her start to get her own back, I hoped she wouldn’t come to regret what she’d done. Still, as I say, I always keep out of office disputes. As I picked up my bag I saw that there were two copies of The Game of the Name lying on the planning desk. No-one seemed to want them, so I put a pound in the charity box and took one of them home. There was an index at the back, and I looked up Peter; it said that Peter means a rock, which I knew. I thought how Peter always has been my rock, really – steady and unswerving and strong. I pondered my own name, and wondered, not for the first time, to what extent it has shaped who I am. Would I have turned out differently if I’d been called something racy, like Scarlett or Carmen or Sky? But I was christened Faith, so I guess I couldn’t be racy if I tried. And I decided I might as well be true to the name I have and I resolved not to have doubts about Peter. So when I opened the front door and saw that Lily had sent me the December edition of Moi! I simply felt like throwing it away. But then, on the other hand, I knew she could only mean well.

I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, she had written in her large round hand. But just to be on the safe side, do read this as it’s full of handy hints. PS, why not check out the IsHeCheating.com website?

‘How ridiculous,’ I said to Graham as I flicked through the magazine again. ‘Peter isn’t having an affair.’ Even so, I couldn’t resist reading the article. Just out of interest, of course.

How to Tell If Your Man’s Playing Away:

1 He’s distracted and distant.

2 He’s looking fit.

3 He’s working late.

4 His wardrobe’s improved.

5 He’s not interested in sex.

6 He’s bought a mobile phone.

7 He’s sending you flowers.

Now, the scary thing was that I knew I could answer a resounding ‘yes’ to all of these. But I decided to remain quite calm, because there’s a rational explanation in every case. Peter is distracted and distant because he has many worries, and has lost weight, ditto. He’s working late because his boss is vile; he’s improved his wardrobe because he has to look smart for job interviews. He’s not interested in sex because his libido is low due to his depression about work. He bought a mobile phone so that his headhunter can contact him at the drop of a hat; and he sent me flowers for the simple reason that he forgot our anniversary and felt bad.

‘So there we have it,’ I said to Graham as I read and reread the piece. ‘He’s in the clear. We have nothing to worry about.’ I looked into his eyes – they’re the colour of demerara – and I stroked his velvety nose. Graham’s been anxious too, you see. He’s very sensitive to my moods and over the last couple of days he’s been feeling a bit insecure. I know this because he’s been sitting closer to me than normal – preferably on my lap. Also, he’s following me around more than he usually does. So this afternoon I said to him, ‘It’s OK, Graham, you don’t have to get up every time I leave my chair.’ But he does. He came with me as I climbed the stairs to the spare room on the top floor. As I say, I didn’t really think that Peter was having an affair, but in order to put all my fears to rest, I’d decided to check his pockets. Peter’s fairly tidy, and he doesn’t have huge numbers of clothes, so I knew my investigations wouldn’t take long. I found that my pulse was beginning to race as I consulted the magazine again. You must leave everything exactly as you found it, it advised. If he suspects you’re onto him he may stop what he’s doing, which means you’ll never get to the truth. So, feeling like a thief, which evoked in me a curious mixture of tremendous excitement and deep dread, I carefully went through his clothes. First I looked in the pockets of his sports jackets. But all I found was an old bus ticket, a hanky and some coins.

‘Nothing suspicious there,’ I said to Graham. He looked at me with what I can only describe as an expression of enormous relief. In the laundry basket in the corner were some shirts. Graham and I both sniffed them. But there was no whiff of alien scent, no tell-tale lipstick marks, just the familiar aroma of Peter’s sweat.

‘We’re doing well,’ I said to Graham. His ears pricked up and he wagged his tail. Then I took Peter’s corduroy trousers off the dumb valet and turned out the pockets of those. All I came up with was a packet of chewing gum – unopened – and some lint.

‘No condoms or billets-doux – my husband is innocent,’ I declared. By now I was rather enjoying myself. Relief was flooding in. I’d already checked the glove compartment for foreign knickers but found not so much as a thong. I’d done 1471 on the telephone, and it had read back to me Sarah’s number. I couldn’t check his briefcase, of course, because he’d taken that to work.

‘Ah – his mobile phone statement,’ I said as I spotted an envelope marked One-2-One lying on the window sill. It had been opened, so I just slipped it out and read the bill. There was one 0207 number on it which appeared over thirty times. So I went downstairs, cunningly pressed 141 to conceal my number (as advised by Moi!) then dialled it with a thumping heart.

‘Andy Metzler Associates,’ said a female voice. I immediately put the phone down.

‘It’s just his headhunter,’ I said to Graham. ‘Peter’s blameless. Gimme five!’ He held up his right paw and I shook it, then looked at the magazine again. Most love cheats are caught out either by unfamiliar numbers on their phone bill, or by suspicious entries on their credit card statements. Now, I didn’t actually know where our credit card statement was, as I don’t get to see it. This is not because Peter’s hiding it from me, but because it comes in a brown envelope and I never, ever open brown envelopes. It’s a kind of phobia, I suppose. I’ll open any number of white ones, but brown ones I avoid. So Peter always deals with our credit card, and I’ve never ever seen the bill. In any case, I hardly use my card as it’s so easy to over-spend. I rummaged in the bureau in the sitting room and found a small black folder labelled ‘Credit Card’.

‘So far Peter has passed the fidelity test with flying colours,’ I said to Graham. ‘This, my darling doggo, is the final stage.’ I examined the top statement, which was dated January the fourth. As I expected, there were very few entries; we’d used the card to book theatre tickets at Christmas, we’d bought Katie some books from Borders, and there was a sixty-pound entry for WH Smith for a new computer game for Matt. Then there was a fourth entry, for some flowers. My flowers, obviously. They’d cost forty pounds and had been ordered from a place called Floribunda. I know where that is – it’s in Covent Garden, near Peter’s office. So that was that then. No unexplained restaurant bills. No references to country house hotels. No suspicious mentions of Knickerbox or La Perla. My investigations were at an end. But as I snapped the folder shut and went to put it back, I suddenly felt my heart contract as though squeezed by an alien hand. Those flowers on the bill weren’t my flowers. How could they be? My bouquet had only been sent yesterday. The bill for my ones wouldn’t appear until the February statement in three weeks’ time. I could hear my breathing increase as I lowered myself onto a nearby chair. I went into the hall, looked up Floribunda in the phone book and dialled the number with a trembling hand. What would I say when they answered? What on earth would I say? Please could you tell me who my husband ordered flowers for on December eighteenth as I’m suspicious that he’s having an affair. Perhaps I could pretend to be the recipient and claim that they’d never turned up? I’m so sorry, but you know the flowers my husband Peter Smith ordered on the eighteenth of December? Yes, that’s right. Well I’m afraid they never arrived; there seems to have been a mix-up, could you just confirm which address you sent them to …

‘Hello, Floribunda, can I help you?’ said a pleasant-sounding female voice.

‘I – I –’ I put the phone down, aware that the handset was wet with sweat. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to know. I could feel the urgent banging of my heart as I sat on the foot of the stairs. Peter was having an affair. I had been happy so I had nothing known, I remembered as my hands sprang up to my face. So now, forever, Farewell, the tranquil mind … I sat there, gazing at the gold sunburst mirror Lily had given us for our wedding. I stared at it for a minute or two, too shocked to know what to do. Then suddenly I gasped, and smiled, then smacked my forehead, hard, with the palm of my hand.

‘You IDIOT, Faith!’ I shouted. ‘You STUPID IDIOT!’ I’d suddenly remembered, you see. His mother’s birthday’s on December the eighteenth. I’d organised the birthday card, and signed it, and we’d given her a silver photo frame. And now it was obvious that Peter had decided to send her flowers as well. Of course. That was it! I flung my arms round the startled dog.

‘I’m a very silly Mummy,’ I said as Graham nervously licked my ear, ‘and I got it completely wrong.’ I felt so mean for having suspected Peter, especially when he’s got so much on his mind. I felt mean, and low, and somehow tarnished. Now, I resolved as I picked up the credit card folder, I’d never distrust him again. Then I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee – real coffee by way of celebration. And the heady aroma of arabica had filled the air and I was feeling quite mellow again, calmly flicking through the rest of Moi! when I heard the trill of the telephone.

‘Hello, Faith,’ said Sarah. ‘I just wanted to thank you for organising that lovely party last week. I did enjoy myself,’ she added warmly, ‘and it was wonderful to see the children – they’re so grown up.’

‘Oh, they are,’ I said with a wistful smile.

‘And I thought it was so sweet the way you arranged it as a surprise for Peter.’

‘I wanted to cheer him up,’ I explained. ‘I expect he’s told you that he’s got a few worries at work.’

‘Well yes,’ she said. ‘He phoned me last night. I’m sure it will all work out, but I must say he is a bit distracted at the moment.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘He is. In fact,’ I went on enthusiastically, in a way I was shortly to regret, ‘he’d even forgotten that it was our anniversary and he’s never done that before.’

‘Well,’ Sarah exclaimed with a little laugh, ‘he actually forgot my birthday!’

‘Sorry?’ It was like falling down a mineshaft. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah, what did you say?’

‘He forgot my birthday,’ she repeated. ‘And he’s normally so thoughtful like that. I mean, I got your card of course, and that lovely frame, but Peter usually gives me a little something extra, just from him, but for the first time ever, he didn’t. Not a thing. But please don’t mention it to him,’ she added quickly. ‘He’s got enough on his plate right now.’

‘So you didn’t get … ?’ I began faintly.

‘Get what?’

‘You didn’t get any … ?’ I heard the sudden, sharp ring of her doorbell.

‘Oh, I’ve got to go,’ she said, ‘my bridge partners have just turned up. Let’s chat another time soon, Faith. Bye.’

I replaced the receiver very slowly. ‘Oh God,’ I said to Graham. ‘Oh God,’ I repeated, breathing more quickly. ‘Who the hell did he send those flowers to, and what on earth shall I do?’ I consulted the magazine again. Under the box headed, ‘Action Stations!’ was the following advice: On no account let your husband know that you have doubts about his fidelity. However hard it is you MUST carry on as though absolutely nothing is amiss.

‘So how was it today, darling?’ I enquired with phoney brightness as Peter arrived back from work.

‘Godawful,’ he said wearily. ‘Do you know what the old bat’s doing now?’

‘What?’

‘She’s trying to fob Amber Dane off onto me.’

‘I thought Amber Dane had given up writing those awful novels,’ I said.

‘We all hoped so,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘But she’s written another one which she claims is “satire” if you please. Satire? From what I’ve read so far it’s about as satirical as a box of Milk Tray. We really shouldn’t be publishing it – in fact that’s what I said. But Charmaine’s given me the manuscript and wants a full report. Talk about getting the short bloody straw,’ he added as he loosened his tie.

‘Oh dear.’

‘And that creep,’ he said exasperatedly as he fixed himself a drink, ‘that fat Old Etonian creep got all hoity toity with me because I called him Olly.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Exactly! Nothing. I mean, lots of people call him Olly. Charmaine calls him Olly. And today, in a meeting, I called him Olly too, and afterwards he took me to one side, and he’d gone puce in the face, and all sweaty, and he said, very crossly, as though he was my bloody boss, “Peter. Kindly don’t call me Olly. My name is Oliver.” Pompous git! You know, Faith, I used to love Fenton & Friend, but now I just can’t wait to get out.’

‘Any news from Andy?’ I asked. At this Peter blushed slightly, I guessed because he was embarrassed to admit that there wasn’t any news.

‘Er … no,’ he said with a sigh as he sank into an easy chair. ‘There’s nothing. Nothing yet. But I’m … hopeful.’

I managed to remain all breezy and ‘normal’ as the magazine article advised, and I couldn’t help congratulating myself for keeping up this pleasant façade when my mind was in such turmoil. As we sat down to supper I looked at Peter across the kitchen table, and it was as though I was seeing him in a whole new light. He looked different to me now, in some undefinable way, because for the first time in fifteen years I couldn’t read his face. It was like looking at one of those smart clocks with no numerals – they can be rather hard to read. All I knew was that I didn’t instinctively trust him in the way I had before. I mean, before trust just wasn’t an issue between Peter and me. That may sound naïve, but it’s true. I never ever gave it a thought, and I felt sorry for wives who did. But now, I found myself, like thousands of other women, consciously wondering if my husband was having an affair. And it was a very peculiar feeling after being married to him for so long. As we sat there chatting over the lasagne – reduced by a pound in Tesco actually, and double points on the loyalty card – I thought about Peter’s name again, and about how he’s always been my rock. Strong and steady and reliable – until now, that is. In the Bible it was Peter upon whom Christ built his church. That’s what we were taught at school. But it was also Peter whose resolve cracked in the garden of Gethsemane, and who denied Jesus, three times. So Peter the Apostle had feet of clay and I thought, my Peter does too.

‘Are you all right, Faith?’ said Peter suddenly. He’d put down his knife and fork.

‘What?’

‘You’re staring at me,’ he said.

‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. ‘I mean, have you had a good day?’

‘Er … ’

‘You seem a little bit tense.’

‘Oooh no, I’m not tense at all no, no, no, no. No.’

‘How was the programme?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry I missed you this morning. You know I always try to watch.’

‘Well, it was quite good,’ I replied. ‘There was this really interesting interview about names and what they mean. Yours means a rock,’ I added.

‘I know.’

‘Mine means – well it’s obvious,’ I said. ‘And I always have been faithful, as you know.’

‘Yes. Yes, I do know that,’ he said rather quietly, I thought. And now there was a silence, during which I could hear the ticking of the kitchen clock. ‘So how was the weather today?’ he added.

‘Um … well, the weather was fine,’ I said. ‘I mean, it wasn’t fine. In fact the outlook is rather unsettled,’ I went on thoughtfully. ‘Temperatures are dropping quite a bit, and then there’s the chill factor.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The chill factor.’ We looked at each other again.

‘Gorgeous flowers,’ I said brightly, indicating the bouquet of creamy jonquils and narcissi, pale anemones and golden mimosa. ‘They smell heavenly. That was so sweet of you, Peter.’

‘You deserve them,’ he replied. Then another silence enveloped us both. And in that silence I suddenly decided – don’t ask me why – to ignore what the magazine advised.

‘Don’t you normally buy your mother something for her birthday?’ I asked innocently as I put down my knife and fork.

‘Oh Christ!’ he slapped his forehead. ‘I completely forgot.’

‘Well, we all gave her that silver frame, don’t you remember, and you did sign the card.’

‘I know. But I usually send her some flowers or get her a box of chocs. You know, something that’s just from me. I’m not remembering anything at the moment, Faith,’ he sighed as he picked up our plates. ‘I guess it’s all the stress at work.’

‘But you’re remembering … some things,’ I suggested tentatively as I opened the freezer door.

‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said as I took out a box of ice-cream. ‘To be honest, Pete, I was going to ask you.’

‘Faith, what are you talking about?’ he asked as he got down two bowls.

‘Well, nothing really,’ I replied nonchalantly as I flipped open the lid, ‘except that you seem to have remembered someone else recently – someone I don’t know.’

‘Faith,’ he said edgily, ‘I haven’t got time for this. I’m very tired. And I’ve got an excruciating evening ahead of me because I’ve got to start the Amber Dane. So if you’ve got something to say to me, please would you be direct?’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘I will.’ I inhaled deeply, and then spoke. ‘Peter,’ I began, ‘I looked at our credit card bill today, and I found an entry on it for some flowers. I knew they weren’t for your mother’s birthday, because she told me you’d forgotten, so I just couldn’t help wondering who on earth they were for?’ Peter took his ice-cream, then stared at me as though I were mad.

‘Flowers?’ he said incredulously. ‘Flowers? I sent someone flowers? Who would I have sent flowers to apart from you or my mum?’

‘Well, that’s just what I was wondering,’ I said as I put the ice-cream away.

‘When was this exactly?’ he asked calmly as I got the chocolate sauce. If he was lying, he was very convincing.

‘December the eighteenth,’ I replied.

‘December the eighteenth? December the eighteenth … ’ He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, theatrically almost, then he suddenly said, ‘Clare Barry.’

‘Who?’

‘She’s one of my authors. That’s who those flowers were for. They were for her book launch, I always send her flowers.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘But –’

‘But what?’

‘But I thought you had a different credit card that you use just for your work expenditure.’

‘Yes, I do. It’s American Express.’

‘But sending Clare Barry congratulatory flowers, well, that would have been for work, wouldn’t it?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘So why would you have ordered flowers for one of your authors using your personal credit card?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said irritably. ‘Maybe it was a simple mistake. Or perhaps I mislaid my American Express card and was in a hurry, so I used my other card instead. Does it really matter?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said airily. ‘It doesn’t. I’m … satisfied.’

‘Satisfied?’ he said wonderingly. ‘Satisfied? Oh!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘Oh! I get it. You think I’m carrying on with someone.’ I glanced at Graham. His shoulder muscles had stiffened and his ears were down.

‘Ooh, no, no, no, no,’ I said. ‘No. Well, maybe.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Are you?’

‘No I’m not,’ he said with what struck me as a slightly regretful air. ‘I’m not carrying on with anyone. That’s the truth. In any case, Faith, don’t you think I’ve got enough to worry me right now without getting involved with some chick?’ Chick? ‘So please, will you give me a break?’ A break?

‘A break?’ I repeated. Ah. ‘You want me to give you a break?’

‘Yes,’ he replied firmly, ‘I do. And I hope you believe me when I say that those flowers were for an author? Do you believe me, Faith? Do you?’

‘Yes. I believe you,’ I lied.