Читать книгу Out of the Blue - Isabel Wolff - Страница 8

So that was how I came to find myself sitting in the offices of Personal Quest. I’d found them by sticking a pin in the Private Investigators section of the Yellow Pages. My appointment was for three o’clock. So at ten to I climbed the rickety stairs of a narrow house in Marylebone. I experienced a frisson of excitement as I knocked on the semi-glazed door. But there was no sign of a trenchcoat, or a trilby; no glamorous secretary filing her nails. Just a harassed looking man of about forty-five with short brown hair and a beard.

‘Now, I’ve had a busy day,’ said the private detective, Ian Sharp, Dip., P.I., as he rummaged through some files on his desk. ‘So remind me again will you, is your case industrial, financial, political, medical, insurance fraud, nanny check, neighbour check, child abduction, missing persons, adoption search, or good old matrimonial?’

‘Er, matrimonial,’ I replied, looking at a framed sign which read, ‘No Mission Impossible’!

‘Well, if it’s matrimonial,’ he went on, ‘let me save you a lot of money right now by telling you that it’s either his secretary or your best friend.’

‘Actually it’s neither,’ I said as I lowered myself into a cheap, green vinyl chair.

‘How do you know?’ he asked.

‘Because his secretary, Iris, is fifty-nine, and he can’t stand my closest friend.’

‘So who might this other woman be,’ Ian Sharp enquired, ‘and what makes you think your husband has strayed?’

‘Her name’s Jean,’ I explained, ‘and, well, my husband’s been acting suspiciously for weeks.’

‘Jean?’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Jean. Mmmm. With that name she’s probably Scottish.’ This thought hadn’t occurred to me, but now, somehow, it seemed to ring true. So I told him about the two notes I’d found, and the flowers Peter had sent, and the mystery gum and cigarettes.

‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. He’s distracted and distant, he’s working late, he’s looking fit, he’s bought a mobile phone, he’s not interested in sex, he’s improved his wardrobe, and he’s started sending me flowers.’

‘Ah,’ he said, sitting back and steepling his fingers. ‘All the classic signs.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ I replied.

‘But no hard evidence?’

‘Not yet.’

‘So at the moment it’s simply a hunch,’ he added, bouncing his fingertips against each other. ‘Alarm bells have been ringing.’ I nodded. ‘Your antennae are twitching.’

‘Like mad.’

‘In fact it’s becoming an obsession,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘It certainly is,’ I agreed.

‘So what you’re seeking, by coming here, is peace of mind?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s it,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I want to have my peace of mind restored.’

‘Well, I may not be able to do that,’ he said seriously. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands as if in prayer. ‘I may be able to provide you with the facts,’ he went on judiciously, ‘but as for restoring your peace of mind – I might well do the opposite. Because the truth is that women’s instincts about their husbands’ misbehaviour are proved right ninety per cent of the time.’

‘Oh,’ I said faintly. ‘I see.’

‘So you have to consider the consequences, Mrs Smith, if I were to find evidence of your husband’s … indiscretions. For if I take on this case, I will present you with a written report of my findings, which may well include compromising photos of your husband with the other woman.’

‘Yes,’ I whispered, ‘I know.’

‘You must prepare yourself emotionally, Mrs Smith, for what may lie ahead. You may, in a week’s time, say, find yourself back in this office staring at a photograph of your husband holding another woman by the hand … ’

‘Oh.’

‘Or kissing her.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Or entering a hotel with her.’

‘Oh God.’ I felt sick.

‘Or seeing his car parked outside her house. So I ask you, as I ask all my matrimonial clients, to give that serious thought. Will you be prepared for such … unpalatable images, Mrs Smith?’ he enquired. I heaved a sigh.

‘Yes. I think I will.’

‘In that case my fees are forty pounds an hour exclusive of VAT, fifty-five pounds for evening work, with any expenses on top, plus petrol which I charge at a very reasonable eighty-five pence a mile. Now,’ he went on, ‘do you just want the basic?’

‘What does that involve?’ I enquired.

‘I trail your husband to work and wait in my car, with my small but powerful camera at the ready. Wherever he goes, I won’t be far behind, going snap, snap, snap!’

‘Isn’t there a danger that he’ll spot you?’

‘Mrs Smith,’ said Ian Sharp patiently, ‘what do you notice about me?’

‘Notice?’ I said, dumbfounded. ‘Well, nothing, I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What distinguishing features do I have?’

‘Well, none that I can see, really.’

‘How tall am I?’

‘Er … medium.’

‘What sort of frame do I have?’

‘Well, you know … normal. Not fat, not thin.’

‘Precisely!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Mrs Smith, I am totally nondescript!’ he went on proudly. ‘I am very ordinary. I can pass undetected in a crowd. People do not clock me. They do not remember me. I am invisible in my averageness.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

‘I would not be picked out in a line-up.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘My appearance is dull and hum-drum.’

‘Well … ’

‘Which means, Mrs Smith,’ he went on confidently, ‘that your husband will be oblivious to my presence. May I add that in fifteen years as a private investigator, I have not been spotted once. Mind you,’ he added, ‘these men are usually so wrapped up in their assignations that they don’t notice me trotting along behind. But there I am, Mrs Smith. There I am.’

‘Right. Well, good.’

‘So that’s the basic search. What we call the Bronze Service. However, you can have a more sophisticated service, the Silver Service, in which I wear … ’ He suddenly opened his jacket with both hands, revealing what looked like a bullet-proof waistcoat. ‘This!’

‘Er … ’

‘This is a body-worn harness in which there is a concealed video camera. Can you see the camera, Mrs Smith? Can you? If so, kindly tell me where it is.’

‘Er, no,’ I said truthfully, ‘I can’t.’

‘It’s here,’ he said, pointing to a tiny pin on the lapel. ‘There is a lens hidden in this pin, which is mere microns thick.’

‘Good Lord!’ I said.

‘Now, if you want video footage, this is what I’ll use, but surveillance equipment of this kind is pricey so that’ll add another ninety-five pounds a day.’

‘I see.’

‘We could also use this.’ He picked up a briefcase and slapped it on the desk. ‘This is a recording briefcase, Mrs Smith. I could have it placed in a cupboard in your husband’s office; inside is a powerful radio mike – extremely sensitive – which would pick up any sweet nothings he cared to murmur down the phone.’

‘I see.’

‘And if you want the Full Monty Five Star No Holds Barred Gold Service – well, then that’s going to involve four of my colleagues following your husband full-time, detailing his every move. Mrs Smith, he would not be able to scratch his backside without me and my lads knowing about it.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.’

‘Nor do I, Mrs Smith, nor do I. I think the Bronze Service will be more than adequate for your purposes. Now,’ he added, ‘do you have any idea what this other woman looks like?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not a clue. And I can’t find out surreptitiously, from Peter, because he denies that he even knows her.’

‘I see. Have you got a photo of your husband?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I produced a recent snap.

‘How tall is he?’ he asked. ‘It’s hard to tell from this.’

‘About five foot eleven, and he weighs thirteen stone. No, he’s lost weight recently, so I guess he might be only twelve. His hair is sandy, as you can see, and he has a fair, lightly freckled complexion.’

‘And what time does he leave for work?’

‘He goes at about eight fifteen and gets the District line to Embankment; then he walks to his office in Villiers Street, where he works on the seventh floor.’

‘Make of car and registration?’ I told him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m on the case. But first, I need the usual deposit of five hundred pounds up front.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I said as I opened my bag. ‘I can give you a cheque right now.’ As I wrote it out I mentally thanked Lily for her wonderful help.

‘Mrs Smith,’ said Sharp as I reached for the door handle. ‘One last question. Have you decided what you’ll do if your suspicions do prove to be correct?’

‘What I’ll do?’

‘Yes. What course of action you’ll take.’

‘Action? Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’

‘Well, with respect, Mrs Smith, I think you should try and work out what your attitude to his adultery would be.’

‘To his adultery?’ I repeated. What a horrible word. ‘It would be totally unacceptable,’ I said.

‘So to recap,’ I said with professional brightness, ‘a typical February day … ’

‘Terry, don’t pick your nose … four, three … ’

‘With a thick bank of heavy cloud … ’

‘Tory leadership next … ’

‘Sitting over most of the country … ’

‘Two, one … ’

‘And this is known, rather depressingly … ’

‘Oh Christ! Where’s the piece about William Hague?’

‘As anti-cyclonic gloom.’

‘I don’t know – who’s got the tape?’

‘So not the slightest chance of sunshine at the moment, I’m afraid.’

‘Find it!’

‘Especially in Chiswick.’

‘What?’

‘And there may be wintry showers in the south-east later on.’

‘I can’t.’

‘So have your brollies handy – just in case.’

‘Oh God, fill, Faith! Fill, fill FILL!’

‘And talking about brollies,’ I went on, ‘we all know that it can rain cats and dogs … ’

‘A minute and a half please, Faith.’

‘But did you know it can sometimes rain frogs and fishes, too?’

‘Well done.’

‘Yes, here’s a little-known Freak Weather Fact for you. Everyone knows that those great big cumulonimbus clouds bring thunderstorms.’

‘Do we?’

‘Well, sometimes you get tornadoes forming out of the bottom of them.’

‘God, I think I’ve got a tornado in my bottom! I had a nuclear curry last night.’

‘And if these little tornadoes go over a pond, they actually suck up the frogs and fish.’

‘Get away!’

‘Then, when the storm moves away, the tornado dies and the frogs and fish drop out of the sky.’

‘Streuth!’

‘There have even been instances of it raining Dover sole along the Thames.’

‘You don’t say. OK Faith, in three, two … ’

‘But fortunately this is a rare occurrence.’

‘And zero. Thanks.’

‘See you in half an hour.’

As I made my way back to the office, I saw a copy of Bella magazine on the planning desk. ‘Is Your Husband Playing Away?’ screamed the headline. As usual these days, when I see anything about infidelity I grab it and read it right through. There were some dreadful stories about women finding alien suspenders in the laundry basket, or coming home to find their husbands in flagrante with the au pair. Then there were accounts of the nightmare scenario in which the Other Woman decides to spill the beans. Shirley from Kent found a note on her windscreen from her husband’s mistress, and Sandra from Penge had the Other Woman phoning her up to confess. I was immediately filled with horror at the thought that Jean might do that to me. In my mind’s ear I could hear her, threatening me in an accent which for some reason I’d decided was not so much Miss Jean Brodie as Irvine Welsh: ‘Noo, yew listen to me, lassie,’ she was saying menacingly, ‘I’m in love with your husband!’

‘Oh no!’

‘Dinna kid yoursel’ woman – he’s in love wi’ me tew!’

‘Don’t say that!’

‘We’ve been seein’ each other foor six months.’

‘Oh God!’

‘And he’s gonna leave yew and come and live wi’ me!’

I was so horrified I wanted to phone Ian Sharp straight away and ask him what I should do. But I couldn’t, because he instructs clients not to ring him until his investigations are through. And he’s right because a) there’s no way I can make a call to him from our open-plan office at work, and b) if I rang him from home then the number would appear on our phone bill, which means that Peter could check it out. So I have to be patient, and wait, but I feel so upset at the moment that I can scarcely function. Which is why I was rather touched when Sophie spoke to me today, in the ladies’ loo, during the third commercial break.

‘Are you all right, Faith?’ she said as I checked my appearance. And I thought that was nice of her, as we’ve never really chatted before.

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Fine. Thanks. Fine. Fine. Really. Yes. I am.’

‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘It’s just that usually you’re so cheerful, and I thought you seemed a little … down.’

‘Oh. No. No.’

‘A little distracted.’

‘No. Not at all. What makes you think that?’

‘Well, because you’ve just sprayed deodorant all over your hair.’

‘Have I? Oh, yes. Silly me. Er … I’m just tired,’ I explained with casual brightness. ‘It’s the awful hours, that’s all. You know how it is. Buggered biorhythms and all that. But you’re doing well,’ I added by way of changing the subject. ‘You’re a brilliant broadcaster and you cope so well with Terry. If it was me I’d be in constant tears. Anyway,’ I went on as she washed her hands, ‘I think you’ve got a fantastic future at AM-UK!’ And when I said that she looked rather startled, then pulled a funny face and I thought that was a little bit odd.

The next few days passed agonisingly slowly. My nerves were jangling and I could hardly sleep. Worse, the name Jean seemed to jump out at me from all sides. The actress Jean Tripplehorn was in a new film, I noticed in the Mail, and Jean Marsh from Upstairs Downstairs was buying a new house according to Hello! According to TV Quick! there was going to be a new drama based on a Jean Plaidy novel, and a season of Jean Simmonds’ old films on Channel 4. I even jumped when I heard someone talking about gene therapy on Radio 4. It was an enormous struggle to keep myself occupied as the week crawled by. I finished Madame Bovary – she paid a high price for wrecking her marriage – I went to the health club and swam. I entered a few competitions, and I spent quality time with Graham. And somehow I managed to resist the burning urge to phone Ian Sharp every ten seconds. But I imagined him, all the time, following Peter down the street. Poor Peter, I thought. I felt so treacherous, and I felt sorry for him too. In fact I didn’t know how I’d be able to look him in the face, but thankfully he was having a very busy week, so we hardly saw each other. He told me he had three lunches, two launches, and meetings with Andy, of course. I wondered if any of those lunches were with Jean, and which restaurant they’d choose; and what they’d say to each other, and if they’d be playing footsie or worse, and if, being Scottish, she had a kilt complex about the fact that she was seeing a married man. I kept a detailed diary of how I was feeling, so that I’d give Lily good quotes for her piece. Then, finally, finally, the dreadful day dawned, and I went back to see Ian Sharp.

My heart was beating wildly as I knocked on his semi-glazed door. I felt as though I were awaiting the results of some terrifying medical tests. I inhaled deeply through my nose and braced myself for the worst.

‘Tell me,’ I said imploringly, ‘I’ve simply got to know.’

‘Mrs Smith,’ he began deliberately, ‘there is absolutely nothing to tell.’

‘Nothing?’ I said faintly. ‘Oh!’

‘I found no evidence whatsoever that your husband is having an affair.’

‘None?’ I said, and, curiously, I realised that my main emotion was not so much relief as surprise.

‘Not a thing,’ he reiterated with a shrug. ‘Zero. Nada. Zilch.’

‘Are you sure?’ I said, feeling vaguely indignant by now. After all, this meant I’d been wrong.

‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain,’ he said.

‘But what about those three lunches he was having?’ I said. ‘I thought he might be meeting her then.’

‘Well, if it was “her” he was meeting, Mrs Smith, I can assure you there is no affair. In each case his conduct was proper. He chatted to his lunch partner, paid the bill, said goodbye and returned to work. Here,’ he opened his battered folder, ‘I’ll show you. Now, he had lunch with this lady … ’

‘That’s Lucy Watt,’ I said as I studied the black-and-white photo. ‘She’s an author.’ He pulled out another shot.

‘What about this one?’

‘Ah. She’s an agent. I met her once. I think she works at A.P. Trott.’

‘I sat at the next table to your husband, Mrs Smith, and on neither occasion could his behaviour be said to be even mildly flirtatious. Now,’ he said, handing me another photo, ‘he had lunch with this man in Charlotte Street.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I don’t know who that is. It’s probably his headhunter, Andy Metzler.’

‘He also had an early evening drink at Quaglino’s with this woman.’ I looked. The shot was slightly grainy. Sitting at a table with Peter was an attractive blonde of about my age, whom I’d never seen before. And though Peter was smiling at her, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. In fact he looked slightly uptight.

‘Do you know this woman, Mrs Smith?’

‘No,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I don’t. She looks quite tough, doesn’t she? She’s probably an agent driving a hard bargain about some author.’

Lastly, there were six photos of Peter at his book launches, one of which took place at the Groucho and the other at Soho House.

‘You crashed those?’ I said. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘They were both very crowded, Mrs Smith,’ said Ian. ‘I was able to blend right in. I’m a chameleon,’ he added with pride.

‘But how did you manage to take photos without using a flash?’

‘Tricks of the trade,’ he replied, tapping the side of his nose. I studied the pictures. In each of them Peter was talking to the authors in question, Robert Knight and Natalie Waugh, and to his colleagues in Editorial. In one he was even managing to chat politely to Charmaine.

‘After both those events your husband got a cab and went straight home,’ said Ian Sharp. ‘And I know he went straight home, because I followed him all the way. So on the basis of what I’ve seen this week, Mrs Smith, I believe you were mistaken. May I suggest that it was paranoia which fuelled your suspicions, rather than hard facts?’

‘Yes, yes I was paranoid,’ I said. And by now I was so relieved I wanted to kiss him. ‘I just – I don’t know – I began to get carried away. My imagination was running riot,’ I said with a smile. ‘But now my peace of mind has been restored.’

‘However, it is my duty to tell you, Mrs Smith, that it is perfectly possible that this woman, Jean, might not have been in London this week. For example, she might have had to go away … ’

‘Oh, I see. To Scotland, perhaps.’

‘Making it impossible for her to have a rendezvous with your husband.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose so.’ My euphoria had sunk like a stone.

‘So I’m simply saying that although I believe your husband is blameless, I can’t be entirely sure. If you wanted to be one hundred per cent certain, then we’d have to trail him for a longer period.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I understand.’

‘So my advice to you, Mrs Smith, is to assume the best and carry on as though everything is normal. Which it probably is. But should your suspicions be aroused again, then we can take further action.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s fine. I’d like to leave it like that. I’ll assume the best, because that’s what I always did before. And if I feel the need, I can always come back. Yes. That’s just what I’ll do. Thanks.’ Then I wrote him a cheque for fifteen hundred pounds – mentally giving thanks to Lily again – and got the tube home. But although I was relieved that he’d found nothing, there were still lingering doubts in my mind. What was I to make of those notes about Jean? And what about the flowers, the cigarettes and gum? I still had these uneasy feelings, which refused to go away. I left a message for Lily to phone me, then made myself a cup of tea. Half an hour later the phone rang. ‘That’ll be Lily,’ I said to Graham. And I was just about to tell her that Peter was the innocent victim of my unfounded suspicions when I heard an unfamiliar male voice.

‘’Allo,’ it said, ’eez zat Madame Smeeth?’

‘Yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘It is.’

‘Ah. Well I am trying to make contact with your ’usband, Peter. And ’is secretary, I ’ope you don’ mind, she give me ze house number.’

‘Er, yes?’

‘Because I need to talk to ’eem.’

‘OK. Erm … who is this, please?’

‘My name is John.’

‘John who?’

‘No, not John – Jean. Jean Dupont. I am calling from Paris.’

‘Jean?’ I repeated.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Zat’s right. Jean.’

‘Jean,’ I said again.

‘Yes. Yes. Zat’s right. Jean. Eet eez spelt –’

‘It’s perfectly all right,’ I said quickly. ‘I know how to spell it. I’ve just remembered. It’s spelt J, E, A, N. Jean!’

‘Er … exactement, Madame Smeeth.’

‘Jean!’

‘Correct.’ I could feel laughter rising up in my throat like bubbles in a glass of champagne. ‘I am phoning from ze French publishers, Hachette,’ he went on. ‘Peter knows me, we are working togezer on a book.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’

‘And I need to talk to ’eem again today, but ’is secretary she say she donno where he eez. You know, your ’usband is a very naughty boy, Madame Smeeth,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Because ’e don’ always return my calls.’

‘Oh. Oh. Yes, that is naughty,’ I agreed.

‘So I ask you please to ask ’eem to call me at my ’ome, çe soir. You have a pen? I give you ze number.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said as I now suppressed the urge to shout with joy. ‘Yes, of course I have a pen,’ I added happily. ‘OK. Let me write it down. Got that. And thank you very much.’

‘No, sank you,’ he said, clearly taken aback by my enthusiasm.

‘It’s so nice of you to call,’ I added warmly, ‘I’m very, very glad that you did. And the minute Peter’s home, I’ll get the “naughty boy” to phone you right back. Au revoir, Jean, au revoir!’ I slammed the phone down with an exultant cry; and I was just about to phone Lily and tell her about my ridiculous mistake, when Graham suddenly barked and I heard the key turning in the lock. It was Peter; back early.

‘Darling!’ I exclaimed joyfully. ‘Listen, I’ve got something to say!’

‘No,’ he said as Graham leaped up to greet him, ‘I’ve got something to say to you.’

‘But I just want to tell you that I’ve made this stupid, stupid mistake, you see … ’

‘Faith, whatever it is – it can wait. Graham, look, will you please get down. Faith,’ he said. ‘Faith … ’ His profile was reflected in the sunburst mirror.

‘Yes?’

‘Look, there’s something you’ve got to know.’ My pulse was racing.

‘Yes?’ I said again. Peter took a deep breath.

‘I’m leaving.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m leaving,’ he repeated as we faced each other in the hall.

‘You’re leaving what?’ I said, faintly. ‘Me?’

‘No, you twit – Fenton & Friend. I’m out!’

‘My God!’ I said with a gasp. ‘She’s done it! She’s finally sacked you, the cow!’ Peter’s face was still a mask of seriousness; but then he suddenly grinned.

‘No, Faith, she didn’t sack me,’ he explained. ‘Because I resigned first. And I told her that I was resigning … ’

‘Yes?’

‘Because I’ve been offered another job!’

‘You’ve got another job!’ I yelled. ‘Oh, how marvellous!’ I threw my arms round him. I was having a very good day. ‘How fantastic! Oh, Peter! Where?’

‘Faith,’ he said, and now his face was wreathed in smiles, ‘I’m going to be the new managing director of Bishopsgate!’

‘Bishopsgate,’ I gasped. ‘Bishopsgate? My God! But they’re huge!’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said wonderingly as he took off his coat. ‘And because they’ve expanded so much in the last couple of years they were looking for a new MD. So I was interviewed twice.’

‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ I said as we went into the sitting room.

‘Because I was scared I wouldn’t get it, and I wanted it so much. But they did one final interview with me at lunchtime, then Andy phoned to say I’d got the job.’

‘Oh, darling!’ I said and I hugged him again.

‘And Faith,’ he went on, wonderingly, as he fixed himself a drink. ‘The money. The money’s going to be three times what I get now. We won’t have to struggle so much.’

‘God, how fantastic! But what did Charmaine say?’

‘She was livid,’ he said as he sat down and loosened his tie. ‘She was spitting fire. Especially when I told her about my new job. She kept telling me that it was “outrageous” – it’s her favourite word, silly old bat. She had the nerve to accuse me of being disloyal. So I pointed out that I’d worked for Fenton & Friend very happily for thirteen years, and that the only reason I’d been looking elsewhere was because she’s such a nightmare.’

‘Oh, darling, that was really brave of you – and typically truthful, too.’

‘I had nothing to lose at that stage,’ he explained with a shrug. ‘Anyway, she tried to kick me out, on the spot. But I wasn’t having that. I informed her that I was on three months’ notice, as stipulated in my contract. Then I got a call from Personnel, who are going to pay me off to leave by the fourteenth. Now I’ve got to call all my authors,’ he said as he rummaged in his briefcase. ‘I feel bad for them, but there’s nothing I can do. I suspect half of them are going to end up with ghastly Oiliver, poor things. But, Faith,’ he said as he flicked through his address book, ‘I feel bad about leaving, but I really had no choice. Charmaine and Oliver were out to destroy me, but now, thanks to Andy, I’m safe. I’m going to take Andy for lunch at the Ritz,’ he added as he reached for the phone.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘you must. He deserves it.’ But Peter was busy dialling a number and didn’t seem to hear what I’d said.

‘I’ll call Clare Barry first,’ he said.

‘You’ve got to call Jean, too. And darling that’s what I meant to tell you,’ I added. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’

‘You have?’

‘Yes. The reason why I’ve been behaving so … stupidly. I’m really sorry. You see, I’d got this silly idea that you were seeing someone called Jean. But now I know that “Jean”, isn’t “Jean”. She’s Jean. Or rather he is. And I only realised that when Jean rang up today.’

‘Jean?’ Peter repeated. ‘Yes, Jean and I have been working on a deal. It was a really boring instant book about some minor French film star which Charmaine fobbed off on me. We were going to publish it simultaneously in Britain and France, so I’ve been talking to him quite a lot. But it’s so tedious, Faith, and I’ve been so preoccupied, I kept forgetting to phone him back. Oh hello, is that Clare?’ he said. ‘Clare, look, it’s Peter here … ’

‘Nothing?’ said Lily when I phoned to report. She sounded vaguely affronted. ‘Darling – are you quite sure?’

‘Yes,’ I said happily. ‘I’m sure.’

‘Nothing?’ she said again. ‘Zero?’

‘Not a thing,’ I confirmed.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. So it was a case of trail and error.’

‘Yes,’ I said with a giggle. ‘It was. And I’m sorry about your article, Lily … ’

‘Well, yes … ’ She sounded a little depressed.

‘But the simple fact of the matter is that Peter hasn’t strayed.’

‘Mmm.’

‘I can’t believe I could have been so stupid,’ I went on. ‘I mean, why did I automatically assume that Jean was a woman?’

‘Because you’re still Faith Value,’ she sighed.

‘I know. Instead of thinking rationally, or doing a little lateral thinking, I became totally paranoid and insecure. I didn’t just jump to conclusions, Lily, I leaped to them with a pole-vault!’

‘Oh well,’ she added philosophically, ‘we can still interview you as a woman whose suspicions were proven groundless.’

‘So it’s not a complete waste of time and money?’

‘No, though obviously it would have been much better – I mean, better copy, obviously – if he’d been up to no good.’

‘Well, I’m glad he wasn’t,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Oh Lily, thank you so much for paying for it,’ I added. ‘And you did me a double favour there, because now my trust in Peter is even greater than it was before!’

There was a sudden silence, broken only by the sound of Jennifer’s background grunting, and then I heard Lily say, ‘Faith, I’m so pleased it’s all worked out like this. And you know the last thing I’d want is to rain on your parade, but … ’

‘But what?’

‘There are still some unanswered questions.’

‘Are there?’ I said. ‘Like what?’

‘Well, those flowers,’ she said. ‘Were they really for that author?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m sure they were.’

‘And what about the chewing gum and cigarettes?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said airily. ‘To be honest I don’t really care. I’m sure there’s some perfectly innocent explanation, just as there was with Jean.’

‘Well, the only thing I’d say,’ she went on, ‘is that not many British people smoke Lucky Strike. In fact that’s an American brand.’

‘Then they must have been for Andy, his head hunter.’

‘Of course they must. But then why didn’t he say so out-right? Look, Faith, would you do me one favour, darling? This is purely for the article, of course.’

‘Yes. OK. If I can.’

‘Would you just ask Peter about those other things?’ I sighed. ‘Just to tie up those annoying little loose ends?’

‘Oh, OK,’ I said slightly reluctantly. ‘Now that I feel so confident in Peter, I will. But I won’t do it until Wednesday.’

‘Why? What’s happening then?’

‘I’m taking him out to dinner,’ I explained. ‘A very special dinner, actually. I’ve just booked a table at Le Caprice!’

‘I say, that’s a bit rash!’

‘I know, but Peter deserves it after all the stresses of the last few months. And because I was so mean and suspicious and nasty I’m going to foot the bill myself. In any case,’ I went on, ‘we’ve got so much to celebrate. His new job. Our future … ’

‘And what else?’

‘It’s Valentine’s Day!’

On the evening of February the fourteenth I took the Underground to Green Park. London was in love, and so was I. On every platform I spotted young men sheepishly clutching flowers. And I thought of the two dozen red roses that I’d received from Peter earlier in the day. I gasped when I saw them – they’re so beautiful. Long-stemmed, velvet-petalled and with a delicious, heady scent. As I walked down Piccadilly, I had to weave through all the couples strolling arm in arm. The early evening air seemed to throb with romance as I passed the Ritz, and despite the fact that I’ve been married for so long, my heart was thumping as I turned down Arlington Street and saw Le Caprice. I’d been here once, with Peter, years ago, but I knew it was his favourite place. I glanced round the monochrome interior and saw that Peter was already at the table, having his usual gin and tonic. He stood up to greet me, and I was just thinking that he looked very smart, but also slightly subdued in a funny sort of way, when his mobile phone rang out. Or rather it didn’t ring, it played ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, because that’s what it does.

‘I guess that’s Andy,’ I said as Peter fumbled to turn it off. ‘And let me say,’ I added with a laugh, ‘that Andy is a jolly good fellow!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Peter with a faint smile. ‘That’s right.’

‘He must be thrilled about what he’s pulled off for you,’ I said as we perused the menu. ‘I hope he gets a whopping great bonus for all his hard work.’

‘Yes. Yes. Definitely,’ Peter said with a funny little laugh. ‘Oh, by the way my appointment’s in Publishing News.’ He showed me a copy of the magazine and there, on page three, Peter was profiled with a photo under the headline: ‘Peter Smith’s Smart Move to Bishopsgate’. I read it through with tremendous pride: respected publishing director … very distinguished list … rumoured conflicts with Charmaine Duval … Bishopsgate set to expand. We ordered champagne – real champagne this time – and then our starters arrived. I had Bang Bang chicken, and Peter had creamed fennel soup. The restaurant was full of couples like us having a romantic Valentine’s dinner, tête à tête. I was feeling quite mellow and calm, although, as I say, I couldn’t help noticing that Peter seemed a little bit quiet. But I knew why – he’d just had his last day at Fenton & Friend, which must have been an enormous wrench.

‘Did they give you a good send off?’ I asked.

‘I had a small gathering in my office,’ he said. ‘Iris cried. I felt quite cut up, too.’

‘Well, it’s a huge change, darling – especially after so long. But like most changes it’s going to be for the best. What a hellish time you’ve had,’ I added as the waiter removed our plates. ‘And Peter, I just want to apologise again for being so mean and low. I just don’t know what got into me.’ He squeezed my hand.

‘Faith, don’t worry. That’s in the past.’

‘Anyway,’ I said as I raised my glass, ‘here’s to happy endings.’

‘Yes. To happy endings,’ he agreed. ‘And to new beginnings, too.’

‘To a new chapter,’ I went on happily. ‘With no nasty twists in the tale.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘Even the weather’s improved,’ I added with a laugh. ‘The anti-cyclonic gloom has lifted and there are blue skies ahead.’ Peter smiled. ‘And did you take Andy to the Ritz?’ I enquired as our main course arrived – swordfish for me and breast of chicken for him.

‘Er … yes,’ he replied. ‘I did. We went there on, um, Tuesday.’

‘Well,’ I said as I picked up my knife and fork, ‘personally I think Andy’s just fab.’ We chatted away like this as we ate, and at last Peter began to relax. I glanced at the black-and-white photo on the wall beside us and realised that it was Marianne Faithfull. And somehow that made me remember Lily’s request. I didn’t want to ask Peter directly, so I just said, ‘Darling, I’m so sorry I ever doubted you. It was horrid of me. Obviously those flowers were for Clare Barry.’ He looked at me. ‘Weren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘They were.’

‘And as for those cigarettes – well, so what? – why shouldn’t you have the occasional fag? It was so silly of me to over-react like that, Peter. I’ve trusted you for fifteen years, darling, and I’ve no intention of stopping now. I know you’ve never had an affair,’ I went on with a tipsy giggle, ‘and I don’t believe you would.’ He was silent. ‘Because I know you always tell the truth.’ I had a sip of wine. ‘Don’t you, darling? Because the simple fact is that you’re a very decent and honourable man. And you’re so truthful, too, in fact that’s what I love about you most and I just want to say how –’

‘Faith,’ said Peter suddenly. ‘Please stop.’ He was fiddling with his knife and he had this peculiar expression on his face. ‘There’s something I want to tell you,’ he said.

‘Darling, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.’

‘It does matter, Faith. It matters to me.’

‘Peter,’ I said, then took another large sip of Bordeaux, ‘whatever it is it’s not important tonight.’

‘It is,’ he corrected me. ‘It is. It’s very important, actually. Because you’re sitting here telling me what a great guy I am, and quite frankly I can’t stand it.’

‘Oh darling, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just that I’m feeling so happy and I’ve probably had a bit too much to drink, and I’m just trying to make it up to you for being such a suspicious cow.’

‘But that’s the whole point,’ he said. ‘That’s precisely what I can’t stand.’

‘Why?’

‘Faith,’ he said, fiddling with his glass, ‘I’ve done something rather … silly.’

‘You’ve done something silly?’ I echoed. ‘Oh Peter, I’m sure it’s nothing.’

‘It isn’t nothing,’ he said.

‘Really, Peter –’

‘No, darling, listen to me,’ he said as he locked his gaze in mine. I saw him breathe in. Then out. ‘Faith,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been unfaithful.’ My wine-glass stopped in mid-air.

‘Sorry?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry – because I’ve slept with someone else.’

‘Oh,’ I said, aware that my face was suddenly aflame.

‘But it was only once,’ he added, ‘and it doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh,’ I said again.

‘But the reason I’m telling you is because, well, we are about to enter a new era, yes, a new chapter; and I knew I just couldn’t live with myself unless I’d made a clean breast.’

‘Oh,’ I said again. For some reason it seemed to be the only word I knew.

‘You see, Faith,’ he went on as he stared at his uneaten chicken, ‘you’ve been going on at me all evening about how “honest” and “truthful” I am. So I can’t bear to conceal from you the fact that … ’

‘What?’

‘Well, that I’ve had this little … fling.’

‘A fling?’ I echoed. ‘With whom?’

‘Look,’ he said wearily, ‘that’s not important. It’s over now. It was a stupid mistake, and it’s not going to happen again.’

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ I said, struggling to remain composed. ‘But I don’t think it’s fair of you to tell me you’ve had a – fling, and then refuse to say who it was with, because … Oh God, Peter,’ I added, my throat suddenly constricting. ‘You’ve been unfaithful to me.’

‘Yes,’ he said, quietly, ‘I have. But it’s not important,’ he repeated. ‘I was put under pressure. I – I’d had a few drinks, it was just … one of those things.’

‘Please tell me who it was with?’ I said again, aware that my palms felt damp.

‘I –’

‘Please, Peter. I’d like to know.’

‘Well … ’

‘Just give me her name, will you?’

‘No.’

‘Go on, tell me!’

‘I can’t.’

‘Yes you can!’

‘Look, I –’

‘Give me her name, Peter.’

‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘It’s Andy Metzler.’ My hands flew up to my mouth.

‘You’ve had sex with a man?!’ Peter was staring at me. He looked shocked.

‘No, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘It’s not all right,’ I shot back. ‘It is absolutely NOT all right, Peter!’

‘Yes it is,’ he insisted.

‘No, it damn well isn’t –’

‘Yes it is, Faith, because, you see – Andy’s a woman.’

‘What?’

‘Andy Metzler’s a woman,’ he repeated. I gasped.

‘You never told me that.’

‘You never asked.’

‘But you never said. It’s been “Andy this, and Andy that” – I had no idea he was a she.’

‘Well,’ he said quietly, ‘she is. I agree it’s a funny sort of name for a woman. But she’s American, and, well, that’s what she’s called – it’s spelled A-N-D-I-E.’

‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘Like Andie McDowell.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Like that.’

‘And you had an affair with her?’ He nodded. ‘When?’ He fiddled with the salt pot.

‘When, Peter?’

‘On Tuesday.’

‘On Tuesday? Yesterday? Oh yes, of course,’ I said, nodding my head. ‘You were going to take her for lunch at the Ritz. To celebrate. Well, it certainly sounds like you did.’

‘Look, one thing led to another,’ he said sheepishly. ‘She was coming on to me, Faith. She’s been coming on to me for months. Ever since she met me, in fact. And you were behaving so suspiciously, I was fed up and I felt so grateful to her for getting me the job that, somehow, I couldn’t … refuse.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said sarcastically. ‘In order not to hurt her feelings, you slept with her. What a gent. I’m so proud of you, Peter. You took a room, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘We did.’ And suddenly, in that moment, in that terrible moment when he said ‘we’, I realised that truthfulness was Peter’s least endearing quality.

‘So she did get her bonus, then,’ I said darkly, aware of a lemon-sized lump in my throat. ‘How ironic,’ I murmured as I gripped and ungripped my napkin. ‘How very ironic. For the past two weeks I’ve been obsessing about some Scottish woman called Jean, who turns out to be a Frenchman called Jean; and now you tell me you’ve had an affair with an American woman called Andie, who I was quite convinced was a bloke!’

‘Er … yes.’ I shook my head.

‘Well,’ I whispered bitterly. ‘Well, well, well.’ Then I looked at him and said, ‘This hurts.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. But she pushed me into it.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said.

‘She did,’ he insisted wearily. ‘I’d made it quite clear that I was – married. But now our professional relationship was at an end and she just … ’

‘Decided to make it personal.’

‘Yes. Oh, I don’t know – she put me under all this … pressure.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I hissed. ‘I think you slept with her because you wanted to.’

‘No I did not.’

‘Liar!’

‘Keep your voice down.’

‘Admit it!’

‘OK, then, yes, I did!’

‘You did!’

‘Yes. Since you’ve forced me to admit it, yes I bloody well did!’

‘You bastard!’ I spat. And I was terribly shocked to hear myself say that, because I’ve never called him that in my life.

‘I’ve been under such stress, Faith,’ he groaned. He leaned his head on his right hand. ‘These last six months have been hell. And then you started going on at me. You wouldn’t leave me alone. You were like a terrier with a rat, banging on about this woman or that chewing gum or those cigarettes.’

‘That gum!’ I exclaimed. ‘That chewing gum was for her.’ He was silent. ‘Wasn’t it?’ I said. ‘You don’t like it – you never have. And those cigarettes, they were for her as well, weren’t they?’ Peter nodded miserably. ‘You had gum and cigarettes at the ready for her. How gallant. Lucky Strike!’ I spat. ‘So you’ve had an affair,’ I repeated, my voice rising, ‘with a – what was it you said – “chick”? Oh. My. God.’

‘Look, it was completely spontaneous,’ he said. ‘It just happened on the spur of the moment.’

‘That’s not true!’ I said.

‘Shhhh! Don’t shout.’

‘You’d wanted to shag her for weeks.’

‘No.’

‘Oh yes you had. And the reason I know is because of Katie.’

‘Katie? What’s she got to do with this?’

‘Her psychoanalytic stuff. She’s always going on about Freudian slips, isn’t she? Well, she goes on about the Freudian “telling omission” too. And I think it’s very, very telling, Peter, that you’ve never let on that Andie was a woman.’

‘It wasn’t relevant,’ he said.

‘Oh yes it was,’ I shot back. ‘Because the other night you recited that great list of all the women you know – every single one. So how very strange, Peter,’ I added, emphatically, ‘that you didn’t mention her!’ By now his face and neck were blotched with red. ‘In fact you even told me the names of Andie’s two female colleagues, but you carefully left her out. Now I know why!’ I concluded triumphantly. ‘Because you didn’t want me to know. And the reason why you didn’t was because you already knew you wanted to get her into bed.’

‘I … I … ’

‘Don’t deny it,’ I said contemptuously.

‘I … OK,’ he said. ‘OK, I admit it. She’s very attractive. She’s single. She fancies me. And yes, I fancied her.’

‘She’s got short blonde hair,’ I said suddenly. It had come to me in a flash. What the French call an éclaircissement. Andie was that unknown blonde photographed with Peter in Quaglino’s. ‘She’s got short blonde hair,’ I said again.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She has. But how the hell do you know?’

‘Because … ’ Oh God, I couldn’t tell him. ‘Because … Oh, female intuition,’ I explained. ‘I feel sick,’ I announced as I fiddled with my pudding spoon. ‘You’ve had an affair. How could you?’

‘I’ll tell you how,’ he said, and by now his voice was rising as well. ‘Because you’d accused me of having one, and then the opportunity was there and I thought damn it, why not go ahead and do it!’ I was aware by now that we were beginning to attract strange looks.

‘Any dessert?’ enquired the waiter. ‘And, er, I’d be grateful sir and madam if you could keep your voices down.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I will not keep my voice down, because my husband has just been unfaithful!’ I was aware of eyes swivelling in our direction, and of the sound of breath being sharply inhaled.

‘Well, madam,’ said the waiter, ‘I just feel that … ’

‘I don’t care what you feel!’ I hissed. ‘We are having marital difficulties here.’ By now all conversation in the restaurant had stopped and everyone was staring, but I couldn’t have cared less. ‘After fifteen years of marriage,’ I informed the waiter, ‘my husband tells me that he’s strayed.’

‘– poor woman,’ I heard someone say.

‘– isn’t she the weather girl on that morning TV show?’

‘– faithful for fifteen years? The man must be a saint.’

‘– of course you were unfaithful after five.’

‘– no need to bring that up!’

‘Now madam,’ said the waiter, ‘I am very sorry that you have this, er, problem.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ I corrected him, ‘it’s a crisis.’

‘And actually I’m divorced myself.’

‘Oh, well, I’m sorry.’

‘My wife left me.’

‘Oh, bad luck,’ said Peter.

‘So although I am sympathetic, I must nevertheless ask you to keep your voices down.’

‘Yes, Faith,’ Peter whispered hoarsely. ‘Please would you keep it down!’

‘That’s right, keep it down,’ I said with a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t rock the boat. Be a big girl. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t cry. And above all, above all – don’t mind. Well, I do mind!’ I wailed. ‘I mind terribly. How could you, Peter?’ I added, aware that the table had begun to blur.