Out of the Blue

For my godchildren Nadia, Raphael and Laurie

No dogs were harmed in the writing of this book.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Epigraph

January

February

February Continued

March

March Continued

April

May

June

July

July Continued

August

September

October

November

December

January

Acknowledgements

Permissions

About the Author

Praise

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

January

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well, leave it to Andy,’ I said.

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

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

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

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