Isabel Wolff - Out of the Blue

‘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.

‘I’m getting good at this,’ I said to Graham as I went through Peter’s clothes again this morning. You see I’m used to it now, so the second time wasn’t so bad. My heart wasn’t in my mouth as it had been when I’d done it the first time. My nerve endings didn’t feel as though they were attached to twitching wires. In fact I was quite business-like about it, and I told myself that I was perfectly entitled to go through my husband’s things.