Isabel Wolff - Out of the Blue

‘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.’