Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

– 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