Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

let me tell you some more. Oh yes, on that silly Family Ethics Committee on which I sit four times a year, there is Baroness Warner, who’s sixty-three; the sociologist, Dame Barbara Brown, and two very married and rather boring women MPs, both of whom are called Anne.’

      ‘This is unnecessary,’ I said.

      ‘Other females of my acquaintance include Andy Metzler’s colleagues, Theresa and Clare, and then of course there are a number of women I know socially, but then you know them all too – there’s Samantha at number nine, and we know Jackie at number fifteen, and that nice woman – whatshername – who we occasionally bump into at the health club. Add to that our old college friends like Mimi and I’d say that pretty well completes the list. Oh, and Lily of course. But if you thought for a second I was having it off with her, Faith, I’d take you down to the head doctor like a shot.’

      ‘OK, OK, OK,’ I said weakly. ‘Look, I didn’t ask for all this.’

      ‘Oh yes you did,’ he said. ‘By your suspicious behaviour. But let me assure you that the only person who’s strayed around here is Graham!’

      ‘Look,’ I said, beginning to feel upset, ‘I only asked you if you know someone called Jean.’

      ‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘I can honestly say that I don’t.’

      But I knew this was a lie. Not even a white lie, but a flashing fluorescent pink and green one. And this was very significant, because Peter’s usually so truthful, but now he was being barefaced. But I couldn’t admit that I’d seen the note about Jean, because then he’d know I’d been snooping again. I really would like to have him followed, I thought. But then I reminded myself that it was out of the question, because private detectives don’t come cheap.

      ‘Are you all right now, Faith?’ Peter asked me as he stood by the door.

      ‘All right?’

      ‘Are you feeling convinced? Can we just kick all this nonsense of yours into touch? Because I’d just like our marriage to be … ’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Well, normal.’

      ‘I guess it is normal,’ I said.

      Work is a refuge these days, from my current marital distress. There’s something about staring at the satellite charts, with their masses of Turneresque cloud swirling above the blue planet, which makes me forget my concerns. And of course the cold snaps in the studio are pretty distracting. Sophie had a very bad morning. Gremlins in the autocue. Funny that, I thought. I mean, normally Sophie reads it very fluently and I’ve never ever seen her fluff. She makes it all look so natural, as though she’s ad libbing, not reading a script. But of course it’s not like that at all. Up in the Gallery, Lisa the autocue operator works the machine by hand, scrolling the script down at a pace to suit the presenter. If the presenter slows down – she slows down. If they pick up – she picks up. But this morning something went wrong.

      ‘Welcome back … to … the show,’ Sophie said awkwardly after the break. ‘And … now,’ she went on at thirty-three rpm and I could suddenly see confusion in her face,’ … a … report … on … sexual equality … in … the … boardroom … … concludes … that ambitious … young … women … are … spearheading … Britain’s … drive … into … the twenty-first … century.’

      It was agonising to watch. Once or twice she glanced down at her script, but it was clear that she’d lost her place. Then she looked up at the autocue again, but it was still crawling along the hard shoulder. It was like watching her being tortured, but she bravely battled on.

      ‘Nearly four … in … ten … ’

      ‘What’s going on, Lisa?’ I heard Darryl bark into my earpiece.

      ‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ she whined. ‘I just can’t get it to work.’

      ‘Boardroom bosses … are now … female,’ Sophie continued. ‘The … highest figure … since data was … ’ I heard her sigh. ‘ … collected. Women are also … ’

      ‘Oh, come on, Sophie!’ interrupted Terry suddenly. ‘We haven’t got all day. Sorry folks,’ he said into his autocue with a regretful smile, ‘but Sophie seems to have lost the gift of the gab. So we’ll skip that item and go straight to Tatiana’s report from the Old Vic. Yes, the lovely Tatiana’s been talking to Andrew Lloyd-Webber about his plans for this much-loved London landmark where Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud first trod the boards.’

      ‘What’s going on?’ I heard Sophie say into her microphone as Tatiana’s filmed report went out. ‘What happened to the autocue?’

      ‘There were problems with it, apparently,’ Darryl said.

      ‘Well, it worked perfectly OK for Terry,’ she pointed out. I could see that she was close to tears. ‘Lisa,’ she said carefully as she swallowed hard, ‘kindly don’t do that again.’

      ‘I didn’t “do” anything,’ I heard Lisa whine. To be honest, I’ve never liked that girl. ‘It just seemed to get, I don’t know … stuck,’she concluded feebly.

      ‘Well, kindly unstick it for my next item,’ Sophie said crisply. I didn’t blame her. There is nothing worse than broadcasting live to the nation with a dodgy autocue. I’ve done it once or twice and believe me, you look a total prat. Worse, people remember it for years. They say, ‘Oh! I saw you on breakfast TV.’ And you think you’re about to get some lavish compliment, instead of which they say, ‘Yeah. Two years ago. It was really funny – the autocue broke down!’ And you have to go, ‘Oh yes – that was funny. Oh, yes – ha ha ha!’

      ‘You poor thing,’ said Terry to Sophie with phony concern. ‘That must have been awful for you. So humiliating. And at peak time too. When everyone’s watching. Five million people. Oh dear – what a shame.’ She pretended not to hear him as she looked down at her script.

      ‘But that’s the thrills and spills of live TV for you,’ Terry went on philosophically. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I’m not sure you’ve got what it takes.’

      At the meeting afterwards, Darryl was livid.

      ‘Lisa, I think you should apologise to Sophie,’ he said, crossing his arms.

      ‘I’m very sorry, but I’m not going to apologise,’ she whined. ‘It was a technical hitch.’ She remained adamant that it wasn’t her fault. But as I was leaving I spotted Terry and Tatiana having breakfast in the canteen. They looked rather pleased with themselves. Then Lisa sat down with them too. And you don’t need to be a brain surgeon to guess what had happened, though I wonder what she’d been paid.

      When I got home I took Graham for a walk along the river – he loves it there – then I checked out the IsHeCheating.com website again. I’d asked for advice, and I’d got it.

      Emily, give your husband a break! said Barbara from New York. You don’t have ANY hard facts that he’s playing around so why go looking for trouble?

      If you feel your man’s being evasive, then he IS, said Sally from Wichita.

      Why don’t you cheat on HIM? suggested Mike from Alabama. Just to even the score.

      Sneak into his office and bug his phone! advised someone else.

      Call an attorney right now!

      Go back home to your mom!

      Just have the bastard trailed!

      I was mulling over all these options tonight in the kitchen as I chopped up vegetables for supper. I wasn’t going to have an affair myself – that would be cheap and low; there was no way I could gain access to his office even if I had surveillance equipment; I couldn’t afford a lawyer, so that was out of the