Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

with respect, Mrs Smith, I think you should try and work out what your attitude to his adultery would be.’

      ‘To his adultery?’ I repeated. What a horrible word. ‘It would be totally unacceptable,’ I said.

      ‘So to recap,’ I said with professional brightness, ‘a typical February day … ’

      ‘Terry, don’t pick your nose … four, three … ’

      ‘With a thick bank of heavy cloud … ’

      ‘Tory leadership next … ’

      ‘Sitting over most of the country … ’

      ‘Two, one … ’

      ‘And this is known, rather depressingly … ’

      ‘Oh Christ! Where’s the piece about William Hague?’

      ‘As anti-cyclonic gloom.’

      ‘I don’t know – who’s got the tape?’

      ‘So not the slightest chance of sunshine at the moment, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Find it!’

      ‘Especially in Chiswick.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘And there may be wintry showers in the south-east later on.’

      ‘I can’t.’

      ‘So have your brollies handy – just in case.’

      ‘Oh God, fill, Faith! Fill, fill FILL!’

      ‘And talking about brollies,’ I went on, ‘we all know that it can rain cats and dogs … ’

      ‘A minute and a half please, Faith.’

      ‘But did you know it can sometimes rain frogs and fishes, too?’

      ‘Well done.’

      ‘Yes, here’s a little-known Freak Weather Fact for you. Everyone knows that those great big cumulonimbus clouds bring thunderstorms.’

      ‘Do we?’

      ‘Well, sometimes you get tornadoes forming out of the bottom of them.’

      ‘God, I think I’ve got a tornado in my bottom! I had a nuclear curry last night.’

      ‘And if these little tornadoes go over a pond, they actually suck up the frogs and fish.’

      ‘Get away!’

      ‘Then, when the storm moves away, the tornado dies and the frogs and fish drop out of the sky.’

      ‘Streuth!’

      ‘There have even been instances of it raining Dover sole along the Thames.’

      ‘You don’t say. OK Faith, in three, two … ’

      ‘But fortunately this is a rare occurrence.’

      ‘And zero. Thanks.’

      ‘See you in half an hour.’

      As I made my way back to the office, I saw a copy of Bella magazine on the planning desk. ‘Is Your Husband Playing Away?’ screamed the headline. As usual these days, when I see anything about infidelity I grab it and read it right through. There were some dreadful stories about women finding alien suspenders in the laundry basket, or coming home to find their husbands in flagrante with the au pair. Then there were accounts of the nightmare scenario in which the Other Woman decides to spill the beans. Shirley from Kent found a note on her windscreen from her husband’s mistress, and Sandra from Penge had the Other Woman phoning her up to confess. I was immediately filled with horror at the thought that Jean might do that to me. In my mind’s ear I could hear her, threatening me in an accent which for some reason I’d decided was not so much Miss Jean Brodie as Irvine Welsh: ‘Noo, yew listen to me, lassie,’ she was saying menacingly, ‘I’m in love with your husband!’

      ‘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