Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

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.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I understand.’

      ‘So my advice to you, Mrs Smith, is to assume the best and carry on as though everything is normal. Which it probably is. But should your suspicions be aroused again, then we can take further action.’

      ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s fine. I’d like to leave it like that. I’ll assume the best, because that’s what I always did before. And if I feel the need, I can always come back. Yes. That’s just what I’ll do. Thanks.’ Then I wrote him a cheque for fifteen hundred pounds – mentally giving thanks to Lily again – and got the tube home. But although I was relieved that he’d found nothing, there were still lingering doubts in my mind. What was I to make of those notes about Jean? And what about the flowers, the cigarettes and gum? I still had these uneasy feelings, which refused to go away. I left a message for Lily to phone me, then made myself a cup of tea. Half an hour later the phone rang. ‘That’ll be Lily,’ I said to Graham. And I was just about to tell her that Peter was the innocent victim of my unfounded suspicions when I heard an unfamiliar male voice.

      ‘’Allo,’ it said, ’eez zat Madame Smeeth?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘It is.’

      ‘Ah. Well I am trying to make contact with your ’usband, Peter. And ’is secretary, I ’ope you don’ mind, she give me ze house number.’

      ‘Er, yes?’

      ‘Because I need to talk to ’eem.’

      ‘OK. Erm … who is this, please?’

      ‘My name is John.’

      ‘John who?’

      ‘No, not John – Jean. Jean Dupont. I am calling from Paris.’

      ‘Jean?’ I repeated.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Zat’s right. Jean.’

      ‘Jean,’ I said again.

      ‘Yes. Yes. Zat’s right. Jean. Eet eez spelt –’

      ‘It’s perfectly all right,’ I said quickly. ‘I know how to spell it. I’ve just remembered. It’s spelt J, E, A, N. Jean!’

      ‘Er … exactement, Madame Smeeth.’

      ‘Jean!’

      ‘Correct.’ I could feel laughter rising up in my throat like bubbles in a glass of champagne. ‘I am phoning from ze French publishers, Hachette,’ he went on. ‘Peter knows me, we are working togezer on a book.’

      ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’

      ‘And I need to talk to ’eem again today, but ’is secretary she say she donno where he eez. You know, your ’usband is a very naughty boy, Madame Smeeth,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Because ’e don’ always return my calls.’

      ‘Oh. Oh. Yes, that is naughty,’ I agreed.

      ‘So I ask you please to ask ’eem to call me at my ’ome, çe soir. You have a pen? I give you ze number.’

      ‘Oh yes,’ I said as I now suppressed the urge to shout with joy. ‘Yes, of course I have a pen,’ I added happily. ‘OK. Let me write it down. Got that. And thank you very much.’

      ‘No, sank you,’ he said, clearly taken aback by my enthusiasm.

      ‘It’s so nice of you to call,’ I added warmly, ‘I’m very, very glad that you did. And the minute Peter’s home, I’ll get the “naughty boy” to phone you right back. Au revoir, Jean, au revoir!’ I slammed the phone down with an exultant cry; and I was just about to phone Lily and tell her about my ridiculous mistake, when Graham suddenly barked and I heard the key turning in the lock. It was Peter; back early.

      ‘Darling!’ I