Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

do it until Wednesday.’

      ‘Why? What’s happening then?’

      ‘I’m taking him out to dinner,’ I explained. ‘A very special dinner, actually. I’ve just booked a table at Le Caprice!’

      ‘I say, that’s a bit rash!’

      ‘I know, but Peter deserves it after all the stresses of the last few months. And because I was so mean and suspicious and nasty I’m going to foot the bill myself. In any case,’ I went on, ‘we’ve got so much to celebrate. His new job. Our future … ’

      ‘And what else?’

      ‘It’s Valentine’s Day!’

      

      On the evening of February the fourteenth I took the Underground to Green Park. London was in love, and so was I. On every platform I spotted young men sheepishly clutching flowers. And I thought of the two dozen red roses that I’d received from Peter earlier in the day. I gasped when I saw them – they’re so beautiful. Long-stemmed, velvet-petalled and with a delicious, heady scent. As I walked down Piccadilly, I had to weave through all the couples strolling arm in arm. The early evening air seemed to throb with romance as I passed the Ritz, and despite the fact that I’ve been married for so long, my heart was thumping as I turned down Arlington Street and saw Le Caprice. I’d been here once, with Peter, years ago, but I knew it was his favourite place. I glanced round the monochrome interior and saw that Peter was already at the table, having his usual gin and tonic. He stood up to greet me, and I was just thinking that he looked very smart, but also slightly subdued in a funny sort of way, when his mobile phone rang out. Or rather it didn’t ring, it played ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, because that’s what it does.

      ‘I guess that’s Andy,’ I said as Peter fumbled to turn it off. ‘And let me say,’ I added with a laugh, ‘that Andy is a jolly good fellow!’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ said Peter with a faint smile. ‘That’s right.’

      ‘He must be thrilled about what he’s pulled off for you,’ I said as we perused the menu. ‘I hope he gets a whopping great bonus for all his hard work.’

      ‘Yes. Yes. Definitely,’ Peter said with a funny little laugh. ‘Oh, by the way my appointment’s in Publishing News.’ He showed me a copy of the magazine and there, on page three, Peter was profiled with a photo under the headline: ‘Peter Smith’s Smart Move to Bishopsgate’. I read it through with tremendous pride: respected publishing director … very distinguished list … rumoured conflicts with Charmaine Duval … Bishopsgate set to expand. We ordered champagne – real champagne this time – and then our starters arrived. I had Bang Bang chicken, and Peter had creamed fennel soup. The restaurant was full of couples like us having a romantic Valentine’s dinner, tête à tête. I was feeling quite mellow and calm, although, as I say, I couldn’t help noticing that Peter seemed a little bit quiet. But I knew why – he’d just had his last day at Fenton & Friend, which must have been an enormous wrench.

      ‘Did they give you a good send off?’ I asked.

      ‘I had a small gathering in my office,’ he said. ‘Iris cried. I felt quite cut up, too.’

      ‘Well, it’s a huge change, darling – especially after so long. But like most changes it’s going to be for the best. What a hellish time you’ve had,’ I added as the waiter removed our plates. ‘And Peter, I just want to apologise again for being so mean and low. I just don’t know what got into me.’ He squeezed my hand.

      ‘Faith, don’t worry. That’s in the past.’

      ‘Anyway,’ I said as I raised my glass, ‘here’s to happy endings.’

      ‘Yes. To happy endings,’ he agreed. ‘And to new beginnings, too.’

      ‘To a new chapter,’ I went on happily. ‘With no nasty twists in the tale.’

      ‘I’ll drink to that.’

      ‘Even the weather’s improved,’ I added with a laugh. ‘The anti-cyclonic gloom has lifted and there are blue skies ahead.’ Peter smiled. ‘And did you take Andy to the Ritz?’ I enquired as our main course arrived – swordfish for me and breast of chicken for him.

      ‘Er … yes,’ he replied. ‘I did. We went there on, um, Tuesday.’

      ‘Well,’ I said as I picked up my knife and fork, ‘personally I think Andy’s just fab.’ We chatted away like this as we ate, and at last Peter began to relax. I glanced at the black-and-white photo on the wall beside us and realised that it was Marianne Faithfull. And somehow that made me remember Lily’s request. I didn’t want to ask Peter directly, so I just said, ‘Darling, I’m so sorry I ever doubted you. It was horrid of me. Obviously those flowers were for Clare Barry.’ He looked at me. ‘Weren’t they?’

      ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘They were.’

      ‘And as for those cigarettes – well, so what? – why shouldn’t you have the occasional fag? It was so silly of me to over-react like that, Peter. I’ve trusted you for fifteen years, darling, and I’ve no intention of stopping now. I know you’ve never had an affair,’ I went on with a tipsy giggle, ‘and I don’t believe you would.’ He was silent. ‘Because I know you always tell the truth.’ I had a sip of wine. ‘Don’t you, darling? Because the simple fact is that you’re a very decent and honourable man. And you’re so truthful, too, in fact that’s what I love about you most and I just want to say how –’

      ‘Faith,’ said Peter suddenly. ‘Please stop.’ He was fiddling with his knife and he had this peculiar expression on his face. ‘There’s something I want to tell you,’ he said.

      ‘Darling, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.’

      ‘It does matter, Faith. It matters to me.’

      ‘Peter,’ I said, then took another large sip of Bordeaux, ‘whatever it is it’s not important tonight.’

      ‘It is,’ he corrected me. ‘It is. It’s very important, actually. Because you’re sitting here telling me what a great guy I am, and quite frankly I can’t stand it.’

      ‘Oh darling, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just that I’m feeling so happy and I’ve probably had a bit too much to drink, and I’m just trying to make it up to you for being such a suspicious cow.’

      ‘But that’s the whole point,’ he said. ‘That’s precisely what I can’t stand.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Faith,’ he said, fiddling with his glass, ‘I’ve done something rather … silly.’

      ‘You’ve done something silly?’ I echoed. ‘Oh Peter, I’m sure it’s nothing.’

      ‘It isn’t nothing,’ he said.

      ‘Really, Peter –’

      ‘No, darling, listen to me,’ he said as he locked his gaze in mine. I saw him breathe in. Then out. ‘Faith,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been unfaithful.’ My wine-glass stopped in mid-air.

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry – because I’ve slept with someone else.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said, aware that my face was suddenly aflame.

      ‘But it was only once,’ he added, ‘and it doesn’t matter.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said again.

      ‘But the reason I’m telling you is because, well, we are about to enter a new era, yes, a new chapter; and I knew I just couldn’t live with myself unless I’d made a clean breast.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said again. For some reason it seemed to be the only word I knew.

      ‘You