Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff
‘Yes, yes, that’s right. I was.’
‘I’m sure no-one would believe you could possibly have been born in – ooh – 1955?’ she concluded with a smile. Touché. He deserved it. For once he was lost for words. ‘And what about our weather forecaster, Faith?’ Sophie went on smoothly as Terry seethed; she indicated me with an elegant sweep of her left hand as the light on ‘my’ camera flashed red.
‘Faith is one of those abstract virtue names which the Puritans invented,’ Ed explained. ‘It’s like Charity, Verity or Grace. And these names were given mostly to women, of course, as a means of social control; so that baby girls given these “virtuous” names would develop those desirable characteristics. There were some really awful names of this kind,’ he added, ‘but thankfully they haven’t survived. Can you imagine calling your child Abstinence, Humility or Meek?’
‘How dreadful!’ Sophie exclaimed with a laugh.
‘But the more attractive names of this type have stayed with us and I think they do have an influence on character. I mean, if you’re called Patience or Verity, then people expect certain things. How can you be called Grace and be clumsy, for example, or be a miserable Joy, or a promiscuous Virginia, or a depressive Hope?’
‘Or an adulterous Faith,’ said Terry, trying to get back in the show. ‘Are you faithful, Faith?’ he asked me, very cheekily I thought.
‘Only to my husband,’ I said with a smile.
‘There’s a fashion for naming children after places, isn’t there, Ed?’ Sophie went on.
‘Oh yes,’ he replied, ‘we’ve got just about every American state now – Atlanta, Georgia, Savannah etc – though Nebraska and Kentucky don’t have quite the same ring. Then there’s Chelsea, of course, and India. And people often name their children after the place in which they were conceived. Like Posh Spice and David Beckham calling their baby Brooklyn after a trip to New York.’
‘Well, it could have been worse,’ said Sophie judiciously. ‘At least they didn’t call him Queens.’ Ed laughed at her witticism as she thanked him for coming on the show. ‘It’s been fascinating,’ she concluded warmly. ‘And Ed’s book, The Game of the Name, is published today by Thorsons and costs six pounds ninety-nine.’
‘And now,’ Terry intervened, ‘it’s time for a look at the weather. So let’s see if Faith lives up to her name today!’
As the programme ended an hour later, Terry and Sophie sat there beaming at each other amiably while the credits rolled. Then, the split-second they were off air, he stood up, towered over her and shouted, ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’
‘I’m sorry, do what?’ said Sophie sweetly as she removed her microphone pack from the back of her skirt.
‘Don’t you ever discuss my age on screen again,’ he hissed.
‘Well, for my part I’d be grateful if you didn’t insult me on screen,’ she replied as she took out her earpiece.
‘I am thirty-nine!’ he shouted after her as she made her way towards Make-Up to get her slap removed. ‘Thirty-nine! Not forty-six. Got that, you superior little cow?’
‘Of course I know you’re thirty-nine, Terry,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know how I could have got that wrong. After all, everyone here tells me you’ve been thirty-nine for years.’ His face went white with anger. It was as though Sophie had made a declaration of war. And though I was glad to see her start to get her own back, I hoped she wouldn’t come to regret what she’d done. Still, as I say, I always keep out of office disputes. As I picked up my bag I saw that there were two copies of The Game of the Name lying on the planning desk. No-one seemed to want them, so I put a pound in the charity box and took one of them home. There was an index at the back, and I looked up Peter; it said that Peter means a rock, which I knew. I thought how Peter always has been my rock, really – steady and unswerving and strong. I pondered my own name, and wondered, not for the first time, to what extent it has shaped who I am. Would I have turned out differently if I’d been called something racy, like Scarlett or Carmen or Sky? But I was christened Faith, so I guess I couldn’t be racy if I tried. And I decided I might as well be true to the name I have and I resolved not to have doubts about Peter. So when I opened the front door and saw that Lily had sent me the December edition of Moi! I simply felt like throwing it away. But then, on the other hand, I knew she could only mean well.
I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, she had written in her large round hand. But just to be on the safe side, do read this as it’s full of handy hints. PS, why not check out the IsHeCheating.com website?
‘How ridiculous,’ I said to Graham as I flicked through the magazine again. ‘Peter isn’t having an affair.’ Even so, I couldn’t resist reading the article. Just out of interest, of course.
How to Tell If Your Man’s Playing Away:
1 He’s distracted and distant.
2 He’s looking fit.
3 He’s working late.
4 His wardrobe’s improved.
5 He’s not interested in sex.
6 He’s bought a mobile phone.
7 He’s sending you flowers.
Now, the scary thing was that I knew I could answer a resounding ‘yes’ to all of these. But I decided to remain quite calm, because there’s a rational explanation in every case. Peter is distracted and distant because he has many worries, and has lost weight, ditto. He’s working late because his boss is vile; he’s improved his wardrobe because he has to look smart for job interviews. He’s not interested in sex because his libido is low due to his depression about work. He bought a mobile phone so that his headhunter can contact him at the drop of a hat; and he sent me flowers for the simple reason that he forgot our anniversary and felt bad.
‘So there we have it,’ I said to Graham as I read and reread the piece. ‘He’s in the clear. We have nothing to worry about.’ I looked into his eyes – they’re the colour of demerara – and I stroked his velvety nose. Graham’s been anxious too, you see. He’s very sensitive to my moods and over the last couple of days he’s been feeling a bit insecure. I know this because he’s been sitting closer to me than normal – preferably on my lap. Also, he’s following me around more than he usually does. So this afternoon I said to him, ‘It’s OK, Graham, you don’t have to get up every time I leave my chair.’ But he does. He came with me as I climbed the stairs to the spare room on the top floor. As I say, I didn’t really think that Peter was having an affair, but in order to put all my fears to rest, I’d decided to check his pockets. Peter’s fairly tidy, and he doesn’t have huge numbers of clothes, so I knew my investigations wouldn’t take long. I found that my pulse was beginning to race as I consulted the magazine again. You must leave everything exactly as you found it, it advised. If he suspects you’re onto him he may stop what he’s doing, which means you’ll never get to the truth. So, feeling like a thief, which evoked in me a curious mixture of tremendous excitement and deep dread, I carefully went through his clothes. First I looked in the pockets of his sports jackets. But all I found was an old bus ticket, a hanky and some coins.
‘Nothing suspicious there,’ I said to Graham. He looked at me with what I can only describe as an expression of enormous relief. In the laundry basket in the corner were some shirts. Graham and I both sniffed them. But there was no whiff of alien scent, no tell-tale lipstick marks, just the familiar aroma of Peter’s sweat.
‘We’re doing well,’ I said to Graham. His ears pricked up and he wagged his tail. Then I took Peter’s corduroy trousers off the dumb valet and turned out the pockets of those. All I came up with was a packet of chewing gum – unopened – and some lint.
‘No condoms or billets-doux – my husband is innocent,’