JANUARY

      It's funny how things can suddenly change, isn't it? They can alter in a heartbeat, in a breath. I think that's what happened tonight, because, well, I don't really know how to explain it, except to say that nothing feels quite the same. The evening started out well. In fact it felt like quite a success. There we were, in the restaurant, enjoying ourselves. Talking and laughing. Eating and drinking. Just eight of us. Just a small party. I wanted to cheer Peter up, because he's got his problems right now. So I'd planned this evening as a surprise. He hadn't suspected a thing. In fact, he'd even forgotten that it was our anniversary, and he's never done that before. But when he came home it was obvious that today's date had passed him by.
      'Oh, Faith, I'm sorry,' he sighed, as he opened my card. 'It's the sixth today isn't it?' I nodded. 'I'm afraid I completely... forgot.'
      'It doesn't matter,' I said, brightly. 'Honestly, darling. Because I know you've got a lot on your mind.' He's having a bad time at work, you see. He's publishing director at Fenton & Friend, a job he used to love, but a year ago a new Chairwoman called Charmain arrived, and she's been giving him serious grief. She and her creepy sidekick, Oliver. Or rather 'Oiliver' as Peter calls him, though not to his face, of course. But, between the two of them, Charmain and Oliver are making Peter's life hell.
      'How was it today?' I asked him cautiously as he hung up his coat.
      'Awful,' he said, wearily, running his hand through his sandy-coloured hair. 'The old bat was going on at me about the bloody sales figures,' he said as he loosened his tie. 'She just went on and on. In front of everyone. It was hideous. And Oliver just stood there, with a smirk on his fat face, oozing sycophancy from every pore. I tell you, Faith,' he added with a sigh, 'I'm for the chop. It can't be long.'
      'Well, leave to it Andy,' I said.
      A faraway look came into Peter's eyes, and he said, 'Yes. I'll put my faith in Andy.' That's Andy Metzler by the way. He's a headhunter. American. One of the best in town. Peter seems to think the world of him. It's 'Andy this' and 'Andy that,' so I really hope Andy delivers the goods. But it'll be hard for Peter if he does have to leave Fenton & Friend, because he's been there thirteen years. It's been a bit like our marriage, really - a stable and happy relationship, based on affection, loyalty and trust. But now it looks as though it might be coming to an end.
      'I suppose nothing stays the same,' Peter added ruefully as he fixed us both a drink. ' I'm not joking, Faith,' he added as I took the last decorations off the Christmas tree. 'I'll be getting the boot, because Oiliver's after my job.'
      Peter tries to be philosophical about it all, but I know he's very depressed. For example, he's not quite his normal genial self, and he's finding it hard to sleep. So for the past six months or so, we've been in separate rooms. Which is no bad thing as I have to get up at 3.30am for my job at breakfast TV. I do the weather, at AM-UK! I've been there six years now, and I love it, despite the hideously early start. Normally, I let the alarm pip twice, slip out of bed, and Peter goes straight back to sleep. But at the moment, he can't stand being disturbed, so he's in the spare room on the top floor. I don't mind. I understand. And sex isn't everything you know. And in some ways I quite like it, because it means I can sleep with Graham instead. I love Graham. He's absolutely gorgeous, and he's incredibly bright. He snores a bit, which annoys me, but I poke him in the ribs, and say, 'darling - shhh!'. And he opens his eyes, looks at me lovingly, then drops off again - just like that. He's lucky. He sleeps very well, though sometimes he has nightmares, and starts twitching violently and kicking his legs. But he doesn't mind being disturbed in the dead of night when I get up to go to work; in fact - and this is really sweet - he likes to get up too. He sits outside the bathroom while I have my shower. Then I hear the cab pull up, I put on my coat, and hug him goodbye.
      Some of our friends think that Graham's a slightly odd name for a dog. And I suppose it is compared, say, to Rover or Gnasher, or Shep. But we decided on Graham because I found him in Graham Road, in Chiswick, where we live. That was two years ago. I'd been to the dentist for a filling, and when I came out, there was this mongrel - very young, and terribly thin - looking at me enquiringly as though we'd known each other for years. And he followed me, all the way home, just trotting along gently behind, then sat down outside the front gate and wouldn't move. So eventually I invited him in, gave him a ham sandwich and that was that. We phoned the police, and the dogs' home, but no-one ever claimed him, and I'd have been distraught if they had because, to be honest, it was love at first sight, just like it was with Peter. I adore him. Graham, I mean. We just clicked. We really get on. And I think the reason why I love him so much is because of the sweet way he put his faith in me.
      Peter was fine about it - he likes dogs too - and of course the children were thrilled, though Katie, who wants to be a psychiatrist, thinks I 'mother' Graham too much. She says I'm projecting my frustrated maternal desires for another child onto the dog. I know... ridiculous! But you have to take teenagers very seriously, don't you, otherwise they get in a strop. Anyway, Graham's the baby of the family. He's only three. He doesn't have a pedigree, but he's got bucketloads of class. He's a collie cross of some sort, with a feathery red-gold coat, a white blaze on his chest, and a foxy, elegant charm. We take him almost everywhere with us, though not to restaurants, of course. So this evening Peter settled him on his bean bag, put on the telly for him - he likes Food and Drink - and said, 'Don't worry, old boy, Mummy and I are just going out for a quick bite.'
      But Peter had no idea what I'd really planned. He thought we'd just be having an impromptu dinner, téte à téte. I'd told him I'd booked a table, but he'd assumed it was just for two. So when we got to the restaurant, and he saw the children sitting there, with his mother, Sarah, he looked so surprised and pleased. And I'd invited Mimi, an old college friend of ours, with her new husband, Mike.
      'It's like This Is Your Life!' Peter exclaimed, with a grin, as we took off our coats. 'What a great idea, Faith,' he said. But to be honest, I didn't do it just for him. I did it for myself too, because I felt like marking the occasion in some way. I mean, fifteen years. Fifteen years. That's nearly half our lives.
      'Fifteen years,' I said with a smile as we sat down. 'And it hasn't been a day too long.'
      I've been very happy in my marriage, you see. And believe me, I still am. For example, I'm never, ever bored. There's always loads to do. We don't have much money, of course - we never have had - but we still have lots of fun. Well, we would do if it wasn't for the fact that Peter's working so hard; Charmain's got him reading manuscripts most nights, and I have to be in bed by half past nine. But at weekends, that's when we catch up, and really enjoy ourselves. The children come home - they're weekly boarders at a school in Kent - and we do, ooh, all sorts of things. We go for walks along the river, and we garden. We go to Tescos for the weekly shop. Sometimes we pop down to Ikea - the one in Brent Cross, though occasionally, for a bit of a change, we'll try the one in Croydon. And we might take out a video, or watch a bit of TV, and the children go and see their friends. Well, they would do, if they had any. They're both what you'd call loners, I'm afraid. It worries me a bit. For example, Matt - he's twelve - just loves being on his computer. He's an addict, always has been, he was mouse-trained very young. I remember when he was five and I'd be putting him to bed, he'd say 'Please can you wake me up at 6 o'clock tomorrow mummy, so I can go on the computer before I go to school?' And that struck me as rather sad really, and he's still just like that now. But he's as happy as Larry with all his computer games and his CD-roms, so we don't like to interfere. As I say, he's not what you'd call an all rounder. For example, his written skills are dire. But as well as the computers he's brilliant at maths - in fact we call him 'Mattematics.' And that's why we sent him to Seaworth, because he wasn't coping well where he was. But he wouldn't go without Katie, and it suits her very well too because, look, don't think I'm being disloyal about my children - but they're not quite like other kids. For example, Katie's far too old for her years. She's only fourteen now, but she's so serious-minded. She does nothing but read. I guess she takes after Peter, because for her it's books, not bytes. She's not at all fashion-conscious, like other girls of her age. There's no hint of any teenage rebellion either - she seems to be just as 'sensible' as me. And because I never kicked over the traces, somehow I wish that she would. I keep hoping that she'll come home one weekend with a lime-green mohican or at the very least with a stud in her nose. But no such luck - all she ever does is read. As I say, she's dead keen on psychology - she's got lots of books on Jung and Freud - and she likes to practice her psychotherapeutic skills on all of us. And when we sat down at the table this evening, that's what she was doing.
      'So, Granny, how did you feel about your divorce?' I heard her ask my mother-in-law. I made a sympathetic face at Sarah, but she just looked at me and smiled.
      'Well, Katie, I felt fine about it,' she said. 'Because when two people are unhappy together, then it's sometimes better for them to part.'
      'What were the chief factors, would you say, in the breakdown of your relationship with Grandpa?'
      'Well, darling,' she said as she lowered her menu, 'I think we just married too young.'
      People sometimes say that about Peter and me. We married at twenty, you see; and so people do sometimes ask me - and to be honest I wish they wouldn't - if I ever have any regrets about that. But I don't. I never, ever wonder, 'What if...?' because I've been happy really, in every way. Peter's a decent and honest man. He's very hard-working, he's great with the kids, and he's kind and considerate to his Mum. He's quite handsome too, though he needs to lose a little weight. But then, funnily enough, this evening I noticed that he is looking a bit more trim. I expect he's shed a few pounds recently because of all his stress. He's well turned out at the moment too - I've noticed he's got a couple of lovely new ties. He says he has to be ready to slip out to interviews, at the drop of a hat, so he's been dressing very smartly for work. So despite his present anxieties, he's looking pretty good. And after so long with Peter I could never fancy anyone else. People sometimes ask me if I do fantasy - sorry, fancy, anyone else - after fifteen years with the same man, and the answer is absolutely, categorically, definitively hardly ever. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm made of flesh and blood. I can see when a man's attractive. For example, that chap who came round last week to mend the washing machine. He got my delicates cycle going again. And yes, objectively, I could see that he was a handsome sort of chap. Yes, I admit it - he was a bit of a hunk. And to be honest, I have been having some rather strange dreams about him recently. Quite vivid ones, featuring all sorts of peculiar items, like a mobile phone for example, a TV remote control, and - this is really odd - a tub of blackcurrant sorbet! God knows what it means. I asked Katie actually, and she gave me this rather peculiar look and said it's just my id, running wild. As I say, I always humour her. No doubt my dreams are just the product of my rather fertile imagination. So, no, I don't look at anyone else although I do meet lots of attractive men at work. But I never fancy them, because I'm a very happily married woman, and sex isn't everything, you know. And of course Peter's very preoccupied right now. But yes, to answer your question, my marriage is in great shape, which is why I wanted to celebrate our fifteen happy years. So I booked a table at Snows, just down the road at Brook Green. We don't eat out very often. Peter has to go out to dinner with authors and agents sometimes - he's been doing quite a bit of that, of late, but we don't do much ourselves. We can't afford it; what with the school fees - though luckily Matt got a scholarship - and of course publishing doesn't pay well. And my job's only part-time because I'm home by eleven every day. So at the moment we're pretty hard up. But I thought Peter needed a bit of a treat, so I decided on a party at Snows. It's actually called Snows on the Green, which was rather appropriate, because today the snow was on the green. More than an inch of it. It started to fall this morning, and by late afternoon it had built into gentle drifts. And I love it when it snows because there's this eerie hush, and the world falls silent, as though everyone's dropped off to sleep. And I just want to rush outside, clap my hands and shout 'Come on! Wake up! Wake up!' And snow always reminds me of our wedding, because it snowed on that day too.
      So I was sitting there in the restaurant, looking out of the window for a minute, watching the flakes batting gently against the panes, and idly wondering what the next fifteen years of my life would bring. And I was feeling the slightly dizzying effects of the champagne. Not real champagne, obviously - just the Italian sparkling, but it's very good, and only half the price. I glanced round the table, listening to the low babble of conversation.
      'Are your parents coming, Faith?' Sarah asked me as she nibbled on an olive.
      'Oh no, they're on holiday again. I think they're scuba diving in St Lucia' I said vaguely. 'Or maybe they're heli-skiing in Alaska. Or are they bungee-jumping in Botswana...?' Mum and Dad are pensioners, or rather what you might call Silver Foxes, or Glamorous Greys. They seem to stagger from cruise to safari to adventure holiday in a variety of exotic locations.Well, why not? After all they've worked hard all their lives and so now's the time to have some fun.
      'No, Sarah,' I said, 'I really can't remember where they are, they go away so much.'
      'That's because they have classic avoidant personalities,' announced Katie with mild contempt. 'The incessant holidays are the means by which they avoid spending any time with us. I mean, the second Grandpa retired from the Abbey National, that was it - they were off.'
      'Oh I know darling, but they send us lots of lovely postcards,' I said. 'And they phone up from time to time. And Granny loves chatting to you, doesn't she Matt?'
      'Er... yes,' he said, slightly nervously as he looked up from his menu. 'Yes, I suppose she does.' Lately I've noticed that my mother often asks to speak to Matt on the phone. She loves chewing the fat with him - even ringing him at school - and I think it's great that they're developing such a nice bond.
      'I do envy your parents,' said Sarah ruefully. 'I'd love to go away, but it's impossible because I'm tied to the shop.' Sarah owns a second-hand bookshop in Dulwich. She bought it ten years ago with her alimony after her husband, David, left her for an American woman and moved to the States. 'Oh, I've a small anniversary gift,' Sarah added, as she handed me a beribboned parcel, inside which - Peter helped me open it - were two beautiful crystal glasses.
      'What lovely tumblers, Sarah - thank you!'
      'Yes, thanks Mum,' Peter said.
      'Well you see the fifteenth anniversary is the crystal one,' she explained as I noticed the red sticker on the box marked, Fragile. 'Anyway are we all present and correct then?' she added pleasantly.
      'All except for Lily,' I replied. 'She says she's going to be a bit late.' At this I noticed Peter roll his eyes.
      'Lily Jago?' said Mimi. 'Wow! I remember her at your wedding - she was your bridesmaid - she's famous now.'
      'Yes,' I said proudly, 'she's is. But she deserves every bit of it,' I added, 'because she's worked so incredibly hard.'
      'What's she like?' asked Mimi.
      'Like Lady Macbeth,' said Peter with a hollow laugh. 'But not as nice.'
      'Darling!' I said reprovingly. 'Please don't say that - she's my best and oldest friend.'
      'She treats staff like disposable knickers,' he added, 'and she treads on heads as though they're stepping stones.'
      'Peter, that's not fair,' I said. 'And you know it. She's very dedicated and she's brilliant, she deserves her tremendous success.' It used to grieve me that Peter didn't like Lily, but I got used to it years ago. He can't understand why I keep up with her, and I've given up trying to explain. The fact is Lily matters to me. I've known her for twenty five years - since our convent days - so we have an unbreakable bond. But I mean, I'm not blind - I know that Lily's no angel. For example, she's a little bit touchy, and she's got a wicked tongue. She's also a 'bit of a one,' with the boys - but then, why shouldn't she be? She's single, and she's beautiful. Why shouldn't she play the field? Why shouldn't a gorgeous thirty-five year old woman, in her prime, have lots of lovers, and lots of fun? Why shouldn't a gorgeous thirty-five year old woman be made to feel desirable and loved? Why shouldn't a thirty-five year old woman have romantic weekends in country house hotels with Jacuzzis and fluffy towels? Why shouldn't any thirty-five year old woman have flowers and champagne and little presents? I mean, once you're married, that's that; romance flies out the window, and you're with the same old body every night. So I don't blame Lily at all, though I don't think her choice of boyfriends is great. Every week, it seems, we see her staring at us out of the pages of Hello! or OK! with this footballer, or that rock star, or some actor from that new soap on Channel 4. And I think, mmm. Mmmm. Lily could do better, I think. So, no, she hasn't got brilliant taste in men, although at least these days - praise the Lord! - she's stopped going for the married ones. Yes, I'm afraid to say she used to be a little bit naughty like that. And I did once remind her that adultery is forbidden by the seventh commandment.
      'I didn't commit adultery,' she said, indignantly. 'I'm single, so it was only fornication.' Lily's not interested in marriage herself by the way, she's totally dedicated to her career. 'I'm footloose and fiancé free!' she always likes to exclaim. I must say, she'd be a bit of a challenge to any man. For a start, she's very opinionated, and she bears interminable grudges. Peter thinks she's dangerous, but she's not. She's simply tribal; by which I mean she's loyal to her friends, but ruthless to her foes, and I know exactly which category I'm in.
      'Lily had twelve other invitations tonight,' I said. 'She knows so many people!'
      'Yes, Mum,' said Katie matter of factly. 'But you're her only friend.'
      'Well, maybe that's true, darling,' I said with a tiny stab of pride, but I still think it's sweet of her to come.'
      'Very gracious,' said Peter, wryly. He'd had a couple of drinks by then. 'I can't wait for the dramatic entrance,' he added sarcastically.
      'Darling,' I said patiently, 'Lily can't help making an entrance. I mean, it's not her fault she's so stunning.' She is. In fact she's jaw-dropping. Everybody stares. She's terribly tall for a start, and whippety thin, and she's always exquisitely dressed. Unlike me. I get a small allowance from work for the things I wear on TV, and I tend to spend it in Principles - I've always liked their stuff. Just recently I've started to get quite interested in Next, and Episode. But Lily gets a huge clothing allowance, and the designers send her things too, so she always looks amazing - in fact, she's amazing full stop. And even Peter will grudgingly admit that she has huge talent, and guts and drive. You see, she had a very tough start in life. I remember the day she arrived at St Bede's. I have this vivid picture in my mind of Reverend Mother standing on stage in the main hall, one morning, after mass. And next to her was this new girl - we were all agog to know who she was.
      'Girls,' said Reverend Mother as a hush descended. 'This is Lily. Lily Jago. Now, we must all be kind to Lily,' she went on benignly, 'because Lily is very poor.' I will never forget, to my dying day, the look of fury on Lily's face. And of course the girls weren't kind to her at all. Far from it. They teased her about her accent, and they laughed at her lack of finesse; they disparaged her evident poverty and they made terrible fun of her folks. They called her 'Lily White,' which she loathed. Then, when they realised how clever she was, they hated her for that as well. But I didn't hate her. I liked her and I felt drawn to her, perhaps because I was an outsider too. I got laughed at a lot at school. My nick-name was 'Faith Value,' because they all said I was very naïve. I was impossible to tease, apparently, because I could never get the joke. I thought it was obvious that the chicken's reason for crossing the road, was to reach the other side. I couldn't see why that was funny, really. I mean, why else would the chicken cross the road? And of course a bell is necessary on a bicycle - otherwise you could have a very nasty accident. It's obvious. So why's that funny? Do you see what I mean? The other girls all said I was a credulous sap. Ridiculous! I'm not. But I am trusting. Oh yes. I want to have faith in people and I do. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and I tend to believe what they say. Because that's how I want to be. I decided, a long time ago, that I didn't want to be cynical, like Lily. She's the suspicious sort, and though I'm desperately fond of her, I could never be like that myself. That's probably why my purse is full of foreign coins, for example, because I never, ever check my change. Shopkeepers are constantly palming off on me their dimes and their pfennigs and their francs. But I don't care, because I don't want to be the kind of woman who's always on her guard. I guess I'm a natural optimist - I always trust that things will work out. I'm trusting in my marriage too. I simply don't think that Peter would ever stray. And he hasn't - so I was right. And I believe you can make your own destiny, by the strength of your mental attitude. Anyway, I rather liked the fact that Lily was naughty, because I knew it was something I could never be. I remember, once, when we were thirteen, making a dash for the town. We'd lied to Sister St Wilfred, and said we were going for a walk. But we got the bus to Reading instead - using my pocket money, of course - and we bought sweets and Lily bought cigarettes, and she got talking to some boys. Then, on the way back, she did something awful - she went into a newsagent and nicked a copy of Harpers and Queen. I wanted her to return it, but she refused, though she promised to mention it in confession. But I remember her poring over it in the dormitory later, utterly entranced; she was fingering it, reverentially, as though it were a holy text. Then she swore out loud that one day she'd be the editor of a magazine like that; and the girls all fell about laughing. But now she does.
      'Lily's been in New York for a long time, hasn't she?' said Mimi, as she broke into her bread roll. 'I've seen lots of stuff about her in the press.'
      'Six years,' I said. 'She was working on Mirabella and Vanity Fair.' And as we ate our antipasti I told them about her career, and about how single-minded she'd been. Because I'm very proud of my friendship with her. And I told them about the way she'd even left Cambridge early because she was offered some lowly job at Marie Claire. But it was the start of her long climb up the greasy pole, or rather the shiny cover. She was determined to reach the top - and now she has. Three months ago she became the first black woman to edit Moi!.
      That's Moi!-Même magazine, of course, commonly known as Moi! Or perhaps 'Mwaaah, mwaaah!' as Peter always likes to say. He's a bit of a snob really about magazines, he thinks they're utterly trite. He calls Lily the 'High Priestess of Gloss'. But chacun a son gout, I say, and Lily's brilliant at what she does. Mind you, some of the stories are pretty silly. Not my kind of things at all. It's all this, 'What's Hot What's Not!' kind of stuff, and 'Grey - the new black! Fat - the new thin! Old - the new young!' But the magazine always looks beautiful, because the photography's out of this world. And the writing's good too, because Lily says she can sort out 'the wit from the chaff.' Oh yes, Lily's seriously successful. And yes, she's got a wicked tongue. But she would never do anything to hurt me. I know that for a fact.
      Anyway, by nine Lily still hadn't arrived, and we'd all had our starters and were waiting for the main course which in my case was chump of lamb. And the conversation had turned back to marriage, and to Peter and me.
      'Fifteen years!' Mimi exclaimed with a laugh. 'I just can't believe it! I remember your wedding day so well. In the university chapel. We all froze to death, it was snowing, just like today.'
      'That's because it was a white wedding!' I quipped. Peter laughed.
      But how amazing that this is your fifteenth anniversary,' Mimi added. 'Good God! I haven't even had my first!' We all laughed at that, and she gave her husband, Mike, a gooey smile, and said, 'I've only just had my happy ending!'
      'New beginning, you mean,' he replied. And I felt very strange when he said that; very strange indeed. But at the same time I thought, yes, he's right. It is a new beginning. That's exactly what it is. They only got married last May. They both peeped at their six-week-old baby, Alice, who was asleep in her car seat on the floor. I looked across the table at my two 'babies', who are fourteen and twelve. And it struck me again, as it has done recently, that Peter and I are completely out of step with our peers. Most of them are like Mimi - they're marrying and having kids now. But we did that fifteen years ago, and it won't be long before our children leave home.
      'You two got married when you were still at college, didn't you?' Mike asked.
      'In our second year,' I said. 'We just couldn't wait,' I explained. 'Isn't that right, darling?' And Peter looked at me, through the flickering candles, and gave me a little smile. 'We were madly in love,' I went on, emboldened by the sparkling wine. 'And good Catholics don't live in sin!' Actually I'm not a very good Catholic. Though I was, then. I'm a sort of Christmas Catholic now. I go to church no more than three or four times a year.
      'I remember when you two met,' said Mimi. 'It was in our first term at Durham, at the fresher's ball. You looked at Peter, Faith, and you whispered to me, "that's the man I'm going to marry" - and you did!'
      'We were like Superglue,' I giggled. 'We bonded in seconds!' At that, Peter's mother, Sarah, smiled. I like Sarah. We've always got on well. And yes, she did have misgivings at the time because she thought we'd end up divorced, like her. But we didn't do that, and I'm sure we won't. As I say, I have faith in the future. Anyway, Sarah was chatting away to the children - she hadn't seen them for a while - and Peter was beginning to unwind a bit as we talked to Mimi and Mike. We'd had a bit to drink by now, and were all feeling mellow and warm, when suddenly there was an icy blast - the door had opened: Lily had finally arrived.
      It's always fun watching Lily entering a room. You can almost hear the clunk of jawbones hitting the floor. That's what it was like tonight. She's so used to it, she claims never to notice, but it always makes me smile.
      'Darlings I'm so sorry!' she called out as she swept in, on a cloud of Obsession, oblivious to the collective male stares. 'So sorry,' she reiterated, as her floor length arctic fox slid from her shoulders and was quickly gathered up by the maitre d'. 'You see Gore's in town - Vidal not Al - so we had a quick drink at the Ritz, then I had to go down Cork Street where this was this tedious private view...' She removed her fur hat, and I could see snowflakes on her shoulder-length, raven black hair. 'And Chanel were launching their new scent,' she went on, 'so of course I had to show my face there...' She handed the waiter an assortment of exquisite little bags,' '...but I only stayed ten minutes at Lord Linley's Twelfth Night party because I just wanted to be here with you.' I glanced at Mimi - she was speechless.
      'Happy Anniversary, Faith, darling!' Lily exclaimed, handing me a Tiffany bag. Inside, in a silk-lined presentation box, was a small cylinder, made of sterling silver.
      'It's a telescope,' I said wonderingly, holding it up to my left eye. 'Oh! No it isn't it's a... ooh how lovely.' As I rotated the end with my right hand, a thousand sequins - red and purple and green - arranged themselves into dazzling patterns, like the fractals of a technicolor snowflake.
      'How wonderful,' I murmured. 'A kaleidoscope. I haven't seen one of these for years.'
      'I couldn't decide what to get you,' said Lily, 'but I thought this might be fun. It's for Peter, as well' she added, giving him a feline smile.
      'Thank you, Lily,' he replied.
      'What a wonderful present,' I said, hugging her. 'Hey - great outfit too!' Today she was wearing a viridian green cashmere twin-set, a knee length gabardine skirt, and a pair of what I think were probably Jimmy Choo snakeskin boots.
      'The cashmere's only Nicole Farhi,' she said. 'But I'm getting so bored of Voyage. Jil Sander sent me the skirt. Wasn't that sweet? The cut's so sharp it ought to be classed as an offensive weapon. When I've finished with it, Faith, it's yours.'
      'Thanks Lily,' I said, ruefully. 'But it wouldn't go past my knees.' Lily's a size ten, and I'm a fourteen. She's almost six foot - more in her heels - and I'm only five foot four. Which is funny, because when we were nine we were both exactly the same size. She used to have my cast-offs then, but now she gives me hers. She used to be the one who was penniless, but now it's me. Still, we all make our choices in life, and as I say, I'm quite happy with mine.
      The waiter poured Lily a glass of Chablis, and then he looked at the large, Louis Vuitton carrier on her lap, and said, 'May I take that for you madam?'
      'Oh... no thank you,' she replied, looking slightly alarmed. 'This is my handbag, you see.'
      'Really madam?' he said, suspiciously.
      'Absolutely,' Lily shot back, with a dazzling smile, her refulgent teeth sparkling like frost against the rich, dark bronze of her skin. 'I always hang on to this one,' she explained. I knew why. She's very naughty like that. But then, as I say, Lily has always broken rules. As the waiter retreated she put the bag under the table, and quickly undid the zip. Then she looked at me, grinned, and swiped the last bit of meat from my plate.
      'Here darling!' she whispered as her beautifully manicured hand shot down below. 'Auntie Faith wants you to have this.' We could hear snuffling, snorty little sounds, followed by a tinny whine. Katie, Sarah and I lifted the cloth, and peered under the table where Lily's Shih Tzu, Jennifer, had just scoffed the last of my lamb. A pink tongue shot out and wrapped itself around her furry little face; then she stared at us blankly, with a pair of huge, bulgy, black eyes.
      'What a sweet hairstyle,' said Sarah, with a laugh. Jennifer's flowing locks had been gathered into a top knot and secured with a sparkling clip.
      'Oh yes, she's so gorgeous,' Lily replied, with a sigh. 'Isn't she Faith? Isn't she just the prettiest little thing in the world?'
      'Oh yes,' I lied, looking at Jennifer's undershot jaw, her crooked teeth, her bearded chin, and flat little face. 'Jennifer's just... great,' I added with a hypocritical smile. Again, some people might think that Jennifer's an unusual choice of name for a dog. In fact her full name is Jennifer Aniston. This is because of her long, silky blonde hair, and because she's 'worth it.' At least I hope so, because Lily spends half her salary on that pooch. The Louis Vuitton doggy bag, for example - that's at least five hundred pounds. She's also got eight Gucci dog collars, five Chanel leads, two Burberry coats, three Paul Smith bowls, and you should see her bed! It's like an oriental tent, complete with Chinese wall-hangings, and a silk rug. The purpose of this, apparently, is to remind Jennifer of her ancient origins in Imperial Peking. Shih Tzus were temple dogs, and Lily worships hers. But between you and me, Jennifer Aniston is simply not my type. She's not Graham's either. He tends to stare at her, slightly incredulously, as though he's not entirely sure she's a dog.
      'How's magland?' I asked brightly, changing the subject.
      'Fabulous,' Lily replied. 'Here's the February issue - look! It's just come in from the printers, I'm having them biked all over town.' The magazine felt heavy in my hands, and shone under the spotlights like ice. MOI! it proclaimed on the masthead, above a photo of Kate Moss. I glanced at the headlines. 'Pees and Queues - Five Star Loos!' 'Prolier Than Thou - the REAL New Labour!' 'It Girls - Just Lamé Ducks?' and 'Pulling Power - Our Top Ten Tweezers!'
      'Hype springs eternal!' muttered Peter rolling his eyes.
      I gave him a discreet kick, then Sarah and I flicked through the magazine, careful to admire, aloud, the wonderful photos, the features, and the fashion. And the ads of course. There were lots of those. Some of them, I happen to know, cost thirty thousand pounds a page, which is more than I earn in a year. There was one particular ad for an expensive face cream, with a photo of a Persian kitten, and though I'm a doggy sort of person, I just couldn't help going 'Aaaaah!'
      'That's the "classical conditioning" reflex, Mum,' said Katie, knowledgeably. 'Extremely effective for selling. It works by establishing an association between a product and a pleasant feeling. Stayman and Batra did a fascinating study in 1991 which proved that emotional states affect consumer choice.' As I say, she's not like other girls. In the meantime Lily had been rattling on about circulation and pagination and subscription rates and God knows what. 'Now, we've got 120 advertising pages,' she explained happily, 'and 130 editorial. This is our biggest issue yet. We're on a roll.'
      At the front was an article about dieting, and a profile of Sharon Stone. There was an extract from the new Ian McEwan novel, and the society diary section, 'I Spy.' There were pages on lotions and potions, and a competition to win a car. Now, I love competitions. I do quite a lot, though obviously I couldn't enter this one because friends of the editor are barred. But whenever I've got time, I send off the forms. I actually won something recently - I was really chuffed - a year's supply of Finish rinse aid. I've never won anything big, though, but maybe one day I will.
      By now, Mimi, who works at Radio 4, had plucked up her courage and was talking to Lily about her career.
      'Other women's magazines have falling circulations,' Mimi said, 'but yours seems to be soaring.'
      'It's gone up by 20 per cent since I took over,' said Lily triumphantly. 'They're all quaking in their Manolos at Vogue!'
      'Would you like to come on Woman's Hour?' Mimi asked, 'when I'm back from maternity leave? You'd be talking about Moi! of course, and about your innovatory editing style. But I think the listeners would also like to know about you - about your background, and your convent days.' Lily snorted with laughter.
      'I wasn't exactly a model pupil. Ask Faith!' I smiled and nodded. It was true. But there are reasons for that. There are very good reasons why Lily, though obviously gifted, was rather difficult at school. For a start, she was just plucked from her home: it was done with the best of intentions, but she was taken away and placed in an environment where she was bound to feel she didn't fit in. At eight, her exceptional brain was spotted by a teacher, who told the local priest, who then contacted the bishop, who wrote to Reverend Mother who agreed to take her on as a scholarship girl. And that was how Lily left the Caribbean to be educated at St Bede's.
      'Lily was a brilliant pupil,' I said. 'She wanted to be top in everything - and she was!'
      'Except good behaviour,' Lily pointed out, with a throaty laugh. This was absolutely true. We had to go to confession every Saturday morning, and she used to spend hours in there. I was convinced she must be making things up, so I remember once telling her that inventing transgressions was, in itself, a mortal sin.
      'It's a bit like wasting police time,' I explained. 'So you really shouldn't fabricate sins.' 'I wasn't fabricating anything,' she retorted, rolling her huge brown eyes.
      I'm afraid Lily wasn't what you'd call popular. She could be very sharp, for example, and the girls feared her razor tongue. When we were sixteen, Sister St Joseph gave us a career talk, and she looked at Dinah Shaw, who was terribly dim, and said, 'Dinah, what are you going to be when you leave St Bede's'?' and Lily shouted, 'Twenty five!'
      But if, as I say, Lily was naughty, it was because of all the snobbery and spite. Venetia Smedley was the worst. She came from the Channel Islands and was known as the Jersey Cow. At breakfast one morning - I'll never forget it - Venetia announced, in a very loud voice, 'My parents are off to St Kitts next week. They always stay at the Four Winds in Banana Bay. Isn't that a coincidence, Lily? Perhaps your mother will be cleaning their room.' Lily just looked at her, lowered her spoon, and said, 'Yes, Venetia. Perhaps she will.' But a few months afterwards she exacted a dreadful revenge. Venetia had had bridgework having fallen off her pony two years before. She was very embarrassed about this and would never let anyone see her cleaning her teeth. Lily made some toffee; it was unbelievably sticky because - I only learnt this afterwards - she'd adulterated it with glue. And she offered some to Venetia - and the look of triumph on Lily's face when Venetia's three false teeth came out. 'Oh I'm so sorry Venetia,' she said sweetly. 'I forgot that you wore dentures.' Afterwards, I found her in the grounds, rocking with laughter. And she looked at me gleefully and whispered, 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay!' And she did. She's still calling in her debts to this day.
      'I had Camilla Fanshawe on the phone this morning,' she said to me with a snigger, as she spooned up her guacamole. 'She's marrying some squitty banker, and she was begging me, Faith, begging me to cover her wedding in 'I Spy.' But she was only saying that because Letty Brocklebank got hers in Tatler. And Camilla was practically blubbing and saying how she always liked me so much at school and how she knew I'd be a success because I was so clever, and what about it? Old school tie and all that? And I let her go on and on and then I said, very sweetly, "Well I'm terribly sorry, Camilla; I'm afraid we don't cover small, provincial weddings in Moi!"'
      Yes, Lily's had the last laugh all right. She's outsmarted them all - in every way. Intellectually, of course, though that was easy enough - but she outsmarted them socially too. Her mind was like a radar, and she quickly cracked the code. Her table manners changed, her deportment improved and within two years her voice was transformed. Gone was her rich, Caribbean inflection, and in its place was cut glass. Peter says she has 'irritable vowel syndrome,' but, as I say, he's not really a fan.
      Mimi, clearly fascinated by Lily, was asking us about St Bede's. So we explained that there was Mass every morning, benediction on Wednesdays, the rosary on Thursdays, confession on Saturdays, and sung Latin Mass on Sundays.
      'Was there time for any lessons with all that?' Mike enquired.
      'Oh yes,' I said tipsily. 'And Lily was jolly good at them! She got twelve 'O' levels, four 'A' grade A levels, and an exhibition to Cambridge at 17.'
      'What about sports?'
      'We had hockey and netball.'
      'I was useless,' said Lily with a laugh. 'All that running and jumping - such a bore - I really couldn't be fagged. I was no good at music either,' she giggled. I kept quiet; it was perfectly true. In fact she had a voice like a corncrake and standing next to her during 'Faith of Our Fathers' was not a musically rewarding experience. 'As for dancing,' she went on. 'I was appalling at that! I had two left feet - I still have.'
      'There was lots of drama,' I went on enthusiastically. 'It was great. Especially the annual school play...'Suddenly the smile slid off Lily's face, and she gave me a censuring stare. And now I remembered. Drama's a sore point. We don't talk about that. You see, Lily wasn't very good at acting, and without sounding conceited, I was. But the awful thing was that she loved it, but she was always so over the top. I mean, she couldn't even make the sign of the cross without looking as though she was directing traffic. So acting was not her forte, and this spoilt our friendship, for a while. We were in the lower sixth, and Reverend Mother was casting the school play. She'd decided to do Othello and, as the only non-white girl at St Bede's, Lily presumed the role would be hers. She prepared hard for the part, and I helped her go through her lines. But when, after auditions, the list went up, the lead had gone not to Lily, but to me. She didn't take it well, I'm afraid. In fact she stormed into Reverend Mother's office - I was there at the time - and shouted,
      'It's because I'm black, isn't it?'
      'No Lily,' said Reverend Mother calmly. 'It's because you are not a good enough actress. You have many gifts,' she went on calmly. 'I know you are going to be a huge success in life. But I confidently predict that your future triumphs will not take place on the stage.' There was silence. Then Lily left. She wouldn't speak to me for a month. But what was I supposed to do? Refuse the part? It was a wonderful role, and everyone said I did it well; I can still remember those marvellous lines to this day. 'I had been happy... so I had nothing known. So now, forever, farewell the tranquil mind!'
      Lily gradually got over her disappointment, though she refused to come to the play; and we never, ever spoke of it again - until tonight. I don't think it was tactless of me to mention it, given that it was eighteen years ago and our roles had long since been reversed. I mean, she's the star now. Not me. She's the celebrated and successful one. She's the one with the huge flat in Chelsea, and the fridge full of champagne and foie gras. I'm the boring suburban housewife, with two children, and sensible shoes, who thinks a trip to Ikea's a treat. So I appreciate the fact that Lily's kept in touch all this time, when you consider how our lives have diverged.
      At this point - it must have been almost ten thirty - we'd gone on to pudding. The candles had almost burned down, and the bottles of wine had been drunk. I thought Peter had had one too many; I could tell that he was quite well-oiled. He and Matt were talking about the Internet, and Katie was doing some psychometric tests on Lily - Lily's her godmother, so claimed not to mind. Meanwhile Mimi, still clearly struck by the novelty of being married, was asking me if I had any wisdom to impart.
      'Tell me, Faith,' she whispered. 'What's the secret of a successful marriage?'
      'I don't know,' I murmured, lifting a spoonful of poached autumn fruits to my mouth. 'I only know that after fifteen years together Peter and I have this unbreakable bond. We're like the wisteria growing up the front of our house - we're completely intertwined.'
      'What quality do you admire in him most?' Mimi added.
      'His ability to find my contact lenses whenever I lose one,' I giggled. 'He's brilliant at it.'
      'No, seriously,' Mimi pressed me. 'What do you like about him best?'
      'His decency' I replied, 'and his truthfulness. Peter always tells the truth.'
      Mike thought that was such a nice thing to say that he said he thought Peter ought to make a little speech.
      'Go on,' he said.
      'Oh no,' groaned Peter.
      'Please,' Mimi insisted. 'This is an occasion, after all.'
      'Oh, all right,' Peter conceded, with another sip of wine. 'Er... I just want to say...' he began, getting unsteadily to his feet, 'that Faith was my first love, and that my 15 years with her feel like a millstone...'
      'Freudian slip!' said Katie.
      'I mean, a milestone,' he corrected himself. 'A milestone. That's what I mean. An incredible achievement, in fact. When you consider. And I just can't believe where the last fifteen years of my life have gone.' That was it. He'd finished. I tried to smile. As I say, he's very preoccupied at work, so he's not quite his usual relaxed and happy self.
      'He's rather tired,' I whispered diplomatically to Mimi and Mike.
      'He does seem distracted,' Lily agreed.
      'Yes,' I said, 'no doubt because, well, he's got a lot on his mind right now.'
      'I must say, he's looking good though,' Lily murmured, as our coffee arrived. 'Hasn't he lost a bit of weight?'
      'Er, yes, he has. He's looking pretty trim, you're right.'
      'Nice tie he's wearing,' she whispered appreciatively.
      'Yes. Yes,' I agreed. 'Nice tie.'
      Then Lily reached into her bag, took out a box of Pandora matches and struck one. It hissed and flared as it ignited, then died down to a steady yellow flame. She lifted a cheroot to her lips, lit it and inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke away. Then she looked at me seriously, and said, very, very softly, 'I think you're marvellous to trust him.'
      This struck me as a very strange remark, because of course I trust Peter - I always have. As I say, he's a truthful man. So I didn't have a clue what Lily meant, and I certainly didn't want to ask her, in front of everyone else. In any case Peter was waving for the bill now - it was late, and the evening was drawing to an end.
      ' - let's get our coats.'
      ' - is this inclusive?'
      ' - no, our treat, Mike.'
      ' - Katie can you get Granny's coat?'
      ' - very kind, Peter. Next time we take you.'
      ' - who's got the baby?'
      ' - oh look here's someone's cab.'
      Before we knew what had happened, we were all standing outside, kissing each other goodbye.
      'What a wonderful evening,' said Mimi, as the snowflakes fell gently onto her hair. 'I hope we make it to fifteen years,' she added as she strapped the baby into the back of the car. 'I hope we make it to thirty,' said Mike, gallantly. 'Thanks for a wonderful dinner, you two - bye bye.' The children were submitting to being kissed by Lily, though both of them hate her scent, Jennifer had been zipped up, and Sarah had gone to her car. Then I flagged down a passing cab, and climbed in with Peter and the kids.
      'What a great evening,' he said as we swished along the wet, sleety road.
      'Yes, it was darling,' I said. 'I really enjoyed it too.' And it's true. I did. But at the same time I was aware, in a way I could not yet define, that somehow, something had changed.

click to read part two of the opening chapter of 'Out of the Blue'