JANUARY part two
            There are three things that people always ask you if you work for breakfast TV. What time do you have to get up? What time do you have to go to bed? And does it wreck your social life? Sometimes I just feel like holding up a banner at parties saying, '3.30, 9.30, and YES!' You simply never get used to it. Did I say that you do? Well, it's not true - you never get used to the early start. It's horrible. It's horrible when the alarm goes off at half past three and you're body's still crying out for sleep. And it's even worse if you're feeling unhappy, as I was this morning, and are slightly hungover to boot. Graham grumbled as I lurched out of bed, but declined to stand guard by the bathroom door. I showered, squished on a little Escape - my favourite scent at the moment - put on my navy Principles suit, then went down to the waiting cab. As we pulled out of Elliot Road, I remembered Lily's words again: 'I think you're marvellous to trust him... trust him... I think you're marvellous to trust...' I stared out of the window as we drove through the slush-filled streets, turning her comment over and over in my mind; examining it from all angles, as I might study an interesting stone. But however much I thought about it, I still didn't know what she meant. Nor was I at all sure that I really wanted to know. I mean, Lily does have a habit of saying things I don't particularly like, but usually I just ignore them. That's what I forced myself to do this morning as I wrenched my thoughts towards work. After all, I told myself firmly, I have an important job to do. People depend on me. I can make or break their day. When I'm about to go on air Terry, the 'star' presenter, looks into the camera, and says, 'Well folks, what's the weather going to do today? Let's h-a-v-e- FAITH!' So on I come, and I tell them, and the viewers do have faith in me. They rely on me to tell them if they need to take a coat or a brolly, or if the humidity's going to be high. I let them know if it's going to be very windy, and if it's safe to set sail, or drive. So I think the weather forecast's really important, but I'm afraid my colleagues don't feel the same. They just see it as this insignificant little slot that comes on three minutes before the news. To them, it's just a buffer before the junction - they're always trying to cut me down. I'm meant to have two and a half minutes, but often it's less than one. But there's nothing I can do about it because it's all controlled from the technical gallery. For example, I can be in the middle of some fascinating piece about warm fronts when I suddenly hear the director, in my earpiece, shouting at me to stop. They're really rude about it sometimes - I hear them yelling, 'Shut up, Faith! Shut up! SHUT UP!' It's terribly distracting. What they're meant to do is to calmly count me down from ten, and I know that by the time I hear them say 'zero,' I have to have signed off, with a nice smile. Equally, if they lose a news item, I'll hear someone screaming 'Fill Faith! Fill! Fill! FILL!!'. But I'm not fazed, because I can cope; I once filled from 30 seconds right up to four minutes! And I pride myself on being able to stay calm in those situations and to come out exactly when required. Another thing, because I use open talkback, I can hear them all gossiping in the gallery during my slot. The weather's their down time you see. That's when they put their feet up because they don't have anything to do. This is because I change the graphics with my clicker, and I ad lib my script, so I don't have an autocue. So while I'm doing my slot I can hear them sorting out what went wrong with the previous item, or telling make-up to fix Terry's hair, or instructing the cameraman to close in on so and so, or boasting about some bird they pulled down at the pub. And they forget that I'm on air, broadcasting live, and that I can hear every word they say. So one way and another, being a weather presenter is a pretty stressful job. But I enjoy it. I really do, especially at this time of year. I love the winter, you see: not just because of my optimistic outlook on life - but because in winter the weather's great. In the summer we only get three types; either it's rainy, it's cloudy, or it's fine. But at this time of year we get the works. We get ice, and fog, and frost, and rain, and we get sleet, and hail and snow. We get fine, clear weather too if there's an anti-cyclone, and we can get hurricane force winds as well. So if you're in the weather business, like I am, then winter's a thrilling time. And although the hours are pretty dreadful, I enjoy myself once I'm at work. So this morning, despite my worries, and my headache, I felt the usual frisson as we drove through the gates.
      It takes about twenty minutes to get to AM-UK! which is based in a converted warehouse in Ealing. It's not a beautiful building but I rather like it there. The production office on the third floor is open plan, which has its drawbacks, of course, not least seeing the ashen faces of my colleagues every morning when I arrive. They sit there in the green glow of their computer screens like extras from The Night of the Living Dead, but that's what comes of spending half the year in almost perpetual dark. I usually get in at four, have a quick espresso from the machine, and then get straight down to work. First I read the faxed briefing from International Weather Productions which forms the basis of my reports. Then I log on to my computer - with its 'rainbow' screensaver - and study the satellite charts. For although I never trained as a meteorologist, I do actually know my stuff, because when AM-UK! took me on, they sent me on a six-week forecasting course. So I'm not just spouting someone else's script - I get to write my own. I'd like to make it clear that I'm not a glamorous type of weather girl. Nicole Kidman in To Die For? - well that's just not me. Blonde and gorgeous? No. In fact I'm a bit mousey to look at, which is why I got the job.
      'What we like about you,' said our wimpish editor Darryl when he interviewed me, 'is that you're so nice and ordinary - you won't threaten the housewives too much. They'll be sitting there, and thinking to themselves, "Well, I could do better than that!"'
      To be honest, I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that remark, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And I can see what he means - he wanted someone who'd look businesslike, but pleasant, and I do. I'm not the kind of forecaster to hog the limelight, or try and 'twinkle' too much. I just go to work, and do my job in a competent, friendly way. I'm very happy standing by the charts, with my clicker, talking about cold snaps and sunny spells, and I don't regard weather presenting as a stepping stone to greater things. I've got just the job I want, thank you very much - unlike our showbiz reporter, Tatiana.
      'Hello Tatiana,' I said pleasantly, as I passed her desk. Usually she's reasonably friendly, because she knows that I'm no threat. Today, however, she was preoccupied and didn't hear me; this was because she was busy mutilating a publicity shot of Sophie, our new presenter.
      'Morning Tatty,' I tried again, and was rewarded with a thin smile. Then she put down her Stanley knife, threw the pieces into the bin, and went over to talk to Terry. I try to steer clear of office politics, but those two are clearly in cahoots. They've united recently in a common cause - to make Sophie's life complete hell. Tatiana wanted that job. She's wanted it for years. And when our old presenter, Gaby, went off to present Blankety Blank, Tatty assumed it would be hers. Terry was desperate for her to have it too, because he knew she wouldn't show him up. He's of the old school, you see. He doesn't regard himself as the programme's 'co-presenter', but as Presenter One. And it is the job of Presenter One - middle aged and male - to do all the serious stuff while Presenter Two - young and blonde - sits there gazing at him admiringly, before introducing some item on knitting. That's what is was like with Terry and Gaby, but Sophie's a different case.
      'Morning everyone!' Sophie called out cheerfully, as I studied my isobars. 'I say, did you see Jeremy Paxman lay into the Russian Defence secretary last night?' she said as she took off her coat. 'I thought what he said about Chechnya was absolutely spot on. He said he thinks the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe should be much more involved in the negotiations, and I must say I totally agree.'
      'Oh do you really?' said Terry.
      'As for the sneaky way the Russians are flogging their nuclear expertise to Iraq,' she added as she switched on her computer, 'well it's an international scandal, don't you think?'
      'Ra-ther.'
      Terry is thirty-nine - or so he claims - and has a third from Wolverhampton Poly. He is not adjusting well to having a twenty-four-year-old Oxford graduate with a starred first in Politics, Philosophy and Economics sitting beside him on the studio sofa. Sophie's appointment came as a bit of a shock. As Terry never tires of saying, she didn't know an autocue from a bus queue when she arrived. This was true. She'd come from radio, she was an editor at London F.M., and Darryl had been invited to take part in a phone-in there about the future of digital TV. So impressed was he with Sophie's brilliance that he invited her to audition for AM-UK! The next thing we knew - she'd got the job.
      But it's obvious that Sophie's much too bright for a programme like ours. I mean - don't think me disloyal - but most days AM-UK! is more of a dog's dinner than a successful breakfast show. The mix of items is bizarre. Take today's running order for example: 'celebrity disfigurement - failed face lifts; heroic hamsters and the lives they've saved; psychic granny predicts the future; Tatiana's profile of Brad Pitt; coping with ovarian cysts: ten new ways with chrysanthemums; and, somewhere in the middle of all that, an interview with Michael Portillo.
      'I'm doing the Portillo interview,' said Terry as he leaned back in his swivel chair.
      'But I'm down to do that one,' said Sophie as she tucked her short blonde hair behind one ear.
      'So I see,' said Terry indolently, 'but it's clearly a mistake. I think you'll find that that one falls to me. I've more experience than you,' he added.
      'With respect Terry,' replied Sophie, carefully, 'I've interviewed Michael Portillo twice before.'
      'Sophie,' said Terry wearily, 'on this show we all pull together. I'm afraid there's absolutely no room for big egos - so I'll be doing the Portillo interview - OK?' And that was that. Terry has quite a lot of clout, actually - and he knows it - because he's the housewives' choice. Moreover, he has a cast-iron two-year contract, so Darryl can't push Sophie's cause too far. The atmosphere gets pretty stormy sometimes, but Sophie handles it well. I mean, on breakfast TV the hours are so awful that most disputes tend to be settled with machetes. Things that wouldn't bother you at three in the afternoon induce homicidal rage at five a.m. But so far Sophie has coped with Terry and Tatty's provocations with a sangfroid that would chill champagne. She simply pretends she has no idea that they've anything against her. She's so polite to them, despite their dirty tricks. For example, Tatiana's recently taken to sidling up to her, three seconds before she goes on air, and saying, 'Not sure that colour suits you,' or 'Oh no! Your mascara's run,' or 'Did you know your hair's sticking up?' But Sophie just smiles at her and says, 'Oh, thanks so much for telling me, Tatiana. You look lovely by the way.' It's impressive, but as I say, Sophie's brilliant at politics and I think she's playing a clever game. She's very business-like about her work, and she's also very discreet. None of us has the slightest clue about her private life. I mean, she never makes personal phone calls, but I think she's got a chap. Because after the Christmas party last month, I went back up to the office to get my bag, and I heard Sophie talking to someone called Alex, in an obviously lovey-dovey way. I coughed to let her know I was there, and she suddenly looked up, and froze. So I just grabbed my bag and walked straight out, because I didn't want her to think I'd heard. But I had. And that's the downside of working in an open-plan office - there's not much you don't get to know. But my approach is an old-fashioned one: hear no evil; see no evil; and above all, speak no evil.
      So I sat there this morning, engrossed in the weather charts, preparing the bulletins that I do every half hour during the show. My first one's at 6.30, so at ten past six I went down to Make-Up on the second floor. The second floor is where all the exciting stuff goes on. That's where the Studio is, and the Technical Gallery, and Wardrobe and the dressing rooms, and the Green Room, and the Duty Office, where all the complaints and comments are logged. And as I walked down the carpet-tiled corridor, doors were opened and banged shut, and researchers sprinted past me in both directions, clutching clipboards and looking tense. I glanced into the Green Room where various contributors were slumped, comatose, in leather chairs, while Jean, our friendly Guest Greeter, tried to rouse them with cups of Kenco.
      'Danish pastry?' I heard her say. 'Or how about a nice scone?' Then someone came flying out of the gallery screaming 'Where the hell's Phil? Where's Phil? Are you Phil? Right - you're on!' In fact things were pretty noisy all in all.
      ' - could someone page Tatiana?'
      ' - would you prefer Earl Grey?'
      ' - the psychic granny's lost her crystal ball!'
      ' - I've got some nice Assam.'
      ' - Sophie's jacket looks creased.'
      ' - the skateboarding cat's just arrived!'
      So to go into the Make-Up room is to enter a haven from all this chaos. Inside, Iqbal and Marian quietly transform our sleep-deprived faces for the camera. I sat in a gently reclining chair, while Iqbal - we call him Iqqy - put a flowery nylon gown round my shoulders and clipped back my short brown hair. Laid out on the counter before me were serried ranks of foundation bottles, powder compacts, eye-shadows, lipsticks and combs. Canisters of hairspray gleamed in the theatrical lightbulbs round the mirror.
      'Ready with the Polyfilla?' I asked wryly as I surveyed my exhausted-looking face.
      'You do look a bit tired,' he said, solicitously. 'Were you on the tiles last night?'
      'Yes. It was my wedding anniversary - we went out for supper, en famille.'
      'How lovely,' he said, soothingly.
      'It was,' I replied. 'In a way, or it would have been...' You see the thing about Iqqy and Marian is that you just want to talk to them. You naturally want to open up. They're so calm and sympathetic and kind. It's as though you're in the psychiatrist's chair, not the make-up chair, and you want to tell them all your troubles. And as they work miracles on your ravaged exterior, you fancy they can repair you on the inside too. So it was on the tip of my tongue to tell them that actually I hadn't enjoyed myself that much last night because my best friend, Lily, had made this very odd remark about my husband, and I'd been trying ever since to work out what she might have meant, and this - and the fact that I'd drunk too much - had resulted in my getting no sleep.
      'How many years have you been married?' asked Marian.
      'Fifteen,' I replied.
      'Wow,' she said. 'You must have married young.'
      'Yes,' I sighed. 'I did.'
      'Fifteen years,' she repeated. 'But then, I've already been married eight.'
      'And Will and I have been together for five,' said Iqqy as he pulled mascara through my pale lashes. 'Although,' he went on ruefully, 'We've had our ups and downs. But fifteen years, that's wonderful. No wonder you felt like celebrating.'
      'Well, yes, except, actually, it was a bit strange...' I began, '...because, look, I don't know what you two think about this...'; then I immediately stopped, because Terry had just come in. He needed more powder. And as he sat there, bitching about Sophie, I ignored him, in the way I usually do, by pretending to be engrossed in my script. Ten minutes later, primped and preened for the cameras, I slipped into the studio. It's like the soft furnishings department of a provincial department store. There are two large, pink, chequered sofas with squashy cushions, and a smoked glass coffee table. There are anaemic prints on the walls, and a Habitat style shelf unit with cheesy ornaments and pastel toned vases of silk flowers. Behind is a trompe à l'oeil backdrop of London, to one side is a small stage, and, next to that, my weather chart. I picked my way towards it, between the four cameras, stepping over the thick coils of electric cable, and trying not to bash my head on the perilously low-slung rigging. It was hot. It's always hot in the studio, because of all the lights. We'd just hit the first ad break, and Terry was taking the opportunity to throw one of his little fits.
      'Look, Sophie, I've told you before,' he whined, 'I sit on the left hand side of the sofa.'
      'Oh, but, with respect, Terry,' she said, pleasantly, 'why?'
      'Why?' he repeated. 'Why? Because I've been sitting on the left hand side of this sofa for ten years, so I don't see why I should move for you.'
      I knew why he wanted to sit on that side. He's convinced the lighting is better there and that it makes him look younger.
      'Well, I really don't see why it matters, Terry,' said Sophie, wearily, as she got up, 'but if it's so important to you, well, of course.'
      The sound engineer attached a microphone to my lapel, and I slipped in my earpiece as I took up my place by the weather chart. I heard the director count us all out of the break, there was a brief burst of signature tune, then Terry leant into the camera and said, 'Welcome back everyone; you're watching AM-UK! Now. Has a message from beyond the grave changed your life..?' The interview with the psychic granny went quite well, then there was a sports report; that was followed by a piece about Princess Anne and Save the Children, and then it was Sophie's turn. She was doing the interview about ovarian cysts and had only got halfway through, and in fact it was rather interesting as the gynaecologist was very good; and Sophie had just paused for a second, between questions, when to my astonishment, Terry cut in.
      'Now, what's the weather doing today...?' he asked, beaming at Camera One. I caught the cameraman's surprised expression. 'Let's h-a-v-e FAITH!!' He'd done it deliberately, of course, to cut down Sophie's time on air. He doesn't just steal her limelight, he goes in for daylight robbery. Whenever he thinks she's been talking long enough, he just buts right in. Especially if she's doing something remotely 'serious,' like a medical interview, or current affairs. And when Darryl tries to tell him off at the meeting afterwards he just looks at Sophie, all wounded innocence, and says, 'Oh! Sorry Sophie, I thought you'd finished.' I really hate it when Terry does that, not just because it's nasty, but because it means I'm thrown on air with no warning. The red light suddenly flashes on top of Camera Two and there I am, live to the nation.
      'Good morning!' I said, with a huge smile to cover my annoyance with Terry, and because I always smile more when the weather's bad. 'And I'm afraid the outlook's not good,' I began as I turned towards the chart. 'The snow that fell across the country yesterday has now turned to sleet and slush, and as temperatures drop again this means a very high chance of black ice, so do be careful if you're driving,' I added as I pressed the clicker, aware, in my earpiece, of the furious babble in the gallery.
      ' - Terry's a bastard!'
      '.Wind speeds are picking up in the south and south west...'
      ' - he cut her interview by 2 minutes!'
      'Those beastly easterlies are at it again...'
      ' - and it was really interesting.'
      'Possibly bringing a little sunshine in the north...'
      ' - I had an ovarian cyst once.'
      'But elsewhere an overcast and bitterly cold day...'
      ' - very painful actually...'
      'With a seventy per cent chance of further snow falls...'
      ' - it was the size of a lemon apparently...'
      'And with this frontal system in mid Atlantic...'
      ' - and full of pus...'
      'We're about to enter a prolonged period of low pleasure.'
      ' - low pleasure?'
      'I mean, low pressure. So, to summarise...'
      ' - God Faith looks tired.'
      'A cold, nasty day for most of us...'
      ' - Terry sit up straight.'
      'But maybe a glimmer of sunshine in the North...'
      ' - and her hair's a mess. Ready when you are Faith? Ten, nine, eight...'
      ' But temperatures in the south and south east dropping...'
      'Seven, six, five...'
      'To no higher than 4 degrees...'
      ' Three, two,...'
      'So do remember to wrap up warm...'
      'One and...'
      'See you in half an hour.'
      'Zero. Cut to the skateboarding cat!'
      Once I've done my first forecast, the rest of the morning flashes by. In between 'hits' I check the charts, phone the met office, and update my bulletins as required. The nine thirty forecast is my last one, and that's when the programme comes off air. We have a quick meeting in the boardroom, then I take off my make-up, sit at my desk and go through my mail. I get lots of letters. Most of them are from children asking me to help them with their geography homework. They write asking me what clouds are made of for example, or why frost is white, or what the difference is between snow and sleet, or how rainbows are formed. Then I get letters thanking me for cheering people up. What I like about you, wrote Mr. Barnes from Tunbridge Wells, is that, even when you're giving us bad news you do it with a nice smile. Then - and I hate these ones - there are the letters about my appearance. The slightest change in it - such as a hair trim - produces a sackload of disapproving mail. Then there are the 'requests' from those viewers who seem to think I'm God. Dear Faith, wrote a Mrs McManus from Edinburgh, this morning, '...please, please, PLEASE could we have some better weather in Scotland. We've had not a ray of sunshine since Hogmanay!' I write back to everyone, unless they're obviously nuts. Then, when I've done that I tidy my desk, and go home. People often ask me how I spend the rest of the day. The answer is, I potter. I feed Graham, of course, and take him for walks. I might meet a friend, or go to the shops. I do the housework - I hate it, but we can't afford a cleaner - I fill in competitions, and I read. In an ideal world, I'd do an afternoon job, but I can't, because I'm too tired. In any case it would very awkward, because people know my face from TV. But the first thing I do, when I get home, is to go to bed and sleep for a couple of hours, so that's what I did today. Or at least I tried to. But I found myself thinking, yet again, about what Lily had said last night. As I say, she does sometimes say things I don't like - including the odd uncharitable comment about Peter. Usually I just forget them, but this time I found I couldn't. Why on earth had she said what she said and whatever could it mean? She's so shrewd and clever - was it just a casual remark? I tried counting sheep, but that didn't work. I tried remembering all the stations on the shipping forecast, but that didn't help either. I tried recalling the names of all Peter's authors, but still sleep eluded me, chased away by Lily's remark. So I turned on the bedside radio to distract myself but that made no difference either. I opened my book - Madame Bovary - but even that didn't help. My mind returned to Lily's comment again and again and again. It was nagging me. Annoying me. Needling me. Gnawing at me. It kept going round and round in my mind like a mosquito in a hotel room. 'Neeeee...' it went. 'Neee... neeee... neeeeeeeeee.' I tried to swat it away, but back it came, so I pulled the duvet over my head. I thought of the children, and Graham, and I thought of the programme and how it had gone. I thought of my parents on their latest trip, and of the man who came to fix the roof. I thought about my Tesco Reward Card and tried to remember how many points I'd accrued; but still Lily's strange words continued to clang away, like tinnitus. What was that remark about? What on earth could it mean?
      'Stuff it!' I said, to Graham as I threw off the duvet. 'I'm going to damn well go and find out.'

      'Darling!' said Lily, meeting me at the lift on the fifty third floor of Canary Wharf an hour and fifty minutes later. 'What a divine surprise! But what are you doing over here?'
      'I was just passing,' I said.
      'Really? Well, how lovely. You can share my take-away lunch. And how are you this morning?'
      'Not at my best,' I replied. 'Rather hungover in fact.'
      'Oh dear,' she murmured. 'The wrath of grapes! But it was a wonderful evening,' she added as she tucked the dog under her left arm. 'Jennifer adored it, didn't you poppet?' Jennifer gave me a vacant stare. 'And how marvellous of you to get up three hours later like that and calmly do the weather,' Lily added as we crossed the editorial floor. 'I watched you from the gym at six thirty That girl Sophie's rather bright,' she went on, 'perhaps we ought to do something on her in Moi! Terry whatsisname's a bore though isn't he?' she added. 'A clear case of mistaken nonentity. Now,' she said, as we swept past a rail of designer clothes, 'where are your lovely kids?'
      'They've gone back to school,' I explained, as a pink feather boa lifted in the breeze from Lily's wake. 'Peter took them to the station this morning. Term starts again today.'
      'They're such darlings,' Lily exclaimed, as she stroked Jennifer's top knot. 'Isn't Katie a scream with her psychoanalysis - though I can't help feeling she's a little Jung. We must do a makeover on her for the magazine and get her out of those blue-stocking clothes, now Jasmine...' She'd stopped at the desk of a whey-faced girl of about twenty. 'I've told you not to drink coffee at lunchtime, you know it stops you sleeping in the afternoons.'
      We passed the picture desk where a photographer was having his portfolio assessed, and long-limbed girls leaned over the illuminated lightbox. Then we entered Lily's glass-sided office, with its earthenware pots of splayed orchids, the Magnum shots of pouting models, the framed Moi! covers, and the shining industry awards. She waved her hand at the wall-sized shelf-unit displaying all her rivals' magazines.
      'World of Inferiors,' she quipped. Then she removed a bottle of greenish liquid from the small fridge in the corner.
      'Wheatgrass juice?'
      'Er, no thanks.' She poured herself a glass of, then sat behind her desk and held up a plate.
      'Vegetarian sushi?' she enquired.
      'Oh, I'm not hungry, thanks.'
      'These seaweed rolls are awfully good...'
      'No thanks.'
      'And this shiitake's divine.'
      'Look, Lily' I tried again, I just wanted to ask you something. Um...'
      'Of course darling,' she said. 'Ask me anything you like.'
      Suddenly there was a tap at the door, and Lily's secretary Polly appeared.
      'Lily - here's the February edition of Vogue. It's just come in.'
      Lily winced. She loathes Vogue - in fact it's a minor obsession. This is because in 1994, when she was features editor there, they failed to promote her to deputy editor, a lapse of professional judgement she will neither forget nor forgive. She began to flick the pages of the magazine, in an indolent, insolent way.
      'God, how boring,' she muttered. 'Tsk... that old story... seriously vieux chapeau... Oh good Lord, what a cliché - at Moi! we avoid clichés like the plague. Oh, purleeze - not Catherine Zeta-Jones again! Oh God!' she declared suddenly, with an appalled expression on her face. 'They've got Sally Desert working for them - I wouldn't let that crummy little dwarf write my shopping list! Faith,' she announced, as she tossed the magazine onto the floor, 'I am going to outsell Vogue.'
      'Yes, I'm sure you are Lily but-'
      'We're not far off,' she added, as she leaned back in her chair, steepled her long fingers and scrutinised the ceiling. 'Lots of their advertisers are coming to us, and who can blame them?' she asked. This was clearly a rhetorical question. 'We make our advertisers feel wonderful,' she went on seamlessly, as she fed Jennifer bits of sushi. 'We woo them. We flatter them. We give them very good rates. We-'
      'Lily.'
      '- look after them. Make them feel special. In short, we do not bite the brand that feeds us.'
      'Lily.'
      'And in any case they now realise that Moi! is the fashion magazine of the Millennium.' She went and stood by the window, then raised the Venetian micro-blind. 'Isn't it wonderful?' she said, as she gazed down on the Dome. 'Isn't it just wonderful?' she repeated. 'Come here Faith - and look. Look at all... this,' she'd threaded her slender arm through mine. 'Don't you think it's just fantastic?'
      'Not really,' I said truthfully as I inhaled the aroma of her Hypnotic Poison. 'To me it's all style and no substance.'
      'I was there,' she murmured dreamily, ignoring my remark. 'I was there, Faith, at that party.'
      'I know.'
      'I was there with the Queen and Tony Blair. Don't you think that's amazing Faith? That your little schoolfriend was invited to that?' Suddenly I looked at Lily's profile and was transported back twenty-five years. I remembered the awkward girl, standing on stage in her blue gingham dress, and the look of fear and confusion on her face. Now here she was, atop London's tallest building, with the world spread out beneath her feet.
      'Don't you think that's amazing?' she pressed me again.
      'What? Well, yes, er, no. I mean, not really Lily - I always knew you'd succeed.'
      'Yes,' she said, dreamily, as we gazed at the boat-speckled river, shining below. 'I've succeeded, despite the attempts of a few people to put a spanner in the works.'
      'What people?' I said.
      'Oh, no-one significant,' she breathed. 'Just nobodies, out to spoil my success. But they know who they are. And I know who they are too...' she went on with an air of slight menace. 'But no-one's going to stop me,' she murmured. 'No-one's going to hold me back.'
      'Lily,' I interjected, wishing she'd stop talking just for a second and listen.
      'I've trounced my enemies Faith,' she went on calmly, 'by my vision and my hard work. And the reason why Moi! is going to be the Number One glossy is because we've got so many original ideas. Now,' she added, enthusiastically as she returned to her desk. 'I just want your advice on a new feature we're planning - top secret of course. What do you think of this?' She handed me a mock-up page. It was headed 'Your Dog's Beauty Questions Answered'. I am a Yorkshire Terrier, I read. I have very fine, fly-away fur. I can never get it to stay in one place. What should I do? I am a miniature poodle, wrote another. But at the moment my coat looks slightly discoloured and stained. This is causing me considerable distress. What grooming products can I use to restore it to its former glory?
      'The readers are going to love it,' said Lily with an excited smile. 'I'd like to do a dog special at some point, a pull-out supplement, maybe for the July edition, yes,' she went on distractedly. 'I could call it Chienne. We could get it sponsored by Winalot.'
      'Lily!' I stood up. It was the only way to attract her attention. 'Lily,' I repeated. 'I wasn't just passing.'
      'Weren't you darling?'
      'No,' I said, as I sat down again. 'I'm afraid that was a lie.'
      'Was it?' she said, her eyes round. 'Really, Faith, that's not like you.'
      'I came here for a reason,' I went on, my heart now banging like a drum. 'Because there's something I need to ask you.'
      'Faith, darling,' said Lily, seriously, 'Jennifer and I are all ears.'
      'Well,' I began nervously. 'I know this will sound silly, but last night you said something that disturbed me.'
      'Oh Faith,' she said with a sip of wheatgrass juice, 'I'm always saying things that disturb you, we both know that.'
      'Yes, but this wasn't in the usual category of your flippant off-the-cuff remarks. It was not only what you said, but the way you said it.'
      'And what was it, then?' she enquired.
      'Well, you said,' I said, 'You said... you said that you thought I was "marvellous" to "trust" Peter.'
      Lily's arched eyebrows lifted an inch up her high, domed brow.
      'Well I do, darling!'
      'Why?'
      'Because I think any woman who trusts any man is a complete and utter marvel, given that the species are such beasts. I mean, why do you think I dump them at such a rate?'
      'Oh. I see. So it was just a general observation was it?'
      'Yes!' she said, gaily. 'Of course it was! You are silly to let that worry you, Faith. I thought you always prided yourself on never believing anything I say.'
      'Oh I do!' I exclaimed, 'I mean, I know that you're usually being funny. You like to pull my leg. I don't mind - I never have done - and I know it's still easy to do.'
      'Faith Value,' she said, with an indulgent shake of her head.
      'Yes,' I said, 'I suppose I am. And you're still Lily White.'
      'I know,' said Lily with a smile. 'I'm sorry if I worried you,' she went on, as she chewed delicately on her seaweed roll. 'It's just my sense of humour, darling. You know that.'
      'I know,' I agreed. 'But last night I couldn't help wondering, if what you said was a joke or not.'
      'Of course it was,' she said, 'don't give it a second thought.'
      'Oh good,' I said, vastly relieved, and I allowed myself to smile.
      'I was just joking, Faith.'
      'Oh, great.'
      'Because I'm good at badinage.'
      'Oh yes.'
      'I was just pulling your leg...' she was flicking through a copy of Moi!.
      'I know...'
      'I was just winding you up, like I do.'
      'Yup. Got that,' I said as I stood up to go. 'Great to get it sorted out'.
      'Although...' Lily added softly, without looking up.
      'Although... what?' I said.
      'Well...' she sighed, as she lifted her gaze to mine. 'Now we're on the subject, I must say that Peter didn't exactly seem relaxed. In fact I thought he was decidedly sharp. Mind you,' she continued judiciously, 'Peter's often sharp with me. I know he doesn't really like me,' she went on philosophically. 'I'm his bête noire,' she added with throaty laugh.
      'It's a personality thing,' I said diplomatically. 'It's just one of those little clashes one sometimes gets. But he has huge professional respect for you,' I said.
      'Does he?' she said with a wry smile.
      'In any case,' I went on quickly, 'between you and me, Peter's got a lot of hassle at work, so he's a little bit anxious at the moment.'
      'Anxious? Darling,' she added, 'he was jumpier than the Royal Ballet.'
      'Well...'
      'And I couldn't help noticing how trim he looked. And did you see he was wearing a Hermès tie?'
      'Was he? I wouldn't know. I don't really notice labels.'
      'Yes. Hermès. They're ninety pounds a throw. Now, I knew you hadn't bought it for him,' she went on. 'So I couldn't help wondering who had?' I stared at her.
      'He bought it himself.'
      'Really?'
      'Yes. As an investment. He said his headhunter has advised him to smarten up a bit. Peter's looking for a new job, you see - I didn't tell you this, but we think he's about to be kicked out.'
      'Really?' said Lily. 'Oh! How awful.'
      'Well, yes, because he's been happy at Fenton & Friend.'
      'I'll say he has,' she said.
      'Sorry?'
      'Well, all I mean is that any man would be happy working at Fenton & Friend.'
      'What do you mean?'
      'Well,' she said, as she adjusted Jennifer's butterfly barrette, 'it's stuffed with gorgeous girls.'
      'Oh. Is it?'
      'And I thought I heard someone say, the other day, that they'd seen Peter having lunch with an attractive blonde. But I could have been wrong,' she added softly.
      'Yes,' I said. 'You were. Or rather you were mistaken. Because Peter has to take authors and agents out to dinner sometimes. It's all part of his job.'
      'Of course it is, Faith. I know. But...'
      'But what?'
      'Well, darling, he is a publisher, and so..'
      'Yes?'
      'I really hate to say this darling... but maybe he's making someone an advance?' I gazed into Lily's liquid brown eyes. They're huge and hypnotic, slanting in shape, with interminable, thick, curling lashes.
      'An advance?' I repeated. I could hear the beating of my heart.
      'Maybe he's looking for a new chapter,' she went on softly, then took another sip of wheatgrass juice.
      'Lily, what are you talking about?'
      'Maybe, in the bookshop of life, he's been picking up more than a Penguin...'
      'Look I-'
      'And the only reason I say this is because his speech last night was so odd. Katie spotted the Freudian slip, Faith, didn't you?'
      'Well, I...'
      'And after all, you have been married for quite a long time...'
      'But...'
      'All I'm suggesting, is that in your situation, well, I'd be just a little on my guard.'
      'On my guard?'
      'Vigilant. Now, I'm only saying this as your friend.'
      'I know...'
      'Because I have only your best interests at heart.'
      'Yes. Thanks...'
      'But I think you ought to do a Christine...' I looked at her.
      'What? Hamilton?' I said aghast. 'You mean - search his pockets?' Lily was fiddling with the Buddhist power beads at her slender wrist.
      'That's what many women would do, Faith,' she said reasonably. 'But don't worry, darling. I'm sure there's absolutely nothing to be concerned about.'
      'Well, I don't know,' I said. 'Maybe... there is.'
      'No, no, I'm sure it's fine,' she said soothingly. 'But all I'm saying, as your best and oldest friend, is that maybe you should, well, sharpen up a bit.'
      'What?'
      'Learn to spot the signs.'
      'I wouldn't know how,' I groaned.
      'Of course you wouldn't - you're so trusting. But that's something I can help you with darling, because as luck would have it, Moi! did a big feature on this only last month.' She stood up and began to sort through a pile of old back issues on the floor.
      'Now where is it?' she said. 'Where is it? Oh here we are!' she exclaimed happily. 'You're in luck. "Is Your Man a Love-Rodent?" she read. Seven Classic Signs: One, he's distracted and distant. Two, he's "working late"; Three, he's looking fit; Four, his wardrobe's improved. Five, he's not interested in sex; Six, he's bought a mobile phone and Seven - and I gather that is the clincher Faith...' Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door.
      'Lily...' it was Polly again. 'Lily, I'm sorry, but I've got Madonna for you on line one.' 'Oh God,' said Lily, rolling her eyes, 'I've told her not to call me in my lunch break. Still...' she sighed. 'We do want her on the cover in June. Sorry, Faith darling. Must go.' She blew me a kiss as I stood at the door, then waved Jennifer's little paw up and down.
      'Now, I don't want you to worry,' she called out, as I opened the door. 'In any case I'm sure it's all going to work out for the best, as you always like to say.'
      I journeyed back to west London as if in a trance. I'd got what I wanted, all right. I'd had my nagging doubts dispelled - and replaced with naked fear. Peter was having an affair. Lily didn't say so in so many words, but she clearly thought something was up and she's, well, a woman of the world. My morale was so low it was practically underground, and as I left Turnham Greem tube and walked home I began to entertain all kinds of mad ideas; that Peter was in love with another woman; that he would up and leave; that I had been a bad wife; that he had been driven to find solace elsewhere; that our house would have to be sold; that our children would suffer and fail; that our dog would become a delinquent; that we'd never go to Ikea again; that - as I placed my hand on the garden gate, my heart suddenly skipped a beat. For there, on the doorstep, was an enormous bouquet of white and yellow flowers. I gathered it up in one hand and unlocked the door with the other, and as Graham leapt up to greet me with a joyful bark, I peeled off the envelope. And now the phone started to ring, but I ignored it as eyes scanned the message on the small, white card.
      Happy Anniversary, Faith, it read. So sorry I forgot. All my love, Peter. Relief knocked me over, like a wave. I sank gratefully onto the hall chair.
      'Of course he's not having an affair!' I said to Graham, as my hand reached for the phone. 'Peter loves me,' I said, 'and I love him, and that's all there is to it. Hello?'
      'Faith darling, it's Lily. Sorry we got cut off there.'
      'Oh don't worry,' I said cheerfully. 'I'd said everything I wanted to say and in fact Lily although it's very kind of you to give me advice, and I do appreciate it, I really don't think you're quite right, and to be honest I think I just really overreacted and I'd been in a silly sort of mood you see and I was very tired too from work, so-'
      'No, but Faith there was one thing I meant to tell you,' she said. 'Something really important - the seventh sign. Apparently it's the absolutely copper-bottomed-it-simply-never-fails-dead-cert-sure-fire-sign that one's husband is up to no good...'
      'Er, yes?' I said faintly. 'What is it?'
      'It's if he's sending you flowers!'

      'What are you getting up to?' Terry enquired saucily as he leant into the camera a few days later. 'Why not get up to AM-UK!, where there's lots of snap, crackle and pop! It's coming up to...' he glanced at the clock, 'seven fifty. And later in the show 'Internet Dating - how to "click" on-line; women with beards - why they prefer the rough to the smooth; and our Phobia of the Week - griddle pans. Plus all the news, weather and sport.'
      'But first,' said Sophie as she read her autocue, 'we ask that old question, what's in a name? Well, quite a lot according to sociologist Ed McCall who's just written a book about names, about what they mean, and how they can influence our lives. Ed, a warm welcome to the show.' I was standing by the weather chart, listening to this, and I must say it was great. Interesting items are rare, as one of the TV critics noted ironically, 'AM-UK!'s healthy breakfast menu is virtually fact-free!' But this interview was riveting, and Sophie handled it well.
      'Looking at surnames,' Ed McCall began, 'I've concluded that people are often drawn to careers which reflect their second names. For example there's a man called James Judge, who's a judge; and there's Sir Hugh Fish who was head of Thames Water; there's a newly ordained vicar called Linda Church, and I discovered a Tasmanian police woman called Lauren Order. Gardener's Question Time has Bob Flowerdew and Pippa Greenwood, and there's another well-known horticulturist called Michael Bloom.
      'I believe the medical profession has some intriguing examples,' Sophie prompted him.
      'Oh yes. I uncovered an allergist called Dr Aikenhead,' he said, 'and dermatologists Doctors Whitehead and Pitts; I found a Urologist called Dr Weedon, and a paediatrician called Dr Kidd.'
      'This is great Sophie,' I heard Darryl say in my earpiece.
      'Any others?' she said with a smile.
      'There's a surgeon called Frank Slaughter, a police officer called Andy Sergeant, several bankers with the surname, 'Cash,' and a convicted criminal called Tony Lawless. There are many other instances of this type,' he went on, 'so I've concluded that these people were drawn to their professions, whether consciously or not, because of their family names.'
      'I suppose you could call it nominative determinism,' suggested Sophie in her academic way.
      'Er, certainly,' he said, uncertainly, 'though that's a very technical way of putting it. But yes, I believe that names do determine our lives in some way; that they're not just labels, but form an inherent part of our identity.'
      'And is this as true of Christian names as it is of surnames?' Sophie asked.
      'Oh, definitely,' he said.
      'So what does Sophie mean?' Terry interjected with a smirk. 'Smug little show-off?'
      'Sorry?'
      'Sycophantic show-stealer?'
      'Shut up Terry!' I heard Darryl hiss in my earpiece.
      'Er, no,' said Ed McCall, clearly shocked by Terry's shameless on-screen slurs. 'Erm, the name Sophie actually means wisdom, and may I say,' he added gallantly, 'that it's a name that obviously suits this Sophie well.'
      'And what does Terry mean?' asked Sophie pleasantly.
      'Terry is either the diminutive of Terence,' Ed replied. 'Or it could be derived from the French name, Thierry, from Norman times.'
      'It's not a very popular name any more is it?' Sophie went on sweetly. Ah. She'd obviously read the book. 'In fact you point out that Terry's rather a dated name these days.'
      'That's right,' Ed agreed, 'It was especially popular in the 1950s.'
      'The 1950s!' she exclaimed. 'Oh I'm sure Terry wasn't born as long ago as that, were you?' she enquired innocently.
      'Oh no no no,' Terry said, 'much later.'
      'Of course you were,' said Sophie benignly, as the cameraman sadistically lingered on Terry's reddening face. 'I'm sure you were born much, much later than that, Terry.'
      '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 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 as 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 she'd made a declaration of war. And though I was glad to see Sophie starting 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 review 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 would 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. P.S., she had added. 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.' But, 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 re-read 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. So 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 billet doux - my husband is innocent,' I declared. By now I was rather enjoying myself. Relief was flooding in. I'd already checked the glove compartment for foreign knickers but found not so much as a thong. I'd done l471 on the telephone, and it had read back to me Sarah's number. I couldn't check his briefcase, of course, because he'd taken that to work.
      'Ah - his mobile phone statement,' I said, as I spotted an envelope marked One-2-One lying on the window sill. It had been opened, so I just slipped it out and read the bill. There was one 0207 number on it which appeared over thirty times. So I went downstairs, cunningly pressed 141 to conceal my number (as advised by Moi!) then dialled it, with a thumping heart.
      'Andy Metzler Associates,' said a female voice. I immediately put the phone down.
      'It's just his headhunter,' I said to Graham. 'Peter's blameless. Gimme five!' He held up his right paw and I shook it, then looked at the magazine again. Most love cheats are caught out either by unfamiliar numbers on their phone bill, or by suspicious entries on their credit card statements. Now, I didn't actually know where our credit card statement was, as I don't get to see it. This is not because Peter's hiding it from me, but because I never, ever open brown envelopes. It's a kind of phobia, I suppose. I'll open any number of white ones, but brown ones I avoid. So Peter always deals with our credit card, and I've never ever seen the bill. In any case I hardly use my card as it's so easy to over-spend. I rummaged in the bureau in the sitting room and found a small black folder labelled 'Credit Card'.
      'So far Peter has passed the fidelity test with flying colours,' I said to Graham. 'This, my darling doggo, is the final stage.' I examined the top statement, which was dated January 4th. As I expected, there were very few entries; we'd used the card to book theatre tickets at Christmas, we'd bought Katie some books from Borders, and there was a £60 entry for W.H. Smith for a new computer game for Matt. Then there was a fourth entry, for some flowers. My flowers, obviously. They'd cost £40 and had been ordered from a place called Floribunda. I know where that is - it's in Covent Garden, near Peter's office. So that was that then. No unexplained restaurant bills. No references to country house hotels. No suspicious mentions of Knickerbox or La Perla. My investigations were at an end. But as I snapped the folder shut and went to put it back, I suddenly felt my heart contract as though squeezed by an alien hand. Those flowers on the bill weren't my flowers. How could they be? My bouquet had only been sent yesterday. The bill for my ones wouldn't appear until the February statement in three week's time. I could hear my breathing increase as I lowered myself onto a nearby chair. I went into the hall, looked up Floribunda in the phone book and dialled the number with a trembling hand. What would I say when they answered? What on earth would I say? 'Please could you tell me who my husband ordered flowers for on December eighteenth as I'm suspicious that he's having an affair.' Perhaps I could pretend to be the recipient, and claim that they'd never turned up? 'I'm so sorry, but you know the flowers my husband Peter Smith ordered on the eighteenth of December? Yes, that's right. Well I'm afraid they never arrived; there seems to have been a mix-up, could you just confirm which address you sent them to...'
      'Hello, Floribunda, can I help you?' said a pleasant sounding female voice.
      'I - I -' I put the phone down, aware that the handset was wet with sweat. I just couldn't do it. I didn't want to know. I could feel the urgent banging of my heart as I sat on the foot of the stairs. Peter was having an affair. I had been happy so I had nothing known, I remembered, as my hands sprang up to my face. So now, forever, Farewell, the tranquil mind... I sat there, gazing at the gold sunburst mirror Lily had given us for our wedding. I stared at it for a minute or two, too shocked to know what to do. Then suddenly I gasped, and smiled, then smacked my forehead, hard, with the palm of my hand. 'You IDIOT Faith!' I shouted. 'You STUPID IDIOT!' I'd suddenly remembered, you see. His mother's birthday's on December the eighteenth. I'd organised the birthday card, and signed it, and we'd given her a beautiful leather photo album. And now it was obvious that Peter had decided to send her flowers as well. Of course. That was it! I flung my arms round the startled dog.
      'I'm a very silly Mummy,' I said, as Graham nervously licked my ear, 'and I got it completely wrong.' And I felt so mean for having suspected Peter, especially when he's got so much on his mind. I felt mean, and low, and somehow, tarnished. Now I resolved, as I picked up the credit card folder, that I'd never distrust him again. Then I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee - real coffee by way of celebration. And the heady aroma of arabica had filled the air, and I was feeling quite mellow again, calmly flicking through the rest of Moi!, when I heard the trill of the telephone.
      'Hello Faith.' It was Sarah. 'I just wanted to thank you for organising that lovely party last week. I did enjoy myself,' she said warmly, 'and it was wonderful to see the children - they're so grown up.'
      'Oh they are,' I said with a wistful smile.
      'And I thought it was so sweet the way you arranged it as a surprise for Peter.'
      'I wanted to cheer him up,' I explained. 'I expect he's told you that he's got a few worries at work.'
      'Well yes,' she said. 'He phoned me last night. But I'm sure it will all work out. But I must say he is a bit distracted at the moment.'
      'Yes,' I agreed. 'He is. In fact,' I went on enthusiastically, in a way I was shortly to regret, 'he'd even forgotten that it was our anniversary, and he's never done that before.'
      'Well,' Sarah exclaimed with a little laugh, 'he actually forgot my birthday!'
      'Sorry?' It was like falling down a mineshaft. 'I'm sorry, Sarah, what did you say?'
      'He forgot my birthday,' she repeated. 'And he's normally so thoughtful like that. I mean, I got your card of course and that lovely album. But Peter usually gives me a little something extra, just from him, but for the first time ever, he didn't. Not a thing. But please don't mention it to him,' she added quickly. 'He's got enough on his plate right now.'
      'So you didn't get...?' I began, faintly.
      'Get what?'
      'You didn't get any...?' I heard the sudden, sharp ring of her doorbell.
      'Oh I've got to go,' she said, 'My bridge partners have just turned up - let's chat another time soon, Faith. Bye.'
      I replaced the receiver very slowly. 'Oh God,' I said to Graham. 'Oh God,' I repeated, breathing more quickly. 'Who the hell did he send those flowers to, and what on earth shall I do?' I consulted the magazine again. Under the box headed, 'Action Stations!' was the following advice. On no account let your husband know that you have doubts about his fidelity. However hard it is you MUST carry on as though absolutely nothing is amiss.

      'So how was it today darling?' I enquired with phoney brightness as Peter arrived back from work.
      'Godawful,' he said wearily. 'Do you know what the old bat's doing now?'
      'What?'
      'She's trying to fob Amber Dane off onto me.'
      'I thought Amber Dane had given up writing those awful novels,' I said.
      'We all hoped so,' he replied with a grim smile. 'But she's written another one which she claims is "satire" if you please. Satire? From what I've read so far it's about as satirical as a box of Milk Tray. We really shouldn't be publishing it - in fact that's what I said. But Charmain's given me the manuscript and wants a full report. Talk about getting the short bloody straw,' he added as he loosened his tie.
      'Oh dear.'
      'And that creep,' he said exasperatedly, as he fixed himself a drink. 'That fat Old Etonian creep got all hoity toity with me, because I called him Olly.'
      'What's wrong with that?'
      'Exactly? Nothing. I mean, lots of people call him Olly. Charmain calls him Olly. And today, in a meeting, I called him Olly too, and afterwards he took me to one side, and he'd gone puce in the face, and all sweaty, and he said, very crossly, as though he was my bloody boss, 'Peter. Kindly don't call me Olly. My name is Oliver.' Pompous git! You know Faith, I used to love Fenton & Friend, but now I just can't wait to get out.'
      'Any news from Andy?' I asked. At this Peter blushed slightly, I guessed because he was embarrassed to admit that there wasn't any news.
      'Er... no,' he said with a sigh as he sank into an easy chair. 'There's nothing. Nothing yet. But I'm... hopeful.'
      I managed to remain all breezy and 'normal' as the magazine article advised, and I couldn't help congratulating myself for keeping up this pleasant facade when my mind was in such turmoil. As we sat down to supper I looked at Peter across the kitchen table, and it was as though I were seeing him in a whole new light. He looked different to me now, in some indefinable way, because for the first time in fifteen years I couldn't read his face. It was like looking at one of those smart clocks with no numerals - they can be rather hard to read. All I knew was that I didn't instinctively trust him in the way I had before. I mean before, trust just wasn't an issue between Peter and me. That may sound naïve, but it's true. I never ever gave it a thought, and I felt sorry for wives who did. But now I found myself, like thousands of other women, consciously wondering if my husband was having an affair. And it was a very peculiar feeling after being married to him for so long. As we sat there chatting over the lasagne - reduced by a pound in Tesco actually and double points on the loyalty card - I thought about Peter's name again, and about how he's always been my rock. Strong and steady and reliable - until now, that is. In the bible it was Peter upon whom Christ built his church. That's what we were taught at school. But it was also Peter whose resolve cracked in the garden of Gethsemane, and who denied Jesus, three times. So Peter the Apostle had feet of clay and I think my Peter does too.
      'Are you all right Faith?' said Peter suddenly. He'd put down his knife and fork.
      'What?'
      'You're staring at me,' he said.
      'Am I?'
      'Yes.'
      'Oh. Sorry.'
      'Is everything all right?' he asked. 'I mean, have you had a good day?'
      'Er...'
      'You seem a little bit tense.'
      'Oooh no, I'm not tense at all no, no, no, no. No.'
      'How was the programme?' he asked, 'I'm sorry I missed you this morning. You know I always try and watch.'
      'Well it was quite good,' I replied. 'There was this really interesting interview about names, and what they mean. Yours means a rock,' I added.
      'I know.'
      'Mine means - well it's obvious,' I said. 'And I always have been faithful, as you know.'
      'Yes. Yes I do know that,' he said rather quietly, I thought. And now there was a silence, during which I could hear the ticking of the kitchen clock. 'So how was the weather today?' he added.
      'Um... well, the weather was fine,' I said. 'I mean, it wasn't fine. In fact the outlook is rather unsettled,' I went on thoughtfully. 'Temperatures are dropping quite a bit. And then there's the chill factor.'
      'Of course,' he said. 'The chill factor.' We looked at each other again.
      'Gorgeous flowers,' I said brightly, indicating the bouquet of creamy jonquils and narcissi, pale anemones and golden mimosa. 'They smell heavenly. That was so sweet of you Peter.'
      'You deserve them,' he said. Then another silence enveloped us both. And in that silence I suddenly decided - don't ask me why - to ignore what the magazine advised.
      'Don't you normally buy your mother something for her birthday?' I asked innocently as I put down my knife and fork.
      'Oh Christ!' he slapped his forehead. 'I completely forgot.'
      'Well, we all sent her that photo album, don't you remember, and you did sign the card.'
      'I know. But I usually send her some flowers, or get her a box of chocs. You know, something's that just from me. I'm not remembering anything at the moment Faith,' he sighed as he picked up our plates. 'I guess it's all the stress at work.'
      'But you're remembering... some things,' I suggested tentatively, as I opened the freezer door.
      'Am I?'
      'Yes.'
      'Like what?'
      'Well, I don't know,' I said as I took out a box of ice cream. 'To be honest, Pete, I was going to ask you.'
      'Faith, what are you talking about?' he asked as he got down two bowls.
      'Well, nothing really,' I replied nonchalantly as I flipped open the lid, 'except that you seem to have remembered someone else recently - someone I don't know.'
      'Faith,' he said, edgily. 'I haven't got time for this. I'm very tired. And I've got an excruciating evening ahead of me because I've got to start the Amber Dane. So if you've got something to say to me, please would you be direct?'
      'OK,' I said. 'I will.' I inhaled deeply, and then spoke. 'Peter,' I began, 'I looked at our credit card bill today, and I found an entry on it for some flowers. I knew they weren't for your mother's birthday, because she told me you'd forgotten, so I just couldn't help wondering who on earth they were for?' Peter took his ice cream, then stared at me as though I were mad.
      'Flowers?' he said, incredulously. 'Flowers? I sent someone flowers? Who would I have sent flowers to apart from you or my mum?'
      'Well, that's just what I was wondering,' I said as I put the ice-cream away.
      'When was this again?' he asked calmly, as I got the chocolate sauce. If he was lying, he was very convincing.
      'December the eighteenth,' I replied.
      'December the eighteenth? December the eighteenth...?' He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, theatrically almost, then he suddenly said. 'Clare Barry.'
      'Who?'
      'She's one of my authors. That's who those flowers were for. They were for her book launch, I always send her flowers.
      'Oh I see,' I said. 'But-'
      'But what?'
      'But I thought you had a different credit card that you use just for your work expenditure.'
      'Yes, I do. It's American Express.'
      But sending Clare Barry congratulatory flowers, well, that would have been for work, wouldn't it?'
      'Ye-es.'
      'So why would you have ordered flowers for one of your authors using your personal credit card?'
      'Oh I don't know,' he said irritably. 'Maybe it was a simple mistake. Or perhaps I mislaid my American Express card, and was in a hurry, so I used my other card instead. Does it really matter?' he said.
      'No,' I said, airily. 'It doesn't. I'm... satisfied.'
      'Satisfied?' he said, wonderingly. 'Satisfied? Oh!' he suddenly exclaimed. 'Oh! I get it. You think I'm carrying on with someone.' I glanced at Graham. His shoulder muscles had stiffened and his ears were down.
      'Ooh, no, no, no, no,' I said. 'No. Well, maybe.' I took a deep breath. 'Are you?'
      'No I'm not,' he said with what struck me as a slightly regretful air. 'I'm not carrying on with anyone. That's the truth. In any case, Faith, don't you think I've got enough to worry me right now without getting involved with some chick.' Chick? 'So please will you give me a break.' A break?
      'A break?' I repeated. Ah. 'You want me to give you a break?' I said again.
      'Yes,' he replied firmly. 'I do. And I hope you believe me when I say that those flowers were just for an author? Do you believe me, Faith?' he added. 'Do you?'
      'Yes. I believe you,' I lied.