‘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 back issues on the floor.
‘Now, where is it?’ she said. ‘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 this 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 lunchbreak. 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 hadn’t said it 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 Green 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 leaped up to greet me with a joyful bark, I peeled off the envelope. The phone started to ring, but I ignored it as my 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-surefire-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 leaned 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; then 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 horticulturalist 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.