Out of the Blue Read Online Free PDF Page B

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, there’s a 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 lovely 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.
    * * *
    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, “Three thirty, nine thirty, 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 your
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 favorite 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 marvelous to trust him…trust him…I think you’re marvelous 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 an umbrella, 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