“That’s right, Cindy, I have popped the question and she said yes.”
“Have you set a special date, Rupert?”
“Er . . . we’re in no rush. . . .”
“Better make sure it’s sunny that day.”
The camera cut back to Rupert, who immediately launched into a detailed account of tomorrow’s weather, all of which Phoebe had dreamt of the night before—especially tailored to her needs. Her needs. An anguished tirade built up in her mind. How dare he betray her with another lover, never mind a fiancée? Didn’t he realize what he was destroying? There was no way he had the same connection with this other woman, no way possible that she could share the very special psychic relationship (not to mention the sex) that Phoebe and Rupert had, she argued out loud. It was obvious that Phoebe had to stop him from making a terrible mistake. She had to rescue him from marrying the wrong woman, and the more she thought about it the more frantic she became—she had a moral and spiritual duty to save him.
It took Phoebe almost an hour and five awkward phone calls before she discovered the correct R. Q. Thornton in the phone book. The very fact that the weatherman had a listed number angered her. It was outrageous. Didn’t the British government realize how important Rupert was? Didn’t they understand how vulnerable it made him? And what did the Q stand for? She talked out loud in frustration, imagining that this might have been how his fiancée tracked him down in the first place, through the telephone book. “That’s what happens to famous people; they get exploited, used. Rupert is in great danger,” she told herself as she wrote down his home address. “Rupert needs protecting from this woman. She’s just out to exploit both his fame and talent!” Her angry voice startled the now starving cat, who made a dash for the back door.
Sighing, Phoebe picked up the telephone and rang the BBC to find out which Met Office they sent their weathermen to, just in case she would have to book a long-distance train trip. She was relieved to discover that the weathermen always broadcast from their studios in Shepherd’s Bush and only visited the Met Office in Exeter occasionally. She was convinced she needed to watch over Rupert both at work and at his house. Now she just needed a plan.
• • •
Later that night Phoebe refused to allow Alan to make love to her for the first time in their marriage. To his secret delight Alan found that this new assertiveness made his wife more erotic than she’d ever been before, while on the other side of the bed Phoebe tossed and turned, terrified she was about to lose the first man in her life who really understood her. Rupert Q. Thornton. Finally she fell asleep counting clouds.
That night she dreamt of heavy fog lifting at midday, then a period of bright sunshine broken only by a late afternoon shower. It was like heaven.
The next day at work, acting on a hunch, Phoebe accessed a file of car owners and their number plates through a car insurance plan run by the company she worked for. To her utter joy she found Rupert Q. Thornton’s details filed under T: his number plate, the model and color of his car, and his home address. Phoebe couldn’t help noticing that Rupert, like her, drove a Volvo and it was also blue—not the same model as her own, but close enough; yet again, it was another indication that they were destined to be together. The last piece of the jigsaw was in place.
Later that day she lied to Alan about why she would be home late. When the six o’clock news was over and Rupert had again performed the exact gestures that signaled fog, sunshine, and light rain, leaving Phoebe luxuriating in postcoital bliss, she was more convinced than ever that they were the most synchronized lovers in history, and the sooner she put him on the right emotional path the better. She put on her raincoat and drove over to Shepherd’s Bush, determined to encounter the weatherman as he left the BBC studio.
Knowing his number plate made it easy for Phoebe to locate Rupert’s car in space number four in the underground car park at the BBC. Flanked by empty parking spaces, the blue Volvo, with an almost mournful air, seemed to be waiting for its owner to return. Phoebe parked opposite, careful to conceal her own Volvo behind a pillar. She turned the engine off, struggling to control the growing excitement that had begun to sweep through her in waves.
Ten minutes later the steel doors of the elevator opened and Rupert Q. Thornton stepped out. A jolt of recognition shot through Phoebe’s body so intensely that she had to stop herself from shouting out. Instead she slipped down in the car seat, watching through the side mirror as the tall, lanky weatherman strode across the concrete car park. He was much more handsome than he appeared on TV, she noted with delight, one of those rare individuals who looked much better in the flesh. His hair was longer and a blond forelock hung rakishly over one eye. He was wearing orange corduroy trousers and a brown leather jacket, which, in contrast to the formal suit he always wore for the weather report, gave him a youthful air. He certainly didn’t look like the dreamy, slightly academic man Phoebe had imagined—if anything, he looked far more dangerous, and far sexier. His expressive hands swung by his sides as he moved with an endearing idiosyncratic gait, and he appeared to be humming to himself.
Oblivious, he walked right past her car—literally within two feet. Phoebe ducked, then peered up through the window, catching sight of a well-shaped pair of buttocks she felt she had clasped so many times in her imagination that the shape of his arse seemed to echo in the palms of her hands. Rupert Thornton reached his car, flicked the blond forelock back, then got into his blue Volvo.
A minute later Phoebe followed him out of the car park. Outside it was dusk, and the sunny day was threatening to transform into a breezy rainy night—just as her dream had predicted the night before his evening weather report: she’d dreamt that that night and the next day would bring rain. She watched the heavy raindrops begin to fall with great satisfaction, feeling even more powerful with the weatherman, whom she was now convinced she was psychologically manipulating, within her sight, at the wheel of the car in front of her. If only Rupert knew how intuitive she was, that alone would be enough to make him abandon his fiancée for her. The thought rang around her mind obsessively, distracting her from the hypnotic rhythm of the windscreen wipers, the roar of the city traffic, the rattle of her car engine. It was as if the world contained only two people—her and Rupert—and an invisible ribbon now ran between the two cars in perfect equilibrium. He was pulling her as much as she was following him. All those hours she’d spent staring at him through the television screen, now all she needed to do was to punch her hand through the glass between them and he would be hers.
“I control you,” she whispered to the windscreen wipers, to the silvery drizzle, her car interior a confession box, the steering wheel a silent witness. “We will be together, Rupert darling, I promise you.”
As the blue Volvo turned in front of her she too turned in perfect synchronization—it was a dance, like lovemaking itself, Phoebe concluded.
She tailed him all the way to his small townhouse in Chiswick. Driving past him as he pulled into the driveway, she continued around the block so that he wouldn’t get suspicious. By the time she reentered the narrow suburban street and parked opposite, Rupert was just entering his front door.
The lounge room lit up as someone switched on the lights. Phoebe leaned forward with interest. A leather couch and matching armchairs, a modern steel lamp, and a print of a Rothko painting were all visible through the large windows, which were uncovered. Just then Rupert, pulling his jacket off, walked past the windows. A tall brunette—skinny, Pho
ebe noted with some disgust, no meat on her bones, no sensuality whatsoever—entered from another door on the other side of the room. Rupert and the unknown woman (his fiancée, presumably) met in the middle of the room in an embrace.
Shocked, Phoebe inhaled sharply. It was near impossible to dismiss the piercing sense of betrayal: betrayal that built to an overwhelming anger. How dare he even consider any kind of intimacy with anyone other than her? Didn’t he know that they were soul mates? One of her hands suddenly slipped and she became aware of how hard she was gripping the steering wheel. Outside the rain abruptly got heavier, now hitting the car window with unleashed fury. Phoebe, trying to get a better view, pressed her face against the car window. Inside the house the couple finally separated and Phoebe found that she could breathe again.
Rupert started pacing the room while his fiancée sat in one of the armchairs. He appeared to be describing his day, or at least that’s what Phoebe imagined. The weatherman walked to the window and looked blankly out, his back to his fiancée. Phoebe’s heart jumped. Can he see me, she wondered, perhaps even sense my presence unconsciously? It was a delicious thought. Phoebe contemplated getting out of the car and running toward him to meet him, to rescue him from the mistake he was so obviously making. She was so convinced he would be thrilled to see her that her legs began to shake with the anticipation of movement. They belonged together; it was as evident as the sun traveling through the sky during the day or the moon at night. Surely somewhere in his soul, his mind, even in his heart, Rupert Thornton understood this.
By this time Phoebe had worked herself up into a frenzy. Only the thought of possible arrest or, worse still, Rupert misunderstanding her very genuine motives stopped her from stepping out of the car and racing across the rain-streaked lawn. Just then there was a huge peal of thunder and a streak of lightning hit the tree in the small front yard. With a loud crack a large branch bent and then fell off in a shower of wet leaves onto Rupert’s blue Volvo. This was another sign; it had to be—the weather god responding to her frustration, to the “unnatural” order of things.
At the window Rupert’s expression turned to horror. He raced out of the house and then, as the rain soaked his trousers and plastered down his hair, attempted to pull the branch off the crushed roof of his car. His fiancée stood in the doorway, poised but obviously reluctant to step out into the pouring rain. Phoebe, fascinated, could now hear both of them clearly.
“I could do with a hand, darling!” Rupert sounded tense, infuriated even. The strong, aggressive tone thrilled Phoebe; it was so much more assertive than his TV voice. Phoebe looked across at the fiancée, who appeared to be indifferent to her lover’s distress. She glanced down at her shoes skeptically.
“I would help but these shoes are brand-new and they’re suede; they cost a fortune!” Well-bred, exclusive girls” school accent: immediately Phoebe pictured where she might have grown up—a Georgian mansion in Chelsea—spoiled, sheltered, impossible to please. Rupert glared over his shoulder toward her. Again Phoebe had the impression he was on the brink of losing his temper.
“This branch is a little heavy for one person.” His voice was icily polite. His fiancée tossed her long chestnut hair.
“Oh, sweetheart, I suspect my shoes might be worth more than your old Volvo,” she tried to joke, shrugging helplessly.
Rupert, now dripping wet, had his back turned to her as he pulled heavily on the large branch. Phoebe could see an expression of pure fury crossing his face. Elated that the couple obviously had problems, she started up the car and accelerated out of the small street. Now she knew she had a chance.