The Wrong Kind Of Wife. Roberta Leigh
you?’
‘Because you have a king-size inferiority complex and it’s time you faced it. The main reason you dislike my parents is you’re jealous of them. As you’re jealous of anyone who has the things you’ve never had.’
‘I was waiting for you to bring up my background,’ she cried.
‘I never have until now. You’re always the one bleating about being working class. I don’t give a damn where a person comes from. It’s what they make of themselves that counts.’
‘It’s easier to make something of yourself if you start with the advantage of money,’ she said scornfully.
‘You haven’t done so badly,’ he retorted.
‘Because I chose a profession that recognises ability. What you know instead of whom you know.’
‘That applies to most professions these days,’ Tim said. ‘Face facts, Lindsey, or can’t you bear to admit you’re wrong?’
‘I was wrong to marry you,’ she flared, not meaning it.
‘That’s something we can easily rectify,’ he rejoined, striding from the room.
‘If you walk out now,’ Lindsey screamed, ‘don’t bother coming back.’
‘What makes you think I’d want to?’
Before she could answer, the door slammed behind him.
For a long moment she stared at it, then she collapsed on to the dressing-table stool and rested her head in her hands. The evening she had anticipated with such pleasure had turned into a disaster. Tim hadn’t meant the things he had said, any more than she had. But words, once spoken, weren’t easy to forget. Yet forget them they must, or their marriage was doomed.
Shivering, she undressed, deciding a hot bath might help her unwind. If past arguments were anything to go by, Tim was sure to appear before she had finished and offer to wash her breasts! Her heartbeat quickened. One thing would lead to another, and hurt and anger would fade beneath the stronger force of passion. Not that the reason for their quarrel could be overlooked; too many bitter things had come to the surface for them to be swept aside. But it was better to discuss them when tempers had cooled and realism, rather than emotion, was the arbiter.
But though Lindsey stayed in the bath for ages, Tim did not return, and she finally dried herself and went to bed.
She touched his pillow as she did, and began to cry. Was she really the envious young woman he had accused her of being? She refused to believe it. She had simply wanted him to be independent and not dutifully do his father’s bidding. She had assumed he had realised this, but it seemed she was wrong. Resenting his lack of understanding, her anger returned.
Time passed and she lay wakeful, her anger giving way to fear as midnight became two and two became four. Where had he gone? An image of Patsy rose before her, and jealousy brought her upright.
Dammit, she wasn’t going to lie awake like this! If Tim thought he could make her jealous he could think again. Storming into the bathroom, she rummaged in the cabinet for a sleeping pill.
Tomorrow, she assured herself, he would return chastened and apologetic, and they would sit down and calmly discuss everything that had taken place tonight. He had behaved stupidly over Patsy, but perhaps the stagnancy of his career, allied to her own burgeoning success, was responsible for it.
But at rock bottom they loved each other, and they must acknowledge this, for it was the cornerstone on which to rebuild their marriage.
CHAPTER THREE
TIM had still not returned when Lindsey finished breakfast next morning.
It was the first time a quarrel between them had lasted so long, and she wondered if she had over-reacted with Patsy. Yet she could not dismiss it as though it had not happened. Her trust in Tim had taken a beating and she needed assuring it would not recur.
Glancing at her watch, and seeing it was after eight-thirty, she gulped down her coffee and dumped her mug and cereal bowl in the sink, then virtuously washed them and put them on the draining rack. At least Tim would find the kitchen spick-and-span when he got back—he hated mess, though he rarely complained. But then he rarely criticised anything; not even the furniture they had purchased second-hand, which she was positive he loathed. But she had adamantly refused to accept anything from his parents’ home. The mere sight of an antique chair or valuable rug would have compromised their hard-won independence, and reminded her of the parents-in-law she preferred to forget.
Tim adored his mother, which made it all the more remarkable that he had married a girl she had not liked.
‘I’ll have to change my accent if you ever decide to become a tycoon!’ she had teased him on one occasion.
‘Rubbish!’ he had grinned. ‘With your gorgeous mane of auburn hair and stunning figure, you’ll be my greatest asset!’
In fact Lindsey had lost her Midlands twang at university, though she still didn’t speak in the plummy tones of Tim’s friends. Yet deep down she was the same girl she had always been. Her insecurity was less—Tim’s love had lessened it—but it was still there, ready to rise when she felt threatened.
As she had felt last night.
Biting back a sigh, she donned the jacket of her suit and set off to work.
Arriving there, she was told Grace Chapman wanted to see her. It had been an achievement for Lindsey to be taken on as one of her researchers, for it was a post normally given to an experienced person. But Grace had been impressed by her intelligence, and within a few months was sending her out on the most difficult assignments.
‘I’m glad you’re back from Paris ahead of schedule,’ the woman greeted her with a sigh of relief. ‘I want you to interview Howard McKay urgently.’ She named a renowned biographer of political figures.
‘But he lives in Glasgow!’
‘If you catch the next shuttle, you can be back tonight.’
As Lindsey was at the door, Grace spoke again.
‘Have you considered my offer?’
‘About going to America? It sounds marvellous, but I can’t accept. I haven’t even mentioned it to my husband.’
‘I realise six months is a long time,’ Mrs Chapman sympathised, ‘but it would be invaluable experience for you.’
‘I know, and if I’d been single I’d have jumped at it.’
‘Think it over again. I’ll keep the offer open for another week.’
Returning to her desk, Lindsey realised she had barely an hour to get to the airport. She didn’t even have a moment to call Tim. But he was bound to ring her some time today, and she asked Joan Barker, another researcher who shared her office, to explain she had to go to Glasgow unexpectedly, but would be back later that evening.
She reached Howard McKay’s home at midday, and was dismayed to find he had gone to the dentist.
‘Broke a crown,’ his housekeeper explained. ‘He said to relax and have a coffee. He shouldn’t be long.’
But it was well into the afternoon before the author returned. Tall and thin, he had a craggy, attractive face, and a thatch of grey hair.
‘Sorry to have kept you,’ he apologised, the teeth he flashed at her bearing witness to the efficiency of his dentist.
Recollecting Mrs Chapman warning her he could be tetchy, Lindsey assured him she hadn’t minded waiting to see someone as important as he was. This put him in an excellent humour, and the interview went well.
‘Perhaps you’d like to have a look at some of my notes for my latest biography?’ he volunteered.
This