The Wrong Kind Of Wife. Roberta Leigh
It wasn’t until she rose to leave that he invited her to stay to dinner, insinuating he might answer the questions he had previously avoided. Since this would give her interview greater bite, she accepted, giving up hope of flying home that night.
‘I’d like to telephone my husband and let him know,’ she explained, and was disconcerted when McKay did not offer to leave the room.
In the event it did not matter, for it seemed Tim had not gone to his office today, and she called Joan to see if he had been in touch.
‘Afraid not,’ Joan answered. ‘But if he calls before I leave, do you have a number where he can reach you?’
Lindsey thought quickly. If he rang her here she would not be able to talk freely with Howard McKay listening, and a stilted conversation would do neither of them any good.
‘Best not,’ she replied. ‘Tell him the interview’s taken longer than I expected, and I have to stay in Glasgow overnight.’ Maybe she could ring Tim from the hotel. As she set down the receiver, she noticed her host’s eyes on her ringless left hand. ‘I don’t wear jewellery,’ she explained.
‘A wedding-ring is hardly jewellery. Do you see it as a sign of bondage?’
She shrugged. ‘It could be, but not in my case.’
‘What does your husband do?’
‘He works for Frank Taplow, the political correspondent.’
‘He’s interested in politics, then?’
‘Very,’ she lied.
‘Do you come from a political background?’
Lindsey nearly laughed. ‘Hardly. My mother always voted for the best-looking candidate, and my stepfather never voted in his life. From the age of twelve I lived in an orphanage, so my background wasn’t a privileged one.’
‘Beautiful women make their own background.’
‘I prefer to rely on my brains.’
‘Most commendable. But if one also has beauty, one has an extra advantage!’
‘Spoken like a man,’ Lindsey chided. ‘But one day soon—when women take their rightful place in world affairs—no man will dare say that!’
Chuckling, McKay rose and extended his arm. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’
It was well after midnight before she booked into a hotel, too late to call Tim, and she ordered an alarm call for six, anxious to catch the earliest shuttle to London. But again fate conspired against her, for the airport was blanketed by fog, and she kicked her heels the entire morning.
Several times she went to call Tim at the newspaper, but each time stopped herself. The more she thought of their quarrel, the wiser it seemed to wait until they were face to face. In the context of her love for him, and their future together, the Patsy episode was best forgiven, though she doubted she could ever forget it.
She had also mulled over his accusations regarding her attitude to his parents, and knew they weren’t unjustified. Because of her insecurity, she was afraid of their power over him, refusing to see that by marrying her he had shown his independence, and endorsed it further by refusing to join the family firm. So surely she could afford to be less defensive with her in-laws? Perhaps if she made an effort to be nice to them, they would respond in kind.
It was well into the afternoon before she finally reached her office.
‘Did Tim call yesterday?’ was her first question to Joan.
‘About an hour after you rang. He left a number.’
Lindsey looked at it, but it meant nothing to her. Anyway, there was no point calling him there now.
‘I’m off,’ she announced. ‘I left McKay after one this morning, and what with the journey back, I’m whacked.’
Arriving home, she showered and changed into one of her prettiest dresses, then wandered from one room to the other, nervous as a girl waiting for her first date.
It was only as she decided to have a cup of coffee that she saw her breakfast cup and saucer on the draining board where she had left them yesterday morning. Odd that Tim hadn’t put them away. His tidiness was something she teased him about. When he had learned she was remaining in Glasgow for the night, he must have stayed over wherever he had gone.
She rummaged in her bag for the number Joan had given her, started to dial it, then, on an impulse, went over to the desk for Tim’s address book. Leafing through it, she could find no number corresponding to the one she had, and she went into the hall for the telephone directory.
With trembling fingers she picked up the L to Z. Yes, there was a P. Selwyn listed and the number tallied with the one Joan had given her. Did the ‘P’ stand for Patsy or Peter? There was one way to find out, and she took it.
She hardly remembered the cab ride to Knightsbridge, and was in a cold sweat when she reached the entrance of a luxury apartment block near Harrods. There was an entry-phone at the door but she was reluctant to use it, unwilling to warn Patsy—if it was her and not her brother—that she was here.
After what seemed an age but was only a moment, a well dressed couple emerged, and she slipped past them into the foyer. Luckily the porter was talking to another resident, and Lindsey darted into the lift.
Apartment twelve was on the top floor, and her heart was thudding madly as she rang the bell. Footsteps sounded on parquet, then the door was flung open and Patsy stared at her, dumbfounded.
‘Good lord, you!’
‘Is Tim here?’
‘He’s in Evebury.’
Lindsey was taken aback. ‘But he—he’s stayed here the last two nights, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ Patsy said, ‘and frankly I don’t blame him. If you were childish enough to throw him out, what did you expect?’
Lindsey felt sick. How could Tim discuss their quarrel with the girl who was the cause of it? Didn’t he realise how disloyal it was, or didn’t he care?
‘I was angry,’ she said, then wondered why she should excuse her behaviour to Patsy. Without another word she turned and ran down the stairs.
Her worst suspicions had been confirmed. After their quarrel, Tim had spent the night with Patsy, and had done so again when she had been stuck in Glasgow. Lindsey tried to assure herself that they might have slept in separate rooms, but she could not believe it. Bearing in mind that he had had no qualms about kissing the girl while his wife was in Paris, it was difficult to imagine he had only gone to Patsy’s apartment for tea and sympathy!
Ignoring the taxis that passed by, Lindsey strode along the hard, unyielding pavements, and by the time she reached home the soles of her feet were burning. No swift, silent lift here to whisk her to a luxury apartment; just steep stairs, with each landing exuding its own distinctive smell. Lavender water from the elderly woman who had originally owned the house before converting it, dog from the Coopers, whose Basset hound was not house-trained, and nothing from their floor, Lindsey realised miserably as she reached her front door, and for once would have welcomed the aroma of Tim’s burnt cooking.
Desolated, she went straight to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The working class panacea, she thought wryly. Patsy would no doubt have poured herself a glass of champagne.
To hell with Patsy and what she would have done! Lindsey sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the water to boil. Tim’s departure for Evebury meant only one thing: he was leaving London to join the family company. She was hurt that he had not seen fit to talk it over with her first. Was it because he wanted to prove he was his own man?
Angrily she poured boiling water over her teabag and some of it splashed on her hand. With a cry she put down the kettle, the shock of the scald shattering her frayed nerves.