An Excellent Wife (13 page)

'I wouldn't have done anything you didn't want me to do,' he said, scowling at the floor because he didn't want her to see his eyes. He was afraid his sense of hurt, of rejection might show, and that would only make his humiliation worse. 'I'm sorry, okay? I got the wrong vibes.'

'What vibes did you think you got?' She looked down, her thick ginger lashes flickering against her cheek. He saw the gleam of her hazel eyes behind them—were there tears in her eyes or was that just the lustre of her pupils?

He would give anything to know what was going on inside her head, but she was a foreign country to him; . he didn't have a clue about her.

'It doesn't matter!' he said grimly.

'It does to me! What vibes did you think you were getting?'

'Never mind. Sorry. I was obviously mistaken.' He had made a fool of himself in front of the one woman in the world he did not want to think him a fool.

'About what?'

He shrugged, wordless. He wasn't admitting his own feelings when he hadn't any idea how she felt about him.

Patience asked coolly, 'Do you always try it on with every girl you meet?'

'Of course not!' Was that what she thought of him?

'Why try it on with me, then?' Her lashes lifted again, her eyes very shiny, bright with impatience or some other emotion he could not read. 'Did you think I fancied you? That I wanted you to make love to me? Why did you start making love to me? Do you fancy me, James?'

His mood was deflated, depressed; he wanted to get rid of her and try to forget what had happened in this room just now. He felt stupid. What on earth had made him imagine she would want him the way he wanted her? He had allowed himself to believe it because he wanted to!

'Why don't you say something?' she insisted. 'I didn't have you down as the sort of guy who is always making passes—so why did you make one at me?'

He resented her relentless inquisition, knowing it was down to pure female curiosity—typical of a woman to want to analyse his emotions, his thinking, everything he said. She didn't want him, but she wanted to get under his skin, make him bare his soul to her. Well, he wasn't going to!

'Sorry, I think we've said enough, and if you'll excuse me, I must get dressed,' he said with cold dignity. 'I have a date and I shall be late if I don't hurry up.'

'A date?'

'Yed, sorry. I must rush.' James turned away, walked out of the room, wanting to run to get away. He needed to be alone, where nobody could see how he felt.

Patience followed him. 'I'll show you out first,' he said without looking at her, but just as they reached the front door somebody rang the bell.

Patience opened the door before he could stop her and they both stood staring at Fiona, who stared back at them, her arctic blue gaze sweeping from Patience's clearly dishevelled hair and rumpled sweater, her flushed face and startled eyes, to James, who was clearly naked under that white towelling robe.

Fiona's mouth tightened, her face acid. 'So that's why you were late! I was beginning to suspect you were seeing someone else.'

THERE was a silence while both women looked at James and he stared at the floor, his face rigid. He loathed scenes, especially in public, detested being shouted at by women, and hated to be made to look ridiculous—not that any of these things had ever happened to him more than once. If anyone made a scene he always put on his harshest voice to demolish them, and then vanished. If a woman shouted at him he gave her an icy look, then vanished.

If he felt he had been made to look ridiculous, he vanished. He had always had a simple method of dealing with anything he did not like. He just walked away from it, fast.

Now he did not know what to do or say. Fiona was absolutely right—how could he lie to her? It was time he ended his relationship with her. He should have finished with her long ago; they were not right for each other and he should have been honest with her. She would find someone else easily enough; she was a beautiful woman, from a wealthy family—plenty of men would jump at the chance to grab her. Most of them wouldn't even care that she was cold and selfish. He had often been surprised at how many men he knew who were married to cold, selfish women without seeming to mind too much. Their wives were ornaments, not partners, presumably—or the man himself was cold and selfish, and perfectly satisfied with a wife of the same nature.

Fiona was working herself up into a tearing rage. 'If I'd waited at home instead of driving over here to see what was holding you up I'd never have known you were playing away, would I?'

He couldn't deny that; he would probably have lied to avoid trouble.

Fiona read the admission in his face and icily elaborated. 'You'd have made up some lie about getting a vital phone call just as you were about to leave, or being caught in bad traffic—and I'd have been none the wiser, would I?

How often have you lied to me in the past, I wonder? You kept telling me how busy you were at work, but I suppose you were being busy somewhere more private all the time.'

'I'm sorry, Fiona,' he said stiffly, and felt Patience looking at him, hazel eyes surprised and anxious.

She whispered, as if Fiona couldn't hear her perfectly well, 'James, don't just let it go... explain... tell her she's got the wrong idea.'

He shook his head, features rigid with pride and resentment. Why was Patience trying to push him back into Fiona's arms? He wasn't getting down on his knees, making an act of contrition, pleading with Fiona to forgive him when he wasn't sorry about anything. His whole relationship with her had been a mistake and he was relieved to get out of it.

Patience said earnestly to Fiona, 'Really, you're making a mistake. You've got it wrong. James, talk to her, make her see...'

'I have eyes,' Fiona unnecessarily informed them both. 'I can see, don't worry.' She looked them over again, distaste in her face, lingering on the rumpled state of Patience's clothes, on his bare feet and legs. 'Only too clearly. I don't need James to draw diagrams.'

Distressed, Patience said, 'No, you don't understand—it isn't what you think!'

Fiona made a noise halfway between an angry snort and a cat's sneeze. 'Will you keep out of this? I'm not talking to you. You can keep him. If you can!

But take my advice—don't give up the day job..He's a lying, cheating bastard, and you needn't think he'll treat you any better than he's treated me!'

Turning on her heel, her ice-blonde head held high, she walked back to her parked red Aston Martin as if she was marching over James's face with every step, got behind the wheel, slammed the door, started the engine and drove off with a deep-throated roar, vanishing round the corner a few seconds later, so fast one almost expected flames to come out of the exhaust.

She was an excellent driver, James thought inconsequentially. A little too reckless, mind you. But only when she was in a temper. The trouble was, she flew into a temper far too often. One day she would have an accident if she wasn't careful.

Patience threw an uncertain look at him, hazel eyes questioning. 'Don't just let her go. Go after her.'

'What, in my bathrobe?' He shrugged, then said childishly, 'And, anyway, I don't run after women!'

'Don't you care about her?' Patience searched his face, her own face pale and set. 'No, obviously not. You don't really care about anyone or anything except business, do you?'

'Oh, thanks,' he said, with bitterness. So that was what she thought of him, was it? That he was cold and selfish. Oh, maybe he had been once; if he was honest he had to admit he might have been. Until he met her. She had changed his entire life. But he couldn't tell her so without betraying his feelings, giving himself away.

He wasn't going to do that. He had some pride left.

Patience said quietly, 'I'm beginning to see that your mother damaged you badly when she left you behind.' Her eyes went past him into the elegant house, came back to his face, her expression dismissive, full of rejection.

'You've got a beautiful house, James, but it's just a shell; it isn't a home. And you're the same— you're a shell, not a human being.'

His face growing even paler, he flinched from that judgement, but he wouldn't let her see she had hurt him. The old imperatives he had absorbed as a child came back—hide what you're feeling; don't let anyone guess you're unhappy or scared.

He stepped back into his house, his face white, stiff, tense with pride.

'Goodbye, Patience.' If that was what she thought of him there was no point in saying anything else—no more than there had been any point in saying anything to Fiona. Sometimes words were unnecessary, superfluous.

That evening he did not go out. While Enid was putting together a light supper for him James listened to Mozart and read a couple of that week's business magazines from the States—although his mind wasn't on anything he read, and he kept reading the same words over, and over without taking in what they meant. His brain seemed to be on hold.

'I hope this is okay,' Barny told him as he brought the first course of the meal into the dining room. 'Enid didn't have much in store, thinking you would be out. She was doing the marketing tomorrow, so she had to improvise with what she had.'

'It looks fine to me,' James said indifferently, staring at the plate in front of him. Enid had halved and sliced crisp pears in a fan, topped them with fine thin strips of pink ham, goat's cheese and walnuts, finally trickling a delicate dressing over that. The colours were pretty, the texture of the food interesting. He tasted some; was that balsamic vinegar? Well, whatever it was, the flavour was refreshing and different. A pity he had no appetite, but to save Enid's feelings when she had gone to so much trouble he would have to eat it—even if it choked him.

When Barny returned with the next course and looked at his empty plate with satisfaction, James said, 'It was delicious. Tell Enid she's a genius.'

Relief in his face, Barny grinned, whisking away the used plate and putting down the second course. 'She enjoys a bit of a challenge; you know that.

She's tried something new with this too—she only had the one chicken breast, so she cut it into little goujon strips, breadcrumbed it, and panfried it.

The sauce is cream and tarragon; she knows how much you love tarragon.'

Do I? James thought blankly, staring at the green- flecked creamy sauce. He tasted it. Oh, yes, he liked that. 'You and Enid spoil me,' he told Barny, remembering how often they had gone out of their way when he was a child to get him food they knew he liked.

He refused a dessert and had his coffee served in his study, deciding to work for a couple of hours until bedtime. He wouldn't sleep; there was no point in going up to bed yet.

'Is there anything else I can get you, sir?' Barny asked, before leaving him alone there.

Looking up from the documents he was arranging in order on his desk, James shook his head. 'No, thank you, Barny. I'll be fine.'

Barny hesitated by the door and James looked up again to find a look of anxiety and concern in the older man's eyes.

'She's a very nice girl, sir,' Barny blurted out. 'Kind and warm-hearted, full of fun, but serious underneath. Not like that other one. Me and Enid, we never had time for her.'

Freezing over, James said coldly, 'Goodnight, Barny.' He wasn't discussing either Fiona or Patience; Barny had no business saying anything about either of them.

James's private life was nothing to do with anyone who worked for him; they should just do their job and mind their own business. But then that was the trouble with having staff who had known you since you were a child—like Miss Roper, they thought they could give you their opinions whenever they liked without pulling their punches. It didn't occur to them that they were taking liberties!

Barny flushed, giving him a wounded look, and withdrew without another word, leaving James feeling guilty and, at the same time, resentful. Why should he feel guilty? Rationally he knew he was right; Barny shouldn't have said anything. But after staring at the wall for some time he picked up the internal phone and rang down to the staff quarters in the basement.

Barny picked up the phone, his voice flat and polite. 'Yes, sir?'

'I'm sorry, Barny,' James said. 'I shouldn't have bitten your head off. It's just that I'm tired and irritable.'

'That's all right, sir.' Barny's voice warmed, had a hint of a smile in it. 'I understand.'

James was afraid he understood too well, and he certainly wasn't giving Barny a chance to discuss it any further, so he hurriedly said goodnight.

'Goodnight, sir.'

James put the phone down and looked at the papers in front of him.

Concentrate! he ordered himself. Work was one way of forgetting everything else; he had learnt that as a boy. The words danced like midges, tiny black dots thaf made no sense. Pain stabbed in his head. No, not a headache now. He put a finger on the artery in his right temple, closing his eyes as the pressure eased the pain, but as soon as he stopped pushing down on the artery the pain began again, so, abandoning his work, he turned out the light and went up to bed.

He couldn't sleep, however; for a long time he tossed and turned, wide awake and yet unable to read or listen to music. All he could think about was Patience. How she felt in his arms, how soft and warm her mouth felt under his, how...

How could he bear to lose her?

Stop being such a fool! he told himself. How could you lose what you had never had?

Turning heavily, he groaned. Stop thinking about her. Get some sleep or you'll be like a corpse in the morning.

When he finally did get to sleep it was to dream about her: hot,* restless dreams of holding her, naked, kissing her, entering her, of the long, intense satisfaction he needed from her, would give anything to experience.

He woke crying out, shuddering in the primrose light of dawn, and stumbled out of bed at once, shedding his damp pyjamas and dropping them into the laundry basket in his bathroom before taking a long, cool shower.

Thoroughly awake by then, he dressed, avoiding meeting his own eyes in the bathroom mirror.

Nobody else was up yet; he went into his study and plugged in the electric kettle he kept there so that he could make himself instant coffee any time of the day or night, then sipped black coffee while he did some of the work he had not done the night before.

Barny appeared at seven and carefully didn't comment on the fact that James was already up, dressed and working.

'Nice morning, isn't it?'

James had not noticed, but when Barny drew back the curtains James looked at the blue sky and sunlight blankly. Spring glittered outside but in his heart he felt like winter.

'Breakfast, sir? What would you like?'

'I'll just have some fresh orange juice. I'm not hungry and I want to finish this work before I go.'

'You ought to eat something,' Barny began, then caught James's eye and shrugged. 'All right, suit yourself. I'll get your juice.'

When he had gone James rang the hospital and was put through to the ward his mother was on, but he got very little information from the night ward sister other than that she was 'comfortable'.

'When could I come in and visit?'

'Any time between ten o'clock and twelve, or between two-thirty and four.'

When Barny brought the orange juice and some fresh coffee James told him they would be leaving for the office at eight. Without looking at Barny, he added, 'I have to visit my mother, who is in hospital.'

He heard Barny's little gasp. 'In hospital? Is it serious?' Barny sounded genuinely upset by the news.

'She had a slight heart attack, but I gather it was more of a warning than anything else. I just rang the ward and was told she was "comfortable", whatever that means. Anyway, I can't see her yet; they say I can go in later.

I'll go into the office first, but then I shall want you to drive me to the hospital. While I'm at work could you go to a florist and choose some flowers for me?'

Barny nodded. 'Only too happy, sir. I'm very sorry to hear she's ill. Me and Enid, we always liked your mother, sir. A breath of fresh air she was, while she was in this house. We were very sorry to see her go. Just a pity she didn't take you with her.'

He went before James could tell him to keep his opinions to himself. But he probably wouldn't have said that to Barny. After all, hadn't the man simply echoed his own opinion? How could he find fault with him for that?

When he went into his office later he found Miss Roper already there, going through a big pile of mail. She glanced up, as usual running an appraising eye over him, and James suddenly remembered how every morning when he'd first arrived she used to check on the clothes he Was wearing, making sure he had crisp clean shirt on, a tie she approved of, well-polished shoes and a well-pressed suit.

For the first time it occurred to him that he had had two substitute mothers—Enid first, and then Miss Roper. Had he ever told either of them how grateful he was for everything they had done for him? No, of course he hadn't. Until this second he had taken it all for granted, never even noticed the care they took of him and for him.