An Excellent Wife (2 page)

The phone on his desk rang and James absently reached out a hand to pick it up. 'Yes?'

'Miss Wallis, sir,' his secretary said in the remote voice she always used when she talked about Fiona. James was quite aware that Miss Roper did not like Fiona, and the hostility was mutual, he suspected, although Fiona was simply cool whenever she mentioned his secretary. Fiona never wasted energy on anyone who was no threat to her. Miss Roper seemed to hum like a vacuum cleaner with unspoken dislike, however.

This morning Fiona sounded listless and fuzzy. 'Darling, I'm sorry, I'll have to cancel dinner tonight. I've got one of my migraines.'

'Cheese or chocolate?'

She laughed huskily. 'You know me too well! Cheese, darling, at dinner last night, with my father. I had the merest sliver of Brie. It looked so delicious I couldn't resist it, and I did hope I'd get away with it this time, but no such luck, alas. I'm almost blind with migraine this morning.'

'How can you be so silly? Why risk triggering a migraine just for a piece of cheese?' It was unlike her to be weak-minded, but she landed herself with one of these migraines every week or two by giving in to a passion for both cheese and chocolate, knowing perfectly well that a migraine would probably follow within eight hours.

'I know, it was crazy, but I had the teeniest bit, James, and I do love Brie.'

His mouth twisted. 'I despair of you. I hope you've at least taken your pills?'

'Just now, but they haven't started working yet. I'm at the office, but I'm going home to lie down in a dark room. It will probably take eight hours for me to get over it, so I have to scrub round this evening. Sorry, James. Maybe tomorrow night?'

'It will have to be Saturday; I'm having dinner with the Jamiesons tomorrow night. Ring me on Saturday morning and don't eat any more cheese! Or chocolate!'

She blew him a kiss. 'I'll be sensible. Bye, darling.'

He hung up, irritated that his planned evening should be ruined by something so unnecessary. They had been going to have dinner at a new restaurant someone had recommended, then go on to a club to dance for an hour or two. It was a favourite way of unwinding for both of them. They both loved the smoky, dark atmosphere of their favourite nightclub.

Fiona, an ice-blonde with hair the texture of white spun sugar and eyes of arctic blue, and he had been seeing each other for a year now, and he knew her family and friends expected them to get engaged any day.

She was probably the most suitable girl James had ever dated, and she would make an excellent wife for a man in his position, but he hadn't proposed yet.

Fiona worked in her father's stockbroking business, had a clear, hard mind for business, was tall and elegant, with perfect taste. He admired her looks, her clothes, her exquisitely furnished flat in Mayfair and her red Aston Martin, about which she was almost passionate—far more excited than she had ever seemed about James, he sometimes thought.

But then he wasn't sure how he felt about her, either. Was he in love with her? He swung his chair round, to face the window and gazed at the grey, glittering waters of the Thames, as if they might give him the answer to that question, but honesty forced him to admit to himself that the possibility had never arisen. He had never been 'in love' in his life.

He had fancied girls from time to time, had been to bed with some of them, although not with Fiona, who had told him early on in their relationship that she did not believe in sex before marriage. He had been faintly startled by that, had wondered if she might not be rather* cold, sexually, a thought which was faintly off-putting. He had tried a few times to get her to change her mind, but when she'd gently refused James hadn't particularly cared. He wasn't desperate to get her into bed, he discovered.

He knew that that meant he wasn't in love with her—but then what did being in love really have to do with getting married? You didn't need to be in love to have a good marriage; all you had to do was choose the right woman.

Someone who shared your interests and attitudes, a beautiful woman like Fiona, who made other men envy you, who looked good at your dinner table, who could discuss international finance or world affairs or politics rationally, without getting emotional or losing her cool. Fiona would never make heavy demands on his time or expect him to change the way his life was organised. What else did he want from a woman?

It was a little disturbing that neither of them felt any urgent desire to make the final jump, perhaps because they were both so comfortable as they were.

If they did marry, Fiona would have to sell her flat and move into his Georgian house close to Regent's Park, in which he had lived all his life, his father having inherited it from his own father, old James Ormond the first, who had founded the firm and bought the house in 1895. James couldn't imagine living anywhere else. If he felt passion for anything it was for his home. He loved every brick of it, every painting, piece of furniture, even every blade of grass in the garden.

Thirty-five, and very settled in his ways, he did not want his well-run life to change. He expected it to go on in just the same way for ever, even if he married and had children. He wanted children; he would like a son to inherit the business in turn, one day, and then maybe Fiona would want a daughter after that, but neither of them would want a large family. The children and the home would be Fiona's province. She would get a nanny, of course, and continue to work, at least part- time. She was an only child, too, and would inherit her family business, but she liked to make decisions and be in charge; she would enjoy taking care of their home and family.

Yes, he was sure they would build a good life together, but there was plenty of time. No hurry.

The telephone on his desk rang again and he swung back to pick it up, saying curtly, 'I thought I told you I didn't want interruptions? I hope this is urgent.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Ormond, but Miss Kirby has rung again and insists on speaking to you. This is the fourth time she's rung; I can't get rid of her.'

'Have you found out who she is? Has she told you what she wants to speak to me about?'

Miss Roper's voice was expressionless and discreet. 'She says she wants to talk to you about your mother, sir.'

James stiffened, his face losing all its colour, turning pale and immobile.

There was half a moment of silence. He heard his wristwatch ticking, a pigeon cooing on the windowsill outside, and from the river the sigh of a spring wind.

His voice harsh, he said at last, 'My mother is dead; you know that perfectly well! I don't know what she's up to, but I do not want to speak to her, now or ever. Hang up, and then tell the switchboard not to put through any more calls from Miss Kirby.'

Dropping the phone back on its rest, he leaned back fn his chair, his hands flat on the leather top of the desk, grey eyes bleak as they stared straight ahead.

His tie was too tightly tied; he couldn't breathe. He angrily loosened the knot, undid the top button of his shirt.

Nobody had mentioned his mother to him since he was ten years old and she had vanished from his life for ever. He hadn't even thought of her for years.

He didn't want to think about her now.

What was this Kirby woman up to? Was this some sort of blackmail attempt? Maybe he should have got Miss Roper to call the police? Or the security firm he employed to check on dubious clients? He could easily find out everything he needed to know about this Kirby woman, from where she had been born to whether or not she took sugar in her tea. But why waste time and money? She couldn't be any sort of problem to him.

Oh, no? Women can always be a problem, he thought grimly. Even someone as rational and sensible as Fiona did crazy things, like eating cheese when she knew it gave her migraine. Miss Roper was prepared to annoy him in spite of the very high salary he paid her, simply because she had a mother living at home when she could easily find her a nice, comfortable nursing home where she would be well taken care of day and night. Women might have good brains, might try to think calmly and reasonably, but they usually ended up thinking with their hearts instead of their heads.

His mouth was oddly dry; he needed a drink. Getting up, he walked over to a discreetly concealed cabinet in the oak-panelled wall.

Opening it, James selected a tumbler and poured himself a finger of good malt whisky, dropped ice cubes into the glass and shut the cabinet again, then walked back to his desk, nursing his whisky.

He rarely drank before the evening, apart from a glass or two of wine during lunch. He sat down, leaned back, sipping the whisky. He must put the whole stupid incident out of his mind and get on with his work.

He looked at his watch. Half an hour left; he might still finish the report before he had to meet Charles, if he wasn't interrupted again. Finishing his drink, he turned his attention back to the closely typed pages.

He was on the final page when a confused noise began outside. James looked up, frowning. Now what?

Someone was shouting—it was Miss Roper's voice, he recognised a second later with amazement, since he had never heard her shout that way before.

'No, he doesn't want to see you! Look, I'm sorry... You can't go in there!

Stop...'

The door fell open and bodies crashed through into his office. Three bodies, to be precise. Miss Roper. Her half-witted assistant. And a third woman, who rolled across the floor in a flurry of arms and legs and fiery red hair in a tangle of tight, exploding curls, finishing up close to him.

James was so stunned that he didn't even move; he just sat there behind his desk, staring down at her.

Clutching at a chair to stop herself falling, Miss Roper burst into stammering explanation, on the verge of tears.

'I told her...said she couldn't...she forced her way past me. I'm sorry, I did my best...she wouldn't listen.'

Her assistant was already backing out, away from James's terrifying presence, making gasping noises of panic and alarm. He took no notice of her, expecting nothing else from her by now, and in any case far too intent on the third person who had imploded into his room.

She was at his feet, quite literally, suddenly reaching out and attaching herself to his shoes with both hands, clinging on like a limpet.

'I'm not going until you let me talk to you!'

James looked at Miss Roper again. 'Is this who I think it is? The Kirby woman?'

'Patience Kirby,' said the girl, her slanty hazel eyes fixed on his face. 'Please, Mr Ormond, just give me five minutes of your time, that's all I ask. I won't go until you do.'

'Call Security, Miss Roper,' James ordered, flinty- hearted.

Miss Roper gulped and headed for her own office.

'You might as well get up,' James told the girl. 'I am not listening to you. If you aren't out of here in one minute my security men will carry you out. And let go of my feet!' He couldn't move with her tethered to him, except by dragging her along with him.

Her hands let go of his shoes, but she immediately shot up and clasped his legs instead, wrapping her arms around them. 'Why won't you listen to me?'

'You tiresome female! Let go of me, will you? You're making yourself ridiculous—this isn't some soap on TV; this is real life and you are in serious trouble. I could have you arrested for forcing an entry and physical assault*'

'I've got a message from your mother,' she said, ignoring his threats.

'My mother is dead!' James heard the running feet of the security men along the stone floors in the corridor from the lift. Thank God, they would be here soon to end this embarrassing scene.

'No, she isn't, she's alive.' She bit her lip, frowning. 'You didn't really think she was dead, did you?' The small face lifted to him had an annoyingly childlike look: heart-shaped, with large, beautifully spaced glowing eyes fringed by a ludicrous number of thick ginger lashes which shone in the sunlight like gold, a small nose and a wide, warm mouth. She wasn't pretty, but she was oddly appealing. Not his type, of course; he preferred women to be elegant and coolly beautiful, with good brains, like Fiona, but he could imagine that boys of her own age might find this girl adorable.

'My mother is dead!' he insisted, his teeth snapping out the words.

'Did your father tell you that? And all this time you've believed she was...?

Oh. that's terrible.' Tears actually formed in those eyes. One began sliding down her cheek while James watched it incredulously.

'Stop that!' he muttered. 'What are you crying about?'

'It's so sad...when I think of you... How could your father lie to you like that?

Only ten years old, to be told your mother was dead! You must have been heartbroken.'

He had been. He remembered the coldness that had sunk into him, the misery and anguish, the sense of Betrayal, of desertion. Of course, his father hadn't told him his mother was dead. His father wasn't a man given to telling lies. He had told him the cold, bitter truth.

'Your mother has run off with another man and left us both,' his father had said curtly. 'You'll never see her again.'

James had been taken off to stay with an aunt who had a bungalow at Greatstone, on the Kent coast, and had stood, day after day, on the beach, staring out at the grey, heaving waters of the English Channel, listening to the melancholy cry of gulls, the slow, sad whisper of the tide rising and falling on the sand. Whenever he heard those sounds something inside him ached, a stupid emotional echo of almost forgotten pain.

'But she isn't dead! She's alive!' said Patience Kirby.

'She's dead to me,' James said tersely.

It was too late now for his mother to come back. He had spent a quarter of a century living without her; he had no need of a mother now.

Three security men burst into the room, big men in dark uniforms and peaked caps, ready to do battle with whatever they might find.

'Get her away from me,' James ordered.

The girl turned her small, heart-shaped face to them. They stared at her tear-wet eyes and trembling lips, then all three men shuffled their feet and looked sheepish.