An Excellent Wife (7 page)

'I won't listen to you running my father down!' James began to get up and she threw out a hand pleadingly.

'I didn't mean to upset you! I'm sorry. Don't go, James.'

He was aware of Patience hovering, her face concerned, and slowly sat down again.

His mother sighed and relaxed again, her frail hand lying on the duvet, fingers almost skeletal, ringless. She had always worn rings, he remembered: her gold wedding band, her ruby and diamond engagement ring, a big diamond his father had given her the day after James had been born. Her fingers had glittered when she moved her hands.

'I didn't know you had ever been a singer; nobody ever told me that.' What else had he never been told? Yet, oddly, he did remember her singing, with him sitting on her knee, at the piano in the drawing room; she had played nursery rhymes for him, sung old folk songs. How strange—he had forgotten that entirely until now. Memory played strange tricks.

She smiled wryly. 'I'm not surprised—your father didn't want anyone to know. He regretted marrying me while we were on honeymoon, I think. His family didn't approve, his friends were standoffish, and, really, we had nothing in common, either. It was a mistake, on both sides; I was a bit dazzled by him for a while. He had class—good-looking, nice clothes, lots of money. I felt like Cinderella when she met the Prince, and it was a convenient escape route from all my problems.'

Coldly, James said, 'So you didn't actually ever love him?'

'I thought I did, for a while. I told you, I was dazzled, but I want to be honest and tell you the whole truth. The band and I weren't doing too well—this was the late fifties, of course. In America there was Elvis, and a lot of rock films were being made there. Here, the Beatles were just around the corner, and a host of other rock bands. Kids didn't go for our sort of music; we were all in our twenties and we were already going out of fashion.

'We had a struggle getting work, even more of a problem finding the money to pay rent and eat. I had no rich family to back me; my father had died and my mother was living with a guy I didn't like. When your father asked me to marry him I jumped at it. I really did think I was in love, James. In a way, I was for a while—in love with a dream. It was only after we were married that real life broke up our illusions and the terrible gaps began to show.'

'You mean you met another man.' James was trying not to lose control again, but his anger burnt in his voice.

'I'm being honest, James! Yes, I did meet someone else, but that came later.

First, I realised my marriage didn't work. Your father wished he had never married me; he had never really loved me at all.'

'He never married again!' He couldn't help his voice rising, thick and bitter.

Patience jumped and his mother shrank back in the bed.

But she still answered him in a threadlike voice. 'He should never have married in the first place. James, he was a cold, indifferent man; he didn't need a wife. He had a secretary and servants, and his relationship with them was on a footing he understood. He paid them and kept them at a distance.

You can't do that with a wife.'

Or with a child, he thought with a pang. That exactly described his relationship with his father. The coldness and emptiness of his childhood made sense of what his mother was telling him. He had told himself that it was her fault that his father was chilly and remote, but maybe she was telling the truth and his father had always been that way? Yet she had left him with that man and gone away for ever!

He looked at her with bitterness. 'Then why did you leave me behind, with him?'

But he had had enough. He didn't wait for her to give him some soothing answer—what could she say? She could only lie. She had gone away and left him in a frozen wasteland, and James wasn't listening to any more.

Giving Patience a resentful look, because it was she who had inflicted all this on him, he got up and walked out, went down the stairs and out of the front door, slamming it behind him.

He was never going back there again.

JAMES was striding out of the gate when he realised that he had no transport.

Damn! He should have rung a taxi. Where on earth was he, anyway? He had no idea apart from the fact that it was in North London. He had been too absorbed in that maddening little redhead to take any notice of the route Barny had taken—he tried to remember any landmark they'd passed but couldn't even recall the name of the road. The house was called The Cedars, that much he was sure about, but that was it, and now that it was dark he was totally lost.

Now what did he do? He wasn't going back into the house; that would make him look silly after that melodramatic exit. When you have slammed a door you don't open it again and say, Oh, excuse me, could you call me a taxi?

This was a very quiet road, but it was not a long one— he could see traffic moving at the far end: headlights of cars, a lorry trundling along, then what he believed to" be a one-decker red bus. It must be a main road, and there must be a public phone-box or maybe a public house somewhere around. He was still in London, of course—around him stretched streets in all directions, and the night sky was lit with that strange yellow glare which London skies have at night, all the street lights and house lights blazing upwards, so bright that you can rarely see a star or even the moon.

James was about to begin walking when someone ran towards him out of the night, a thin, dark shape which had an unearthly glow around its feet and made him apprehensive until it passed under a street lamp and was revealed as a skinny blond boy in trainers with glowing soles, jeans and a ribbed black sweater that clung to his chest. James stood still and aimed a smile at him as he drew level. 'Hallo, can you tell me where I am?'

He received in reply a look of pitying disdain. 'You don't know where you are? Well, at least you admit it. My parents don't know where they are; they think it's still the nineteen-sixties, and they won't admit time didn't stop when they were on the hippy trail.'

James forced himself to stay patient. Was everyone he met today going to be crazy? 'How sad for you, but it could have been worse. They could have thought Queen Victoria was still alive—hippy parents must be quite sympathetic by comparison. Tell me, is there a telephone box anywhere around here?'

'I don't think so—why?'

'Oddly enough because I want to make a telephone call.' '

'Oh, very witty. You should get a mobile. Wake up, man, and smell the coffee. It's later than you think. Any minute we'll be in the twenty-first century—do you realise that?'

Irritating little prat, thought James. He thinks he is so funny. 'Yes, I do actually. It has been in my thoughts constantly for some years.'

'Yeah, right,' the boy said with disbelief, but grinned, taking James's remark for humour when it was the simple truth.

Anyone involved in business had to be aware of the coming millennium and all that it would mean, especially for Europeans—not so much because of a change of century as because during the next decade many things would be changing for the peoples of Europe. But James wanted to get home, so he asked the boy, 'What is the name of this part of London?'

'Get real, man. If you got here, you must know where you are.'

'Someone drove me here.'

'Oh. Right. This is Muswell Hill.'

A sigh escaped James. Of course. How on earth had he forgotten that? 'And the name of the road?'

The boy opened his mouth, but instead of answering gave a strangled groan.

'Patience.'

James started. Violently. 'What did you say?' Were his ears playing tricks on him, or, even worse, his brain? Had this boy really said her name, or was he becoming so obsessed that whatever anyone said to him entered his brain in that one word? Patience.

The boy wasn't listening, wasn't looking at him. He was taking slow steps towards the gate James had just come through, staring fixedly, and he was babbling.

'I have to talk to you—I just had a big row with them—they have no right to ran my life. I'm not a child; I told them so. They said I was too young to know what I was doing, and so were you, so I just walked out on them. I got so angry. I won't be treated like that.'

James stared at the gate. He wasn't imagining anything. She stood there, leaning on the gate, the light on her hair turning it silvery, as if someone had sifted sugar all over the bright red strands, making her look as delicate and insubstantial as a dream, and this boy was gazing at her as if that was exactly what she was—a dream.

Patience looked past the boy at James. 'You need a taxi. I've rung for one for you.'

The boy's head swung; he glowered at James, looking even sulkier. 'Do you know this guy?' Apparently he resented the fact. 'He's out of his tree—he asked me where he was. Has he got amnesia, or is he just plain nuts?'

Patience opened the gate. 'Don't be rude, Col. You'd better come in but you can't stay long. I don't want your father roaring round here shouting at me.

He was very rude last time.'

'He thinks you're after my money.'

'His money, he means. You haven't got any. And if you don't pass your exams you never will have any; you won't be able to get a job when you leave college.' Patience let him into the drive and gave James a cool glance.

'The taxi shouldn't be long. You won't forget that your mother will be sixty next Wednesday, will you?'

Unrevealingly, James asked her, 'When's your birthday?'

'Same day.'

He blinked at that. 'You're not serious. The same day?'

'Who is he?' the boy demanded, running a hostile inspection over him.

'Dresses like someone's father. Some sort of businessman? What's he doing here? Has he dumped his poor old mother on you?'

Rage burned inside James; he hadn't felt so aggressive for years, but something about this kid made him feel quite homicidal. 'Do you want a punch on the nose?' he snarled.

'Huh! Try it and see what you'll get!' The boy came back towards him, skinny and very young and trying to look much older and tougher, his chin up and his face dark red with temper.

Patience moved into his path, barring his way. 'Go into the house, Colin!

You were rude to Mr Ormond; you deserve a punch on the nose.'

'Ormond?' Colin stared at him, bristling. 'That guy? I didn't recognise him; the photos of him in newspapers make him look much younger and better looking. I suppose they touch them up.'

That didn't improve James's temper, especially when he caught Patience trying not to smile, her wide, generous mouth quivering, her hazel eyes dancing.

She gave Colin a little push. 'Go in, before you go too far.'

He already had. Teeth clenched, James pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, his shoulders squared and his body tense as a bowstring.

'Aren't you coming?' the boy asked Patience.

'I won't be long. I just want a word with Mr Ormond about his mother.'

'Tell him to take care of her himself!' The boy turned away, along the drive, towards the house, the shrubs and trees moving and whispering in the wind, his dark shadow floating silently on the path.

Looking down at her heart-shaped face, the wild mop of red curls, the full, soft mouth, James asked between his teeth, 'Is he your boyfriend?'

She gave him a wide-eyed, reproving stare. 'None of your business.'

True—not that that made him calmer. On the contrary. Feeling as if his head might blow off in pure rage, James almost yelled, 'Coming from you, that's rich. You've been interfering in my life, asking personal questions, passing judgements on me, ordering me around all day!'

'Shh!' She turned to shoot a look up the drive. 'Colin might hear you and decide you are bullying me. Then he'd come rushing back and hit you. He's in a very belligerent mood at the moment.'

'You really think I would stand still and let him hit me without hitting him first?' Did she think he was scared of that boy?

'That's what I'm afraid of,' she confessed. 'I don't want you hurting him.'

'How sweet and protective,' James sneered. What on earth did she see in the boy? He scowled, admitting the truth to himself—well, it was obvious, wasn't it? The boy was her own age group, of course. They would have their whole world in common, all the things a generation shares—the same taste in music, books, films, the same jokes, same gossip, same political attitudes, same hopes for the future.

A car engine sounded at the far end of the road. 'Here's your taxi,' Patience said. She put a hand on his wrist; James stiffened, looking down at it, intensely aware of those small, warm, soft fingers moving on his skin.

'Please come and see your mother again. I know it isn't easy for you to forget that she went away and left you, but everyone makes mistakes. Try to forgive her. Give her a chance, get to know her again—don't just turn your back and walk away.'

James wasn't really listening; he was the prey of disturbing impulses he had never felt before. Unable to take his eyes off her face, he had to fight to stop himself kissing her; her lips were so full and generous, sensually promising, pink as summer roses, he ached to taste them, to smell that soft, smooth skin, get close enough to see the gold glints in those big, hazel eyes and those funny, sandy little lashes...

What would it feel like? He would give anything to find out. Even as a very young man he had never felt such a driving desire to kiss a girl, but he would not make a fool of himself. She would probably slap him or scream, and that boy would come rushing out here and start a fight. James was not scared of the boy, but he was terrified of the embarrassment of a scene out here in the road, terrified of looking ridiculous.

The taxi drew up behind them. Dragging his gaze from her face, James turned away, trying to be relieved to be escaping but in fact not wanting to go.

As he got into the taxi she called, 'Come to supper on my birthday—next Wednesday, remember. Bring your mother a present, not just flowers. Seven o'clock.'

James didn't commit himself to a yes or no; he sank back on the seat and told the driver his Regent's Park address. The taxi drove off. James looked at the gate, but she had vanished. He felt for a second that he had imagined her, she had never been here at all.

But she was only too real. This morning he hadn't known her name, or even that she existed; now his head was crammed with a dozen images of her and he felt as if he had always known her, all his life. Staring back at her house, he saw moonlight playing among the bare branches of trees, turning the rivers of daffodils silver." Most of the windows were now brightly lit; the children and old people would be going to bed, the house growing quiet downstairs; only Patience and that boy would still be up soon.

What exactly was going on between them? Did they kiss? Make love? The boy couldn't be more than twenty; Patience was three years older. At that age, that made her an 'older woman'—was that why the boy's parents didn't approve? What did they think went on between their precious son and this

femme fatale?

He couldn't imagine them in bed together. His teeth ground together. He didn't want to imagine it.

As the taxi turned into a busy main road and headed south towards Regent's Park he scowled out of the window, his long, lean body sunk into the seat, swaying as the taxi turned corners sharply, his hands in his jacket pockets, his features set in a smouldering glare. It was none of his business what they did. Why should it matter to him?

But it did, however hard he tried to pretend otherwise.

On Saturday evening he had dinner with Fiona. Everyone in the restaurant stared at her—the men with admiration and desire, because she was dazzlingly beautiful, the women with dislike, because their men couldn't take their eyes off her, and with envy, because they wished they looked like her.

Her taste was impeccable. Tonight she was wearing a daring outfit by one of her favourite designers; James vaguely recognised the style—a mixture of elegance and high drama: a dark green skirt clinging close to her slender hips and a white satin bodice with a deep V-neckline, the back of the dress rearing up into a pleated, gold- tipped collar which framed the back of her head.

'Do you like it?' she asked him.

'You look like an arum lily. Isn't it a little uncomfortable though?'

'It's only for special occasions.' She studied the menu and James studied her.

'Is this a special occasion?'

'Isn't it always when we see each other?' Her voice was as cool as a refrigerator, her eyes like the North Pole, although she smiled and her words had a flirtatious ring.

I've said something to annoy her, thought James— what? He never quite knew what women were thinking even when he heard what they were saying. There was some indefinable communication gap, as though they came from another culture and had had to learn to speak the same language as men without ever quite catching on to the nuances.

'I think I'll start with this melon surprise—I wonder what the surprise is?'

Fiona said, and the waiter enlightened her.

'Balls of melon, madam, with melon sorbet and peach sorbet, assorted green leaves and sliced strawberries.'

'I'll have that—and then I'll have sole with a green salad.'

The food was typical of the meals they always ate together. Fiona was constantly dieting, careful always to eat low-calorie, low-fat food. James thought of the pasta with the very high-calorie sauce, the heaped grated cheese, the bread, the rough, red peasant wine he had had at supper two nights ago. That would have made Fiona shudder; she wouldn't have touched any of it with a barge pole. She liked her food exquisite, delicate, classy—like herself.

If you measured women in food, what did that make- Patience Kirby? A little smile pulled at his mouth as he stared at the menu but saw instead her heart-shaped face, her big eyes, that wide, generous, enchanting mouth.

'James?' Fiona prompted, impatient at his long silence.

'Same for me,' James said, and ordered a bottle of white wine. When the waiter had departed he asked Fiona, 'How is your father?' It was a safe question and saved him having to think. He quite liked her father, although the man was a little stuffy.