An Excellent Wife (8 page)

'He's off to the Far East for a series of meetings with major international players, so he has left me in charge. I'm going to be very busy until he gets back. His workload added to mine makes for a twelve-hour day minimum, if I'm lucky.'

'What about the trip we were taking next weekend? Will you still be free for that?'

'To stay with Oliver and Peta? No, sorry, I can't make that. Dad won't be back until the week after.'

'In that case, I shan't go. It would be dull on my own. Oily is okay, but Peta is tedious. I'll plead pressure of work too.'

'We can't both drop out!'

'I'll simply tell them I won't come without you— they'll understand; they only ever invite couples.'

'That's true.'

'What's behind your father's trip, anyway?'

'He wants to find out more about the companies he is dealing with over there, and he can do that better on their turf, where he can actually see what they are doing rather than just swallow whatever information they choose to give us.'

'And it's a good excuse for a freebie?' he joked, but she did not smile, merely looked offended.

'Dad will be there to work, meet people, get new clients—he doesn't joyride at the company's expense. Although if he wanted to he would be entitled—it is his company, after all.'

Yes, she is annoyed about something—but what? he thought, as the wine waiter arrived with their chilled wine. James tasted it, then said, 'Leave it in the ice bucket until our first course arrives, would you?'

He found out what was on Fiona's mind half an hour later, when they were eating their sole and had almost finished their bottle of wine. Fiona suddenly asked, 'Where were you on Thursday night?'

James stared blankly. 'Thursday night?'

'My father wanted to talk to you so he rang your home, but you weren't in—in fact, nobody was in. There was no reply. He kept ringing, right up till he went to bed at eleven.'

To his chagrin James felt himself going red, heat began to sting along his cheekbones. He looked down at his half-eaten fish, pretended to be concentrating on finding a non-existent bone among the meltingly smooth white fish.

Feigning a shrug, he said, 'I had dinner out, in town, because I'd given my staff a night off.'

'You didn't eat at the restaurant we'd booked—my father rang them and they said you had cancelled.'

'No, I—'

She interrupted his halting sentence. 'Or at your club, he tried there too.'

James looked up then, suddenly furious, the heat in his face now that of resentful irritation. 'What is this? Am I on trial for something? I suppose you'll tell me next that you've got a private detective following me around?'

She was as cool as ever, her eyes skimming his face, probably reading guilt in his flush. 'Don't be insulting! I was simply curious. I wondered where you had been that night, that's all!'

'I went to see someone I hadn't seen for years, as it happens.'

She waited, lifting one eyebrow, but James was not ready to talk about his mother, not yet. He filled his mouth with fish instead of saying anything else. Fiona laughed—the tinkling of ice in a champagne glass.

'An old flame?'

So that was what she had been imagining? She thought "he had gone off for the night with some other woman!

How dared she put him through this in public? burned James, his teeth grinding together. She had no right. She wasn't his wife. Yet. He was beginning to wonder if she ever would be—was she really the sort of wife he wanted?

'No, an old woman,' he said curtly, and drank the last of his wine; it tasted bitter suddenly.

Her brows came together. 'Old woman? Who on earth...? Your old nanny?'

James had had enough. 'Isn't it obvious that I don't want to talk about it?' he bit out, pushing his plate away. 'Can we drop it?'

From then on it was a chilly evening, in every sense of the word. They were not totally silent—they were both too polite for that. They talked about business: about the City, about companies going broke, companies doing brilliantly, rumours of mergers, hints of monetary problems, whispers of take-overs. They did not linger over their coffee. They did not go dancing, as they frequently did on their dates. James drove Fiona home at once; they made occasional, cool remarks to each other, and when they reached her home she brushed a brief, cold kiss over his cheek before getting out of the car.

'Goodnight, James. Thank you for a lovely meal.'

'Goodnight, Fiona. Don't work too hard while your father is away.'

The conventional politeness was the only adult way of dealing with the gap which had just opened up between them. Or had it always been there? Had he ever really thought about Fiona?

It was time he did, and he would have the chance over the next week or two.

It would give them both an excuse for a cooling off period, this trip of her father's. Driving home, James decided he ought to send her flowers tomorrow. Should the message say 'Sorry'? No. He wasn't lying; he wasn't sorry about anything he had said or done. Why should she put him through that inquisition? She didn't own him.

What should he say on the card? Just 'Love from'? Why not? It committed him to nothing. Everyone wrote something like that. Such a simple phrase...'love from'... It meant nothing.

A shiver ran down his spine. A week ago he had been almost sure he would marry her. Now... Well, did he want to spend the rest of his life under a searchlight like someone in a prison camp, behind barbed wire, with guards and dogs set to catch him if he tried to get out?

He knew he was being ridiculous, melodramatic—yet was he? What freedom would he have if Fiona had to know everything he did, everywhere he went, no doubt even what he thought?

It was time he took control of his own life and stopped drifting into deep waters. He had to make decisions about the future, think hard about how he wanted his life, to be from now on.

He did not want to see his mother again, for a start. She had no right to walk back into his life after all these years and expect a warm welcome. They were total strangers now; she meant nothing to him. Patience Kirby had no business asking him to forget what his mother had done to him, how much she had hurt him, the loneliness and sadness of his childhood. He couldn't.

She might be some sort of saint but he was not.

* * *Sunday was cold and wet, the wind lashing across the green acres of Regent's Park and making the trees in his garden sway and moan. James didn't go out; he spent the entire day at home, mostly in his study, sitting in a green leather chair behind his large leather-topped desk studying complex financial graphs and the detailed accounts of a company who" were new clients. He had his usual Sunday breakfast: grapefruit, bacon and egg and toast and marmalade. His usual Sunday lunch: smoked salmon followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with three vegetables, then a melt- ingly light lemon mousse and coffee. Barny and Enid were in the kitchen at the back; the rest of the house was empty and silent except for the deep tones of the grandfather clock in the hall. Normally he would have seen Fiona, or at least talked to her on the phone. Today nobody came, nobody rang. He might have lived on a desert island.

How many days in his life had passed like this? Routine, dry as dust, habit, cold as an iceberg—was that how his life had been, was going to be? He got up restlessly and walked to the window to look out at the windblown, dripping garden. Grey skies, wet slate roofs, emptiness—he felt the way he had when he was a boy, lonely and aching.

At six he went up to have his bath and stayed in the warm, scented water longer than usual; by the time he had dressed it was time for his pre-dinner ritual glass of sherry, except that tonight he drank whisky.

Barny came to tell him dinner was served and looked sharply at the glass of whisky he held, and then at the decanter whose dropped level gave away the fact that that was his second glass.

'Taking to drink? That won't help.'

'Mind your own business.' James walked out to eat what Enid had prepared for him and caught sight of his reflection in a mirror he passed: a tall, dark, frowning man, with cold eyes and a tight mouth. My God! I am beginning to look like my father, he thought, his chest contracting in a spasm of pain.

That was the last thing he wanted. Maybe he should sell this damned house and go and live in the country, start growing roses, spend more time out of doors, sailing or playing golf? He did not want to end up a remote, chilly man who had never really been alive at all.

That was what she'd said. His mother. She had been honest about his father and he had resented it. But it was true and James did not want to end up that way.

By Monday the rain had slackened away to a light drizzle and there was no wind, but James was still in a gloomy mood. He told Miss Roper to send flowers to Fiona.

'What message?' she asked. And he snapped back.

'Just "Love from James".'

He got one of her shrewd, dry looks. 'Don't look at me like that!' he muttered.

'Like what?'

'A good secretary is not supposed to comment on what her boss does!'

'Did I say a word?'

'You looked volumes—whole dictionaries of words.'

'If I go around staring at the ground I'll trip over.'

'Oh, get out, and send those flowers!'

'Yes, sir. Certainly sir.' She closed his door extra quietly, making his teeth meet.

Lunching with clients, he had to keep dragging his mind back to the subject they were discussing; his mind had a new, worrying tendency to wander away from anything to do with work. What the hell's the matter with you? he asked himself furiously that afternoon, finding himself doodling a face on his blotter. Big eyes, a wide, warm mouth... James scribbled blackly all over it and put down his pen. He would not, must not think about Patience Kirby or her hazel eyes. What colour were they exactly? Hard to be sure; "yellowy, greeny, blue. Like opals, the colour seemed to change in different lights, and they had an opalescent flash when she got angry.

Will you stop thinking about her? he told himself, picking up a company balance sheet and forcing himself to concentrate. Maybe he was in need of a holiday? Yes, that was probably it. He buzzed for Miss Roper.

'I think I'll take a few days off soon—check my appointments and let me know the best time for me to go away.'

Her eyes had that omniscient, amused smile. What was she reading into this sudden decision to take time off? Adding two and two and making a hundred, no doubt! *

He glared at her. 'That will be all, thank you, Miss Roper.'

'Yes, sir.'

Demurely she sidled out and James drummed his fingertips on his desk, trying not to look at his watch. It was nowhere near time to go home. He still had a couple of dry-as-dust hours to go yet.

On Tuesday his lunch engagement was cancelled at the last minute; the sun had come out, so James took a taxi to the nearest department store, had a salad lunch there, then explored the various departments idly, with no particular motive in mind. It was just a way of filling in time, he told himself, looking at expensive French perfume. He chose a fragrance which seemed very familiar; was he imagining it or had his mother worn it when he was a child? Or something similar; he was hardly an expert but the smell definitely rang bells from long ago.

'Has this perfume been around long?' he asked the assistant, who nodded.

'It was created in the fifties, I think.'

'I thought it was familiar.'

'Oh, a lot of ladies buy it, sir.'

It seemed a good idea to buy two bottles. Just because he'd bought her a present that didn't commit him to going to her party.
Their
party! Patience had been born on the same day; wasn't that an extraordinary coincidence?

He couldn't buy his mother a present and not buy Patience one. In the circumstances, as she had invited him to her birthday party, he couldn't turn up empty-handed, could he? She had been very kind to his mother; it was only polite to buy her a bottle of perfume. It meant nothing.

Walking past a display of long, delicate, exquisite georgette scarves in sky-blue, almond-green and pale rose, he picked out two in different colours. Green for his mother, rose for Patience; it was the exact colour of her mouth.

The store wrapped the gifts for him; he wrote out the cards to be taped to the parcels. That reminded him of birthday cards; he took his time choosing them, and wrote inside each and addressed them while he was drinking coffee before leaving the store.

Surprisingly, he had enjoyed his lunch hour more than he usually did; instead of long, tedious meals with businessmen he had been having fun. It was ages since he had had such a good time. Maybe giving presents was good for you?

The London streets sparkled with sunlight as he went back to the office.

People were smiling today, not running along with heads bent, faces grim.

Spring was definitely here, and James didn't feel much like going back to work, but habit won; he was behind his desk again that afternoon. The presents were locked into a drawer of his desk; he didn't look at them again but they were on his mind—should he send them over by messenger?

By Wednesday he was in a state of permanent dither. To go or not to go?

That was the question on James's mind, and he swung from one decision to another all day.

Indecision made him irritable; he knew he was being grumpy. Miss Roper kept giving him those dry, sardonic looks of hers, and the little blonde girl was in a permanent state of jumpiness because he had snapped at her once or twice. Once or twice an hour, all day, he bleakly conceded. Poor girl, it wasn't her fault; he knew he was making her so nervous she couldn't help dropping things and getting messages wrong.

Trying to lighten the mood, James smiled at her, and she immediately dropped the pile of letters she had brought him to sign.

James roared. 'For God's sake, you halfwit, can't you do anything right?'

Miss Roper zoomed in to take over, despatched her whimpering assistant to her own office, picked up the letters and told James coldly, 'If you didn't shout, she wouldn't be so nervous, Mr Ormond.'