Lucy Gordon - His Pretend Wife

‘Yes,’ she said sadly. ‘Perhaps it would.’

She followed him into the hall where he put on his jacket, collected his briefcase and went to the door.

‘Thank you again,’ he said formally. ‘I hope you keep well. Please remain here for as long as you wish.’

In a moment the door of his exquisite car had closed behind him, the engine purred into life, and he vanished down the winding drive. Elinor watched him go with a sense of desolation. She knew he’d finally shut a door on her.

As she turned back into the house she saw her daughter descending the stairs slowly. Hetta’s face showed that she’d seen him go.

‘He didn’t wait, Mummy,’ she said in a voice of disillusion.

‘No, darling. He couldn’t.’

‘Doesn’t he like us after all?’

‘He likes you to bits,’ Elinor said, giving Hetta a hug. ‘Now come on, let’s have breakfast.’

For the first time ever her daughter’s company was a strain. She wanted to be alone to think, and to cry. But somehow she got through the day without Hetta suspecting anything amiss, and then it was evening and she could go to her room, shut the door, and give way to her anguish.

If only she could blot out the sight of his eyes when he’d opened them, his horror when he’d seen who had been in his arms, his appalled cry of ‘No!’ Perhaps he had another woman now, one he loved. And he’d awoken to find himself in the arms of a woman he hadn’t chosen, one he now probably despised. That thought made her curl herself up into a tight little ball, as though by doing so she could vanish from her own eyes.

How could she have thought that she had anything to attract him now? But she hadn’t been thinking of herself, only of him and his needs, and she’d opened her arms to him in defenceless love.

Love. She resisted the word, but it wouldn’t let her go. It was too late now to protest that her love should never have been allowed to live again.

For it didn’t live again. It had never died. Through twelve lonely years it had hidden away in a place she couldn’t bear to visit, calling to her with a voice she’d refused to hear, waiting for the day it could seize her again. And this time there would be no escape.

After a few days she no longer strained her ears for the sound of a car. He wasn’t coming back, and she couldn’t stay here. Hetta was well enough for a move, and Andrew’s generosity meant that she had enough money to cushion them for a while. It galled her to have to rely on his money, but at least she wouldn’t accept any more.

She called Daisy, living in a comfortable little hotel near the boarding house, now being rebuilt. The hotel would have a twin room vacant next week, and Daisy reserved it for them. Hetta was in two minds over the move, sad to be leaving, but glad to see Daisy again.

She wrote Andrew a polite letter, thanking him for his kindness but explaining that she could no longer impose on him. She ended it, ‘Yours sincerely, Elinor Landers (Mrs).’

In return she received a blunt note saying, ‘There’s no need for this. You should reconsider. A.’

She wrote back, ‘Thank you, but my mind is made up. Elinor Landers.’

There was no reply.

The days began to narrow down. Four days, then three, then two, one. She would be gone soon and the last connection between them broken. Hetta would need one more visit to the hospital, but doubtless Andrew would depute another doctor to see her.

On the last day, while Hetta was upstairs, unpacking and repacking some toys for the umpteenth time, Elinor went around the garden, trying to be strong-minded and not let herself feel wretched. She knew she’d done the right, the only thing, but the voice of the tempter whispered that she could have stayed a little longer, and perhaps seen him just once more.

Then she thought how that meeting would be: full of the remembered humiliation of their last encounter. Was that pain worth it, just to see him one more time?

Yes, anything was worth it.

As she headed back to the house Elinor became aware that there was someone else in the garden. It was a tall, dark-haired woman, expensively dressed and with an air of ease that came from always having money. Elinor had seen that look often enough in her customers. The stranger watched her approach, unabashed at being discovered intruding. A few feet away Elinor stopped and the two women regarded each other.

‘Who are you?’ they both said.

The woman laughed. ‘I’ll answer first, although I don’t know why I should, since it’s my home.’

‘This-? You’re-?’

‘I’m Myra Blake. And I should have said this used to be my home. I moved most of my things out months ago. It doesn’t really bother me who’s here now, but, just for the record, who are you?’

‘I’m Elinor Landers,’ she said carefully.

‘And when did Andrew move you in? I must say, this kind of caper isn’t normally in his line. Too much of a puritan. In fact, that’s what-well, it’s old history.’

‘I’m only here because he operated on my little girl,’ Elinor hastened to say, ‘and while she was in hospital our home burned down. I had nowhere else to go, and he was very kind.’

Myra Blake gave a crack of laughter. ‘Oh, yes, of course. I was forgetting how often he takes in waifs and strays from the hospital.’ Her voice was heavy with irony.

‘Mrs Blake, I promise you this isn’t how it looks. Besides I shall be l-’

‘Good grief, what do I care how it looks? Let’s go inside and you can make me some tea.’

She turned and led the way to the house, the picture of confidence. Elinor followed, her head in a spin. But since Myra Blake wasn’t flustered by the situation she determined that she wouldn’t be either.

She made tea and carried it into the room overlooking the garden where Myra had removed her luxurious cashmere coat and tossed it onto a chair. She’d seated herself on the sofa and now leaned back, surveying Elinor from dark eyes that gleamed with malicious fun. She was lovely, with black shining hair, cut elegantly and just touching her shoulders. As a beautician Elinor had become a connoisseur of other women’s looks, and professionally she had to admire Myra. Her legs were long and elegant, sheathed in black silk and ending in impossibly high heels. Her curvaceous figure looked as though she worked hard keeping it trim, her complexion was perfect and her face had been made up with great skill.

So this woman had been Andrew’s wife, had shared his life, his home, his bed. He’d said it hadn’t been a happy marriage, even implied that he’d married cynically, but at some point he must surely have been enraptured by her beauty, and whispered words of passion into her ears as they’d danced at their wedding.

‘Smashing!’ Myra said suddenly, and Elinor stared at hearing the down-to-earth word from this picture of elegance. ‘Smashing tea! Best I ever tasted.’ She was sipping enthusiastically.

‘I’m glad you like it, Mrs Blake,’ Elinor said politely, seating herself.

‘Myra, please.’

‘Myra, there’s a lot I don’t understand.’

‘Like how I just managed to walk in? I still have a key.’ She leaned forward to put her cup on the low table, but suddenly she stopped, frowning as she looked at Elinor. ‘Have we ever met before?’

‘No, never.’

‘Funny, you look familiar somehow. Never mind. So what am I doing here? I want to collect a few things that I left. And I thought Andrew might be around somewhere, although I can’t imagine why. He never was around. I need to talk to him. So come on, tell me. What gives?’

‘What gives?’

‘You and Andrew.’

‘There is no me and Andrew,’ she said firmly. ‘My daughter needed a heart transplant. She was originally a patient of Sir Elmer Rylance.’