Roberta Leigh - The Wrong Kind Of Wife

Lindsey had wanted this too, but was afraid it was not to be, for she knew her happiness was with Tim and did not believe their relationship would turn into a permanent commitment. She had grown up in too tough a school to believe in fairy-tales, and Cinderella was strictly a story in a book. So she was dumbfounded when he’d asked her to marry him.

She had accepted instantly, and they were married shortly after they graduated, with a small reception given by Tim’s parents for their close family and a select few of their friends.

‘A big wedding wouldn’t be quite the thing,’ Mrs Ramsden had explained with a cool smile. ‘I mean, it isn’t as if you have any family to invite...’

The implication being that, even if she had, they would have felt out of place and been unacceptable. Mrs Ramsden had not expressed her antipathy to Lindsey in any concrete manner, but Lindsey had sensed it the instant they met. Mr Ramsden had tried to be friendly, but since his wife was the dominant personality she realised she would never have anything other than a constrained relationship with either of them.

To begin with the knowledge had distressed her, making her nervous of saying or doing the wrong thing. How she had envied Tim his genial social manner which enabled him to mix with people from every stratum, an ability that her relationship with him had shown her she did not possess. She felt alien with his friends, and was unable to relate to his political views and opinion of world events.

Yet their physical attraction for one another had been stronger than their dissimilarities, and as Tim’s love for her had deepened and his dependence on her grown, her self-confidence had reasserted itself; not that he was ever aware of her fears and doubts, for she was adept at concealing her innermost feelings.

Tim stirred in her arms, bringing her back to the present. ‘You have the most gorgeous eyes,’ he whispered, looking into their green depths.

‘I was thinking the same about yours,’ she smiled as he drew her closer, but resisted him as her closeness made him harden.

‘Not again?’ she teased, easing away and slipping out of bed.

‘Again and again! The more I have you, the more I need you.’

‘You’re just greedy!’

‘Mmm. But at least it doesn’t make me fat!’ He studied her as she slipped into an emerald silk wrap. The skirt swung round her shapely legs and the tightly cinched belt revealed the contours of her firm, high breasts and small waist. ‘All you need to complete the 1920s illusion is a long cigarette holder,’ he teased. ‘You look like a Scott Fitzgerald heroine.’

Pushing off the duvet, he followed her to the kitchen, grabbing a bathrobe en route. ‘I thought we were going to a restaurant?’

‘It’s a waste of money,’ she replied, deftly making a salad before putting a small French bread into the oven to crisp. She hummed to herself as she did so. Sex with Tim always made her feel good.

He watched her for a moment, then methodically set the table and opened the wine. ‘For someone who dislikes wasting money,’ he grinned, studying the label, ‘isn’t this extravagant? Or are we celebrating something?’

‘I felt like spoiling us,’ she replied, and from his pleased expression knew the Australian Shiraz was going to have the effect on him that she desired. But she would wait until he had drunk a couple of glasses before imparting her news.

She put slices of gammon under the grill, then made a four-egg omelette, her movements deft with long practice.

‘Get the coffee going, Tim.’

Whistling tunelessly, he did, then set out the cream and gold coffee-cups, a present from his mother. And how like his mother they were! Lindsey thought: elegant, fragile, yet extremely durable if handled carefully. Mrs Ramsden was used to a household of servants, and her two daughters and son had been equally cosseted. Now Tim was roughing it, according to his mother’s standards, and no doubt she blamed her daughter-in-law for it, though she had not put her feelings into words.

Discarding the unpleasant thought, Lindsey divided the omelette and gammon into two while Tim took the bread from the oven and poured the wine. The meal was simple but appetising and he did justice to it, though Lindsey, rehearsing how to tell him of her forthcoming trip, merely toyed with her food.

‘Not hungry?’ he asked.

‘Lovemaking has that effect on me,’ she said, knowing this would please him, and, seeing it did, she quickly took advantage of it. ‘I have to go to Paris for a few days. I was only told today.’

‘Not again!’ he exploded. ‘That’s the second time in three weeks.’

‘It isn’t for long,’ she placated.

‘That’s what you said last time, and you were away a week. Do you have to go, Lynnie?’

‘Yes. And I wish you wouldn’t call me that.’

‘Sorry, angel.’

She forced a smile. She hated the abbreviation because it was one her stepfather had used. She had been a scrawny eight-year-old when he had married her mother, but at twelve she had started to bloom, and he had begun hanging around her in a way that had instinctively frightened her. Even now she loathed thinking about it, and had never mentioned it to Tim.

‘Why not go down to Evebury while I’m away?’ she said aloud, hoping the suggestion would placate him. ‘You have several days due.’

‘I don’t enjoy going without you.’

She knew the reason too well and stifled her irritation. It would have been an opportunity to impress on his parents that he was making his own way, but he obviously couldn’t do it unless she was there to give him moral support.

‘I can’t take my father going on at me to join the business, and mother stoically holding back the tears,’ he explained.

Lindsey sniffed. ‘Pity they don’t realise how happy you are.’

‘Happy with you , darling, not with my job.’

Morosely Tim pushed back his chair and rose, and she feasted her eyes on him. Tall, slim and strikingly handsome, he had wide shoulders and athletically co-ordinated movements. His face reflected his patrician lineage: high cheekbones, wide forehead, and finely chiselled nose and mouth. His thick, dark blond hair was soft and faintly unruly, and unusually well-shaped eyebrows marked genial grey eyes. With his bathrobe knotted casually around his waist, he epitomised the well-bred man about town.

‘Why can’t they send someone else to Paris?’ he asked. ‘You aren’t their only researcher.’

‘They consider me one of their best,’ Lindsey admitted. ‘But I promise it will be the last time. I told Grace I don’t want to do any more out-of-town interviews.’

‘Well, if it’s really the last time...’

‘How was your day?’ she asked, anxious to change the subject.

‘I spent the morning editing Turlow’s article and the afternoon finding photographs for him. It’s a job anyone with a half-decent education could do. I’m wasting my degree.’

‘It would have been equally wasted if you’d gone to work in your family business.’

‘I never committed myself to working there.’ Tim was instantly on the defensive.

‘Your parents took it for granted, and if you hadn’t met me I think you’d have joined your father like a shot.’

‘Perhaps, but you’re more important to me than any job.’

‘Thank you, but I don’t fancy having it on my conscience that you aren’t doing what you want.’

‘Who the hell knows what I want?’ he questioned bitterly.

‘Well, at least you won’t waste your training if you stay on in Fleet Street.’

‘As a hack journalist?’

‘Give yourself a chance. I’m sure they’ll ask you to do Turlow’s column when he goes.’