Roberta Leigh - The Wrong Kind Of Wife

‘Is that your ambition for me?’ Tim asked slowly. ‘To be a political leader writer?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing. Except it isn’t my ambition. The thought of spending my life criticising what others have done—’

‘And putting forward your own views,’ Lindsey intervened silkily. ‘Imagine the influence you could have on public opinion.’

‘It would be years before anyone listened to me.’

‘You have to begin somewhere ,’ Lindsey said irritably. ‘Or would you prefer to waste your talent going into the family business and being your father’s dogsbody?’

‘I’d hardly have been that. It’s not a one-man business, you know. It’s a sizeable engineering firm, and—’ Tim hesitated, then clamped his lips and said no more.

But Lindsey knew what he had held back, and, realising how important it was to clear the air, she finished the sentence for him.

‘And if you don’t join your father, he’ll eventually have to sell the company to somebody else, who probably won’t have the same caring attitude to the workforce.’

‘Exactly. So what’s wrong with that attitude?’

‘Nothing. Except that you aren’t interested in business, and your parents shouldn’t make you feel guilty because you don’t want to conform to their ideas. That’s why they don’t like me. Because they blame me for what they see as your disloyalty.’

‘That isn’t true. They don’t blame you, though I admit they’re upset that I’m not joining Ramsden Engineering.’

Lindsey bit back a sigh. She understood Tim’s dilemma but didn’t see how it could be solved, for if he toed the line it would mean returning to live in Evebury, and that would put untold strain on their marriage, for she knew she would never be happy living there.

‘Don’t look so upset,’ Tim said quickly, his words intimating knowledge of her feelings. ‘You’re my first loyalty, darling, and you always will be.’ Moving forward, he caught her round the waist and rubbed his cheek against hers, his passion, as always, very near the surface.

Lindsey’s breasts swelled at his touch, and she traced the nape of his neck with her fingertips, fiercely glad to know that, whatever their difficulties, their love would always overcome them.

LINDSEY flung down her pen and stretched her arms lazily above her head, easing her tired muscles. By dint of working long hours she was two days ahead of her schedule, which pleased her because she knew it would delight Tim.

She reached for the telephone, called Air France, and secured a reservation on an early evening flight to London. Replacing the receiver, she picked it up again to call Tim and tell him, then, smiling, put it down. How much nicer to surprise him!

With one eye on the clock, she continued transcribing material from her tape recorder on to her lap-top word processor. She had come to Paris to research the life of a famous French movie star who, twenty years earlier, at the age of forty, had married an out-of-work twenty-year-old French guitarist. Everyone had said it wouldn’t last, but they had been proved wrong, for not only were they still blissfully happy, but the guitarist was now one of the most popular musicians in France.

Lindsey knew that Grace Chapman, who was the programme’s producer and her immediate boss, would be delighted with the material she had obtained, for she had great aptitude in gathering information, and Grace had recently suggested she would let her appear in a documentary instead of being a backroom girl.

‘You have the looks, intelligence and personality to be a presenter,’ the woman had stated. ‘But telly fame means you’d become a target for every gossip columnist in Fleet Street, and you might not want that.’

‘They’d find nothing to gossip about in my life,’ Lindsey had replied.

‘I’ll put your name forward, then.’

Since Grace’s word carried enormous weight, Lindsey was delighted, yet she had not said a word to Tim, uncertain how would he feel if she suddenly became famous while he was still struggling. Perhaps it might be wiser to soft-pedal her prospects for another year.

Arriving at the airport with time to spare, she wandered into the duty-free shop and, spying Tim’s favourite aftershave, which even for her was wickedly expensive, she decided to buy some for him. The bottle she had given him for Christmas was down to the last inch, and she had noticed him using it sparingly.

Deciding in for a penny in for a pound, she also purchased a bottle of champagne as a nice way to mark her earlier than expected return. Tim’s favourite brand was Dom Perignon, but the cost was almost double the one she had chosen, and given the amount she had spent on the aftershave it was an extravagance she could ill afford.

Although the flight took only an hour, it was interminable to Lindsey as she envisaged Tim’s surprise and pleasure at seeing her. Would they drink the champagne before going to bed, or make love first? When they had been apart for more than a night, he was always impatient to possess her, and as she walked in he would gather her into his arms and carry her into the bedroom, his hunger such that there was no time for foreplay. But she was always wet and ready for him, and their coupling, though swift, was lusty and satisfying.

As her taxi drew to a halt outside the red-brick Edwardian house where they had their apartment, and she saw the light in the sitting-room of their second-floor apartment, she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness Tim was home. In the last half-hour it had occurred to her that her desire to surprise him would backfire if he had gone to the films, or was visiting friends.

Hurrying up the stairs, she quietly unlocked the front door and noiselessly closed it. She wanted Tim’s surprise to be total when she walked into the sitting-room.

It certainly was! And a damned unpleasant one too, for he was on the sofa, locked in a passionate embrace with a voluptuous blonde.

Staring at them in shocked silence as they swiftly drew apart, her eyes took in the scene: open hamper stuffed with goodies in Harrods’ distinctive green wrapping, two glasses beside an empty champagne bottle—Dom Perignon, to add insult to injury—and black leather Gucci bag flung carelessly on the floor, beside matching low-heeled shoes. While the cat’s away, the rat did play! And with no expense spared for his new little sex-kitten!

‘Shall I go out and ring the bell?’ she finally managed, tight-lipped.

‘It isn’t what you imagine,’ the girl said.

‘Then it’s an award-winning imitation!’

‘Don’t be silly, Lindsey.’ Tim’s smile was a travesty, and he avoided her eyes as he began doing up the buttons of his shirt, which was undone to the waist. ‘Patsy is Peter’s sister—the best man at our wedding. Patsy wasn’t there because she was in Australia.’

‘I suppose she called in tonight to congratulate you?’ Lindsey’s tone was heavily sarcastic as she eyed the girl.

There was no denying she was stunning: silky, corn-coloured hair falling around slender shoulders, a full bust, small waist, and nicely rounded hips. As she gracefully rose, the long legs exposed by her black kid skirt were fabulous too.

‘Patsy and Peter grew up with me,’ Tim was saying. ‘Remember me telling you, darling?’

Lindsey had a vague memory of it, and jealousy mounted as she remembered her mother-in-law saying she had wanted Tim to marry someone like Patsy Selwyn, who hailed from a similar background.

‘Please don’t be angry with Tim,’ the girl said now, in a well-bred drawl. ‘This is more my fault than his.’

‘It takes two to tango,’ Lindsey bit out, throwing her husband a contemptuous look as he raked his hand through his tousled hair in an attempt to tidy it.