Roberta Leigh - The Wrong Kind Of Wife

But though Lindsey stayed in the bath for ages, Tim did not return, and she finally dried herself and went to bed.

She touched his pillow as she did, and began to cry. Was she really the envious young woman he had accused her of being? She refused to believe it. She had simply wanted him to be independent and not dutifully do his father’s bidding. She had assumed he had realised this, but it seemed she was wrong. Resenting his lack of understanding, her anger returned.

Time passed and she lay wakeful, her anger giving way to fear as midnight became two and two became four. Where had he gone? An image of Patsy rose before her, and jealousy brought her upright.

Dammit, she wasn’t going to lie awake like this! If Tim thought he could make her jealous he could think again. Storming into the bathroom, she rummaged in the cabinet for a sleeping pill.

Tomorrow, she assured herself, he would return chastened and apologetic, and they would sit down and calmly discuss everything that had taken place tonight. He had behaved stupidly over Patsy, but perhaps the stagnancy of his career, allied to her own burgeoning success, was responsible for it.

But at rock bottom they loved each other, and they must acknowledge this, for it was the cornerstone on which to rebuild their marriage.

TIM had still not returned when Lindsey finished breakfast next morning.

It was the first time a quarrel between them had lasted so long, and she wondered if she had over-reacted with Patsy. Yet she could not dismiss it as though it had not happened. Her trust in Tim had taken a beating and she needed assuring it would not recur.

Glancing at her watch, and seeing it was after eight-thirty, she gulped down her coffee and dumped her mug and cereal bowl in the sink, then virtuously washed them and put them on the draining rack. At least Tim would find the kitchen spick-and-span when he got back—he hated mess, though he rarely complained. But then he rarely criticised anything; not even the furniture they had purchased second-hand, which she was positive he loathed. But she had adamantly refused to accept anything from his parents’ home. The mere sight of an antique chair or valuable rug would have compromised their hard-won independence, and reminded her of the parents-in-law she preferred to forget.

Tim adored his mother, which made it all the more remarkable that he had married a girl she had not liked.

‘I’ll have to change my accent if you ever decide to become a tycoon!’ she had teased him on one occasion.

‘Rubbish!’ he had grinned. ‘With your gorgeous mane of auburn hair and stunning figure, you’ll be my greatest asset!’

In fact Lindsey had lost her Midlands twang at university, though she still didn’t speak in the plummy tones of Tim’s friends. Yet deep down she was the same girl she had always been. Her insecurity was less—Tim’s love had lessened it—but it was still there, ready to rise when she felt threatened.

As she had felt last night.

Biting back a sigh, she donned the jacket of her suit and set off to work.

Arriving there, she was told Grace Chapman wanted to see her. It had been an achievement for Lindsey to be taken on as one of her researchers, for it was a post normally given to an experienced person. But Grace had been impressed by her intelligence, and within a few months was sending her out on the most difficult assignments.

‘I’m glad you’re back from Paris ahead of schedule,’ the woman greeted her with a sigh of relief. ‘I want you to interview Howard McKay urgently.’ She named a renowned biographer of political figures.

‘But he lives in Glasgow!’

‘If you catch the next shuttle, you can be back tonight.’

As Lindsey was at the door, Grace spoke again.

‘Have you considered my offer?’

‘About going to America? It sounds marvellous, but I can’t accept. I haven’t even mentioned it to my husband.’

‘I realise six months is a long time,’ Mrs Chapman sympathised, ‘but it would be invaluable experience for you.’

‘I know, and if I’d been single I’d have jumped at it.’

‘Think it over again. I’ll keep the offer open for another week.’

Returning to her desk, Lindsey realised she had barely an hour to get to the airport. She didn’t even have a moment to call Tim. But he was bound to ring her some time today, and she asked Joan Barker, another researcher who shared her office, to explain she had to go to Glasgow unexpectedly, but would be back later that evening.

She reached Howard McKay’s home at midday, and was dismayed to find he had gone to the dentist.

‘Broke a crown,’ his housekeeper explained. ‘He said to relax and have a coffee. He shouldn’t be long.’

But it was well into the afternoon before the author returned. Tall and thin, he had a craggy, attractive face, and a thatch of grey hair.

‘Sorry to have kept you,’ he apologised, the teeth he flashed at her bearing witness to the efficiency of his dentist.

Recollecting Mrs Chapman warning her he could be tetchy, Lindsey assured him she hadn’t minded waiting to see someone as important as he was. This put him in an excellent humour, and the interview went well.

‘Perhaps you’d like to have a look at some of my notes for my latest biography?’ he volunteered.

This was a bonus she had not anticipated, and for the next couple of hours she pored over them with him, asking pertinent questions, most of which he didn’t answer.

It wasn’t until she rose to leave that he invited her to stay to dinner, insinuating he might answer the questions he had previously avoided. Since this would give her interview greater bite, she accepted, giving up hope of flying home that night.

‘I’d like to telephone my husband and let him know,’ she explained, and was disconcerted when McKay did not offer to leave the room.

In the event it did not matter, for it seemed Tim had not gone to his office today, and she called Joan to see if he had been in touch.

‘Afraid not,’ Joan answered. ‘But if he calls before I leave, do you have a number where he can reach you?’

Lindsey thought quickly. If he rang her here she would not be able to talk freely with Howard McKay listening, and a stilted conversation would do neither of them any good.

‘Best not,’ she replied. ‘Tell him the interview’s taken longer than I expected, and I have to stay in Glasgow overnight.’ Maybe she could ring Tim from the hotel. As she set down the receiver, she noticed her host’s eyes on her ringless left hand. ‘I don’t wear jewellery,’ she explained.

‘A wedding-ring is hardly jewellery. Do you see it as a sign of bondage?’

She shrugged. ‘It could be, but not in my case.’

‘What does your husband do?’

‘He works for Frank Taplow, the political correspondent.’

‘He’s interested in politics, then?’

‘Very,’ she lied.

‘Do you come from a political background?’

Lindsey nearly laughed. ‘Hardly. My mother always voted for the best-looking candidate, and my stepfather never voted in his life. From the age of twelve I lived in an orphanage, so my background wasn’t a privileged one.’

‘Beautiful women make their own background.’

‘I prefer to rely on my brains.’

‘Most commendable. But if one also has beauty, one has an extra advantage!’

‘Spoken like a man,’ Lindsey chided. ‘But one day soon—when women take their rightful place in world affairs—no man will dare say that!’

Chuckling, McKay rose and extended his arm. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’

It was well after midnight before she booked into a hotel, too late to call Tim, and she ordered an alarm call for six, anxious to catch the earliest shuttle to London. But again fate conspired against her, for the airport was blanketed by fog, and she kicked her heels the entire morning.