Roberta Leigh - The Wrong Kind Of Wife

Several times she went to call Tim at the newspaper, but each time stopped herself. The more she thought of their quarrel, the wiser it seemed to wait until they were face to face. In the context of her love for him, and their future together, the Patsy episode was best forgiven, though she doubted she could ever forget it.

She had also mulled over his accusations regarding her attitude to his parents, and knew they weren’t unjustified. Because of her insecurity, she was afraid of their power over him, refusing to see that by marrying her he had shown his independence, and endorsed it further by refusing to join the family firm. So surely she could afford to be less defensive with her in-laws? Perhaps if she made an effort to be nice to them, they would respond in kind.

It was well into the afternoon before she finally reached her office.

‘Did Tim call yesterday?’ was her first question to Joan.

‘About an hour after you rang. He left a number.’

Lindsey looked at it, but it meant nothing to her. Anyway, there was no point calling him there now.

‘I’m off,’ she announced. ‘I left McKay after one this morning, and what with the journey back, I’m whacked.’

Arriving home, she showered and changed into one of her prettiest dresses, then wandered from one room to the other, nervous as a girl waiting for her first date.

It was only as she decided to have a cup of coffee that she saw her breakfast cup and saucer on the draining board where she had left them yesterday morning. Odd that Tim hadn’t put them away. His tidiness was something she teased him about. When he had learned she was remaining in Glasgow for the night, he must have stayed over wherever he had gone.

She rummaged in her bag for the number Joan had given her, started to dial it, then, on an impulse, went over to the desk for Tim’s address book. Leafing through it, she could find no number corresponding to the one she had, and she went into the hall for the telephone directory.

With trembling fingers she picked up the L to Z. Yes, there was a P. Selwyn listed and the number tallied with the one Joan had given her. Did the ‘P’ stand for Patsy or Peter? There was one way to find out, and she took it.

She hardly remembered the cab ride to Knightsbridge, and was in a cold sweat when she reached the entrance of a luxury apartment block near Harrods. There was an entry-phone at the door but she was reluctant to use it, unwilling to warn Patsy—if it was her and not her brother—that she was here.

After what seemed an age but was only a moment, a well dressed couple emerged, and she slipped past them into the foyer. Luckily the porter was talking to another resident, and Lindsey darted into the lift.

Apartment twelve was on the top floor, and her heart was thudding madly as she rang the bell. Footsteps sounded on parquet, then the door was flung open and Patsy stared at her, dumbfounded.

‘Good lord, you !’

‘Is Tim here?’

‘He’s in Evebury.’

Lindsey was taken aback. ‘But he—he’s stayed here the last two nights, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Patsy said, ‘and frankly I don’t blame him. If you were childish enough to throw him out, what did you expect?’

Lindsey felt sick. How could Tim discuss their quarrel with the girl who was the cause of it? Didn’t he realise how disloyal it was, or didn’t he care?

‘I was angry,’ she said, then wondered why she should excuse her behaviour to Patsy. Without another word she turned and ran down the stairs.

Her worst suspicions had been confirmed. After their quarrel, Tim had spent the night with Patsy, and had done so again when she had been stuck in Glasgow. Lindsey tried to assure herself that they might have slept in separate rooms, but she could not believe it. Bearing in mind that he had had no qualms about kissing the girl while his wife was in Paris, it was difficult to imagine he had only gone to Patsy’s apartment for tea and sympathy!

Ignoring the taxis that passed by, Lindsey strode along the hard, unyielding pavements, and by the time she reached home the soles of her feet were burning. No swift, silent lift here to whisk her to a luxury apartment; just steep stairs, with each landing exuding its own distinctive smell. Lavender water from the elderly woman who had originally owned the house before converting it, dog from the Coopers, whose Basset hound was not house-trained, and nothing from their floor, Lindsey realised miserably as she reached her front door, and for once would have welcomed the aroma of Tim’s burnt cooking.

Desolated, she went straight to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The working class panacea, she thought wryly. Patsy would no doubt have poured herself a glass of champagne.

To hell with Patsy and what she would have done! Lindsey sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the water to boil. Tim’s departure for Evebury meant only one thing: he was leaving London to join the family company. She was hurt that he had not seen fit to talk it over with her first. Was it because he wanted to prove he was his own man?

Angrily she poured boiling water over her teabag and some of it splashed on her hand. With a cry she put down the kettle, the shock of the scald shattering her frayed nerves.

Tears streaming down her face, she ran into the living room and flung herself on to the sofa. Her life was over. At the first trouble between them Tim had fled to his family like a chicken to its coop. Lindsey felt as though a door had been slammed in her face, leaving her broken, crushed, and completely alone.

THE piercing ring of the telephone at her side roused Lindsey from her stupor, and dazedly she reached for the receiver, sitting up swiftly as she heard Tim at the other end.

‘Why haven’t you called me?’ he said curtly. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’

‘Yes. But I didn’t return from Glasgow till late this afternoon. I understand you’re at Evebury?’

‘Yes, I am. So you rang the number I left?’

‘I went there,’ she said as casually as she could. It was pointless not telling him, given that Patsy would.

He was silent, as if surprised, and Lindsey’s resentment became savage. ‘So you’ve gone back to Mummy and Daddy?’

‘Dammit, Lindsey, I’m here because—’

‘You were tired of pigging it with me!’

‘We weren’t exactly starving in a garret!’ he responded irritably. ‘My father’s had a stroke and is in hospital.’

Lindsey was shocked into silence.

‘Will you come down?’ Tim asked.

‘Is he...how serious is it?’

‘Thank God it wasn’t a severe one. The specialist says he should recover completely. But it was totally unexpected.’

‘These things often are.’ Lindsey was surprised to find her voice husky. ‘Please give him my best wishes.’

‘Does that mean you won’t be coming here?’

‘There isn’t much point, is there? Your heart’s in Evebury and mine’s in London.’ She had a sudden inspiration. ‘Not for much longer, though. I’m going to America for six months.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ Tim exclaimed.

‘Yes, I am. Grace offered me the chance a few weeks ago and I’ve finally decided to accept it. It’s for the best.’

‘The best for whom? If you’re going because of Patsy, you’re mad!’

‘Mad because I can’t be as sophisticated about it as you?’ Lindsey stormed back, longing for him to say he was sorry and that he loved her more than anyone in the world.

But he said none of these things, his tone icy as he spoke. ‘You’re making too much of something that’s totally unimportant and—’

‘I consider it bloody important!’

‘I’m in no mood to plead with you, Lindsey. Do what the hell you like. You always have, anyway. But I’ll say one thing for you—you certainly choose your moments!’