Roberta Leigh - The Wrong Kind Of Wife

In spite of the lifeline she had offered in her letter to him, he had not attempted to contact her. It was as if he wished to sever their relationship completely, and even the cheques she had left for him remained uncashed.

Would their relationship have succeeded if they had settled in Evebury and Tim had gone into the family business? Yet, if he had, her own career would not have taken off, and the independent girl Tim had fallen for would have disappeared. No, she reflected, whatever way they had played it, given their respective backgrounds their life together had been doomed from the start.

Eventually she would forget him; at least sufficiently to consider another relationship. But unfortunately the men who appealed to her were all Tim lookalikes, though none of them had his charm, and she was never tempted to launch into an affair.

A month before she was due to return to England, Phil Marsham, Grace Chapman’s American counterpart, asked if she was interested in remaining in New York.

‘For how long?’ she enquired, gratified by the compliment but unwilling to risk losing her position in the London company.

‘For as long as you like.’

‘I’m tired of doing research. Grace said I could front some of the shows when I went back.’

‘Stay here and you can front them all.’

This had been her goal for the future, but she had not envisaged grasping it so soon. ‘You mean that? You’re not just holding out a carrot?’

‘Sure it’s a carrot—but it’s yours to eat!’

‘Then I’ll stay!’ Lindsey beamed.

Later that evening she wrote to tell Tim of her plans.

In spite of its down side, New York’s a great city and I enjoy living here. I’m sure you’re managing very well without me, and I’ll understand if you wish to make our separation permanent.

Here she paused, wondering if she was being too brief, too final. She thought not. She had stated the facts as she saw them, and if he didn’t agree he was free to say so. Damn him, he’d said nothing since the day she had left London. Not a call, not a card.

A week later she had a stilted reply saying he was in no hurry for a divorce, and preferred to wait the statutory two years, when it would be granted with the minimum of fuss. If she wanted one sooner, she would have to furnish the necessary evidence herself.

Furiously she flung his letter aside. What a nerve! Did he think she was born yesterday? If she needed evidence to divorce him, she’d cite Patsy. Yet deep down she knew she wouldn’t. Not unless she fell so madly in love with someone else that she wanted to marry them immediately, about as likely as pigs flying, in her present emotional state. No, she’d play it as coolly as Tim, and if he was content to wait, so was she.

With great determination Lindsey began building a new life. She was happy to stay for the foreseeable future; certainly her career would move forward at a faster pace than if she returned home.

Quite how fast it did go took her by surprise, for three months after accepting Phil’s offer she researched, produced, and appeared in her own documentary. The ratings were excellent, and to show their appreciation Universal TV gave her a bonus, large enough for her to rent an empty apartment of her own. She filled it with pieces bought from the numerous second-hand stores that flourished in the city, and was pleased by the admiring comments from friends at the William-Morris-papered walls, polished wood floorboards scattered with rugs, and delicate sprigged fabrics on the squashy sofas.

‘You’ve created an English-country-house look in the heart of New York!’ they exclaimed.

It had been a totally unconscious act, but once it was brought to her attention she realised that the country house she had unconsciously copied was Ramsden Manor!

A burgeoning bank account brought other advantages too. When money was tight she had given little thought to clothes, but now she no longer had to skimp she discovered she had an excellent eye for what suited her, and her tall, graceful body was shown to advantage in the elegantly casual look of Ralph Lauren and Armani.

For the next two years Lindsey did all she could to forget the past, but it came forcibly back to her during her second summer in New York when she picked up an English newspaper one morning—left in the office by a visiting British VIP—and read that Ramsden Engineering had been bought out by Semperton Trust, a large company with its fingers in many different businesses.

So Tim’s joining the family firm had not saved it! What a blow it must have been to his pride. Still, he was young enough to build another career for himself. It was his father for whom she felt sympathy, for he would find it difficult to start something new in his mid-fifties, yet was too young to settle for retirement.

She read on, and was glad she had done so, for it appeared that Mr Ramsden’s aggressive price-cutting in the past year had caused blood to be spilt in Semperton’s engineering arm, and the best way of stemming it, according to the article, was to ‘invite the enemy on board’.

Lindsey couldn’t help smiling. Tim’s father had always been kind to her, though fairly remote—a fact which she had put down to his wife—and she was pleased that he wasn’t going to be put out to pasture. Crumpling the newspaper, she tossed it into the bin, wishing she could as easily toss out the memories of Tim that came crowding into her brain.

‘It’s over,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ve made a new life for myself and you have no part in it.’

‘You calling me?’ her assistant enquired, putting her head round the door.

‘No. Just reminding myself of something important.’

Another year went by and, aware that for the past twelve months Tim could have obtained a divorce with the minimum of fuss, she waited for his lawyer to write and say it had come through. When he didn’t, she was puzzled. Surely Tim wanted his freedom, given that he had made no move towards a reconciliation? Not that she’d have him back anyway; she still resented his apathy, his total lack of caring.

By the fourth year his image had blurred, and it was as if he belonged to another life; one she recalled with neither pain nor pleasure, only numbness.

Around this time Phil Marsham and his wife invited her out to celebrate their wedding anniversary. She dressed for the evening in a body-hugging cream silk suit, its simplicity suiting her tall, slender figure. Her free-tumbling curls were long since gone, replaced by a silky auburn swath brushed back from her face to fall smoothly to just below her ears.

Everything about her today was sophisticated, though many of her friends thought her too thin. Yet this emphasised her beautiful bone-structure, throwing her high cheekbones into relief, and drawing attention to her full red mouth and luminous green eyes.

Lowering her head, she fastened the clasp of her chunky gold necklace and matching bracelet. Strange that she, who had once scorned jewellery, should today regard it as part of her persona. Grabbing a light wrap and small Chanel purse, she went down to the foyer, where Phil was waiting.

He was a wiry man of medium build and height. Yorkshire by birth, though no one would have guessed it from his accent which, after twenty years in the States with an American wife, had become authentically New York.

‘The one person I know who’s always punctual,’ he greeted her. ‘Belle’s waiting in the car.’

‘I was going to suggest you both come up for a drink.’

‘I can’t face the aggro of parking. Besides, Robert Lawson’s meeting us at Rico’s in ten minutes.’

Rico’s she knew of—it was a chic restaurant on the East Side—but Robert Lawson she had difficulty placing, though the name rang a bell.