An Excellent Wife?

‘Something wrong, Mr James?’

‘No, just taking precautions,’ James enigmatically said, deciding not to mention Patience Kirby’s visit.

A man in his mid-fifties, with iron-grey hair sliding back from his forehead, leaving his scalp shiny and smooth, Barny King had been working for the Ormond family for years. He had driven James to boarding school, aged ten, with a set, pale face and very cold hands, had ferried him and all his luggage to Cambridge when he went off to university, trying to look thirty when he was actually only eighteen, and he had driven old Mr Ormond back and forth to the City from the exquisite house in Regent’s Park, where Barny and his wife had a private apartment over the garage.

Barny and Enid were an important part of James’s life, as important to him as Miss Roper but even closer because they had known him as a child and been kind to him when he needed kindness, comforting when he was lonely. When he remembered his childhood from the age of ten he remembered Barny and Enid, rarely his father. They had almost been parents to him; he had happy memories of sitting in the kitchen with them eating buttered crumpets and home-made jam sandwiches, neither of which were permitted on the table if he ate with his father.

James stared out of the window as they drove off. Patience Kirby must have given up and gone away. He suddenly remembered those tiny, soft warm hands clutching at him and felt a strange stab of undefined feeling in his chest.

Angry with himself, he frowned, pushed the memory of her away, got the financial report out of his briefcase and began skimming it through again. He wanted all the details fresh in his mind when he met Charles.

Traffic along Piccadilly was as heavy as usual, but Barny fought his way through to drop James at the side entrance of the Ritz.

‘I’ll ring for you in a couple of hours,’ James told him, getting out.

He found Charles in the Palm Court, drinking a champagne cocktail. Waving cheerfully, Charles summoned the waiter to bring another for James.

‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

James looked blank. ‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed.’

Charles roared with laughter. ‘All work and no play, Jimmy.’

He had always called him Jimmy, indifferent to the fact that James hated it. James sipped his cocktail and studied the menu, choosing in the end to have rocket and anchovy salad sprinkled with grated parmesan followed by a Dover sole with asparagus and new potatoes.

‘Grilled, served off the bone,’ he instructed, and the head waiter nodded.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sometimes I get déjà vu, lunching with you, Jimmy,’ Charles said. ‘You’re the image of your old dad. Time whizzes back for me, listening to you.’

‘I’m flattered,’ James said, knowing Charles had not intended to flatter him, was being sarcastic. ‘I was very attached to my father.’

Charles made a face. ‘Really? I hated mine. Never stopped lecturing me, tedious old Victorian of a chap.’

They ate in the beautiful dining room looking over Green Park. Their table was in a comer by the windows, which were slightly open to let mild spring air into the room, setting the gilded metal chains on the elaborately painted ceiling swinging and tinkling softly.

They talked business throughout the meal, but occasionally James looked out into the park at the daffodils, golden and swaying, under the trees which were just breaking into tiny, bright green leaf.

Noticing his occasional abstraction, Charles grinned at him. ‘How’s Fiona, Jimmy?’

How James hated that nickname, but he suppressed a shudder. ‘She’s fine, thanks.’

‘Ravishing girl, you lucky boy! I’d swap places with you any day. You’ve been seeing her for months, haven’t you? We going to hear the ringing of wedding bells before long?’

James gave him a cool look. Charles was not that close a friend and James had no intention of discussing Fiona or his personal life with him.

When he didn’t answer, Charles said cynically, ‘In no hurry to tie yourself down, eh? I wish I’d been as wise as you. Well, I’ve learnt my lesson now. No more marriages for me. In future I’ll just have affairs.’

In his early fifties, elegant, willowy, always smoothly tailored, with silvering at his temples among the smooth raven-black hair, Charles had been married four times so far and was currently in the middle of his latest divorce from a much younger woman, a ravishing TV star with her own series.

Coming home late after a business dinner, Charles had caught her in bed with her co-star. He might not have minded so much if it had not been the matrimonial bed, his own bed in his own bedroom, and if the other man had not been her age and something of a sexual athlete.

The divorce was to have been discreet, on grounds of breakdown of the marriage. Charles had not wanted the whole world to know his wife had been cheating on him with a much younger man. But his wife had not been so silent; she had given exclusive interviews to several daily newspapers and Charles had had the chagrin of reading intimate details of his sex life printed for everyone to see.

As they began to eat, James produced the report he had spent the morning studying and asked a series of shrewd questions. Charles might be a fool where women were concerned but he had a good business mind and was able to tell James everything he needed to know.

The bottle of good white wine they were drinking had vanished long before they finished their main course, but James had consumed very little of it. He disliked drinking too much over lunch; it always meant you got very little done during the rest of the day.

He refused a pudding, ordering a pot of coffee; Charles, however, asked for spotted dick with custard and ate it when it came with half-closed, delighted eyes.

‘Delicious, just like school pud. You should have had some.’

‘I never eat puddings, especially heavy ones.’

‘Puritan! Your problem is you were never taught to enjoy life. That gloomy old father of yours had a very bad influence on you.’

James could have said that his father had taught him not to keep marrying women who cost a fortune and were always unfaithful, not to drink like a fish and wake up late every morning with a hangover, and not to spend his days hanging around bars and going to wild parties. But where was the point in offending Charles by telling him the truth?

He looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, Charles, I have to rush off. I have an appointment at three. Thanks for all your help.’ He pulled his mobile out of his briefcase and called Barny, told him to come at once, then called the waiter over, asked for the bill, signed it, dropped a tip on the plate and stood up.

‘I think I’ll have a little brandy before I go,’ Charles said, settling comfortably in his chair. ‘Thanks for lunch, old boy. My love to Fiona. Sexy as hell, you lucky bastard.’

James went to the cloakroom, used the lavatory, washed his face and hands and brushed his black hair back, staring at himself in the mirror. His grey eyes had a wintry look. Would he call Fiona sexy? Not a word he would have chosen to describe her, no. Beautiful, yes. Elegant, yes. But sexy? No, she was far too cold.

A shiver ran down his spine. Was that what he really thought about her? Dismay filled him. Of course she wasn’t cold. Cool, maybe, but not cold.

Yet the grey eyes reflected in the mirror had a distinctly uneasy look. This was being a very unsettling day so far. He hurriedly turned from the mirror, collected his coat, shrugged into it, tipped the cloakroom attendant and went out of the hotel to find Barny just pulling up outside.

‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting, Mr James. Traffic a bit heavy the other side of the park today.’

James smiled at him. ‘No, I just left the hotel. Perfect timing, Barny, as always. Back to the office, now. Did Enid give you a good lunch?’

‘Her oxtail stew and mashed potatoes, and then I had an apple.’

‘Lucky Barny. One of my favourites. What is she making tonight?’

‘Thought you were going out for dinner this evening, sir.’ Barny looked anxiously into the driving mirror. ‘We booked to see the new musical, Mr James—will you need us, after all?’

‘No, no, I’d forgotten. Of course I’m eating out.’ James did not want to ruin their evening just because his own had been cancelled. He might as well still eat at the new restaurant as he had a table booked.

Barny relaxed with a barely audible sigh of relief. ‘You had me worried there—Enid is really looking forward to seeing this show. You know how she loves a good musical. She’s such a romantic, my Enid.’

Eyes warming, James smiled back at him. ‘Always was, I remember. How many Sunday afternoons did I spend with Enid watching weepie films on TV, feeding her paper tissues to mop her eyes with? Well, have a lovely evening. Could you pick me up at five and drop me at my club? Then you’ll be free. I’ll get a taxi back home tonight.’

‘Right, Mr James, thanks.’ Barny drew up outside the bank; James looked around hurriedly before getting out, but there was still no sign of Patience Kirby’s bright red head. He felt a queer little niggle inside his chest; he told himself it was relief. She was the last thing he wanted to see. Crazy girl. But he was surprised—had she really given up and gone home?

He had a much busier afternoon and hardly had time to think about anything except work. At five o’clock precisely he went down in his lift and walked out of the bank to where Barny was waiting.