Cathy stared at him and felt a frisson of something touch her nerve-ends—the knowledge perhaps that Charlie Westfield was indeed not just a pretty face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d better go in.’
He let her go.
Bronwen and Pete were still there and the lounge was littered with papers, plates and coffee-cups. They all looked up, but it was Tom who said with a glance at his watch, ‘You’re home early, Cinderella.’
‘Yes—how’s it going?’
‘Well, I think, cautiously, that it’s no longer going to be like getting blood out of a stone,’ said Bronwen with a yawn. She wore a one-piece sleeve-less cotton boiler suit in a vivid emerald-green that suited her colouring and suited her tall, lithe figure, and despite the yawn, the vivacity that had been so tempered was back. Was it to do with having Tom more or less to herself? Cathy wondered.
She said, ‘I’m glad.’ And looked around with a rueful little smile.
Bronwen jumped up. ‘You sit down,’ she ordered. ‘It was supposed to be your night off—I’ll clear up the mess. Pete will give me a hand,’ she added.
Pete looked surprised, but got up and began gathering plates. Cathy hesitated, then sat down opposite Tom, who had spread his arms along the back of the couch.
‘Well?’ he queried a little quizzically.
‘Well what?’ she returned.
‘Did you have to mention my name?’
Cathy shrugged. ‘Not in that context, no.’
‘Then my confidence in you wasn’t misplaced.’
She didn’t answer, but couldn’t prevent the swift, immediately veiled glance of resentment she sent him.
‘Cathy?’
But Bronwen intervened unwittingly. ‘I’ve poured us all a nightcap—I think we deserve it, and you deserve one too, Cathy.’ She handed Cathy a glass of wine. ‘How did you get on with our Chuck? Did he make a pass at you? I think we’ve all got the message fairly loud and clear that he’s rather smitten.’
Cathy’s reaction to this surprised her. For a moment she felt like flinging her wine over Bronwen, but she tightened her fingers on the stem of the glass. ‘No. He was very good company, but I suppose we’re more of an age,’ she said lightly.
Bronwen laughed. ‘That’s true. He sometimes makes me feel a million years old, and so do you.. She stopped and bit her lip, then turned away and drank some wine.
Cathy stared at her back, then looked at Tom, but he was watching Bronwen with a curious intensity that made her shiver inwardly—and suddenly decide she’d had about as much as she could stand for one day. She put her untasted glass down and stood up. ‘I really can’t keep my eyes open. Do you realise we’ve been up since the crack of dawn, Tom?’
He turned his head to her. ‘So we have. You go up, I’ll supervise the clearing up.’
She called goodnight to Pete and Bronwen, to which Pete, as usual, replied unconcernedly but Bronwen with the definite sound of strain in her voice.
And Cathy closed the bedroom door and leant back against it, feeling inexpressibly drained and claimed by the sense of sadness with which she had started the day. But there was more—for the first time she had a clear picture in her mind of Bronwen and Tom, a clear sense of the conflict between them. It was as if the mists had parted and the real Bronwen had stepped forward—not the shadowy version who had done the unthinkable and refused to marry Tom, and been so hard to equate with the living, breathing one, the one she had even come to like—until tonight when she’d wanted to throw her wine over her…
She straightened and walked over to the window, saying to herself, ‘And not only because of what she said but because, however much they deny it, there’s still a current between them, an electric current..
The door opened, and at the same time car doors closed downstairs and a motor revved up.
Cathy turned from the window as Tom switched on the light and came to a decision. ‘Tom, I’d like to go home for a while.’
He stopped, his hand still on the light switch, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
She lifted her hands. ‘You don’t need me. Chloe’s part is finished, and if there’s anything you need to reshoot I can come back.’
He dropped his hand, walked a few paces towards her, then stopped in the middle of the room. ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
Cathy steeled herself despite her weariness, but she noticed that he was tired too, that there were lines of strain beside his mouth and that his big, loose-limbed frame was oddly tense and that he flexed his shoulders as if they were cramped. Once again a longing to get through to him flooded her, and she wanted to go to him and run her fingers through his dark-fair hair and massage those broad shoulders… well, why not? she thought. If that’s a way we do communicate, why shouldn’t I use it?
‘Why don’t you get ready for bed?’ she asked.
‘What kind of an answer is thatV he said curtly.
‘I have plans for you. In bed.’
‘Cathy,’ he said with sudden soft menace, ‘have you turned to a life of seduction? Wasn’t this morning enough for you?’
A flush burnt her cheeks, but she said coldly and bitterly, ‘I did what I did this morning for reasons that had nothing to do with seduction for the sake of it—that’s your speciality,’ she added slowly, conscious of a desire to retaliate to the awful hurt of his words. And she turned away to hide the tears on her lashes, and the stark knowledge of rejection in her heart.
But he walked over to her and deliberately turned her back and kept his hands on her shoulders. ‘Cat——’
‘No, Tom, I’m going home and that’s it,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve tried, I’ve tried to be professional——’
‘You have,’ he said harshly, and she thought he looked pale beneath his tan, but she couldn’t care. ‘You’ve been the most professional of all of us.’
‘Well, I just can’t go on!’ Her voice rose. ‘And I can’t help feeling jealous of Bronwen when I see the way you look at her, and desperate.’
‘Cathy, that’s——’
‘No, Tom, you’re treating me like a fool,’ she insisted, and the tears spilled over. ‘Do you know what happened to me tonight? When she made her patronising remarks about Charlie? I wanted to throw my wine over her because not only did she patronise Charlie, she patronised me in the same breath—and so have you tonight. Why? I know she regrets losing you. Are you feeling the same way? Is that why you’ve done such an about-face and now seem to be almost pushing me at Charlie Westfield—who incidentally is a much nicer person than either of you, stuck up in your lofty towers, give him credit for… Tom!’ Her voice changed as his mouth tightened to a white line and his fingers dug mercilessly into her shoulders, came out with a little gasp, yet the stubborn angry defiance in her eyes, despite the tears, didn’t change.
But he only stared down at her with a grim, bitter look in his eyes, his fingers still digging into her shoulders. Then he said in a voice she barely recognised, ‘If you feel we’re patronising Charlie and that he’s a viable alternative, why don’t you take it?’
And he released her abruptly so that she staggered and strode out of the room without a backward glance.
Cathy stood like a stricken statue, and a few minutes later doors opened and closed again and another motor sprang to life, but one she recognised only too well. And he drove his car away at speed.
He didn’t return that night; she didn’t wait around for long the next morning. And by the next evening she was stoking a fire in the lounge grate of their Mount Macedon home but wishing, really wishing she’d fled somewhere else.
She couldn’t eat any dinner, which was just as well because there was nothing much to eat, but when she got the fire going—it was a wet, miserable night—she poured herself a fair portion of Tom’s expensive liqueur brandy into a balloon glass and sat sipping it, letting the fire warm her body but discovering that neither the fire nor the brandy were warming her soul.
As she lay curled up an
d with her head back in the comfortable wing-backed chair, watching the firelight on the ceiling, she wondered what had possessed her. Not that anything she’d said hadn’t exactly echoed the turbulent confusion of her thoughts, but to let it all spill out like that… And on top of, only that morning, begging him for a child.
The typical outpourings of a jealous wife, she mused, but then I am, and it’s no use trying to pretend otherwise. I want him to love me as I love him, it’s that simple, and is it so much to ask? But now he doesn’t even want to make love to me.
‘Why?’ Her lips framed the question—and the phone rang.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS Tom.
‘Cathy?’ he said down the line before she got the chance to say anything.
‘Yes—hello, Tom.’
There was a short silence, then, ‘You had me worried.’
‘Did I?’ she said quietly when she very much wanted to say—Good! ‘I told you I wanted to come home.’
‘I don’t think it’s much good for you to be there on your own.’
‘I’m quite used to it, Tom.’ There was an edge to her voice, she realised, but she couldn’t help it. Nor could she help adding, ‘Where were you?’
‘At the studio, Cat,’ he said levelly. ‘On my own—look, what I said——’
She cut in, ‘Tom, you asked me why I wanted to come home. Well, I want some time on my own to sort out how I really feel. I’m not going to do anything rash, and if you really are worried I’ll come back—next week, but right now I’m tired and cold and I think it’s best if we just say g-good-night.’ Her voice shook a little, but she put the phone down resolutely.
She got three days on her own, then Duncan arrived on the doorstep.
‘Hello, Cathy,’ he said, and once again she noticed his warm smile and wise eyes.
‘Come in,’ she said ruefully—it was raining again. ‘I suppose you’re here to check up on me.’
He didn’t bother to dissemble.
‘It’s quite funny really,’ she said with an odd little laugh. ‘In the old days Tom never worried. I mean, I’m quite safe so he didn’t have to worry, but…’ She shrugged.
‘He also used to get home as often as he could, Cathy.’
She stared at him, then turned away. ‘Come into the kitchen, I’ve just made some tea.’
She poured two cups and cut him a slice of fruit cake, wondering how to get over the awkwardness of the moment, but Duncan began to chat easily and to fill her in on how things were going, even to make her laugh a little with anecdotes of Charlie and Bronwen’s efforts to come to grips with Portia and Robert. But she sobered suddenly and had to turn away to hide the tears that welled up.
‘Cathy,’ he said gently.
‘I suppose you know I was the last to know?’ she heard herself saying fiercely as she dashed at her eyes.
‘About Tom and Bronwen?’
‘Who else?’ Her voice was bitter.
‘And you don’t believe it’s over?’
She turned back at last and said even more bitterly, ‘Do you? Do you know why he married me, Duncan? Not because he’d fallen in love with me but because he knew he was never going to get over her, but he couldn’t ever forgive her, so it didn’t much matter who he married.’
‘Cathy——’
But she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘And there was I, in love with him and not able to hide it, and he felt guilty, and then he thought I was young enough and… whatever you have to be to put up with a one-sided marriage.’
Duncan watched her sombrely as she pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘You know him well,’ she went on huskily. ‘So you know I’m right.’
‘Tom’s not an easy man to know well, Cathy.’
‘You’re right about that—and of course he’s a friend of yours, so I shouldn’t… I don’t know why I’m telling you this, it must be very embarrassing for you. Sorry,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘Another cup of tea?’
‘Cathy, it’s neither embarrassing nor is there any reason why you shouldn’t have someone to confide in. I don’t think you have anyone else,’ he said with a keen glance.
She laughed hollowly. ‘No. Except Charlie Westfield. He’s dying for me to confide in him, but how could I? That would be worse than confiding in you.’
She reached for the teapot, but he put a hand over hers. ‘In fact I’m a better person to confide in than you could imagine, Cathy. You see, I’ve been in love with Bronwen myself for,’ he gestured wryly, ‘a long time. Before she and Tom even met.’
Cathy’s mouth fell open and her eyes widened, and a million little things tumbled into place—the way Duncan could put Bronwen at her ease, the way he had so unobtrusively but nevertheless been like a buffer between Tom and Bronwen, the time they’d spent together…
‘Doesn’t she know?’ she whispered.
‘Oh, she knows. Not that I’ve mentioned it for years, but,’ he smiled faintly, ‘I’m a patient man.’
Cathy blinked several times, and it was he who poured her some more tea. ‘Thanks,’ she said vaguely. ‘This…’ And she stared at him, still dazed, until she said eventually, ‘So you know what it’s like.’
‘Yes. But there are some differences. Tom——’
‘Has a place in his heart for me,’ Cathy interrupted. ‘So he told me. Bronwen probably feels the same way about you, and you’re right, there is a difference—you’re not married to her, so it can’t be as difficult.’
‘In some ways, no,’ he agreed, ‘but I happen to believe it is over between them; they just haven’t realised it yet.’
‘Duncan,’ Cathy said slowly, ‘I can’t help believing otherwise, and I’ll tell you why. So long as I was—the way I used to be—things were fine between us. Tom could come and go and live his life exactly as he wanted, and I was happy enough with the scraps of it. But since I’ve grown and matured and come to understand that it’s not enough for me any more he——’ her voice broke ‘—is no longer happy, and, leaving Bronwen right out of it, that means to me that he doesn’t love me for myself, the real person I am… But of course, we can’t leave Bronwen out of it, can we?’
‘Cathy…’ Now his eyes were narrowed and suddenly very acute.
‘Yes,’ she said huskily, ‘perhaps you do understand.’
‘No—I mean, there could be a different interpretation for the way he is. There are enough similarities between you and Bronwen to make him rather wary.’
Cathy blinked. ‘I can’t think of one.’
‘Can’t you? I can. You’re about to have a career on the screen lying at your feet.’
‘Oh, that,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
Duncan pushed his cup away and stared at it thoughtfully for a time, then he sighed and said with a grimace, ‘When are you coming back—you are planning to, aren’t you?’
‘I told Tom next week. Why?’
‘Why don’t you come back with me? There’s a bit of reshooting to be done and—well, to be honest, everyone’s a bit on edge.’
Cathy grimaced. ‘If you think I can change anything——’
‘But you can,’ Duncan said quietly, and smiled at her. ‘I don’t know how you do it, but you do.’
‘Duncan,’ she said painfully, ‘can’t you understand it’s a bit like walking back into the lions’ den for me? Apart from Bronwen,’ not to mention Tom, she thought, ‘there’s Charlie. If it weren’t for me we wouldn’t be having any problems.’
‘We would,’ he said.
‘Well——’
‘But I think they all feel guilty now, you see.’ He stared at her steadily.
For a moment Cathy felt like telling him they could all go to hell, and it must have shown in her face, for suddenly his eyes began to twinkle ruefully and he said, ‘I know how you feel.’
It was her turn to look rueful yet doubtful.
‘But I do,’ he insisted. ‘In fact, you and I are a lot alike,’ he added. ‘
The quiet, steady types— which we often cop a lot of flak for. But it’s amazing how much they need us, loath as they would be to admit it.’
‘And true professionals to the bitter end?’ Cathy said drily.
‘That too.’
Cathy put her bag down and looked around.
Duncan had delivered her to the villa, but although the car was in the garage Tom was nowhere about.
Nothing had changed except that the place had an untidy, rather desolate air even with the last of the late afternoon sunlight glinting on the waters of Sanctuary Cove and reflecting in the windows. It wasn’t only an air either, she discovered as she wandered around. There were dirty dishes in the sink despite the latest-in-technology dishwasher, there was a huge four-day pile of every possible newspaper available slipping and sagging off a chair, the bed was unmade upstairs and the bathroom floor was a sea of towels and clothes.
She began to pick them up almost mechanically, but stopped with a shirt in her hands—a shirt she had washed and ironed many a time, but it conjured up a vision of Tom in her mind—and not only there, to all her senses, so that she closed her eyes and could almost believe he was there with her. Could feel the texture of his dark-fair hair and the rough, smooth texture of his skin, see the little lines beside his mouth and the greeny glint in his eyes, remember exactly where she came up to. his shoulder, and how he always had to bend his head to kiss her, how his hands felt around her waist and how he could lift her with them, how he used to tease her and make love to her in the same mood yet make her feel like dying for him…
Her lashes fluttered up and she brought the shirt up to bury her face in it as a shudder went through her body, but two things happened. There was a sound in the doorway behind her—and she dropped the shirt as if it was burning her fingers before swinging round.
The Director's Wife Page 11