The Director's Wife

by Lindsay Armstrong

  She didn’t have the will to resist him in the end, she found. And she fell asleep first in the wide double bed despite the pain in her head and the mental gulf between them, and the foot or so of mattress between them.

  But very early in the morning she woke with her heart pounding and her mouth dry from a nightmare she could remember nothing about. Tom stirred beside her as she twisted restlessly, then he put his hand out to her and sat up abruptly.

  ‘Cat?’

  ‘W-what?’ Curiously, her teeth seemed to be chattering, although she felt hot.

  He switched on the bedside lamp and stared down at her, her pink cheeks and the dew of sweat at her hairline, her damp nightgown. ‘Cat—you’re not well, why didn’t you tell me?’ he ground out.

  ‘I didn’t know…’

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t have let you go home—you never could take care of yourself,’ he said savagely, getting out of bed and pulling on clothes at random. ‘You probably ate next to nothing!’

  ‘I made a fruit cake,’ she said vaguely and with a shiver. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Ringing for a doctor.’

  ‘It’s too late, you won’t find one,’ she protested, sitting up herself.

  ‘Oh, yes, I will,’ he said coldly.

  ‘I always used to take care of myself while you were away—I could just as easily have picked this up, whatever it is, up here. I wonder what it is—I don’t know if I’m hot or cold.’ Cathy looked up at him with a bewildered little smile. ‘What an awful time to pick to be sick—the last thing you need! I could have waited until after the movie was finished, couldn’t I?’

  Tom slammed the phone down and sat down beside her, taking her in his arms. ‘You can’t help it,’ he said into her hair. ‘Forget about the bloody movie,’ he added roughly, then moved her away from with a sigh. ‘I’m going to get you into a dry nightgown, and you mustn’t get cold even if you’re feeling hot. And I’m still going to get a doctor!’

  He did, but Cathy was not privy to their conversation after the doctor had examined her—Tom took him downstairs for that.

  ‘Your wife has picked up some kind of virus, Mr West—there are a lot of them about, and if it’s the one I suspect she’ll have a fever for a couple of days and then be on the mend. I’ll prescribe something to make her as comfortable as possible in the meantime, and the length of time it takes her to get over it will depend on her. If you’re debilitated or,’ he gestured, ‘have been under a lot of strain, for example, you don’t fight these things off quite as easily or get them quite as badly as she seems to have it. Has she been under a lot of strain?’ he asked, and discovered himself pinned beneath a curiously savage hazel gaze.

  Then his patient’s husband raked a hand through his disordered hair and rubbed his face wearily. He also said barely audibly, ‘God help me—yes. Are you sure it’s nothing more serious?’

  ‘On the evidence at the moment, yes, but I’ll keep an eye on her, rest assured.’

  It wasn’t anything more serious, but it was three days before the fever left her and nearly two weeks before Cathy felt one hundred per cent herself again.

  It was also Tom who put everything else on hold and nursed her himself for those three days with surprising skill and compassion, although he got someone in to clean and cook. And even when she was on the mend, he spent a lot of time with her, much more than he could afford, she was sure…

  ‘Tom,’ she was still in bed and they were, of all things, doing a jigsaw puzzle he had bought her— he’d bought her books to read, books of crossword puzzles, games which he seemed quite content to do and play with her, ‘shouldn’t you be at the studios?’

  ‘I might go in tomorrow for a couple of hours. Tired?’ he asked.

  She grimaced. ‘I shouldn’t be—all I do is sleep and eat. When are you going to let me get up? It’s been five days now.’

  ‘When the doctor agrees.’ He began to collect the jigsaw pieces. ‘We’re about halfway there,’ he added as he carefully removed the tray on which a picture of a sailing vessel was taking shape.

  Cathy ran her fingers through her hair and stretched her arms up. ‘I didn’t know you liked jigsaws. I’d love to wash my hair.’

  A little glint lit his eyes as he watched her, today

  in a fresh pink dotted nightgown. ‘Well, that must be a good sign. I don’t see why you shouldn’t—I’ll give you a hand if you like.’

  ‘I can do it in the shower, I can manage!’

  ‘Then I’ll dry it for you—up you get.’

  So she took a shower and washed her hair, but she found it unexpectedly tiring and was muttering to herself, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ as she came out of the bathroom into the bedroom swathed in a towel.

  ‘Nothing rest and time won’t put right,’ Tom said quietly, unwinding her from the towel and deftly slipping her nightgown on as she raised her arms obediently.

  Cathy found herself smiling as he picked her up and deposited her on the bed which he had made while she’d been showering. ‘What?’ he’d enquired.

  ‘There are just so many things I didn’t know about—jigsaws, what a good, even tyrannical nurse you could be, although I should have suspected the tyrannical bit, how quiet you can be. You must have been very bored.’ She looked up at him as he piled pillows behind her and switched on her hair-dryer.

  ‘No,’ he said lightly. ‘How do you use this thing?’ He lifted some damp strands of hair up.

  ‘Just blow it on my hair. Mmm… that’s nice,’ she murmured as he ran his fingers through her hair, lifting strands and blowing warm air through them. ‘But I am worried,’ she said after a while. ‘I know this is such an important time, the final editing to be done and—’

  ‘Cathy—’ he switched off the dryer and sat down on the side of the bed ‘—the best thing you can do for both of us is quit worrying. There are times when… one needs to be quiet, and this is one of them.’ And he tipped her chin up with his fingers. ‘In all conscience this is definitely one of them,’ he added barely audibly, but smiled faintly immediately and said wryly, ‘You’d do the same for me, I expect.’

  ‘Of course…’

  ‘Well, then——’

  But she broke in with sudden urgency, ‘We’re very married in one sense, aren’t we, Tom?’

  His fingers stilled on her jaw. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We don’t mind doing these things for each other despite…’ Cathy stopped with a suddenly indrawn breath as for the first time full memory flooded back of the disastrous sequence of events that had occurred the night she had fallen sick.

  But Tom moved his fingers and put one across her lips. ‘Forget about all that—I insist. Otherwise I won’t let you up tomorrow.’ And he switched on the dryer again.

  She didn’t forget, it would have been impossible to, but she discovered there was a curious air of unreality about it—about everything beyond the walls of the villa over those next peaceful days, those days, as she regained her strength, of quiet companionship with Tom that reminded her of home. Days when he spent a few hours at the studio but most of the time with her, and unbeknown to her crammed an unbelievable amount of work into the hours he spent away. They were also peaceful because he allowed no one to visit, not even Duncan, although everyone sent flowers. Days when they sunned themselves on the terrace and swam in the pool, times when they sauntered up to the market together, and the village vintner, and times when he let her cook and concoct marvellous dishes from the stunning array of seafood and fresh produce available, but insisted she leave the dishes for the daily lady who still came. Days when his hands lingered on her body and nights when he slept with her in his arms but didn’t attempt to make love to her, times when she looked up from the jigsaw or a crossword or a game of cards and found his hazel eyes resting on her, only to look away… Lovely days for her, and, she couldn’t help believe, for him too, because the tension sometimes so visible in his eyes and his tall body was gone. Evenings w
hen they listened to music and talked about nothing very important and watched the stars. Nights when she fell asleep like a child because she still tired easily, soothed and comforted by the solid presence of Tom so close, his hand on her hip or about her waist, and so that she couldn’t help but feel that, although he hadn’t tried to make love to her, it was not because her slender body was not still his domain but because of concern for her.

  And perhaps that was why it came as such a shock that this period could end, did end, and she wondered if she had been sicker than she realised, and really cocooned from reality because of it, allowing herself to be lulled into such a false sense of security, while another part of her wanted to scream at him and ask him how he could have done it—let her build up her hopes only to crash them to the ground.

  Because that was what he did, unspectacularly but all the same like someone removing the crutches from a cripple who had to learn to walk alone.

  The first intimation came after he had taken her to the doctor for a final check-up, much against her will because she had known she was fine now, that she’d even probably been malingering, but mainly because he had insisted on it; on the way home he told her that Half an Hour Earlier in Adelaide was almost ready for its first preview.

  Cathy opened her blue eyes wide at him. ‘But how?’

  ‘We’ve all worked our guts out.’

  ‘But you couldn’t have—you’ve spent nearly all your time with me.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘I put what I didn’t spend with you to good use.’ He smiled slightly and added, ‘I’m not very popular at present.’

  ‘Tom——’

  ‘It also had to be done,’ he interrupted. ‘There’s nothing worse than dragging these things out interminably. That gets on everyone’s nerves even more, did they but realise it.’

  Cathy grimaced and bit her lip. ‘I feel guilty.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault—but for the next few days until the preview I’ll be flat out.’

  ‘Oh—of course,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll be fine, I’m fine now.’

  He turned his head. ‘You certainly look… fine,’ he said on an odd note.

  ‘That’s because you were such a good nurse. Thank you,’ she replied with a grin.

  An expression crossed his eyes of something like self-mockery, but then she thought she must have imagined it as he said casually, ‘You might as well stay out of the way, incidentally, until the preview. I imagine there’ll be a party afterwards.’

  ‘I’ll have to get out my glad rags—will it be that kind of party?’

  ‘It usually is—why not?’

  ‘Tom, is something wrong?’ she asked slowly. ‘No. Why?’ He drove on with his usual effortless ease.

  ‘I…just thought you sounded…preoccupied, but then I guess you are—don’t worry, I do understand,’ Cathy added with that flicker of guilt again, and they arrived at the villa.

  But it was that night, when he didn’t get home until midnight and was moody and uncommunicative, that she asked herself if she did understand, and over the next few days kept asking herself the same question and several more, such as—what did I expect? That that lovely rapport we had would go on—why can’t it? Why do I have to be shut out now even if he is tired and under enormous pressure again—he must have been under pressure without me knowing while I was sick. And once—what did I imagine—that Bronwen and Charlie and all those problems had vanished into thin air because I got a virus? When will I ever learn? Why doesn’t he even want to make love to me now? I’m fine now, and I thought when I came back, after that night— was that just to keep me happy until he’d finished shooting? Why don’t I…? Because I’m afraid to, that’s why, afraid of being rejected again.

  And inexorably the day of the first preview drew nearer, and finally was there and she was dressing for it, although Tom hadn’t come home.

  She chose, by way of ‘glad rags’, a dress she had never worn before, a blue shantung dress that matched her eyes and hugged her figure and was quite short although not a mini, and she couldn’t help feeling it was a sophisticated dress and might lend her some sophistication or something that she felt she needed desperately. Then she put her hair up, which she did rarely, and was quite surprised at her reflection—not someone she altogether knew, she decided, and thought it was rather apt with a sad little smile—then she turned at a sound.

  Tom was standing in the doorway, his hands on the buttons of his shirt but not undoing them, his hazel eyes riveted on her.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t hear you come home. Is something wrong?’ she added, taking in the fixity of his expression, and when he didn’t reply finding herself nervously smoothing her skirt. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said curtly, and his long fingers started on his buttons again. ‘Very fitting, and I’m running bloody late. Are you ready?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered.

  ‘Well, give ’em a ring, would you, and explain that we’ll be about fifteen minutes late.’

  ‘Tom—’ she began.

  ‘Not now, Cathy,’ he said impatiently, and shouldered open the bathroom door as he unzipped his jeans.

  She tried again in the car. ‘Did you mean the dress is too tight?’ Which wasn’t what she wanted to say at all but came out somehow.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied.

  ‘Then…?’

  Tom turned his head briefly. ‘I meant it was very fitting for a… rising star, a… director’s wife—whatever you see yourself as, in fact.’ He shrugged.

  Cathy closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t cry at the hard indifference in his voice, praying at the same time for some guidance and some understanding of why he would bind her to him as he had when she’d been ill, only to sever it like this, because she had the chill knowledge in her heart that that was exactly what he was doing, and for some reason she’d chosen to wear an outfit that was helping him to do it… and not only that, she had to get through an extremely public experience for the next hours and cope with this knowledge at the same time.

  The lights came up and there was a moment’s silence, then a spontaneous burst of applause, and to her surprise Cathy realised she had lost herself in the preview, as had all the rest of the cast and crew despite their familiarity with it. She could only marvel how all the scenes they had shot out of sequence, all that had been pruned and moved and woven through, had, thanks to Tom and Jason’s and everyone’s skill, come together and created a movie that still had the power to hold them spellbound as well as those who were seeing it for the first time.

  Of her own performance she couldn’t help but be aware that she seemed to establish a rapport with the audience new and old alike, yet at the same time she was conscious of how little real acting she’d had to do. And as she stirred at last, Tom did too, with something like a deep sigh, then Duncan was up on the stage saying a few words of congratulation and recommending with a grin that they all let their hair down.

  So the party began, although for a fair while Tom was surrounded by people shaking his hand, and even Bronwen and Charlie were happily under the same kind of siege together. What surprised Cathy almost as much was her own siege, and for a time the interest and desire to talk to her that so many people exhibited was exciting and made her forget.

  What brought it all back was seeing Tom watching her over the crowd, his eyes expressionless and curiously still. And the way he turned away as her eyes met his.

  She couldn’t remember afterwards how she got through the rest of it, including everyone’s concern over her recent illness, Charlie’s particularly, and as Tom made no move to come to her she understood how you could feel lonely and incredibly bereft even while you were talking and laughing, having your photo taken, even in a multitude, and she found herself wishing she’d never heard of Half an Hour Earlier in Adelaide and that she could be home at Mount Macedon in her old role. Can I go back? she wondered. If I thought I was unhappy then it’s nothing compared to no
w.

  To make matters worse, the party relocated to Sanctuary Cove and turned into an all-night affair, and as the sun rose Cathy came downstairs at home after trying to snatch some sleep to find some sleepy revellers toasting the dawn with champagne on the terrace. Tom was not one of them. He was stretched sideways across a chair, asleep. And he had, even when they’d got home, hardly said a word to her.

  Cathy stared down at him with tears in her heart and knew that, for whatever reason, he had deliberately closed off the last link between them. She stilled an urge to reach out and touch his hair, smooth it off his forehead, and remembered how she had always liked to watch him asleep. But now, even in sleep, he was as remote from her as he had ever been and she knew, with a shaft of pain but sudden resolution, that she couldn’t go on.

  ‘Going my way?’

  ‘Ch-Charlie!’ Cathy stammered. ‘What are you doing?’

  Charlie Westfield leant over and opened the passenger door of his car. ‘What am I doing? In fact I’ve been asleep in this ol’ roadster for hours, having discovered myself not fit to be driving it— somewhat to my surprise,’ he confided candidly. ‘But the sun shining in my eyes woke me up, and no sooner had I hit the road than who should I see walking down this cobbled Sanctuary Cove Way carrying a bag but Cathy West, bright new star of the silver screen but not looking so bright,’ he finished with a grimace. ‘Have you left him?’

  ‘I…’ Cathy blushed and gritted her teeth. ‘I just wanted some time on my own——’

  ‘By my reckoning you had that a few weeks ago, Cathy.’ He looked at her steadily.

  To her horror she found sudden tears rolling down her cheeks, then to her further despair Charlie leapt out and contrived to get her into the car and reposition himself behind the driving wheel.

  ‘How have you left him?’ he asked, patting her hand and offering her his handkerchief.

  ‘I left a note on the pillow,’ she wept. ‘And I closed the bedroom door so everyone would think I was asleep——’

  He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Everyone?’