Secretary Wife

by Rachel Lindsay

  'Only concerning his work. He never discusses his personal affairs.'

  'Does he ever talk about the steel butterfly?'

  'Who?'

  'His ex-fiancée. That's the way I think of her. She looks fragile, yet she's as tough as steel.'

  'We never talk about her,' Laura said shortly. But I'm sure he's still in love with her. If he could walk again…'

  'That's what I was afraid of.'

  Laura frowned, quick to see where Mary's thoughts had taken her. 'Could the pain in his legs mean he might be getting some movement back in them?'

  'That's the obvious conclusion.'

  'How many more tests must he have before he knows?'

  'He should be getting the results any time.'

  Laura knew better than to ask Mary to let her know what they were, for the girl was already upset at having talked about her patient. 'I won't let Mr Anderson know you've told me anything about the tests,' she repeated reassuringly. 'When he has the results I'm sure he'll be delighted to tell me him­self.'

  How tragically wrong she was she learned when she came to the house on Monday morning and found him still in bed. Normally he was in his wheelchair by the time she arrived, but today the chair stood empty by the window and he lay in bed propped up by pillows. His skin was flushed and on first coming in she thought how remarkably well he looked, but moving forward she saw the greyness about his mouth and the bleakness in his eyes. Her training kept her face devoid of expression and she drew up a chair and sat beside him, notebook in her lap.

  'You should soon be getting a telephone call from Tokyo, Mr Anderson. It came to the office a little while ago and the switchboard gave them this num­ber.'

  'I'm not taking any calls.'

  'It's Mr Tanako.' She named one of the biggest industrialists in Japan.

  'I don't care if it's the Dalai Lama!' he said. 'I am not taking any calls.'

  'If you don't feel well enough to work, I can come back later.' She stood up to go, but his out­stretched hand bade her remain.

  'I'm all right, Laura—for the next two years.'

  Not sure what he was trying to say, she waited.

  'I don't know if Mary told you that I've been having tests at the hospital?' Laura tried to look noncommittal. 'Mr Edwards came to see me on Saturday morning with the result.' His hands moved closer together, almost as if he wished to clasp them, then they remained still and apart. 'At the most, he gives me two years to live.'

  Laura went on looking at him, hoping that if she did he would grin and tell her he was joking; that the surgeon had said exactly the opposite and that in two years' time he would be walking properly. But the silver grey eyes remained lifeless, giving her the feeling that she was looking at a statue.

  'Is he sure?' she asked in cool, precise tones.

  'He'd hardly be likely to tell me such a thing if he wasn't.' The voice was cool and precise as her own. 'At most I have two years. It may even be less.'

  'But why? What has happened?'

  'Apparently I have some degenerative condition caused by spinal pressure. I won't bore you with the details. What it means is that I'll gradually start to lose the use of my muscles. And once the heart is affected…'

  'I don't believe it,' Laura said. 'All you have is one man's opinion. You must call in someone else. Go to America, Switzerland—'

  'Edwards is one of the top men in his field.' For the first time the bleakness in his eyes diminished. 'I know you can't believe it, Laura. That's how I felt on Saturday when I first heard, but I've had time to come to terms with it.'

  'You can't come to terms with dying!'

  'We're all dying from the moment we're born—if you'll forgive the truism. I'm in the unfortunate—or perhaps fortunate—position of knowing exactly when it will be for me!'

  'Fortunate!' Blindly she went to the window. 'Is it because of Rosemary that you don't want to live? Because you can't get that little bitch out of your mind?' Her discretion had gone to the wind, but she did not care. The man she loved was dying. He was even glad of it—and all because he could not face life without a girl who was not worthy to clean his shoes.

  The man in the bed made no reply, and as the silence lengthened, Laura's anger was overtaken by shame. 'I'm sorry, Mr Anderson. I know you told me not to mention Miss Carlton's name, but…'

  'Forget it. I realise that what I told you has come as a shock, but when I used the word "fortunate" I wasn't thinking of Rosemary. I meant knowing you're going to die gives you a chance to put your affairs in order. I have a big and successful company and no family to whom I can leave it. I also have a house and a lot of property. It will take me time to decide what to do with it all.'

  'Forget it and concentrate on living,' she said fiercely. 'I won't let you give up hope. Each day scientists discover something new. You must see other doctors—go all over the world if necessary.'

  'I'm not writing myself off yet,' he said whimsi­cally, 'but it's foolish to live on false hope. Sit down and stop looking so tragic'

  She did as he ordered, but for the life of her could hot summon up a smile. Her eyes were burn­ing, but they were tearless, and she managed to give the impression of being in control of herself. By dint of great effort she took down the notes he dictated, and it was only as she went to leave the room at noon—when he normally had his physio­therapy—that he referred to the news he had told her earlier.

  'Sit down again, Laura. I'm not going to have any more massage or exercise. There's no point putting myself through the agony of it.' He paused, then said: 'Apart from Mr Edwards and Mary, you're the only other person to know. My lawyer will have to be told, of course, but no one else. I don't want people's sympathy.'

  Huskily she promised to do as he asked.

  'You didn't need to make that promise,' he re­plied. 'You are the most discreet woman I know.'

  'All the virtues and no vices,' she said, trying to bring some lightness into the conversation.

  'I'd better put it in writing,' he teased, and then lost his humour as he saw into the future. 'I would like to feel that when you stop working for me, you won't need to work for anyone else. I hope you won't object if I make arrangements to that effect?'

  Her face flamed, and though she knew he was trying to be kind it was a gesture which she found intolerable. 'I'd hate to be a lady of leisure, Mr Anderson. I want nothing from you.'

  Nothing except your love, she said silently, and wished she had the courage to tell him so. Yet if he knew she loved him he would be too embarrassed to go on seeing her. Wryly she wondered if he re­alised how much he had come to depend on her since his accident. She had even taken to coming here on a Saturday and Sunday morning, and had only refrained from doing so this weekend because he had told Mary to ring up on Saturday to say he was tired and wanted to rest. Instead of which he had seen the surgeon and then gone through his own private hell without anyone to comfort him.

  'You're a nice girl, Laura,' he said gently. 'You should have a husband and children to take care of, not be bothering yourself with my affairs.'

  'Not all women want a husband and children,' she replied.

  'I refuse to believe you don't.' His look was keen. 'I'm not the most sensitive of men when it comes to understanding the way a woman's mind works, but I would lay odds that you are the type to want a husband and a brood of children to dote upon.'

  'We still have some letters to deal with, Mr An­derson.'

  'I can take a hint,' he replied. 'That insensitive I am not!'

  In the days that followed, he did not alter his routine and Laura found it hard to credit that he knew his days were numbered. He dealt with pro­jects that were being planned for three years ahead, when he knew he would not be around to see them, and he made decisions that would affect everyone long after he was dead. It was as if he were trying to ensure that the company ran the way he wanted it to even when he was no longer there to see it. He was filled with new energy and started going to other people's offices in t
he building, instead of having them come to see him, so that she grew used to watching his wheelchair zoom past her desk on its way down the corridor. Because of this it was all the more of a shock to enter her office one morn­ing and have Miss Jackson slap a tabloid down in front of her.

  'Isn't it terrible about Mr Anderson?' the girl gulped. 'I can't believe it.'

  'Believe what?' Laura asked.

  'That he's dying. It says so here.' Miss Jackson opened the paper and pointed to a photograph of her employer. 'It's all there,' she whispered. 'About his accident and his engagement being broken, and now the news that he only has two years to live.'

  Laura snatched up the paper and skimmed through the article. It was an appalling infringe­ment upon a person's private life and she shook with anger. 'Has this story appeared in any other paper?'

  'Not as far as I know. But it has such a huge circulation, everyone is bound to read it. Is it true?'

  'Don't be ridiculous!' Laura snapped.

  'But they say he has only two years to live.'

  'Newspapers will say anything to make a lurid story. Now dump that paper in the wastepaper basket and forget it.'

  Though she could tell Miss Jackson to forget the article, she could not command the rest of the staff, and soon the whole office was buzzing with it. She was not surprised when Mr Rogers rang through and asked her to come and see him.

  'What's all this news about Mr Anderson?' he asked without preamble.

  'I suggest you ask Mr Anderson,' she replied composedly.

  'I'm asking you. Is it true or isn't it?' As she remained silent, his small eyes glinted. 'Don't get above yourself, Miss Pearson, it doesn't become you.'

  'It's better than snooping!' she retorted, beyond caring what she said. This man meant nothing to her and she was not going to be intimidated by him.

  'Just because you're Mr Anderson's secretary, you think you can get away with everything,' he said unpleasantly. 'But if this article is true, you'd better start looking to your future. Or has Mr Anderson taken care of it for you?'

  With a gasp she ran out, but once in the corridor she stopped and leaned against the wall, her body shaking too much for her to move. She was still standing there when a wheelchair glided to a stop beside her and with an enormous effort she stood up straight.

  'Mr—Mr Anderson,' she stammered. 'I was j-just coming up to the house. You don't normally come in during the morning.'

  'Mary showed me the newspaper,' he said grimly. 'I thought the best way of scotching the article was to come in early, carrying a copy of it!'

  Only then did she give him her full attention. He was wearing dark blue slacks and a fine wool sweater of the same colour. It fitted him snugly and the muscles of his chest were clearly visible. He looked young and strong and it was hard to credit he could not rise from his chair and stride out boldly. Stricken by the knowledge, she stared into his face. He was smiling faintly, though it did not reach his eyes, and she knew what an effort he was making to appear unconcerned. It made her own anger against Mr Rogers seem a petty thing. Why should she worry what anyone thought of her, when all she cared about was the man beside her?

  'Why were you coming out of Mr Rogers' office?' he asked.

  'He wanted to see me.'

  'What did he say to upset you?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Don't lie to me, Laura. You were leaning against the wall as if you were going to faint.'

  'That has nothing to do with Mr Rogers,' she said quickly. 'It was because of Miss Jackson. She gave me a copy of the article when I arrived.'

  'Is that what Rogers wanted to see you about?'

  She nodded. 'Let's go into your office.'

  'You go to the office,' he said evenly. 'I'm going to talk to Bob.' He leaned forward, opened the director's door and glided in without a glance back­wards. 'Good morning,' she heard him say cheerily. 'Have you read this rubbish about me in the paper?'

  Not waiting to hear any more, Laura fled.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE article in the tabloid was not picked up by any other daily paper that week, but on Sunday, the tabloid's sister paper published a further article. It went into great detail about Carl Anderson's illness. There was a lot of medical jargon used and Laura, reading it knew it would not be as easy to disprove this story as the previous one.

  On Monday the Anderson shares dropped on the stock market and Carl Anderson slapped an injunc­tion on to the editor's desk forbidding him to make any further reference to the company, and stating that he would sue anyone who wrote about his private life or health.

  'One has little enough privacy as it is,' he told Laura grimly, 'without newspapers being allowed to run amok. They can make one's life intolerable.'

  Laura nodded, forbearing to say she already found life intolerable. She had been sure that given time she would be able to face the prospect of his death with equanimity. But the more she tried to be rational about it the less rationable she became. It was impossible for her to accept the fact that he was going to die within two years. Yet she dared not talk about it with him. She was there to keep him cheerful, not to distress him with her own morbid thoughts. It was only to Mary that she could show her despair, and though the nurse sym­pathised, she was unable to give her any comfort.

  'I've spoken to Mr Edwards myself,' she told Laura, 'but he told me exactly what Mr Anderson told you.'

  They were sitting in an Italian restaurant in Soho, for they had taken to meeting out once a week for dinner. Carl Anderson knew about it and always insisted that Mary use his car and chauffeur.

  'I suppose you know he's heard from the steel butterfly?' the nurse continued as she replenished her coffee cup.

  Laura set her own cup sharply on to its saucer. 'No, I didn't. When was this?'

  'A couple of days after that article in the Sunday paper. I was in his bedroom when the phone rang and I answered it. Unfortunately my conscience wouldn't let me hang around and listen to what they were saying, but from the few words I heard, I gathered the South African papers had picked up the news and she was ringing to see if it was true.'

  'You would think she'd have the decency to leave him alone!' Laura exclaimed. 'The last thing in the world he wants is sympathy.'

  'She might be willing to offer him her love.'

  Laura gaped at Mary, who gave her a pitying smile in return.

  'Honestly, Laura, didn't it enter your head that this is exactly what Rosemary would do if she learned that Mr Anderson was dying?'

  'But why? She can't bear illness.'

  'She can't bear being tied for life to a cripple,' Mary corrected, 'but it would be different to be tied to him for a couple of years. After all, think what she'd stand to gain.'

  'One telephone call isn't all that much to go on,' Laura said slowly.

  'He's had two more since then. Care to take a bet that the next thing she'll do is to come back and declare her undying love?'

  'No bets,' Laura sighed. 'I have a feeling you may be right.'

  On Sunday morning, two days after they had dined together, Mary telephoned Laura to say that what they had both feared had come true. 'She's with him now,' Mary concluded. 'Arrived in a taxi with five suitcases. My bet is that she's here to stay.'

  Laura was desperately anxious to know how Carl Anderson had reacted, but she could not bring herself to ask. Instead she said casually: 'I'll let you know if I agree with you when I see her to­morrow.'

  'Aren't you coming over today?'

  'I don't fancy being a third wheel,' Laura said with an effort at humour.

  'Has he telephoned and asked you not to come?'

  'No.'

  'Then don't stay away. If you do, he'll guess that I rang and told you Rosemary is here.'

  It was only because of this that Laura went to Holly Grove later in the morning. Both she and Carl Anderson had long since given up pretending there were any business reasons for her to see him on a Saturday and Sunday, and though he occa­sionally grumbled at
her for wasting her weekends on him, he was always disappointed when she pre­pared to go home, and frequently asked her to stay for the evening. But today she knew it would be different and, as she rang the front door bell, she was in two minds whether or not to depart without seeing him.

  'Mr Anderson is in the drawing room,' the Spanish butler said as he took her coat.

  'Is Miss Carlton with him?'

  José nodded and again Laura wished she had not come. But it was too late to do anything about it and bracing herself for the meeting, she knocked on the drawing room door and went in.

  Carl was in his wheelchair by the fireplace. De­spite the central heating a log fire burned in the grate and, on a hassock in front of it, Rosemary perched gracefully, her soft wool skirts spread around her, her long fair hair combed away from her face in a style that was at once appealing and disarmingly young. She rose at Laura's entrance and came forward to greet her affectionately.

  'It's wonderful for me to find Carl settled in this beautiful house,' she said.

  Laura sought for the right reply, but could not find it. She glanced at her employer and saw he was watching them both. There was a cynical twist on his mouth that she had not seen before, but she refused to read too much into it. She might see the real reason for Rosemary's return, but that did not mean Carl Anderson did.

  'Come to the fire and get warm, Laura,' he said. 'You look frozen.'

  'I had to wait ages for a bus.'

  'Don't expect my sympathy. I keep telling you to use the car and chauffeur.' He glanced at Rose­mary. 'I still can't make Laura accept the little luxuries of life.'

  'I wouldn't call a chauffeur-driven Rolls a little luxury,' Laura smiled.

  'You'll soon accept it as normal,' he said.

  In the act of stretching her hands to the fire, Laura glanced at him. But she could not read his expression, for he had turned to speak to Rosemary.

  'It was foolish of you to fly over without warning me. I told you it would be a wasted journey.'

  'I didn't believe you,' Rosemary replied. 'I know how proud you are and I didn't expect you to say you missed me or wanted me to come back.'