The Director's Wife

by Lindsay Armstrong

  “I thought you were different, Cathy.”

  “I know what you thought,” she whispered. “You thought by marrying me you could have a Cinderella grateful enough and in love enough to take care of this part of your life—” Cathy gestured “—without disturbing the rest of it.”

  “Is that really what you think?” Tom’s eyes were glittering dangerously.

  “I don’t know what to think,” she said despairingly. “Why—why don’t you want us to have a baby? Do you think it will tie you to me more than you want to be tied?”

  “I’m irrevocably tied to you, Cathy,” he said harshly. “But is it so inconceivable for you to realize that once you have children, this part of our life will be gone forever?”

  “Is it inconceivable for you to admit, Tom,” she asked huskily, “that you can’t keep me your Cinderella forever?”

  Harlequin Presents first edition March 1992

  ISBN 0-373-11439-7

  Original hardcover edition published in 1991 by Mills & Boon Limited

  THE DIRECTOR’S WIFE

  Copyright © 1991 by Lindsay Armstrong. All rights reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited,

  225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ® are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  Printed in U.S.A.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CATHERINE WEST stared out of her kitchen window, over her kitchen garden and the summer-gold paddocks beyond towards Mount Macedon, with a tinge of longing in her deep blue eyes. She was preparing a luncheon for four—two guests—but the clear skies and heat of this Victorian summer day, the intoxicating scent of grass and bush, a tantalising drift of woodsmoke through the air, were calling to her very soul, and she wondered what Tom would say if she went in to him—breaking all the rules— and told him to cancel the luncheon and take her for a picnic to Hanging Rock.

  She closed her eyes and remembered the time, two years ago, when he had done just that. She had been a very new bride, still hardly able to believe that Tom West, acclaimed film director and screen writer with a well-deserved reputation for arrogance, a terrible temper or a kind of crushing indifference, which was worse, and a reputation with women that could be summed up in one word— dangerous, had married her. Not only that, although that had been staggering enough and still staggered her secretly, and nowadays sadly, but he had brought her to this beautiful old stone home with its steep roof and tall chimneys, with its acres of garden, and Mount Macedon, which was reputedly the Hanging Rock of the legend and the book and film, Picnic at Hanging Rock, in the background.

  She’d been fascinated, she remembered, and sure there would be sinister auras at the Rock. But on a day just such as this, it had been peaceful and placid with insects humming, birds singing—and Tom had made love to her in the grass in a secluded little dell, and the Rock had overlooked and given no indication of disapproval.

  She opened her eyes, turned away from the window and grimaced at her curious fancies. There was no way Mount Macedon could have expressed its disapproval of their lovemaking by placing a— a what?—on their marriage. A curse? No, that was being ridiculous. Besides, it had been so lovely the way Tom had suggested it with a little glint in his eyes, and laughed, but gently, as her eyes had widened and she had blushed just to think of it, then not laughed when, in a bid to show him she wasn’t quite the shy, inhibited girl he thought she was, had started to unbutton her blouse. And she remembered, as if it were happening to her again, the feel of his fingers on hers, stilling them, and the way he had taken her into his arms and kissed her first, slowly and thoroughly, her lips, then her neck and throat and lower, until she was dazed with desire and not even sure where she was…

  ‘Cat?’

  Cathy blinked and refocused from her mind’s eye to the kitchen doorway and the tall figure of her husband, who was staring at her with a faint frown in his eyes.

  He said her name again with a lift of an eyebrow and moved towards her, adding, ‘You looked as if you were in a trance—want to tell me where you were?’

  She blushed, a habit she’d not lost, and turned hastily to the kitchen table and the salad she’d been making. ‘Nowhere. Just… thinking.’

  Tom leant his broad shoulders against the wall next to the table and watched her measure oil and vinegar and a pinch of mustard into a cut-glass container, cork it, then tilt it backwards and for¬wards to blend the contents. ‘Your thoughts must have been particularly wistful, then,’ he said at last.

  ‘No, not particularly,’ she lied, and tried to smile brightly.

  ‘Come here, Cat,’ he said softly.

  ‘Tom——’ another faint flush of colour stained her cheeks ‘—I’m running late. They’ll be here soon and I haven’t changed or ’

  ‘Because you’ve been daydreaming about some¬thing you don’t want to share with me?’ he queried lazily.

  ‘I’m running late, that’s all——’

  ‘Then I’ll come to you,’ he murmured, and before she could side-step he straightened and slid his arms about her waist.

  ‘Tom——’

  ‘I’m not proposing to make love to you,’ he said gravely but with a glint of amusement in his eyes, those hazel eyes that could see through to her soul— sometimes, she thought rebelliously, not always! ‘I just thought I might—embrace you. You look— looked—as if you needed it,’ he added with a twist of his lips.

  Cathy winced, and he felt it and narrowed his eyes as he stared down at her. Then he said in a different, suddenly harder voice, ‘What’s wrong, Cat? Tell me.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said briefly, then shut her lips obstinately.

  ‘You’re being childish, Cathy,’ he warned impatiently, and drew her a little closer.

  A phrase she’d heard often ran through Cathy’s mind—he always gets his own way, by fair means or foul. And the context she’d heard it in most frequently applied to Tom West, her husband, her tall, loose-limbed husband with his unhandsome face, his ruffled dark-fair hair, his devil-may-care aura— a combination that attracted women in their droves—his thirty-eight years of age and experience as opposed to her twenty-two, his ability to arouse her physically so that there was always, but more particularly when they were as close as this, the desire to simply revel in the fact that he still wanted her, even though that was the only way he wanted her…

  The phone rang. There was no extension in the kitchen, but it could be heard clearly down the tiled passageway from his study. Tom lifted his head, then looked down at her and said with soft mockery, ‘Saved by the bell—but you’re going to have to tell me some time.’ He released her and touched her mouth lightly with his fingers. ‘Don’t run too late, will you? I’m starving!’

  Cathy stared at the kitchen door he’d closed behind him, a supremely symbolic gesture, she thought angrily, and gritted her teeth. Then she said, ‘All right, I will tell you, Tom West—at least, I’ll tell myself. I don’t know why you married me. You shut me out of every part of your life except your bed and your home. You’re quite happy for me to spend my whole life here, not that I don
’t love it, but I might as well be the housekeeper you come home to sleep with. You share none of your dreams or aspirations with me, nothing, except the daily little things that happen here. You make me feel illiterate and immature and good for one thing only—and I’m not even sure if I’m good enough at that to ensure I’m the only one you sleep with. I mean, when you’re away so often, do you… do you…?’

  She was still staring at the door with this awful question mark in her mind when she heard a car drive up the sweeping gravelled driveway, and she muttered, ‘Damn. They’re here!’

  Lunch, despite her rush, was a success, and their guests were content to linger at the table for their coffee in the elegant, panelled dining-room with its bow window overlooking the rose garden.

  Cathy had set the table with a cream damask cloth and napkins, silver and cut glass and a low bowl of full, scented roses. Now she cleared most of it away and produced the fine, paper-thin Wedgwood coffee service, while Tom poured port for the men, and the conversation turned in earnest to the reason for this lunch.

  Their two guests were both heavily involved in the latest film Tom was to direct. Duncan Haines, head of the production company, was a gentle giant of a man with sleepy eyes and in his middle forties. Yet he both was wise and had an acute financial sense as well as an artistic judgement that Tom respected—they’d been friends for years and always worked closely. In stark contrast, Peter Partridge was younger, dark, thin and intense. He had written the best-seller the film was to be based on, and he and Tom were collaborating on the screenplay— not an easy liaison at times, Cathy had guessed, and looking at the zeal in Peter Partridge’s dark eyes she could understand why.

  She listened to the conversation with interest as she moved about the room.

  ‘Chloe,’ Peter was saying. ‘We still have to find a Chloe. I’m happy with all the other casting—I’m ecstatic abcfut Bronwen Bishop playing the lead female role, I think she has the vitality, the star quality, and she’s a very accomplished actress——’

  ‘She can also be one tough lady, Pete,’ Duncan said. ‘Don’t be fooled by those large dark eyes and willowy figure.’

  Pete paused to give this some thought, then shrugged as if it didn’t really enter into his priorities and continued intently, ‘But I’m beginning to think it will have to be an unknown who does Chloe—no one else I’ve seen has the… the right blend of mystery and beauty, vulnerability, that fragile, essentially mysterious appeal, if you know what I mean. A woman or a girl who holds the eye on just a glimpse and you can’t forget her.’

  Cathy saw Tom and Duncan exchange glances as Peter spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it vigorously.

  ‘We’ll find you your Chloe, Pete,’ Duncan said soothingly and with the long practice of someone used to dealing with the artistic temperament.

  ‘She’s really an important part of the plot, Duncan,’ Peter said urgently. ‘I know—I know it might not seem so.’ He gestured. ‘It’s not a big part, but it sort of embodies the spirit of it—this girl who keeps cropping up in Robert’s life but he can’t get his hands on her. This girl who’s at different times joyful, vulnerable, sensual, wistful—the effect she has on him is a pivotal part of the plot.’

  ‘We understand that, Pete,’ Tom said easily, and added with his eyes on the window, ‘You still there, Cathy? Because your best friend is at the window.’

  Cathy was standing at the sideboard putting away silverware, and she glanced over her shoulder, then had to smile ruefully. ‘I don’t know about my best friend, but a most persistent one.’

  ‘Let him in—he’s probably hungry.’

  ‘You make him sound like a dog!’ Cathy said indignantly as she crossed to the window.

  ‘He follows you around like one sometimes— well, William,’ he said to the child Cathy helped climb over the low windowsill. ‘Come and be introduced. Gentlemen, this is William Casey, who lives with his grandparents next door—and spends a lot of time eluding them. Do sit down, William. I’m sure there’s some lunch left for you. I can’t imagine why we didn’t invite you in the first place.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr West,’ William, who was seven, thin but unabashable, replied, and sat down with alacrity. ‘I’ve had my lunch and I’ve got clean hands—see?’ He held them up palm out.

  ‘Excellent,’ observed Tom. ‘We’re making progress, but if you’ve had your lunch…?’

  ‘No dessert,’ William said succinctly. ‘Gran doesn’t believe in ’em, so all she gives me is an apple or something. But Cathy makes the most ’ston-ishing desserts!’

  Cathy does indeed,’ Duncan agreed gravely. ‘In fact Cathy cooks like an angel—thanks for that excellent lunch, my dear,’ he said, laying a hand on Cathy’s arm as she placed a bowl of trifle and icecream in front of William, ‘but come and sit down and talk to us. After all that effort you deserve to relax. Let Tom do the dishes,’ he added with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  ‘I——’

  ‘Sit down, Cathy,’ said Tom with a wry look. ‘Otherwise I’ll acquire the reputation of wife-driver as well as everything else. Would you like a glass of port—I didn’t think to offer you one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She pulled out a chair and sat down next to William and said seriously to him, ‘This is a special occasion, William. Your grandmother is right—too many desserts aren’t good for you.’

  ‘So we’re not corrupting you, William, just—indulging you.’

  Duncan and Peter grinned, but Cathy looked at her husband reproachfully. ‘I don’t suppose he understands half of what you say to him, Tom— which is just as well.’

  ‘Is it?’ For some reason Tom West’s hazel eyes lingered on her, on her long, fair, curly hair that was gathered into the nape of her neck today, her darker eyebrows and blue, blue eyes—so blue, the whites of them were startling, her wide, generous mouth, the cool, sleeveless blue and white print dress with its revered neckline and belted waist that she’d changed into so hurriedly, the smooth golden sweep of her arms and throat. Then he grimaced as if at some private thought and said, ‘Want to bet? William, at four o’clock this afternoon, in the interests of fitness, I should be prepared to have a short bout of that ancient and barbaric ritual that originated at a no doubt equally barbaric public school, with you. How does that affect you?’

  ‘Oh, boy!’ William said joyously. ‘I was going to ask you if you’d kick my rugby ball around with me till I realised you had visitors.’

  Everyone laughed, including Cathy, although she did say to Tom’s I-told-you-so expression, ‘That was a safe bet. You do it nearly every afternoon with him.’

  ‘You two need kids of your own, by the sound of it,’ said Duncan, still grinning. ‘What’s stopping you?’

  Cathy stilled and her smile faded as she stared into her husband’s eyes, then looked away and heard him say after a little pause that was just becoming awkward, ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time for that, Duncan.’

  It was Peter Partridge who created the diversion. He had been staring at Cathy for a couple of minutes, but now he made a convulsive movement, knocked his coffee-cup over but didn’t even notice, stood up with his mouth open, then said in a wrangled voice, ‘That’s it. How blind! Chloe!’

  It didn’t immediately occur to Cathy that he was talking to her as she hurriedly rose and reached for a napkin to blot up the coffee. It still didn’t altogether sink in what was going on as Tom said in a hard, decisive voice, ‘No.’

  ‘But… but,’ Peter had trouble getting the words out, so great was his emotion, ‘she’s perfect! She’s everything I was trying to describe to you. Didn’t you see that… vulnerable, wistful——’

  ‘Pete,’ Duncan said warningly, and Cathy stopped mopping coffee at last, and straightened and looked in turn at the three men, then back at Tom.

  ‘Does… he mean me?’

  ‘None other.’ His tone was clipped and curt.

  ‘But——’

  ‘And you do have some acting experien
ce, don’t you, Cathy?’ Pete continued obliviously, his dark eyes starting to shine. ‘Isn’t that how you two met? Tom!’ He switched his luminous gaze to his host.

  ‘Sit down, Pete,’ drawled Tom, changing moods adroitly—outwardly at least. ‘Yes, we did. In the classic director-actress manner for which I have yet to—forgive myself,’ he said barely audibly but causing Cathy to colour. ‘That was in a stage play, though. Cathy’s never worked before a camera—’

  ‘I have.’ All eyes switched to her, including William’s.

  ‘Well, to be precise, you’ve done a television commercial.’

  ‘That’s working in front of a camera,’ she said with a little shrug.

  ‘Selling shampoo is a little different from selling Peter Partridge’s mystery woman,’ Tom said drily, then, with a suddenly dangerous glitter in his hazel eyes, ‘And before this goes any further—husband and wife on the same set rarely work.’

  ‘It wouldn’t worry me,’ Cathy said quietly. ‘Besides, I think I need a bit of a challenge. But I’ll leave you to discuss it. Come, William. You can help me with the dishes—that’s the penalty for illicit desserts!’

  A couple of hours later, Cathy watched Duncan and Pete leave from her bedroom window. She guessed they didn’t realise she was back from the walk she’d taken William on after they’d done the dishes—either that, or there was some embarrassment about facing her again.

  She sighed and fingered the long blue velvet curtains. It was a blue room, the main bedroom, almost a Victorian bedroom with its heavy curtains, beautiful mahogany furniture, blue and ivory wallpaper, velvet-covered, buttoned mahogany chairs in front of the fireplace and its great four-poster bed. It might have been made for you, Tom had said on their first night in it. It matches your eyes…

  Her eyes, she thought, had been what had intrigued him about her from the beginning—that classic, director-actress encounter which he still found it hard to forgive himself for… What had he meant? The cliched way it had happened or that he’d allowed it to happen at all? She remembered it so well…