Secretary Wife

Secretary Wife Page 4

by Rachel Lindsay

  'Is Carl ready?' Rosemary continued.

  'Yes. He's had a very busy day. He only got back a short while ago.'

  'Then the sooner I take him from the office the better.'

  'Mr Anderson is tired,' Laura blurted out. 'He needs an early night.'

  Halfway towards the inner office, Rosemary turned. 'I know exactly what Carl needs. That's why he loves me.'

  The door closed behind her, but not before Laura heard the dulcet tones of 'Carl darling' to which, she bleakly thought, Carl darling would suitably respond.

  'And now perhaps you'll mind your own busi­ness,' she told herself. 'You were annoyed with Miss Jackson for commenting on Carl Anderson's be­haviour, and you go and do exactly the same!'

  Laura was glad to leave the office and resume her daily rounds of the antique shops. By the end of a further week all the furniture was chosen and only the finalisation of the paint colour for the walls was left to be done. Here too Rosemary wriggled out of all responsibility, complaining that she was allergic to the smell of paint.

  'Mr Anderson said you would know the colours his fiancée wanted,' the foreman assigned to the house decoration told her. 'If you could spare me some of your time…'

  'I'm entirely at your disposal,' she replied, and proved it by spending several hours with him, going through coloured cards of paint shades.

  Leaving a satisfied man to give instructions to his men, Laura returned alone to the room that was going to be Carl Anderson's study. Here she had not taken any notice of Rosemary's preferences for pastels, and had furnished the room in a way she felt fitted the character of its owner. The tall win­dows would soon be framed by tobacco brown cur­tains, the floor covered by a Tabriz in variegated golds and reds, and the furniture would be dark and full of lustre, with leather-covered armchairs and a settee capacious enough to suit a wide-shouldered frame. His dressing-room too had been chosen without reference to his bride, and had wal­nut panelled cupboards, charcoal grey carpeting and a single divan for the nights when he might have a business appointment and return home too late to wish to disturb his wife.

  'Not that he'll occupy it often,' Mrs Foster had remarked, making her first and only indiscreet comment. 'I doubt if any woman would find him returning home too late to be welcomed into her bed!'

  Laura recalled this comment as she went down the front steps to the drive. The garden was already spruce; the weed-covered lawn replaced by velvet green turf, the bare flower beds filled with bulbs and shrubs that would give colour the year round. The pool was finished too: a blue oasis in a sea of green. Built to Carl Anderson's specifications, it was a testament to the speed with which he could get things done. Even the pavilion that housed the changing rooms stood complete, the entrance to it forming a covered loggia where those who did not like too much sun could relax. A touch of a button would send a glass wall gliding smoothly along its front face, turning it into a hothouse during the winter. To this end the pool was heated, and Laura, coming to the house a few days earlier, had seen it in action, with steam rising from the water.

  By the time inclement weather returned again, she would be on the other side of the world, for­gotten by the man and woman who would be living here or, at best, remembered as an efficient dogs­body. She knew she was doing her employer an injustice and that he saw her far differently from this, yet she could not prevent these bitter thoughts from erupting, and hoped that time and distance would enable her to see him the way she knew him to be: considerate, intelligent, dynamic—and be­sotted by another woman.

  It was a relief to return to her normal secretarial work. Occasionally Mrs Foster came to the office with a swatch of material or a picture of some extra item of furniture she had found and for which she needed approval, but Laura did not have to return to the house, for which she was grateful.

  The wedding date had been set for the end of August. It was going to be a lavish affair with a ceremony in a Mayfair church and a huge reception in a Park Lane hotel. Rosemary had not been too fatigued to rush from shop to shop to buy her trous­seau, and Carl Anderson gave Laura a signed cheque book and told her to deal with all the bills. The number of them made her head reel, with many of the dresses costing more than she earned in a month and some costing more than she earned in a quarter, not to mention items like a sable jacket and a mink coat.

  'I bought the furs now, darling,' she had heard Rosemary gush, 'because one always gets a bargain in furs in the summer.'

  Some bargain, Laura mused, filling out a cheque for two thousand pounds. Still, Carl Anderson could afford it, and if it made him happy… But would it make him happy? The more she saw of Rosemary, the more disquieted she became. The girl was not only lazy and selfish but she also had a total dis­regard for anyone else's well-being. Never rising before noon, she would either spend the day in the garden at Holly Grove or expect her fiancé to take her for a three-hour lunch, leaving him at three-thirty to spend a few hours shopping before return­ing to her hotel to change into one of her new acquisitions and be taken out dining or dancing. These evenings rarely ended before the early hours of the morning, when Carl Anderson would go back to his office to complete the work he had not had time to do during the day. Since he was also trying to deal with many things that would crop up during his month's honeymoon, he had a double work-load to shoulder. But Laura said nothing. She had learned her lesson the first time she had commented on his fatigue and, though her anger smouldered, she kept her silence. More fool him if he wore him­self out and left Rosemary a millionaire widow.

  A week before the wedding, Rosemary flew to Paris for the final fittings for her bridal gown. Carl Anderson was joining her for the weekend and saw the next few days as ones which would enable him to catch up on all the things still requiring his atten­tion.

  'I hope you won't mind working late?' he asked Laura.

  Tight-lipped, she nodded.

  'Why so sour-faced?' he inquired mildly.

  'You don't need me to answer that.'

  He hesitated, then smiled. 'No, Laura, I don't.'

  That night they did not leave the office until ten, supported by coffee and sandwiches which Laura had provided. As usual he went to drive her home, but she flatly refused to let him.

  'Driving you home won't make me any more tired,' he commented.

  'No,' she said obstinately, and resolved the argu­ment by hailing a cruising taxi and jumping in.

  'You're a bossy young woman,' he teased, stand­ing by the open window. 'I always knew it, but this is the first time you haven't bothered to hide it!'

  'Perhaps I'm changing my tactics with you.'

  'Then change your mind as well and don't go abroad.'

  Her heart pounded violently, but her voice was steady as she spoke. 'I'm afraid my mind is made up on that point. I'm sorry.'

  'Not as sorry as I am.' He stepped back, gave the taxi driver a pound note and waved her goodnight.

  The glorious summer weather broke next day and, in torrential rain, Laura squelched her way to work. She had slept badly and there was a throb­bing in her temples. Slipping out of her sodden shoes and streaming mac, she padded across the room to her desk, almost jumping out of her skin as her employer abruptly emerged from his office.

  'I thought you had an appointment in Birming­ham,' she gasped.

  'I sent Johnson instead. I'm more concerned with the Lambeth scheme. We're running behind sched­ule and I want to have a look at the site.'

  She saw he was wearing his usual working gear of denims and waterproof jacket. 'Don't climb the scaffolding,' she warned. 'It's very slippery under­foot.'

  'Yes, mother I You really are bossy. Is this your way of trying to make me pleased that you're leav­ing?'

  'You won't even notice I've gone. Everything will be different for you. Your marriage, your home, your secretary. You'll be starting a completely new life.'

  'That doesn't mean I have to end the old one—' He paused, as if he wanted to say more. Then he thought better of
it and in silence zipped up his jacket and left.

  There was a great deal for Laura to do in the office and she began by transcribing some tapes that were too confidential to be done by anyone other than herself. This took a couple of hours and then she busied herself checking a sheet of complicated figures. She was immersed in this when the door burst open and Mr Rogers came in, his face ashen.

  'Miss Pearson,' he mumbled.

  She jumped to her feet and went towards him. 'Are you ill?'

  'No, no, I'm fine. It's—' He sank down on a chair. 'It's Carl.'

  Laura's scalp prickled. 'Mr Anderson? What's wrong with him?'

  'There's been an accident. He fell…'

  Laura's knees buckled and she clutched hold of the side of her desk. She tried to speak, but no words came.

  'I've warned him a hundred times about climbing the scaffolding the way he does,' Mr Rogers mut­tered, 'but you know how obstinate he is.'

  'Where is he?' Laura finally found her tongue.

  'They've taken him to Giles Hospital. Jack Dur­ban has already gone there.' Mr Rogers stood up. 'I said I'd join him.'

  'May I come with you?' Laura asked, and though she saw the man's surprise, she stood her ground. 'Mr Anderson may have a message for me—and I—' She stopped, suddenly remembering Rose­mary waiting for him to join her tomorrow in Paris. 'I must let Miss Carlton know.'

  Mr Rogers groaned. 'She'd better get back fast.'

  'Is it that serious?' Laura was still shaking too hard to walk.

  'You don't fall twenty feet and just sprain your ankle. All we know is that he's alive.' Mr Rogers went to the door. 'You'd better come with me, then. I don't want to waste time.'

  The drive to the hospital seemed interminable, as did the walk down the long corridor of the pri­vate wing to a room at the far end, where two doc­tors stood talking beside the door.

  'I'm Dr Marsh,' the younger of the two men said. 'And this is Mr Edwards, the surgeon.' He indic­ated the sober-looking man beside him. 'Mr Ander­son will be taken down to the operating theatre in a few minutes.'

  'He's still alive, then?' Mr Rogers asked.

  'Just.'

  Laura felt the ceiling coming towards her and she leaned against the wall.

  'Are you Mrs Anderson?' the doctor asked.

  'His secretary,' she whispered. 'How badly is he injured?'

  'Both legs are broken and several of his ribs. There are internal injuries, but we won't know how serious they are until we open him up. It was quite a fall, you know. Twenty feet on to concrete. It's a miracle he isn't dead.'

  This time Laura could not prevent the ceiling coming down on her and with a moan she crumpled in a faint. She was only unconscious for a few moments, but this mercifully spared her the sight of Carl Anderson being wheeled out of his room to the elevator.

  'Can we wait downstairs?' she asked as soon as she was able to speak coherently.

  They don't know how long the operation is going to take,' Mr Rogers said. 'They suggested we went out for lunch.'

  Laura almost gagged at the thought and Mr Rogers looked sympathetic. 'I know how you feel, Miss Pearson. I can't believe it's happened either.'

  She closed her eyes. No words could express the way she felt. Indeed, in an odd way she did not feel anything. She seemed to be suspended above her­self, looking down on a man and a girl in a waiting room. It was something she frequently experienced in her dreams. Perhaps this was a dream too. She dug her nails deep into her palms, but though the pain was intense, the dream went on.

  'We still have to ring Paris,' Mr Rogers said from a long way off. 'You don't happen to know where Miss Carlton is staying?'

  'The Plaza-Athenée. I have the number some­where.' Laura looked round vaguely.

  'Don't worry, the operator will get it for me. I only hope we can contact her.'

  He left the room and Laura huddled back in her chair. Time passed, how long she did not know, and Mr Rogers returned.

  'I managed to get her,' he said with satisfaction. 'Apparently it's raining cats and dogs there too, so she was lunching in.'

  Lunching in bed, Laura thought dispassionately, but managed to take in the fact that Rosemary would be returning on the next available flight.

  'You wouldn't care to meet her at the airport?' Mr Rogers asked. 'I'd willingly go myself, but I thought another woman…'

  Laura nodded, although it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. 'Do you think Miss Carlton would like us to telephone her parents in Salisbury?' she asked.

  'She said she'd do it herself. I suppose her father will fly here. What an end to a romance!' He sighed heavily. 'A funeral instead of a wedding.'

  'Don't say that!' Laura cried. 'Mr Anderson isn't dead yet.'

  'We have to be realistic, Miss Pearson. Even if he comes through the operation, he'll be crippled for life. Don't you think he'd prefer not to wake up from the anaesthetic?'

  Laura refused to consider the question. No matter how tenuous Carl Anderson's hold was on life, one must continue to hope and pray he would recover. To this end she clasped her hands together and lowered her head, uncaring what Mr Rogers thought of her action, knowing only that the man she loved must not die.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN the event Carl Anderson lived, though in the pain-racked days that followed, he frequently prayed to die.

  Laura went each day to the hospital. At first it was only to peep in and see him, drugged and coma­tose, but as the days passed, it was to smile at him and utter brief words of encouragement. Occasion­ally she saw Rosemary Carlton there, but knew, from one of the nurses, that the girl's visits were fleeting.

  'She looks like a butterfly and she flits in and out like one,' the nurse said. 'Not that Mr Anderson seems to mind. He's just grateful for any time she spares him.'

  Laura, who had become friendly with the nurse, felt no disloyalty in agreeing with her. Mary Roberts was dedicated to her profession and could well be the ideal person to take care of Carl Ander­son when he finally left the hospital. Laura looked at her and decided that now was as good a time as any to ask her if she would be willing to do it.

  'Mr Anderson needs a male nurse,' Mary said. 'I can manage him in hospital because there are other nurses to help me, but at home—'

  'He has a valet who's willing to do anything that's necessary,' Laura told her.

  'It might work,' Mary said cautiously. 'I wouldn't take it on a permanent basis, though, and he will need someone permanently. He'll never walk again.'

  'Miracles can happen,' Laura said tremulously.

  'The only miracle likely to happen to Mr Ander­son is for his fiancée to stay with him.' Mary saw Laura's startled look. 'She won't, you know. She can't bear sickness. I see it in her face when she comes into his room. She won't look at his body even though it's hidden by blankets.'

  'He hasn't guessed, has he?'

  'It's hard to tell. He isn't a man who gives away his thoughts.'

  How well Laura knew this, and hoped she could hide her own feelings equally cleverly. It was be­coming increasingly difficult for her to see him each day without giving way to her longing to cradle him in her arms; to give him the reassurance of love that she knew he was longing to hear. But longing to hear it from Rosemary, she reminded herself, not from his secretary. And that was all she was to him: capable, dependable Laura.

  'He could lead a normal married life,' Mary said bluntly.

  Laura went scarlet and averted her face. 'Does Miss Carlton know?'

  'She must do. She had a long talk with the doctor the other day. I think that horrified her even more —to learn that Mr Anderson could be a proper husband. I don't think she'd mind hovering like an angel around his wheelchair, but she doesn't fancy putting herself into his bed!'

  Laura remembered this when she went in to see her employer. She had originally intended to see him earlier that day, but a call from Mary had told her that Rosemary was having lunch with him. She wondered if this meant that the gir
l had decided to do the right thing and remain with him. It was not a difficult decision if one loved the man to whom one was engaged, but impossibly difficult if one were only marrying him for his money. Still, remembering Rosemary's extravagance, she hoped this factor alone would be enough to make her stay with him.

  Bracing herself to hear this, she went into his room. She half expected to see a happier look on his face, but he seemed the same as ever and silently held out his hand for the documents she had brought him.

  He perused them and made several notes on the side. Only his hands were unchanged since the accident: the nails as well manicured as always, his fingers long and supple. She had always considered them the hands of an artist, and before she could stop herself she blurted out :

  'Have you ever painted?'

  'In Canada I did a bit. But only because I had to.'

  'I meant pictures, not houses,' she said, regretting the question but knowing she had to continue with it. 'I thought it might give you something to do.'

  'I have no artistic talent.'

  'Matisse didn't think so either. He only started when he was recovering from an operation.'

  'Really?' Carl Anderson said indifferently.

  'Yes.' She plunged on, determined to make him interested in something. 'He had appendicitis and in those days it took a long time to recover. His mother bought him some paints and a sketching block and he just started.'

  'I don't see myself as another Matisse.' More words were scrawled on one of the documents and he handed them all back to her. 'Rosemary has left me. You're the first person to know.'

  He spoke in such a matter-of-fact manner that she almost missed what he said. As it was she had to look at him twice to make sure she had heard correctly and, not sure if he was speaking in tem­porary terms—the girl might have gone to Rhodesia for a holiday or away from London for a few days—she said: 'I understand Miss Carlton had lunch with you today.'

  'It was a farewell lunch,' he said calmly. 'Telling me she can't face life with a cripple.'

  'Oh no!' Laura caught her breath. 'She couldn't have said that.'

 

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