Bachelor's Wife (5 page)

'No paper tonight?'

Joe, the newsvendor with whom she always stopped to have a word every night, had her realising her mind had been so taken up with the thought of the letter that could be waiting for her, she had for the first time ever passed his stand without picking up her paper.

'Sorry, Joe,' she said, quickly retracing her steps, 'miles away '

'Hope he's worth it,' Joe winked, as his grubby gnarled hands exchanged newsprint for change.

'He is,' she said, because it was expected of her.' 'Night, Joe,' she offered, her urgent need to get home too much for her to stand chatting.

But disappointment awaited her. Mrs Foster always put her mail on the hall table, but there was nothing there. Even so, as Mrs Foster came limping out on her way with something she was taking to the dustbins at the rear, Perry couldn't hold back her enquiry of:

'No post for me, Mrs Foster?'

'No, love,' said Mrs Foster, her motherly eyes fond on the lovely girl who had rented the upstairs rooms for six years now. 'Were you expecting something, Perry?'

'It'll probably come tomorrow,' she answered, trying to look unconcerned. 'It isn't anything important.'

Not much it isn't, she thought, in her flat, her meal eaten more from habit than because she felt hungry. She'd be a nervous wreck if she didn't hear from Nash Devereux soon.   

She took the used crockery into her kitchen, and since she had nothing planned that night dumped everything in the sink to be washed up later, feeling the need to relieve some of her tension with a read of the paper. Going back into her sitting room she picked Up the paper and sank down into her one easy chair, musing on the possibility of writing to Nash again, only this time marking the envelope 'Urgent, Please Forward'. That wouldn't do, she thought, opening the paper. She didn't want him to get the idea that her wish to be free was so terribly urgent. She...

Her thoughts stopped dead, her mind going temporarily blank. For there, bang on the front page, was a picture of Nash Devereux arriving at London Airport, a gorgeous-looking female hanging on to him as if her life depended on it. But it wasn't so much the picture that had her eyes going wide, the knowledge that he was back penetrating, but what was threatening to have her eyes popping out of her head was the newspaper headline!

She had written asking how he felt about a divorce. He had neither written nor telephoned. But here, here in black and white, she had her answer. For the caption in large print read, 'SORRY ELVIRA', that must be the girl in the picture, 'NASH DEVEREUX WANTS RECONCILIATION WITH HIS WIFE'.

Panicking madly, terrified of seeing her own name in print, since there were not too many Perry Bethia Graingers around for Trevor not to read her secret in the paper before she could get to tell him personally, she hastily read on.

Shaken rigid, she read that Nash had gone to the States endeavouring to tie up a big deal. News that his visit had been successful had broken after his plane back to England had taken off. At the airport he had been met by not only Elvira Newman, his latest girlfriend, but had also been besieged by a whole host of pressmen. He had refused to give any interviews at the airport saying he would see the journalists at his office later.

Perry saw then that back at his office he must have flipped through any of his mail that looked important, her own 'Strictly Private and Confidential' missive among them.

Still terrified of seeing her name, she scanned quickly through the report of the high-powered meetings he had had in America, his success in reaching a satisfactory outcome, of contracts being signed, until she came to the last few paragraphs.

All questions on the business deal out of the way one reporter had thought to ask if there was any significance in Elvira Newman meeting him at the airport. To which Nash had countered: 'Significance?'

'Are things serious between the two of you?' the reporter had pressed, knowing full well that Nash was aware of what he was asking, but nowhere near to guessing the bombshell just about to be dropped.

According to the reporter Nash had taken his time in answering, as though savouring every moment, until he at last announced, 'How could they be—when I'm hoping for a reconciliation with my wife?'

Perry wasn't breathing at all as she read the questions thrown at him in the uproar that had followed, expecting every moment to see her name. The 'We didn't even know you were married much less estranged.' The who, when, where, questions that were fired in rapid succession.

Panic departed and relief gushed as she saw, for all the badgering he received, that Nash wasn't prepared to add anything to what he had already said.

She read the report through again, but couldn't understand it. And gradually anger began to take the place of fear as she asked the question, why? Why—why had he done this?

More and more convinced he had received her letter, she began to hate him that when he could so easily have lifted a telephone to acquaint her with his answer, he had

chosen this way to let her know the arrangement suited him very well as it stood, thank you.

That he spoke of wanting a reconciliation was just so much hogwash, she thought furiously. They had never been conciled in the first place! No, tired from his negotiations, jet-lagged probably, he had been caught on the raw that she was the one to want to be free, when it had always been Casanova Nash Devereux's right to tell his females bye-bye.

Trevor Coleman hardly entered Perry's thoughts as over and over she railed against Nash Devereux and the dreadful thing he had done. Did the fact that he had refused to give her name mean he had rumbled that she didn't want any publicity? He was sharp enough to find ten different reasons for her writing to him rather than going off on her own bat and filing for divorce, she realised too late. Though she didn't find anything to thank him for that he had kept her name to himself; she felt too angry to thank him for anything.

On impulsive temper she slipped on her jacket and left the house to find the nearest telephone box. Mrs Foster would have been pleased to let her use her telephone, she knew, but what she had to say to Nash Devereux would be for no one's ears other than his.

Ten minutes later, angry, frustrated and hardly able to wait for tomorrow when she would ring the Devereux Corporation—and to hell with his shrewd telephonist—Perry let herself into her flat cursing the day the Post Office ever instigated ex-directory numbers. She had felt just in the mood to blast his eardrums, nothing of the eighteen-year-old scaredy-cat she had been the last time she had seen him about her. But even telling Directory Enquiries she had urgent need of his number hadn't relaxed the rule that ensured he didn't have any Tom, Dick or Harry calling him.

 By the time morning came, she was beginning to think perhaps it was just as well she hadn't been able to get through to him last night. She would have gone for him hammer and tongs, that was for sure. But in the light of day, for all there was anger inside at what he had done, she was able to reason more calmly that she might fare better in getting Nash to agree to a quiet divorce if she stayed controlled rather than go for him spitting fire.

At half past ten, Perry put down the garment she was putting the finishing touches to and told Madge she was nipping out for a few minutes.

'Get me a packet of biscuits while you're out,' was Madge's unwanted request. 'I don't think I'm going to last until lunchtime.'

Not sure how she was going to feel after her phone call, and more than a little apprehensive before she started, Perry purchased Madge's biscuits before she went to the phone box, slipping them into her portmanteau-size handbag that weighed a ton, but which she found essential.

'Devereux Corporation,' said that well remembered voice.

'Mr Devereux, please,' said Perry smartly. 'I'll put you through to his secretary. Who's calling, please?'

Wanting to protest that she didn't want to speak to his secretary, she was suddenly disquieted by the thought that she didn't want anyone to know her name either. 'Er—Miss Smith,' she said, and could have groaned out loud that that was the best she could come up with. , 'Just one moment, Miss Smith,' said the voice she was sure had recognised her from the time before. And then a different female voice was saying she was Mr Devereux's secretary, and could she help her.

'I'm sure you can.' Perry put a smile into her voice, ready to try charming her way to get to speak to Nash Devereux if that was the only way it could be achieved,

and really pushing it. 'I'd like to speak to Nash, please.'

'I'm sorry, Miss Smith,' her own charm was bounced back as she was politely headed off. 'Mr Devereux isn't taking calls or seeing anyone today. If you would like to leave a message I'll see he gets it straight away.'

About to insist on speaking to him, she recognised the hint that said it was more than the secretary dared do to put her through against her employer's instructions.

'It's not important,' she said, and put down the phone.

I won't be beaten, I won't! she fumed as she paced angrily away from the phone box. She could go on like this
ad infinitum,
trying to speak to Nash and getting fobbed off every time. Besides which, she wanted this whole thing sorted out today. Trevor was sure to ring today as he hadn't rung yesterday. She owed it to him to get it all settled.

It was as she went back to her seat after handing Madge her biscuits that the idea came of going along to the Devereux Corporation and waiting there until he came out. He was in the building, his secretary had as good as said so. All she had to do was to watch and wait for him to appear and then go up to him. He didn't want to be reconciled, she was sure of that, so he would have to stop and speak to her, wouldn't he? He wouldn't want to risk her taking him up on what he had told the press; she was on a winner there and no mistake.

She became briefly side-tracked as she visualised life with that hard, cold individual she had married and shuddered at the thought. She would go into a convent sooner! One thing was certain, though, she wasn't going to write to him again only to have to wait and read her reply in the evening paper. Abruptly she stood up—so abruptly, Madge left her absorption with her digestive biscuit and looked at her questioningly.

'Do you know where Mr Ratcliffe is?' Perry asked, her mind made up.

'Try the counting house,' Madge joked, then seeing the determined look on her face, 'It looks as though the problem you've been nursing quietly for the past week has just come to crisis point. Count me as one of your friends if you're having trouble with Trevor.'

Madge didn't like Trevor, Perry knew, but she also knew what Madge was really saying without wishing to pry was that in any sort of trouble she could count on her support.

'Thanks, Madge,' she said gratefully, 'I can handle it myself, but I need the rest of the day off.'

Her affection for Mr Ratcliffe grew that after one look at her serious face; perhaps because he could see it wasn't for any trivial matter she wanted so many hours off, he agreed without question.

Walking away from him, she caught sight of herself in a mirror near the door, and it was then she paused, her urgent need to get along to the Devereux Corporation temporarily suspended. She recalled without effort the elegantly turned out women seen photographed with her husband, and while her fine checked trouser suit she had made over twelve months ago was still smart, she knew suddenly that when the confrontation with Nash came she would feel far more able to keep her end up in his sophisticated company if she was dressed as elegantly as some of the females he squired around.

A few more minutes' delay wouldn't matter, she was thinking as her feet headed homewards. After all, she might have hours to wait as it was.

Her confidence took an upswing as she checked her appearance before leaving her flat for the second time that morning. Gone was the casually attired girl with honey-gold hair left free. In her place was an elegant young woman dressed in a fine wool dress of burnt orange with matching coat, her hair dressed in a classic knot and topped by the smartest rounded-domed hat in an autumn bronze that complimented her hair to perfection. Her portmanteau of a handbag just didn't go with the outfit, so she took a few more moments transferring a few essentials into a more fitting brown leather handbag.

She couldn't help the smile that curved her lightly made up mouth, as without vanity she decided she might well be worth a second look, and for all Nash Devereux had no time for a wife, if the press reports were to be believed he was not averse to viewing the opposite sex.

Her confidence marginally dimmed as she reached the Devereux Corporation building, and butterflies began inside her giving the lie to the outwardly supremely confident being she wanted to appear. She halted, realising that dressed as she was she was going to attract too much attention if she stood outside for hour after hour.

The decision made for her, there being not even a cafe opposite the building she could sit in and use for a vantage point, she pushed open the plate glass doors, her eyes seeking and finding several comfortable-looking chairs, an admirable place to wait, she thought.

But she had delayed too long in moving over to one of them. 'Can I help you, madam?' The smart receptionist's enquiry was something totally unprepared for.

'Er—' Perry managed, approaching the desk automatically since it had never been her way to raise her voice unduly. 'Er—' she said, and before her thoughts were in any sort of order found she was saying, 'I'd like to see Mr Devereux.'

'I'm afraid Mr Devereux is tied up for the rest of the day,' the receptionist was answering while Perry's brain was waking up to the fact that, idiot that she was, having now stated who it was she wanted to see she couldn't very well now take a seat and wait for him to appear. 'If you would like to leave a message?' the girl was continuing.

'I think he'll see me.' Perry smiled one of her best smiles, then as casually as she could glance around to see if anyone was in earshot. Then lowering her voice and hoping the girl would think she was confiding rather than realise she wanted as few people as possible to overhear, 'Would you tell him his wife is here?'