to his wife—and she was pleased that he wasn’t going to be put out to pasture. Crumpling the newspaper, she tossed it into the bin, wishing she could as easily toss out the memories of Tim that came crowding into her brain.
‘It’s over,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ve made a new life for myself and you have no part in it.’
‘You calling me?’ her assistant enquired, putting her head round the door.
‘No. Just reminding myself of something important.’
Another year went by and, aware that for the past twelve months Tim could have obtained a divorce with the minimum of fuss, she waited for his lawyer to write and say it had come through. When he didn’t, she was puzzled. Surely Tim wanted his freedom, given that he had made no move towards a reconciliation? Not that she’d have him back anyway; she still resented his apathy, his total lack of caring.
By the fourth year his image had blurred, and it was as if he belonged to another life; one she recalled with neither pain nor pleasure, only numbness.
Around this time Phil Marsham and his wife invited her out to celebrate their wedding anniversary. She dressed for the evening in a body-hugging cream silk suit, its simplicity suiting her tall, slender figure. Her free-tumbling curls were long since gone, replaced by a silky auburn swath brushed back from her face to fall smoothly to just below her ears.
Everything about her today was sophisticated, though many of her friends thought her too thin. Yet this emphasised her beautiful bone-structure, throwing her high cheekbones into relief, and drawing attention to her full red mouth and luminous green eyes.
Lowering her head, she fastened the clasp of her chunky gold necklace and matching bracelet. Strange that she, who had once scorned jewellery, should today regard it as part of her persona. Grabbing a light wrap and small Chanel purse, she went down to the foyer, where Phil was waiting.
He was a wiry man of medium build and height. Yorkshire by birth, though no one would have guessed it from his accent which, after twenty years in the States with an American wife, had become authentically New York.
‘The one person I know who’s always punctual,’ he greeted her. ‘Belle’s waiting in the car.’
‘I was going to suggest you both come up for a drink.’
‘I can’t face the aggro of parking. Besides, Robert Lawson’s meeting us at Rico’s in ten minutes.’
Rico’s she knew of—it was a chic restaurant on the East Side—but Robert Lawson she had difficulty placing, though the name rang a bell.
‘Should I know him?’ she asked as they went outside.
‘Think of mega-bucks and take-overs.’
Lindsey stopped in her tracks. ‘That Lawson!’
‘None other.’
‘How come you know him?’
‘What an unflattering question to put to your boss!’ Phil tried to look pained, and she laughed.
‘Don’t give me that. You’re the most confident man I know.’
‘Because I’m a happy one. Happy in my job, happy in my marriage. I’d like that for you.’
‘Right now I’m happy to settle for my job.’ Quickly she changed the subject. ‘So how come Lawson is honouring you with his company?’
‘We grew up in the same village near Manchester. Plus the fact that he likes to maintain a high profile, and I’m willing to help him if you think there may be a story in it for us. We’ll know better when we find out what he’s shopping around for in the States.’
‘I thought it was going to be an anniversary celebration for only the three of us,’ Lindsey teased as she joined Belle in the back seat. ‘Now it turns out to be a business dinner!’
‘Don’t you know Phil?’ his wife sighed. ‘Fifty years from now he’ll be organising business dinners for St Peter!’
Lindsey laughed. As a top television executive, Phil met most of the leading personalities visiting New York, and within weeks of starting to work for him she had been caught up in his frantic social activity. Not surprisingly, given her stunning looks, she was propositioned with unremitting frequency, but she had developed enough poise to keep all would-be lovers at bay without offending them.
‘What’s Robert Lawson like as a person?’ she asked Phil.
‘Belle will tell you.’
Lindsay turned to her.
‘A self-made millionaire, who makes no pretence about it,’ Belle said. ‘He’s tough but charming, and would be death as a husband, though I think he’d be great as a lover.’
‘What category am I in?’ Phil enquired.
‘Both!’
Belle’s description of Robert Lawson might be right, Lindsey mused as they entered the restaurant and he rose from his table to greet them. In his late thirties, with glinting brown eyes marked by heavy brows as dark as his thick, curly black hair, he was a big man with a well-proportioned body: wide shoulders, broad chest tapering to slim hips, large hands with carefully manicured nails, and bronzed skin that had the cared-for look that went with a first class fitness club.
‘So you’re Lindsey,’ he murmured as, introductions made, she sat beside him. ‘Have you deserted England for good?’
‘I’m not sure. At the moment I love my work too much to consider going home.’
‘It is only your work that keeps you here?’
Knowing what he meant, she gave him an innocent look. ‘There’s Angus, of course.’
‘Of course,’ he said smoothly. ‘I thought you might have someone special. He sounds a Scot.’
‘Siamese, as it happens.’
For an instant he was taken aback, then he chuckled. ‘A cat! You caught me there, my dear.’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘I’d have thought you more the Saluki type.’
‘I’m not sure whether to be flattered by that,’ she said. ‘I always associate them with well-bred idleness!’
‘I associate them with elegance and beauty,’ he replied softly.
Aware of the amused looks passing between Belle and Phil, Lindsey resolved to keep the conversation general, and as if aware of her intention Robert Lawson did the same. He was an excellent raconteur, and listening to his stories—which were mainly political—she began to feel homesick.
It was not until they left the restaurant and were waiting for Phil’s car to be brought to them, that Robert quietly asked if she was free to have dinner with him the following evening.
‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ she said equally quietly.
‘Is that a polite turn-down?’
‘It means I have to check my diary.’ Her voice was devoid of expression. ‘I have a heavy week.’
‘I’ll call you in the morning,’ he said, shepherding both women to the car.
They did not talk again, and he allowed Phil to accompany her to the door when they reached her apartment block, which would have piqued her had not feminine intuition told her he had behaved this way to exploit the abrasive quality in his personality, an abrasiveness that she was sure attracted many women.
But did it attract her? Not at the moment. All she knew was that he was as different from Tim as chalk from cheese, and that, she reflected as she closed her apartment door and went into her bedroom, might be the reason why she would go out with him tomorrow night.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘MR