Jake Howard's Wife Read online

  When she did not reply Jennifer heaved a sigh and said: ‘What's wrong with you, Helen? You seem different somehow. You used not to be so touchy about Jake's affairs. What's wrong? Are you beginning to realise money isn't everything?'

  ‘I never thought it was!’ Helen denied hotly, and her nails bit into the palms of her hands in her lap.

  Jennifer grimaced impatiently. ‘Well, stop looking so shocked at everything I say. I'm feeling bitchy, and you just happen to be around, that's all.'

  Helen sipped her coffee, trying to appear cool and composed. Unwillingly Jake's words about Jennifer were coming back to her, and she found herself looking at her friend in a different light. What if Jake was right? What if Jennifer was ripe for an affair? With him?

  Helen's palms moistened. During the three years of their marriage, she should have become inured to Jake's proclivities, but she had not. And the idea of Jennifer being interested in him was something about which she found it impossible to speculate. Surely her feelings were not unreasonable, even with their abnormal relationship? Surely Jennifer would never… But she was presupposing something that might never happen. Even so, she could never regard Jennifer in the same way again. This morning's display had destroyed something irreplaceable.

  She sought about desperately in her mind for something to say to break the uneasy silence that had fallen between them. If she didn't say something soon Jennifer would begin to suspect that there were other reasons why Helen found it so impossible to talk about her husband today.

  But fortunately at that moment another young woman stopped by their table and greeted them both familiarly. Mary Sullivan was the wife of a Member of Parliament, and she joined them at the table for a while discussing the weather and the new autumn fashions. By the time she left it was time for Helen to leave too, and she rose almost eagerly to her feet.

  As they walked to the door, Jennifer said casually: ‘When does Jake expect to get back? I'd like you both to come and dine with us before Jake disappears on his travels again.'

  Helen controlled the desire to say she didn't know when Jake would be back, and replied: ‘Thanks very much, Jennifer. I think he'll be home by the end of the week. It's only a flying visit to the plant.'

  Jennifer drew on her suede gloves. ‘Oh, that's good! Will Sunday evening be suitable, then?'

  Helen pressed her lips together. ‘I don't see why not, Jennifer. But can I ring you to confirm it?'

  Jennifer studied Helen's cool countenance thoughtfully. ‘You are all right, aren't you, Helen?’ she asked suddenly. ‘I mean—what I've said hasn't upset you, has it?'

  Helen managed a smile. ‘Of course not, Jennifer. I've—er—I've got a headache coming on. I think I'll go home and lie down for a while.'

  Jennifer looked relieved. ‘Yes, you do that. And don't forget to ring about Sunday.'

  ‘I won't.'

  Helen smiled again and the two girls parted on the steps of the restaurant. Jennifer hailed a cab and drove away waving, and then Helen turned and walked slowly along Oxford Street. It was after twelve and she had told Mrs Latimer she would have lunch at one but right now she didn't feel very hungry. The conversation with Jennifer had left a nasty taste in her mouth and she wondered if she was particularly dense. Why was it that Jake had seen in a comparatively short time what she had failed to see over a period of years? She had never considered herself naïve, and yet she had assumed that Jennifer's was a happy marriage. From time to time she had even envied her such a gentle and uncomplicated husband, although she had had the sense to realise that Giles’ very qualities which she admired would have prevented him from liaising such a cold-blooded and deliberate union as Jake had contrived.

  She turned into Park Lane and on impulse crossed the road and entered the park. The sun was endeavouring to break through the low-hanging clouds and although a cool wind was blowing it was invigorating. She enjoyed the tug of the wind through her hair. There was something clean and exhilarating about it, and she walked briskly across the grass, swinging her handbag.

  She was allowing the situation far too much prominence in her thoughts, she decided at last. Just because her association with Jake had taken a more personal turn of late did not mean that anything had changed. It was simply the normal development of relationships and she simply could not expect to go through life without upheavals of some sort. She had chosen this kind of life, after all. It had not been forced upon her. When her father died—she refused to consider any possibility that he might have killed himself—she had had to choose, and the satisfaction she had gained from the effects of this marriage on her father's family had been more than adequate.

  When she returned to the house in Kersland Square she was in a much more relaxed frame of mind, almost prepared to believe that she had been making a mountain out of a molehill. Even Mrs Latimer's rather annoyed remonstrances that lunch had been waiting over an hour failed to arouse more than a flicker of conscience, but she apologised charmingly, winning the older woman's reluctant sympathy.

  ‘There was a call for you a little while ago, madam,’ Mrs Latimer advised her, as Helen seated herself at the dining table and began to do full justice to the chilled fruit cocktail that began the meal. ‘It was Mr Mannering.'

  Helen put down her spoon and looked up. ‘Mr Mannering?'

  ‘Yes, madam.’ Mrs Latimer folded her hands importantly.

  ‘Did he say what he wanted?’ Helen frowned, lifting her spoon again, but without her earlier enthusiasm.

  Mrs Latimer shrugged. ‘No, madam. He asked if you would call him back as soon as you came in.'

  ‘I see.’ Helen swallowed a mouthful of grapefruit. What could Keith want now? Unless it was to arrange about the concert. But that was still a week away.

  Sighing, she shook her head and continued with her meal. ‘All right, thank you, Mrs Latimer,’ she said, smiling faintly. ‘I'll ring later.'

  But the meal was spoiled and although it was delicious Helen had lost her appetite. After this morning's conversation with Jennifer she had no desire to see anyone, and if that was Keith's intention he was going to be disappointed.

  She rang his apartment about five and caught him in. He sounded delighted to hear from her and after the preliminaries, he said: ‘Jennifer tells me Jake is away at the moment. I wondered if you'd care to have dinner with me this evening.'

  Helen sighed impatiently. Jennifer hadn't wasted much time, she thought cynically. If Keith had rung the house before she got back at lunchtime Jennifer must have contacted him immediately after leaving the restaurant. She felt a twinge of resentment that Jennifer should interfere in her affairs like this, and then squashed the idea. After all, Jennifer probably thought she would welcome the chance to see Keith again. She still had not accepted that what they had had over three years ago now was as dead as last night's fire.

  ‘I'm sorry, Keith,’ she said, putting the right amount of regret into her voice, ‘but I hadn't planned on going out this evening.'

  ‘All the more reason for you to change your mind,’ remarked Keith forcefully. ‘Look, Helen, there's this new place out at Henley. I thought we might have a meal there, that's all. We needn't be late in coming back if you don't want to be.'

  Helen hesitated, the prospect of her proposed evening stretching ahead of her. Mrs Latimer would serve dinner about seven and then retire and she would be left to her own devices for several hours before she could contemplate bed. She wasn't sleeping awfully well and there was no point in trying to relax too early in the evening. Images of Jake suddenly flooded her mind. What was he likely to be doing this evening? Would he be spending the evening alone in his hotel suite? She very much doubted it. It was much more likely he would be entertaining his managers and executives at some northern night club until the early hours of the morning…

  On impulse, she said: ‘All right, Keith, I'll come. What time shall we go?'

  Keith was delighted. ‘Would seven be too early?’ he suggested eagerly.

&n
bsp; Helen considered the slim gold watch on her wrist. ‘No—no, I don't think so,’ she replied, mentally calculating how long it would take her to bathe and dress. ‘No, that'll be fine, Keith. Will you pick me up here?'

  ‘Of course. See you later, then.'

  Keith rang off and Helen replaced her receiver not without a trace of reluctance. Now that she was committed she realised she had not really wanted to go out this evening, and if Keith had not phoned she would most likely have interested herself in the television, or perhaps in that book she had bought herself a few days ago. As it was, she had agreed to spend several hours in the company of a man who while proving an amusing companion could nevertheless present difficulties of a more personal nature. Keith, like Jennifer, could not entirely accept that their involvement with one another these days was vastly different from what it had been years ago.

  She spent an hour relaxing in the bath and then dressed in a white blouse of Venetian lace and an ankle-length black velvet skirt. The blouse had full sleeves and a low round neckline, while the buttonthrough front of the skirt only fastened to just below the knee, leaving a tantalising length of slender leg to be glimpsed every time the opening parted. She put her hair up this evening, winding it into a coronet of plaiting which added maturity to her otherwise youthful air. She was ready when the doorbell rang and as she had already informed Mrs Latimer of her plans the housekeeper went to let Keith in.

  He was in the lounge waiting for her when she came downstairs trailing a cape of silver sables, and his eyes widened appreciatively at the beautiful picture she made.

  ‘Have you helped yourself to a drink?’ Helen asked, draping her cape over the arm of a chair.

  Keith smiled wryly. ‘Actually, no. Your housekeeper doesn't give me the warmest of welcomes, and quite honestly I'd be afraid to touch anything in this house without permission for fear I'd be accused of stealing.'

  Helen chuckled softly. ‘I'm sure you're exaggerating, but never mind. What will you have now?'

  Keith glanced round apprehensively. ‘Well—’ he began reluctantly. ‘There's no chance of that husband of yours marching in on us, is there?’ He sighed. ‘I mean—I'd hate to come into contact with the tiger in his lair!'

  Helen shook her head slightly impatiently. ‘Now I know you're exaggerating,’ she declared, walking towards the cocktail cabinet. ‘Come on: what's it to be?'

  Keith hesitated. ‘Scotch would be fine,’ he said, and felt in his pocket for his cigarettes. Helen refused to take one and he lit one for himself with hands which Helen noticed were not quite steady. The idea that he might actually find Jake alarming was almost laughable, and yet Helen realised she ought not to find it so. She had seen more pugnacious men than Keith Mannering brought down by the strength of Jake's personality. It was not so much what he said but his attitude when he said it that gave him such tremendous influence over his contemporaries.

  The roadhouse Keith took her to was newly opened and backed on to the river. It was excessively modern, all plate glass and Swedish wood, and while Helen found it very impressive she did not altogether like it. She preferred somewhere smaller, somewhere with character, that was not ostracised by the local population.

  Even so, the food was good and the conversation stimulating. Keith could discuss plays and books and concerts that they had both seen and Helen was glad to share opinions with him. It was so long since she had discussed artistic subjects with anyone, for even had Jake lived at home most of the time he would not have found such things particularly interesting. In his ruthless climb to the top he had found little time to devote to the arts, and in consequence his tastes were rough and unformed. He only enjoyed what appealed to his sensual nature, dismissing anything that required a deeper search for significance, and just occasionally Helen found herself agreeing with him. But only occasionally. She refused to accept that all things worthwhile must offer of themselves before proving worthy of attention.

  Keith drove her home soon after ten and parked the car outside the house. Turning sideways in his seat towards her, his arm along the back of hers, he said: ‘Are you going to invite me in for coffee?'

  Helen glanced at her watch. ‘I don't think so,' she said awkwardly. ‘I mean—it is late, and Mrs Latimer will have left long ago.'

  ‘I know.’ Keith's lips twitched in amusement.

  Helen sighed. ‘Keith, don't go getting the wrong ideas about me. Just because I've been out with you a couple of times doesn't mean—'

  ‘I know.’ Keith interrupted her impatiently. ‘I know, you're married! Well, so what? What difference does that make to us? Everyone knows—'

  ‘I don't want to hear what everyone knows,’ said Helen firmly, sliding out of the car. ‘Thanks for dinner. Ring me about the concert next week.'

  Keith compressed his lips. ‘You won't change your mind?'

  ‘About the concert? No, why should I?'

  ‘I didn't mean the concert, actually, as I think you know,’ remarked Keith dryly. ‘Okay, Helen, goodnight!'

  ‘Goodnight, Keith!'

  Helen took out her key and inserted it in the lock as Keith drove away. The hall was in darkness and she switched on the lights before closing the door, her eyes flickering swiftly to the lounge and study doors, but there was no telltale line of light to indicate that Jake had arrived back unexpectedly early from his trip to Northumberland.

  Shedding her cape, she walked through to the kitchen and found a note from Mrs Latimer advising her that she had left coffee and sandwiches in the lounge. Helen smiled wryly. Obviously Mrs Latimer had expected them to return here for supper. She frowned. It disturbed her a little. She didn't like the idea of Mrs Latimer speculating about her relationship with Keith. Jake was suspicious enough already. Was it possible that he had asked Mrs Latimer to take a note of her comings and goings and advise him on his return?

  Helen turned abruptly and walked back into the lounge. That idea did not appeal at all. Surely Jake would not do such a thing? She saw the pile of freshly-cut sandwiches under their perspex lid. Obviously there was more than Mrs Latimer would have made for her alone. She sighed impatiently. Heavens, she thought angrily, she wasn't a child. If she wanted to have friends, why shouldn't she have friends? Why did there have to be ulterior motives behind every action? She and Keith had known one another for years, long before there had been any question of an emotional entanglement. So why should things be any different now?

  She hunched her shoulders and sat down, switching on the percolator and watching the tiny bubble rise and burst against the glass lid. The evening had gone sour on her and she didn't know why. She glanced at her watch. A little after eleven. What would Jake be doing now? Where was he likely to be at this hour?

  She reached for a cup and poured her coffee, adding milk and sugar. Why was she asking herself such a question? she thought angrily. She didn't care where he was. She never had. Or was it perhaps truer to say that as she got to know him better she began to speculate a little further each day? When they first got married it had been different somehow. Then she had still been wrapped up in the cocoon of grief that had enveloped her at the time of her father's death. It had been such a terrible time, such a terrible shock! They had been so close, cut off as they had been from relatives, and relying on one another for close companionship. They had each had their friends, of course, but her father had always seemed so young, so charming, he had never seemed out of place in her set. It was only when he died that she realised how little anyone else had meant in that strangely artificial existence they had shared. Even Keith's defection had not affected her as it might have done. She had had to accept that that phase of her life was over and another phase was beginning.

  She didn't really know how long it had taken her to recover completely. Jake's long absences and his sudden returns were like punctuation marks in her life, each period becoming a little more real, a little more acceptable.

  Gradually, she had begun to live again, devoting herself to making her h
ome as attractive as she could, becoming the kind of wife she knew Jake expected. But what she had not been prepared for was this widening of contact, this deepening of awareness, this penetration of the shell she had built around herself after her marriage and which she had imagined impregnable. She had not taken human nature into account when she had contemplated the future, and to suddenly find that she and Jake could react towards one another exactly like anyone else had been a revelation.

  She finished her coffee and rising from her seat she walked idly across to where the teak cabinet of the hi-fi equipment was standing. Touching the oiled surface of the wood, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. To Jake, she was like this inanimate object, a possession, nothing more, and until now an unprotesting one.

  She looked up and sighed. What had she to protest about? She was well fed, well dressed, capable of buying anything she wanted without even asking Jake's permission—what more could any girl ask?

  And certainly their marriage was a constant cause of dissatisfaction to her father's brother, who had had no children himself and who knew that should Helen produce a son he would automatically inherit Mallins on her uncle's death.

  Helen allowed a twisted smile to touch her lips. Only she knew how remote that possibility was…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HELEN came awake with the distinct impression that someone was watching her, and as she lifted a lazy hand to smooth the thickness of her hair from her eyes she saw Jake framed in the doorway to her bedroom, leaning with casual indolence against the jamb. Dressed in a blue lounge suit, the dark shadow of a night's growth of beard on his chin, he looked disturbingly masculine, and Helen shivered beneath the silk covers, drawing them to her chin almost defensively.

  His expression grew cynical at her involuntary reaction, and he straightened abruptly. ‘Don't be alarmed!’ he remarked disparagingly. ‘I haven't driven overnight from Newcastle with lusting thoughts of you in my mind! But I am tired, bloody tired, and I wanted to speak to you before going to bed.'