Wife After Wife, page 26
His mind went back to five years ago, to his first night with Ana. And what a night it had been. There would never be another like it.
Why did he want Ana most when he couldn’t have her? Now that she was colder than a morning shower at Eton, all he could think about was making up with her. It would happen, and it would be epic.
What kind of dysfunctional relationship was that?
In the meantime, they’d reached some sort of uneasy truce. Ana hadn’t mentioned divorce again, and Harry had made an effort to help with plans for her design consultancy, recognizing that this, at least, was a sensible way forward.
At home they were polite, and he was doing more than his fair share of caring for Eliza when the nanny wasn’t on hand. He loved cozying up with his daughter, singing her songs, tickling her, playing with her toes. Her gurgling giggle was the sweetest sound in the universe. Eliza was of a far sunnier disposition than Maria. While his first daughter had been a watchful child, Eliza was all smiles, and learned things at a rate that convinced Harry she was a genius.
“This girl’s going to grow up to be some kind of superwoman,” he’d said to Ana, during a slight thaw in relations. “Perhaps she’ll be the next Maggie Thatcher.” He was still a fan, even though the Iron Lady’s reputation had taken a battering since her heyday.
He noticed Janette, sitting with the other top-floor secretaries. She quickly looked away as their eyes met. He felt bad. They hadn’t talked properly since Ana had burst in on them. But he knew she’d understand.
Right now, he couldn’t think beyond winning Ana back.
He spotted her, talking to Terri. She outshone every other woman in the room, dressed in a silvery sheath that did nothing to dispel her Ice Queen image.
He excused himself from the group he was talking to and went over.
“Hello, ladies. Looking glorious this evening.”
“Harry,” said Terri, dressed in her trademark black. “Not at all appropriate to talk business, but just letting you know we’ll be contracting out some of the Rack’s production work to Ana. So hurry the fuck up and get her started.”
“I second that motion,” said Ana. She smiled at him, and his heart lifted.
“Come and dance,” he said as the music slowed.
She hesitated, and Terri said, “Don’t mind me.”
Harry held out his hand, and Ana took it. The crowd parted as the Rose king and queen headed to the dance floor.
“How is it I’ve never fired Terri for insubordination and potty-mouthed language?” Harry said.
“Terri’s brilliant. I couldn’t have survived without her.”
“Ana . . .” Harry gently took her in his arms. “I can’t survive without you. Please, please forgive me.”
She looked at him levelly, her hands on his shoulders, resisting him. “I can’t forgive you, no. And I’ll never trust you again. But for Eliza’s sake, and if you support me in my new venture, I’ll stay with you.”
Ana
The final year of the millennium began, and so did Megan’s battle with cancer. The prognosis was encouraging, and Megan was coming to terms with what lay ahead. Charles was being a rock.
Harry hadn’t handled the news at all well; he couldn’t face the thought of losing his beloved little sister.
Megan’s diagnosis had made Ana think about what was important in life. She’d decided to give Harry a second chance. He’d been trying hard, and things between them were probably as good as they would get from now on. Fueled by champagne and the Christmas spirit, Ana had thawed at the Christmas party. It had been worth it just to see Janette’s face when she kissed him on the dance floor. The secretary had been crushed like a bug under Ana’s Jimmy Choo.
Ana had let Harry back into her bed that night, and it was an enormously erotic reunion as she took charge, punishing him for his misdemeanor. By the time they’d finally fallen asleep, some kind of armistice had been achieved.
Harry had made Janette office manager and moved her to the opposite end of the floor.
* * *
• • •
It was Saturday night, and Tegan’s evening off. Ana had just put Eliza to bed, and the house was silent. She closed the drawing room curtains, looking out at the street below, where wrought-iron lamps cast pools of light on the pavement.
Earlier today, Harry had gone to a football match with Charles and the Russian oligarch—what was his name? Smirnoff, or something. Harry wanted him to invest in Rose Corp.’s football channel and had taken him to see Arsenal play Manchester United. No doubt they were now at dinner somewhere eye-wateringly expensive. It was like trying to woo a princess.
The Russian was a football fanatic, and Harry had been swotting up on the beautiful game, being more of a rugger man himself. Match of the Day videos were stacked up around the TV. Harry had been looking forward to seeing “Man U.” Even Ana knew the club was on a roll this season. David Beckham was playing. He and his soon-to-be wife, Victoria, had featured in the Rack recently, and Terri had had the clever idea of asking Victoria to interview David, instead of doing it herself.
“Good grief, Terri,” Ana had said. “You must be the only woman in Britain to turn down one-on-one time with Becks.”
The photos of the incredibly photogenic pair had been a dream, and Ana had longed to design the layouts. Oh well, she’d be back at it soon, doing what she loved again.
She fetched her PowerBook and sat down to work on her business plan. Charles was going to give it the once-over before it was presented to the board. She’d found the perfect premises, on the top floor of a converted warehouse in Covent Garden. The rent was high, but Harry’s pockets were suddenly deep—one benefit of busting his affair.
She opened the document, brought up the Global Search and Replace window, and typed in “Ana Rose Design.”
Yesterday, Terri had said, “Not liking that name anymore, babe.”
“Why not? It was your idea.”
“Changed my mind. Rose isn’t your name, it’s his. New millennium coming, Ana. We women need to step it up.”
“So—Ana Lyebon Design? But I never call myself that.”
Terri grinned. “How about Ice Queen Design?”
“Sounds like a skate-wear company.”
“IQ Design,” said Terri. “You’re welcome.”
As she clicked Replace All, she looked at her watch: seven thirty. She wasn’t sorry Harry hadn’t asked her to join them for dinner. The Russian was apparently going to invite them to his mansion, so she’d meet him soon enough. She’d play the corporate wife, but felt uneasy about it. The papers were full of the “New Russians,” hinting at their connections to corrupt officials and criminal bosses. They made London’s own breed of gangsters look positively cuddly. She wished Harry could have found a less menacing prospect.
Harry
As Harry looked for a taxi, he resolved never to take Andre Sokolov to a favorite restaurant again. His behavior had been excruciating, demanding off-menu dishes and obscure wines. Afterward, Harry had sought a quiet word with the maître d’ for fear he’d never be given his preferred table again.
Andre was well on the way to sozzledom and was giving Charles hearty slaps on the back. “My wonderful English friends, is best day in your country I ever have. The night is but young! We go to Annabel’s now, I think. Always many lovely young girls at this place.”
Harry and Charles exchanged a glance. If Andre wanted Annabel’s, Andre would get Annabel’s.
They were shown to a table with a ringside view of the rich and the beautiful. Andre ordered vintage Dom Pérignon that undoubtedly cost more than all three football tickets, before heading off to the dance floor.
“Churlish not to,” shouted Harry above the music, pouring two glasses of champagne.
“Successful day, wouldn’t you say?” said Charles.
“Not to jinx it, but I’d say we have our partner. Here’s to you, Charles, and I’d expect your bank to be suitably generous when it comes to bonus time.”
Andre returned with his arms around two girls, and one more following behind. The brunette sat on his lap, while the two blondes squeezed in on either side of Harry and Charles. Charles gave Harry a small smile and shook his head a little. Harry wasn’t sure whether it was a no way shake or a what can you do? shake.
“London girls not so beautiful as Russians,” hollered Andre, “but much more fun times!”
“Dom Pérignon!” said the blonde next to Charles. “My favorite tipple.”
“I’m Caitlyn,” said the girl next to Harry. “And you’re Harry Rose.”
“That’s right, how clever of you.”
Colored lights from the dance floor swept across her pale hair, turning it purple, green, and red, and illuminating her face, which was model pretty. And very young. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. Her dress screamed, I’m ripe now—peel me! It was low cut at the front and barely covered her thighs. Harry tried not to let his eyes settle on the twin globes spilling over her neckline.
No. He wasn’t going down that road again. A blond temptress had led him by the nose before, and that hadn’t ended well.
But by jove, she was gorgeous.
“Well, Harry Rose, I have a surprise for you.” She flicked back her hair, which fell to her waist in a silvery sheet. He fought an impulse to stroke it, picking up his champagne glass instead.
Andre, he noticed, was embracing his own impulses. The girl in his lap was squirming in a most unsubtle manner—it was practically a lap dance—and the Russian’s eyes were glazing over.
Caitlyn leaned in toward Harry, and the eyeful he received was surely no accident.
“Surprise?”
“We’re related!”
“We are? How so?”
“Your wife’s my cousin. Though she’s quite a bit older than me, so I never really knew her growing up. My family are the poor relations.”
“Really? What’s your full name? I’ll have to tell her I met you.”
“Caitlyn Howe. But maybe you shouldn’t tell her. Kind of depends.”
Could she be any more forward? Girls of his generation had surely never been this uninhibited. Or maybe he’d just missed out on all that. He’d married so young.
“Darling, you’re absolutely delightful, but I’m very much a married man. I’m simply here babysitting my Russian friend. So I’d love to sip champagne with you, even take a turn on the dance floor, but—well, ’tis all.”
He took her hand and kissed it.
“Bloody shame, you’re the hottest guy here by a mile.”
There was a bright flash. The blonde next to Charles was snapping photos of Andre and his brunette, with a tiny digital camera. Harry hoped she wasn’t going to attempt extortion at some later date. But somehow he suspected dallying in a London nightclub with young girls who weren’t his wife wouldn’t be high on the Russian’s list of crimes.
“Harry! Charles! We go!” bellowed Andre.
There was a moment of disappointment, Harry acknowledging how much he was enjoying flirting with this delicious young thing, swiftly followed by relief that he wouldn’t have to go once more into battle with temptation, or spend time arguing the toss with his old nemesis, conscience.
“Girls come too!” said Andre, and the brunette in his lap punched the air saying, “Yeah! Party!”
Charles rolled his eyes at Harry. The girl next to him was hanging on to his arm, and Charles’s hand was on her thigh. Harry tried not to think about Megan.
“Andre,” called Charles, “I need to go to the little boys’ room and then we’ll find a taxi.” He caught Harry’s eye and flicked his head toward the gents.
“Me too,” said Harry.
“We have to go along with this,” said Charles in the quiet of the washroom. “He’s out for a seriously good time; we’ll just have to suck it up. Maybe call Ana now? I’ll tell Megan we’re off to a late-night drinking club. I’ll try and be Responsible Charles, but if I have too much wodka and turn into Arsehole Charles, please keep schtum, my chum.”
“Of course, Charles. Far be it from me to judge—but do bear in mind who you’re married to. Let’s keep our Russian friend happy, let our hair down, but not disgrace ourselves.”
“Sounds like a planski.”
* * *
• • •
They caught a cab to Andre’s mansion, where the Russian instantly turned one of the palatial reception rooms into a mini nightclub, with dimmed lighting, loud music, and a bar in the corner. Andre and his brunette soon disappeared up the grand staircase.
“He probably wouldn’t mind if we went off home now,” said Harry.
“Aw, come on, guys,” said Storm, the other blonde. She began to dance, closing her eyes and running her fingers through her long hair. Then she opened them and beckoned to Charles. He joined her and put his hands on her waist, and they danced, their eyes locked, inching closer together.
“Feeling like a wallflower here,” said Caitlyn, sitting beside Harry on the enormous leather couch. She put her hand on his knee. “Shall we join in?”
Harry brought Ana’s face to mind. And Eliza’s. And then there was Janette, and Katie and Maria. The vodka was making him sentimental. He loved them all, his women and his girls. He didn’t want to hurt any of them, ever again.
He stood up. “Charles, I’m going to make a move. Ladies, I’m terribly sorry to spoil the party, but really, we only came here to keep Andre company. Can I call you a cab?”
Charles came out of his dance trance. “Yep. Ladies, you are an utter delight, but so are our wives.”
December 31, 1999, 11:59 p.m.
Positions, everybody,” called Harry, looking out the boardroom window. “Ten seconds and counting!”
Friends and colleagues crowded around, glasses of champagne in hand, anticipating the spectacular fireworks the government had promised, as the TV in the corner showed Big Ben at one minute to midnight.
Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong . . .
Harry put his arm around Ana, pulling her close. She looked up at him and smiled. “I wonder what’s in store for us?” she said, and rested her head on his shoulder.
Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong . . .
Harry glanced over at his father’s portrait on the wall. I’m doing OK, aren’t I, Dad? He felt Ana pat him on the back.
Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong . . .
He looked across to Megan and Charles, standing arm in arm. His sister caught his eye and blew him a kiss. Harry’s heart constricted, and he found himself offering up a silent prayer. Please, make her better.
Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong.
Then Big Ben was silent, and there was a strange, quiet, profound moment.
That’s it.
They were in a new millennium. The door had closed on the past one thousand years, and on the twentieth century. No final additions, no tweaks. It was history, the past.
Then the room erupted in cheers as fireworks streaked into the sky around the new Millennium Wheel.
CHAPTER 34
Ana
March 2001
Ana looked at the Cartier watch Harry had given her last Christmas. Five minutes until her next meeting. She checked her email inbox; there was one from Terri.
Hello, my lovely. My first-ever email. Let me know if you get it cos I don’t trust this. Lunch?
Ana smiled and clicked on the Reply symbol.
I can’t get used to it either. Fully expect emails to disappear without trace in cyberspace. Lunch would be great—Tuesday?
She returned the screen to the floating IQD logo.
Ana was expecting a publisher looking to outsource production of a new series of cookbooks. If IQD won the business, she’d need to employ two more staff. The company was going from strength to strength, thanks to Ana’s hard work and skill at picking a team that was talented and committed. They also played hard, and Ana would watch wistfully as they headed off to the pub after work. But she had Eliza to go home to, and occasionally Harry.
Eliza was three, and a delight. Ana missed her terribly on weekdays, and that had taken her by surprise. Maternal Ana. Who’d have thought it? While she loved her work, she was happy to be on her way home by six, anticipating opening the front door and hearing “Mummy!” as Eliza flew down the hallway, her red curls bouncing.
It looked as if Harry’s proud-dad comments about his genius daughter were, in fact, true. Reports from her nursery school teachers spoke of remarkable learning skills and an extraordinary ability to rule the roost while remaining popular with all the other children.
Ana always tried to be home for Eliza’s bath and bedtime. Unfortunately, Harry usually missed both. Andre had come on board with the football channel investment, and now they were putting together a bid for the Premiership rights. It was going to be a long, hard scrap.
Ana loathed Andre. He was a Russian bear personified—huge; appeared friendly and cuddly, but one slash of those claws and you were history. It was unfortunate he lived so close—invitations were tediously regular. Last summer he’d also muscled in on Harry and Charles’s tennis games at the Hurlingham. Before Andre had come along, Ana liked taking Eliza up there on a summer’s evening. There was no escaping the man.
His wife (his third, apparently) was a beautiful, bored-looking ex-gymnast. Ana was expected to make conversation with her while Andre knocked back the vodka and talked football with Harry, his “English brother.”
Ana could tell Andre didn’t like her. He was certainly a misogynist, and dismissive of any views she attempted to share. He probably thought women were good for only one thing. She suspected he played around during his wife’s absences in Moscow. Was Harry strong enough to resist the temptations that surely came his way when Andre dragged him and Charles out on the town?
