Wife After Wife, page 7
Harry knew his friend too well. He was digging.
“Indeed. Gorgeous.”
“She liked you.”
“Yup, she was friendly.”
“Liked you a lot, I think. Lucky sod. Would you, Harry?”
“I’m committed to Katie.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Well,” said Harry, “would you?”
“Resistance would be futile. It would be like saying no to Marilyn Monroe.”
It was as if Charles were giving him permission. Harry had sighed. “Look, Charles. I don’t want to hurt Katie. I do still love her.”
“But back to Merry?”
“Yes, Merry. We’re putting her and Will in Hooray! There’s a photo shoot up in Scotland in a couple of weeks. So I’ve been in touch with her, yes.”
“And? Look, Harry. You’re like my kid brother. Don’t hide important stuff from me. You might need my advice on this.”
“Ah. So you’re not just wanting to know what she’s like in bed, then?”
In spite of his knowing questions, Charles had been taken aback. Also, it had to be said, he looked uncomfortable. And definitely jealous.
“Bugger me, Harry. That was quick work.”
“Merry doesn’t muck about. She lured me to her hotel room two days after the wedding, to ‘talk about the shoot.’” He made quotation marks in the air.
“And you didn’t think to suggest lunch at a restaurant instead?”
“Not really, to be honest. Look, I’ve been faithful to Katie since we moved to Hampton Court. But she’s got her own life; it’s all about Maria, and the church, and her counseling training. We’re the proverbial ships in the night. I need more than that. Merry’s made me realize I’ve been sleepwalking through life recently. She’s made me feel alive again.”
“You’ll be telling me your wife doesn’t understand you next.”
“We’ve both gone into this with our eyes open. I’m not leaving Katie. Merry’s not leaving Will. It’s just for fun. We enjoy each other’s company, but she’s not remotely interested in the same things as me. It’ll probably fizzle out, but in the meantime—god, I’m going to enjoy every bloody minute of it.”
Charles laughed. “Message understood.” Then his face turned serious. “But for Chrissake, be discreet, Harry. I’d hate for Katie to get hurt again. And Cassandra mustn’t know. Those two are thick as thieves.”
“Discretion will be my middle name.”
They raised a glass to brotherliness.
* * *
• • •
Harry’s assistant buzzed to tell him Terri Robbins-More had arrived.
“Send her in.”
“Right you are, boss,” came Ben’s voice.
Right you are, boss? Harry made a mental note to speak to human resources about a replacement for Ben. He’d thought having a male secretary would fit with Rose Corp.’s well-publicized equality goals, but it wasn’t working out.
It was two years since the Sunday Times cover story, and Harry had been watching Terri’s journalistic star rise. She was known in press circles as Baskin-Robbins, thanks to her instinct for a good scoop.
Harry braced himself. Terri was fearless, didn’t give a toss whom she upset, and in normal life he’d have gone out of his way to avoid her. He still thanked the God of Secrets she hadn’t accompanied them on the zoo photo session.
Terri was a hugely popular writer, especially with the liberal left, and was a regular on Question Time and Newsnight, where she sometimes stood in for Jeremy Paxman. She was a champion of the people (especially northerners), fighting for the little guy, sniffing out corruption, exposing fat-cat chief executives and MPs with salacious secrets. She could spot bullshit from a thousand paces. Corporate and political empires had come tumbling down courtesy of Terri. Once she had you in her sights, it was like being a lumbering frigate in the crosshairs of an Exocet missile.
She still worked mostly for the Sunday Times, but Harry wanted Terri on his team, for two reasons. One, she had a way of finding out everything about newsworthy people. That included him, and it was only a matter of time before she turned her sharp eyes and matching pencil in his direction. He needed to keep this potential enemy close.
And two, she’d be perfect to head up the magazine he was planning to launch.
Terri strutted into the room on a pair of stilettos that could easily have served as weapons. Useful, considering how many people probably wanted to kill her. She still had her trademark sleek, jet-black bob, its razor-sharp edge mirroring her cutthroat jawline, but now there was a long fringe swept across at an angle, half hiding one eye. It gave her a piratical look.
“Terri, super to see you again. Ben, can we have coffee, please? Or tea if you’d rather, Terri?”
“Coffee,” she said, sitting down on the office sofa. “It’s been a while, Harry. What’s all this about, then?”
“Straight to the point, I see.” Harry slipped off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, then perched on the edge of his desk, crossing one ankle over the other.
“All right, let’s cut to the chase. I’m starting up a new magazine, and I want you to be its editor.”
“Seriously? What magazine?”
“It’ll be like Hooray!’s evil twin, if you like. Still all about celebrities, high-profile figures, but the truth, not the airbrushed version. There’ll be no spin—it’ll be street-smart and hard-hitting. Most importantly, every week we’ll do an in-depth cover story about someone highly newsworthy—the cool people, the movers and shakers. Movie stars, politicians, top businesspeople. The photographs will be iconic. But there’ll be no helpful lighting. Raw, exposed pictures, maybe black and white. Getting to the heart of the person, like the interviews. And in return for being the lead story in the UK’s hottest magazine—think a combo of Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair—there’ll be no PRs allowed, and there will be no restrictions on what we can ask them. Everything will be fair game.”
“Tsh!” snorted Terri. “As if anyone who matters will agree to that!”
“Oh, but they will,” said Harry. “It will always be the case that the famous need us more than we need them. And if our circulation is as enormous as I intend it to be, they’ll be queuing up to be in it. As you know, celebrities get to a stage where they believe their own hype. They think they’re infallible; clever enough to control their image, steer things their way. But you, Terri, will be like a human truth serum.”
“Everyone has secrets, Harry. And yes, I’m the one who finds them out. But people know that. So who the fook would agree to be in . . . what are you even calling it?”
“I thought the Rack.”
Terri snorted again. “I like it. They can’t complain if they get grilled, eh?”
“Right. But while it would be good to dig up the occasional skeleton, it won’t be grubby. We’re going to reveal the real person behind the facade. That’s what Joe Public wants. They don’t give a toss about Mr. Bigshot Movie Star’s take on his new film, but they sure as hell care about his love life and his battle with drugs and alcohol. No checkbook journalism, though. No doorstepping, no kiss ’n’ tells. This will be a whole new way of doing things, Terri.”
He stopped to gauge her reaction. Terri was tapping her pencil against her notepad and frowning at the floor, her eyes all but hidden behind her dark fringe.
“Who’ve you got in mind for issue one?” she said finally.
“To be decided. Princess Diana would be perfect, but unlikely. Bono? George Michael? Or that new model everyone’s talking about—Kate Moss?”
The meeting went on for another hour or so. Terri was a tough nut to crack, but he could see her warming to the idea of doing pretty much what she’d done at the Sunday Times, but with more of a free rein—and more money.
By the time she left, Harry was fairly sure he had his new editor.
He sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head and a contented smile on his face. Rose Corp. was well and truly blooming.
CHAPTER 11
Harry
December 1991
Harry finally managed to connect the key with the keyhole. It had been a challenge. Every time his hand came close, some unseen force made his hand swing to the left or right, and he’d ended up stabbing the glossy black paint of the front door.
The door swung inward with more speed than he’d been expecting. He stumbled through it, swearing, falling sideways against the enormous Christmas wreath that had been hanging from the knocker. It fell to the floor.
“Bugger.” Harry stared at it, then decided to leave it where it was. He slammed the door behind him.
“Harry?” Katie’s face appeared around the living room door.
“You sshhouldn’t have waited up,” Harry slurred.
“I’ve been at carol practice, we went to the pub afterward.”
“I’ve been at lunch,” said Harry.
“Till eleven thirty?”
“It’s Chrishmash, season of good beer. Cheer.”
Katie pursed her lips. She was wearing her white bathrobe and slippers, ready for bed. Through the living room doorway, Harry saw a large Christmas tree strung with pretty lights and silver tinsel. Katie and Maria must have put up the decorations sometime this week. Harry hadn’t been home before eleven since Monday, so had missed out on all that.
A golden star sat atop the tree, glowing in the darkened room like the star of Bethlehem, guiding Harry back to his family.
He was knocked sideways by a wave of sentimentality. Dear old Katie, with her carols and her Christmas trees and her Christmas baking. Katie loved Christmas as much as he did, although hers was a lot more Jesus and a lot less wassail.
“Come here, darling,” he said, holding out his arms.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Lovely idea. I’ll be right with you.”
“Harry, please. You’re drunk; it’s not appealing. I’d rather you kept to your side of the bed tonight.”
“But, Katie, I want a big cuddle.”
“Sorry, Harry. I don’t.” She turned abruptly and headed for the stairs.
“Wash wrong, Katie?” he said, following. “C’mon, it’s Chrishmash!”
Ten minutes later she was sitting up in bed reading her novel, and Harry was lying on his side watching. He hadn’t seen Merry for three weeks; they’d both been too busy with all the extra work and engagements this time of year brought for a supplier of alcohol and a media company. So Harry was feeling frustrated. A man had his needs. His hand crept toward Katie’s body, and she swatted it away.
“Stop it, Harry. I’ve told you, I don’t find you remotely attractive when you’ve been drinking.” She shuffled further toward the edge of the bed.
Harry’s mood shifted abruptly. “Not the right time of the month? You don’t need my services this week?”
“Go to sleep, Harry.”
“No, c’mon, let’s talk about this. You’re only interested when your charts say, ‘Brace yourself, it’s time for a bonk.’ Am I right?”
The volume of his voice increased along with his self-pity, fueled by his indignation. “Well, what about me? What about—”
“Be quiet. You’ll wake Maria.”
“I don’t give a shit. Do you realize how hard I work to keep you two in—in Chrishmash trees and this big house and—”
“Daddy, stop shouting at Mummy.”
Maria had materialized in the bedroom doorway. She was staring at him intently from beneath her fringe. She looked like Damien in The Omen.
“We weren’t shouting, sweetheart,” said Katie. “We were having a discussion. I’ll take you back to bed.”
By the time she returned, Harry had started to drift off to sleep.
“And in case it’s of any interest to you, Harry, I’m already pregnant.” Katie turned her back on him and flicked off the light.
* * *
• • •
Harry and Merry were spending a glorious afternoon in the Kensington flat. After the Christmas sex drought, they hadn’t made it as far as the bedroom for their first frantic reunion, bumping up hard against the hall wall. But they’d taken their time over the second, relishing every sensuous moment.
“Aaah, that’s better,” Harry said as they lay back, catching their breath. “First bonk in bloody weeks.”
“So romantic, darling,” said Merry. “What’s up with wifey, then?”
“Pregnant. And with her history of problems, I guess we’re just overly careful.”
Merry went quiet. “Congratulations,” she said finally. “I have absolutely no maternal instinct, but one would like the option.”
“I can’t imagine being married to you and not even wanting to give it a try.” Harry ran an appreciative eye over her luscious nakedness.
“It’s just as well he didn’t,” said Merry. Then she bit her lip and turned away, pouring two glasses of wine from the bottle on the bedside table. She handed one to Harry.
“Not ever, not even out of curiosity? I bet you could raise his interest,” Harry said.
“Will doesn’t have a heterosexual cell in his body, you know that.”
They sipped their wine.
“What did you mean, when you said just as well you didn’t?”
Merry stared ahead. “He’s HIV positive.”
Harry’s spirits sank. The real world had finally intruded into his private fantasyland.
“He’s fine,” she said, “no symptoms or anything, but given his . . . well, he thought he should get tested.”
“And you’ve definitely never . . .”
“No, Harry.” She turned to look at him. “You’ll be fine. Unlike Will.”
“Poor you. What happens now?”
“We’ll keep it secret for as long as we can. I don’t know what the prognosis is.”
“If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“I doubt it. We’ll just carry on as normal for as long as we can, and . . . Harry, my time with you is so important to me now. I’m going to need this escape more than ever.”
“Right, of course.”
“Let’s not think about that now,” said Merry. “I have a favor to ask you, darling.”
“Does it involve more fun between the sheets before we head off once more unto the breach?”
“No, but I won’t rule that out, if you’re nice to me.”
Harry was glad her spirits had lifted again. He had quite enough female moodiness to contend with at home. Christmas, with Germaine, Katie, and Maria, had been a trial.
He reached over and took the glass from Merry’s hand, putting it down on the bedside table. Then he tucked a blond tendril of hair behind her ear and leaned over to nibble her earlobe. “Again, again,” he whispered.
“Mm,” she said, squirming. “Harry, how is it that you can do this to me?” Her hand moved southward as his lips traveled to her neck, where he stopped to kiss her, softly at first and then biting and sucking gently as his hand stroked her breast. He slid on top of her, kissing her deeply, and her legs wrapped around him. Soon they were moving together, and Harry was lost in her soft curves, her musky perfume.
“Darling, that was delicious,” Merry said later as their pulses returned to normal. “So can I ask my favor now?”
“Strike while I’m incapable of refusing you anything,” murmured Harry, his eyes still closed.
Merry giggled. “Have you met my sister, Ana?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
“She’s a friend of your sister’s. Megan, I mean. You’ve got two, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Megan and Margot; confuses the hell out of people. I haven’t seen Megan since she went abroad. You’d like her. Margot probably not so much.”
“Is that Margot James? Married to the Scottish laird with the castle and all the moors? I think Will knows them.”
“That’s the one. She’s gone the full Scot—she’s even more dour than her husband, and she wears kilts and headscarves, like the Queen. She disapproves of me. Actually, she disapproves of everyone.”
Harry missed his little sister, if not the older one. Five years his junior, Megan was pretty and sweet and full of fun, and hero-worshipped him. A young teen when their father had died, she’d gone a little wild at school, narrowly avoiding being expelled for smuggling in vodka and sneaking out to meet boys. She’d only got away with it because of the whole orphan situation.
College had been one long party for Megan, after which she’d gone to Val d’Isère as a chalet girl, working her way through the best-looking ski instructors, or so Harry had heard on the grapevine.
Margot despaired of Megan’s “flightiness” and had been nagging her to come home and get a proper job. The last time Harry had spoken to Megan, she’d told him she was indeed ready to grow up and would be returning home after the season.
“Ana met Megan at Val d’Isère,” said Merry. “They’re both chalet girls and they’ve become good friends. Ana’s very arty, she’s been studying design in Paris.”
“And?” said Harry.
“When she comes back she’s going to need a job, and apparently they’ve been plotting to ask if you’d take Ana on in the art department of one of your magazines. Ana told me this over the phone, having no idea about me and you. I didn’t enlighten her. I’m just, shall we say, paving the way for when your little sister pops the question. I reckon Ana would be great. She’s incredibly stylish, sharp as a whip. Quite the Parisian.”
“Does she look like you? That would help her case.”
Merry batted his arm. “Not a bit. She’s tall and dark, much thinner than me. Fiercely intelligent, frightens the life out of most men.”
