Wife After Wife, page 8
“Interesting. OK, I’ll think about it,” said Harry. “We’re looking for people for our newest mag. I’ll have a word with the art director.”
“Darling, you’re a star.”
“I’m not promising anything. The final decision won’t be up to me.”
“I understand. But a carefully chosen word in the right ear, if you think she’s got the talent?”
“As good as done.”
CHAPTER 12
Ana
April 1992
As Ana cut through the backstreets of Covent Garden, Tears for Fears’ “Woman in Chains” floated out of the open windows of the Pineapple Dance Studios above her. She sang along under her breath. She loved this band. She was still catching up on the British music scene after her years in France.
She reached the Lamb and Flag and made her way up the narrow staircase, ordering a spritzer at the bar. She’d come straight from her interview at Rose Corp. and was early enough to grab a table by the window. Percy was meeting her here at six, and although she didn’t want to jinx her chances, she was fairly sure this was something of a celebration. The interview had gone swimmingly.
Nate Romano, art director of the Rack, launching later in the year, was one seriously gifted guy, and Ana had been hugely impressed with the design work he showed her. Every last detail of the magazine was being styled to within an inch of its life, and only the best-quality paper stock would serve as its canvas. It was glossy, weighty, beautiful, and even smelled divine. The cover was a work of art in itself.
Nate had seemed impressed with her CV and portfolio, and during the course of the interview Ana’s take on this opportunity had gone from a fill-in job swung by a friend to a position she wanted more than anything.
Well, almost anything. She looked up, in case Percy might be coming through that doorway right now, a few minutes early. He wasn’t.
Ana had met Percy North several months ago in Val d’Isère. It really had been love at first sight, something she’d always dismissed as poppycock. Her wary approach to life had been swept aside in the face of this lovely man with his shaggy blond hair and warm brown eyes. He’d walked in on her as she was cleaning the toilet (such a romantic meeting—how many times had they described it to friends now?), she’d turned and looked into his eyes, and something profound had happened.
By the end of his two-week skiing holiday, they were engaged.
Percy was an account director at Soho ad agency Black, White, and Green, and shared a flat in Notting Hill with a couple of friends. They were planning to marry at the end of next year, which allowed plenty of time to settle into a new job, find somewhere to live, and organize the wedding.
Ana glanced out of the window and saw Percy coming along the cobbled street, his Burberry raincoat slung over his arm. He looked up, and she waved. His face broke into a grin and he waved back, hurrying the last few steps before disappearing below.
How had he known to look up at that moment? It was as if they had some telepathic thing going on. Ana had never felt as connected to anyone in her life.
She couldn’t wait for Percy to meet her family, especially Merry. It was the first time she hadn’t been nervous about introducing a boyfriend to her sister, because for once she was confident he had eyes only for her. That feeling of security was sublime.
On encountering Merry, most men dissolved into something pathetic and squidgy. There was something about her—she was like a siren in a Greek myth. No doubt it was mostly to do with the generous bust, baby-blue eyes, and soft blond curls, but there was more to it—a mix of vulnerability and power, of innocence and knowledge.
Ironic, then, that Merry had chosen to marry the only man Ana knew who was completely immune to her charms, the gloriously gay Will McCarey.
Although she and Merry had always been close, Ana hadn’t understood that marriage at all. Will’s family was enormously rich, but surely Merry wouldn’t marry someone purely for money? Then, after a few hints from Merry, she’d got it. Her sister, with her upper-class background, top-notch education, and circle of influential friends, was the perfect corporate wife. And for her part, Merry had unfettered access to his family fortune, a nice job helping promote the McCarey brand, and, importantly, a husband with the blindest of eyes when someone caught her fancy.
Ana wondered if her prospective boss, Harry Rose, was included in that last category. The interview had been organized through his sister Megan, Ana’s friend and flatmate, but Merry had said something about “helping things along.” It had been the way she said it, with a knowing chuckle. And then Harry had turned up during the interview.
“Hi!” said Percy, making his way over. He kissed her cheek, and she caught a whiff of his expensive aftershave. “Top-up?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She smiled up at him.
“You look lovely; I’d employ you. I’ll just get a pint, be right back.”
The buzz of conversation was increasing in volume as local workers filled the place up, relaxing and sharing the latest office gossip. Ana was looking forward to being part of it all, hopefully soon.
“There we go, packet of your favorite crisps. Don’t say I never treat you.” Percy sat down opposite her. “So? Am I looking at Rose’s newest trainee designer?”
“I don’t know yet, but I think it went well. The art director is amazing. And I actually met Harry Rose! I didn’t realize he’s so young.”
“Yes, he’s only just taken over the helm from his uncle, Richard York. I hear good things about him, seems pretty bright. He’s got all sorts of interesting ideas about where he wants to take the company.”
“You seem to know a lot.”
“Yeah, we’re pitching for the business later in the year. It’s going to be huge for us. I’ve been given the nod that I’ll be heading up the pitch.”
“Percy, that’s great! But . . . if I get the job, that wouldn’t matter?”
Percy laughed. “I don’t think so. If you were chief exec it might be different, but a junior designer on one magazine, nah. Anyway, what’s he like, Harry Rose?”
Ana thought back. It had been a brief meeting, and rather unsettling. She’d been sitting at a long table opposite three people from the Rack. There was the editor—a woman called Terri Robbins-More, who’d reminded her of Cruella de Vil. Then, from the art department, there had been Nate, long limbed, black, and cool, and the art editor, Lizzie, whose mousy bob and glasses belied immense talent, as became apparent as she talked Ana through some sample layouts. It was a top-notch team.
So far, so normal interview.
Then Harry had come in, pulling up a chair next to Terri. His presence in the room had charged the air; it crackled with charisma. He was tall, and his exquisitely tailored suit showed off his long legs and broad shoulders.
As he looked across the table at Ana, she saw the resemblance to Megan—red-gold hair and deep blue eyes fringed with long lashes. He was fair skinned with ruddy cheeks, and there was a faint sprinkling of freckles across his nose.
Harry Rose was remarkably good-looking. If you liked that type.
Ana didn’t. His self-confidence was overpowering, and for some reason she felt a desperate urge to deflate it. Nate had been talking her through the design elements of the Rack, but Harry took over, pointing out things Nate had already described, using adjectives like “cool,” “street,” and “on trend.”
His words didn’t fit his persona, which was far more Hooray! than the Rack.
He’d seemed a little too interested in her, watching her in a way that made her uncomfortable. She wondered again if it was something to do with Merry. He’d fluffed his words a couple of times, repeating himself and forgetting what he was about to say. She’d had to prompt him, while she sensed the discomfort of the others in the room.
Finally he’d pushed his chair back and said, “Well, lovely to meet you, Ana. I just wanted to say hi, as you’re a friend of my little sister.” Then he’d looked at Nate in a way that to Ana seemed to command, Employ her, or there will be consequences.
“Well?” said Percy.
“He was . . . you know. Public school, family money, overconfident, probably loves rugby and cricket. Harry Rose is one big cliché.”
Harry
How about Ana, my flatmate?” asked Megan. “Oh, wait. Would that be kind of inappropriate?”
Harry’s feet were up on his desk, and he leaned back in his chair as he spoke to his sister on the phone. “I don’t think she’s started here yet.”
“No, she starts next week.”
“No problem, then. Can you be at the Hurlingham by six? And afterward we can talk about what you’re doing with your life, over a drink.”
“Give it a rest, brother dearest,” said Megan. “Anyway, I have an interview with an events management company. I think I could do that.”
“A party planner? How very fitting.”
“No, events.”
“If you say so. You’ll walk it. Sorry, gotta go. See you at six.”
Harry experienced a strange anticipation at the thought of seeing Ana again, this time socially. Merry’s sister was like a photographic negative of Merry: jet-black hair to Merry’s blond, deep brown eyes to Merry’s light blue, olive-toned skin to Merry’s peaches and cream. And Ana was sharp where Merry was soft. Poker-straight hair framed her prominent cheekbones and square jawline en route to her waist, while Merry’s shoulder-length curls were a cloud around her apple cheeks. Ana’s body was androgynous and long limbed, while Merry’s was all curves.
And where Merry tended to play the dumb blonde, opening her eyes wide and hanging on your every word, Ana’s eyes, their irises almost as dark as the pupils, had been slightly narrowed, sizing him up. If Merry was a kitten, Ana was a cat.
Later, Harry collected his sports bag and left the office, waving a cheery goodbye to his staff. It was a beautiful summer’s evening and he was on his way to play tennis with two of his favorite people and an intriguing third. Life was good.
As he hailed a taxi, he realized he’d forgotten to ring Katie. He could call her from the club. But if he did, she’d only make him feel guilty for missing Maria’s bedtime yet again. He decided not to bother. He didn’t need the grief.
* * *
• • •
“Bloody hell, is that . . . ?” said Charles as two women appeared out of the clubhouse doors and stood scanning the terrace. He and Harry were sipping Perrier in the evening sun, waiting for their court to become available.
Harry grinned. “I told you I had a surprise for you. We’re playing doubles tonight.”
Charles had always been fond of Harry’s little sister, twelve years his junior, so Harry had been looking forward to surprising him. And her. Because Megan had adored Charles too.
Seeing Megan through Charles’s eyes, Harry experienced a momentary misgiving. Now twenty-four, she’d grown up to be a real head-turner, with a wide smile, laughing eyes, and wavy red-blond hair.
He hoped Megan’s crush was a thing of the past.
But Megan didn’t hold Harry’s attention for long as his eyes fell on Ana, who, in tennis whites, was all long legs and swinging ponytail.
“And who is that?” asked Charles, raising his sunglasses onto his head for a better look.
“Megan’s flatmate. She’s making up the four,” said Harry, glad Charles’s eyes were firmly on the girls, as he had an uncanny ability to read Harry’s mind. “She’s going to be working at Rose as a designer,” he added, realizing they were bound to mention it.
Megan spotted them and broke into a run, squealing, “Oh my god—Charles Lisle!”
“Oh dear,” said Harry, smiling. “That’s not Hurlingham-appropriate behavior.”
“Nutmeg!” called Charles, standing up and opening his arms.
Harry had forgotten the old nickname.
Megan threw herself into Charles’s arms, and he lifted her up, narrowly missing the table of drinks.
“Calm down, you two,” said Harry.
He looked over at Ana and smiled. “Hello again, Ana. May I present my overexuberant friend Charles Lisle. Charles, this is Ana—” He stopped. If he said Ana’s surname . . .
“Lyebon,” finished Ana. She moved to hold out a hand, but Charles and Megan were too busy laughing and hugging each other.
“Ana, nice to meet you,” said Charles finally. But his eyes left Megan for only a few seconds. “Nutmeg, how dare you grow up! Look at you!”
“Whereas you haven’t changed at all! But I have a serious bone to pick with you, you naughty man.”
“Which is?”
“You’re married! And when I was seven, you promised to marry me!”
“I did? I did! I remember. But you deserted me. You went to the dark side—France.”
“That’s where these two met,” said Harry.
Charles finally turned his attention to Ana. “Ah, I see. Wait . . . what did you say your surname was?”
“Lyebon.”
“You mean . . .” Charles looked at Harry. There was an awkward pause.
“Oh, maybe you know Ana’s sister,” said Megan. “She was Merry Lyebon before she got married.”
“That’s it. I knew the name was familiar,” said Charles. He glanced at Harry, who made a show of looking across to the tennis courts.
“Ah, looks like they’re just coming off. Shall we? After you, ladies.” Harry downed the rest of his drink, then he and Charles set off after the girls.
Charles touched Harry’s arm and slowed his walk, until Ana and Megan were far enough ahead. “Does Ana know about Merry and you?” he said. “Honestly, Harry. You might have warned me.”
“Sorry. But no. I’m sure Merry hasn’t said anything to Ana. Megan doesn’t know, either, of course.”
“Right, glad we got that one cleared up. Who’s playing with who?”
“How about Megan and me, you and Ana?”
“Right you are.”
They were evenly matched. Charles was more powerful than Harry, but Harry was quicker. Megan was speedy and keen, zipping around the court to pick up even the trickiest shots, while Ana was a formidable force at the net, firing volleys with blistering accuracy.
Charles and Ana won the first set 6–4. Their shadows grew longer as the game went on, falling across the mown stripes of the court. Harry hadn’t enjoyed a game this much in years. He was playing well on the baseline, sending long shots fast and low across the net, where Ana would more often than not intercept them.
After a while, Megan and Charles faded into the background, and there was only Ana, standing at the net, filling Harry’s vision. Every shot became about conquering her. He’d try to skim the ball past her, or lob it over her head, but she’d leap off those coltish legs and volley it back again.
“Hey, you two,” called Charles finally. “Any chance of a shot here?”
The second set went to a tiebreak, and Harry was serving. He didn’t hold back. Ana somehow returned the shot, but it was a weak forehand played to Harry’s powerful backhand. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ana run into the net, and he aimed the shot to pass her on the left.
He mistimed it, and the ball hit her squarely on the head.
As she gasped and dropped to the ground, Charles rushed over.
Harry vaulted the net, pushing him aside. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
She was lying on her back, her knees bent, staring up at the sky, touching the spot where the ball had hit her. “I think I’m OK.”
“Let me see.” Harry gently took her hand and moved it aside, then brushed her hair back, examining the reddened spot on her temple. He stroked his fingers slowly across it, then his eyes met hers, and he couldn’t look away. It was like being under a spell; he was bewitched.
“I said I’m fine,” she said, bringing him out of his trance.
“Thank goodness,” said Charles. “That was quite a knock. I think we should adjourn to the bar for a restorative drink. What say you, team?”
“Yes, I hear Pimm’s is the best thing for a blow to the head,” said Megan. She linked her arm through Charles’s. “Come on, Harry. I think the first round should be on you.”
“You go ahead and get them in, I’ll make sure Ana’s OK.”
Megan seemed very happy with this plan and set off back to the clubhouse. Harry saw Charles slip an arm around her waist.
He turned his attention back to Ana, who was now sitting up on the court. He held out his hand. “Up you come, let’s make properly sure you’re OK.”
She ignored the hand and stood up. “Really, I’m fine.” She brushed herself down, then put her hand up to her temple. “I might have a lump tomorrow, but no proper damage done. Good game, by the way. Your backhand’s a killer.”
“And that was terrific volleying,” replied Harry. “Do you play a lot?”
“Not enough. I’m trying to get my fiancé more into it. He’s into adventure sports. Likes skiing and rock climbing, that sort of thing.”
“An Action Man. What does he do?”
“Advertising.” She met his eyes for a moment. “Shall we join Megan and Charles, then?”
“If you’re sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine.” She grabbed her racquet cover, and Harry retrieved the remaining tennis balls.
Harry was disappointed by her change in demeanor. Their on-court combat, their tunneled focus on each other, had been intoxicating. Ana had been a blur of long limbs, flying ponytail, and dark, flashing eyes, determined not to let anything past. Now he saw it as a metaphor for her likely response to any move from him.
Which, of course, would be the worst possible direction he could take, for so many reasons.
