Page 1 of Wife After Wife

CHAPTER 1

Harry

January 2018

On a gray London morning just after Christmas, Harry Rose stood at his office window watching the Thames mooching along below. The river was brown today, as befitted London’s post-Christmas mood. Except it looked pink. Harry wondered again whether it had been a good idea to clad the entire building in rose-tinted glass.

Across the river, the Rose’s rivals—the Gherkin, the Cheesegrater, and the Walkie-Talkie—towered over the City, dwarfing the Tower of London. Towers had come on a bit since the eleventh century, Harry reflected, though something deep inside him disliked the way these thrusting newcomers made the Tower of London look so small.

Along the riverbank to the east, he could see the lower floors of the Shard. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken Londoners long to love-match the phallic building and the round, pink office block that had unfurled just up the road. Word had reached Harry that the Rose was now known as the Vaj.

His meandering thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and he saw his new assistant, Aleesha, peering through the glass. He was glad she’d managed to find her way here. Yesterday, on her first day at Rose Corp., she’d had to report to @People (formerly human resources)first, and disappeared without trace for half an hour. It was unfortunate that the “petals” radiating from the Rose’s central atrium had turned the building into something of a maze.

Harry beckoned her in. As she crossed the expanse, which was the size of a small aircraft hangar, Harry couldn’t help noticing that her white shirt was just the right side of see-through, allowing a misty glimpse of her underwear, the golden hue of the tanned skin beneath.Nice.

“Good morning, Mr. Rose.”

“Hi, Aleesha. Call me Harry, remember?”

Rose Corp.’s staff were all on first-name terms, as suited the millennial vibe Harry worked hard to maintain for the brand.

As Harry went to return to his desk, pain shot through his right leg and he winced.

“Are you all right, Mr.... Harry?”

No need to share the truth, that the old war wound had been playing up again. He’d have to go back to Doc Butts. His leg had been mangled, along with his Aston Martin, when he skidded off the Guildford bypass during an impromptu race with his best friend, Charles, back in 2001. The shattered bones had been pinned back together, but recently the old injury started to ache and twinge again. A limp wasn’t a good look, so he did his best to hide it.

“I’m fine,” Harry snapped. “Just a touch of stiffness. Probably overdid it at tennis last night.”

He saw the flash of fear on her face. His bad leg was making him tetchy. Tyrant wasn’t the profile he was aiming for, so he fixed his smile back in place.

He was about to make a friendly quip about herlovelyblousewith its perfect reveal-imagine balance, but stopped himself. She might take offense. Instead he said, “Is that an espresso I see before me? Excellent!”

Too Hugh Grant?

Had it been such a good idea to employ a millennial? At fifty-four, he hoped having her around would give him more of an insight into the target market for the Rose brand. At least, that was what he’d toldhimself when he chose the lovely Aleesha over more experienced candidates. And she seemed different from most of the girls—women—her age that he knew. Quieter, sweeter, less combative. For all that he loved strong women, they could be so wearing.

Aleesha reminded him of Janette.

The sudden memory hurt, but he was quickly distracted by a glimpse of cleavage as she placed his coffee in front of him. Of their own accord, his eyes swiveled.

Careful, Harry!

He swiftly returned them to her face, with another smile. Her expression faltered, and the niggle of worry prodded him again. Sexist tyrant would be even worse.

How had it come to this? It was like McCarthyism. People ratting on their workmates for behavior nobody used to bat an eyelid at. These young women were happy to Instagram photos of their bottoms in micro-bikinis to a thousand followers they’d never met “IRL,” but should a colleague comment on said bottom in real life, it was harassment.

Follow me, but don’t touch me. It made no sense.

He’d said as much to his daughter Eliza, who was twenty. They’d argued the toss about respect and boundaries, but their points of view were poles apart. One pole being on Venus, the other on Mars.

An appreciative comment to a female member of staff wouldn’t have been a problem ten years ago, even five. But now he felt increasingly uneasy. The worm had well and truly turned. He could be just a tweet away from public disgrace.

Aleesha turned to go, then hesitated. “Um, Harry?”

Her London twang pleased him. She sounded like a Radio 1 DJ, which was nicely in line with the top-floor vibe he was aiming for.

“Yes, Aleesha, did you need to ask me something?”