Page 14 of Wife After Wife

Her daydreaming was interrupted by the phone ringing downstairs.

It was Harry. “Sorry, Katie, something’s come up. The viscountess isn’t happy with the piece in this month’sHooray!The editor thinks I should be able to talk her round, one-on-one, but it’s going to cost me dinner, which will no doubt consist of humble pie.”

“What’s her problem with it?”

“Just a lack of fawning obsequiousness. Bloody aristocrats. Sorry, have to dash—taxi’s here. Give Maria a kiss for me.”

“I will. She’s been crying all—”

But Harry was gone. As Katie put the phone down, the silence of the house no longer felt exquisite. A long evening alone stretched ahead.

She should have welcomed it. She didn’t have to worry about cooking something special, could snack in front of the TV instead. But the solitude hung heavy. Harry was out there, buttering up Viscountess Doo-dah, who was probably gorgeous and would undoubtedly think Harry the same, while the most she had to look forward to wasEastEndersor a video she’d already seen. Was this how things would be, now that she was a mum?

Piling a tray with dips and nibbles, she settled down on the sofa, shifting uncomfortably—her breasts were sore.

She stared past the TV at a watercolor on the wall, of an English village. As she appreciated how the artist had captured the evening sunlight, a thought came to her. Perhaps they should move to the country. Harry had the Surrey estate he’d inherited, but it was far too big for just the three of them and was currently leased to a sheik. Perhaps they could sell it and buy a pretty cottage within easy commuting distance, in a lovely village where Maria—and future brothers and sisters—could go to the local primary before heading off to a suitable boarding school.

She smiled to herself. Surely Harry would see; this could be the perfect way forward to a happy family life.

Harry

August 1989

Harry cut through St. Paul’s churchyard en route to Covent Garden, where he was meeting aSunday Timesjournalist for lunch. The ten-minute walk from the Strand was part of his more-exercise initiative, launched in response to Charles’s recent ribbing about a small but definitely there paunch. He glanced down and saw the little bugger, peeping over his waistband.

He passed a group of female office workers sitting on the grass, their skirts hoisted up, making the most of the sunny lunchtime. Kylie Minogue blared from a transistor, and a curvy brunette with big hair sang along, giving him the eye.

Harry grinned back and winked. He loved London in the summer.

The article was going to be in next week’s Sunday supplement. Harrythe newsman was, apparently, news himself. Nigel Dempster had recently described him in theDailyExpressas “Britain’s answer to Rupert Murdoch, but far easier on the eye.”

“More of a Richard Branson, but with better hair,” Charles had said.

Copies of Rose’s new magazineHooray!(or “Tatlerfor plebs,” as Charles called it) were flying off the newsstands, sharing with the British public the weddings, gracious homes, and bundles of joy of movie stars, footballers’ wives, and aristocrats. Celebrity culture had begun, and it seemed Harry was part of it. A full-page photo under the headingPROUD PARENTS HARRY AND KATIE INTRODUCE BABY MARIA TO THE WORLDhad featured in the launch issue, and as a result his office had been inundated with requests for interviews. His PR manager, Zadie, had advised him to go exclusive with theSunday Times Magazine, negotiating the cover story spot.

At Maxwell’s, a waitress indicated a table where a woman with sleek black hair, large-framed red glasses, and matching lipstick was sitting. She rose and held out her hand. The pointy nails were red too.

“Harry, great to meet you. Terri Robbins-More.” Her accent was broad Yorkshire.

She was attractive, but he drew the line at journalists. There were enough of those back at Totty Tower, as cabdrivers called Rose Corp.’s offices. Nevertheless, he’d turn on the charm during the interview. Relationships with reporters were important.

Terri

What an up-himself upper-class twat, thought Terri, as she hailed a taxi back to Wapping. And how aggravating that the magazine editor wanted a puff piece about the new young gun in town, rather than anything insightful. Probably went to the same bloody school or university.

The taxi pulled over, and she barked her destination at the driver.

If only she could dig up some dirt. But in her background research, people had nothing but good to say about the media’s current golden boy.

Harry Rose had got where he was through family money, the old-boy network, good looks, and charm. He’d married an equally posh girl from an equally rich family. He wasn’t stupid, but he was no Stephen Hawking. Though, when she’d asked, “What book is on your bedside table?” he’d answered, “A Brief History of Time.” It was the year’s must-read.

“What do you make of it?” Terri had asked.

“Haven’t had time to read it,” Harry had said, laughing heartily at his own joke.

Arse. But she’d chuckled along because, in spite of his charm and boyish good looks, there was something unsettling about Harry Rose, and she was intrigued, wanting to probe deeper.

Was there a darker side to him? A ruthless streak? He’d probably need one to survive at the top. Perhaps bluff Harry, good bloke Harry, was a smoke screen.