Page 144 of Wife After Wife

“Is he married?”

“Dead wife—wives. Two dead wives.”

“Goodness. Sounds dangerous. Is he an ax murderer?”

She laughed. “It’s Harry Rose.”

“Oh. My. God.” Anton’s hands flew to his face. “You went out with Harry Rose? What’s he like?”

“Nice. Gentlemanly. I invited him back to my place, but he had to get home to his kids.”

“Aw, sweet! I need to know more. Lunch?”

“Sure.”

Upmarket establishments like Annabel’s had been good hunting grounds for Caitlyn and Storm. Foreigners tended to be more generous than locals, and Storm contributed to the rent by keeping them company.

Caitlyn preferred to stick with the modeling, but sometimes, if Storm hooked up with someone who was on the prowl with a friend, she’d make up the four for extra cash.

The girls were still only fifteen.

Things changed when Storm met Blair O’Connell, a “video producer,” who introduced her to crack cocaine. The girls had grown up around people who were often off their faces on drugs, but while Storm followed blindly down that road, Caitlyn held back, her mother’s fate forever in the back of her mind.

Blair had moved in without asking. Caitlyn tried to open Storm’s eyes but failed. Eventually she gave up and moved out. Her modeling paid enough for the bedsit she found in Shepherd’s Bush.

At a photo shoot for a new cosmetics brand, she’d met Limelight PR boss Florence, who, it turned out, had once stayed at the manor, when her feminist mother had run away in a bid to escape male repression. She’d soon returned home, declaring it was more “U-grope-ia than Utopia.”

Florence had admired Caitlyn’s pluck in making a life for herself and had offered her a trainee position at her agency. It was the first time anyone had praised Caitlyn for anything other than her looks, and she’d blossomed under Florence’s encouragement.

Now she was a fully fledged PR executive. The money was good and the people were nice, and she’d been able to afford a one-bedroom flat on Ladbroke Grove. It was all a far cry from the squalor and anarchy of the manor.

The pile was done, and she carried the envelopes out to the front desk.

“Hi, Caitlyn!” said Zed, the dreadlocked receptionist. “I hear you got yourself a sugar daddy. Nice work, girrrl!”

“For god’s sake,” said Caitlyn, dumping the envelopes on the desk. “Anton?”

“Soul of indiscretion,” said Zed.

The automatic doors behind her slid open, and a woman in a greenapron walked through them, her neck craned around an enormous bunch of red roses.

“Delivery for Caitlyn Howe,” she announced.

“That’d be me. Holy shit!”

“Are they from him?” said Zed.

Caitlyn snatched the envelope off the crinkly plastic, took out the card, and read it.

Not getting any work done for thinking of you. Till later, Harry x.

“Nice one, doll,” said Zed.

Caitlyn took the bouquet into the kitchen and snipped off the packaging. As it fell away she noticed a little pouch attached to one of the stems. Inside was a jeweled red rose on a fine gold chain. Were those real rubies? She stared at it, wondering if Harry did this for all his dates—or was this really the start of something?

She arranged the roses in a vase and put them on her desk. Their heavenly fragrance wafted around as she texted Harry.Thanks for the beautiful roses! Can’t wait for 2nite. xxxxx

She noticed a message waiting on her phone. Her heart skipped a beat. It was from Frankie:Manchester sux. Back Sat.