Page 2 of Wife After Wife

“It’s just... the cup, Harry.”

“This one?” He sipped his espresso.

“Yeah, it’s, like—disposable?”

Was that a question? Probably not.

“Ah. And that’s not on trend, correct? This is exactly why I hired you, Aleesha. You mustn’t be afraid to tell me when I’m not up to speed with the zeitgeist. So...”

“I can get you a reusable?”

“Sure.” He ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping it back. His trademark sandy locks were draining of color quickly now, but the silver fox replacing them was pleasing. He was due for a trim. Men over fifty needed to remain vigilant; otherwise, instead of looking like an older hipster, one appeared to be going to seed.

“But we don’t have a kitchen on this floor, Harry.”

God forbid. Imagine being able to see staff heating their microwavable lunches through the pink glass petal-walls.

“And the coffee machines all useplasticcups. That’s not really acceptable. Hope you don’t mind me saying.”

“Excellent observation.”

Hugh Grant again.

“Reusables are the thing, right?”

“Yes, Harry, but it’d be difficult when—”

“... there’s no kitchen, I get it. That’s why we have the Tiger Team, Aleesha. The Greenhouse’s elite brainstormers. Flick them an email—ask them to blue-sky it. Could be a new brand in it for us.”

“OK, Harry. On it!”

He opened up his computer calendar, and his heart sank as he saw “Latham” entered at eleven. The lawyer representing his late wife Caitlyn’s father. Howe was claiming Harry’s unreasonable behavior had been responsible for her death. It was ridiculous. All Caitlyn’s issues could be traced back to terrible parenting. Harry’s conscience was clear.

No matter what others—wives, wives’ parents, mistresses, jealous lovers—might think, Harry Rose always tried to do the right thing. And if that meant putting a little spin on circumstances, massaging them until the thing to do became “right,” so be it.

Some might say he was twisting the facts, but Harry had always beenguided by his conscience. In turn, his conscience often needed a little guidance—after all, how can we decide what is right without considering all sides, all opinions? And if Harry was selective in which of those informed his conscience... well, who wasn’t?

Harry put his worries aside. The bottom line was, he’d argued with his conscience and, after some fairly intense battles, had declared it clear.

CHAPTER 2

Katie

July 1985

A blackbird was singing its heart out in the apple tree outside the French doors, thrown open to let the afternoon breeze drift through the house. It brought with it the scent of new-mown grass and a whiff of the honeysuckle rambling across the Cotswold-stone walls of the cottage Harry and Katie had rented for the summer.

The blackbird was competing with Bono, who was belting out “Bad” on the TV. It was Live Aid, and they’d been watching on and off all day, between popping into Oxford to buy more baby gear.

“That chap’s good,” commented Harry, massaging Katie’s bare feet where they lay in his lap.

“The blackbird’s better,” said Katie, wiggling her toes. “That tickles.”

“Should I get that haircut? Do you think I’d look cool?”

Katie regarded Bono’s black mullet with something blond going on at the front. “I don’t think it’d work in ginger, darling.”

“It’s not ginger, it’s strawberry blond. What the fuck’s he doing?”