Page 5 of Wife After Wife

Harry had watched the public response with keen interest. Sinclair had made a fortune in electronics, notably personal computers. The chap should have stuck with what he was good at, although Harry wasn’t convinced personal computers would ever take off.

He needed to keep abreast of trends, in his role as new business director of Rose Corp. He was due to go full-time next month, now that he was old enough to take over the shareholding he’d inherited from his father. Uncle Richard would remain as CEO while Harry learned the ropes, until one day he would run the company himself. He was looking forward to that.

Since Katie had been in Gloucestershire, he was commuting down to Rose Corp. HQ on the South Bank. Word had got around about his and Katie’s loss, and people had been extra kind to the new boy. Or was it just because the new boy would one day be their boss?

Rose Corp.’s beginnings had been in print media. First, a collection of regional magazines and newspapers, soon expanding into national titles. In the 1960s, they had launched a whole new style of glossy women’s magazines, aimed at the independent woman. Less about keeping good house and more about having good sex. The company continued to go from strength to strength, but Harry was keen to see what new directions they might explore.

The microwave pinged, and he took out his fisherman’s pie and peeled off the plastic. He grimaced. It wasn’t appealing. He missed Katie’s home cooking. Flipping the top off a beer, he took his meal to the living room.

Petals from Katie’s roses had dropped across the coffee table, and the water in the vase was green. For a moment he saw her coming through the French windows, a basket hooked over her arm, saying, “Roses for the Roses!”

He smiled sadly at the memory, swept the petals aside to make space for his beer, rewound the VCR, and settled down to watch the cricket highlights—hopefully. Katie was much better at setting the machine than he was.

In spite of being able to watch sports without Katie asking how much longer he’d be, Harry wasn’t happy being here alone. He didn’t really doalone. He was keen to head southward now, have a fresh start, catch up with friends recently down from Oxford. He and Katie would be moving into the Fulham terraced house they’d bought, as soon as Katie felt up to it. He couldn’t wait.

As he blew on a forkful of fish and potato, there was a knock on the front door.

“Bugger,” he said. Should he ignore it? But the village wasn’t London. They wouldknowhe was in, and if he didn’t answer, they’d peer through the window.

With a sigh he put down his plate and made his way into the hall.

On the doorstep was a ravishingly pretty woman, holding out a dish draped with a tea towel.

“I saw you in Waitrose,” she said, “buying those sad meals for one. I thought I’d make you a lasagna, and... maybe you might want some company. I’m Laura. I’ve seen you in the pub.” She smiled, cocked her head to one side, edged her right foot forward. “Can I come in?”

Looking back, Harry was never quite sure how he’d ended up in bed with Laura. He remembered breaking down as he told her about Summer and how lonely he was without Katie; he remembered her coming over and sitting on his lap, and how he’d buried his face in her chest. Then things had moved quickly, and before he could object, she was hauling him upstairs by the hand. In his weakened emotional state, he’d been unable to resist.

Katie

December 1985

Harry not home yet?” said Cassandra, wife of Harry’s best friend, Charles, as she shrugged off her coat.

“Working late again,” Katie replied with a rueful smile, hanging the coat on the pine stand.

She was aware of the cliché, but she believed the words to be true. Harry was putting in long hours on his new job. He wanted to prove he wasn’t just a privileged Hooray Henry who’d stepped into his position by virtue of birth. Which he was, of course—but hehadachieved a first in philosophy, politics, and economics at Oxford.

“Not a Christmas party, I hope,” said Cassandra. “Dangerous times for wives. All right if I keep these on?” She indicated her black boots, the perfect accompaniment for her dark red wool dress. Her blond hair was held back in a giant black velvet bow, and pearls gleamed in her ears.

Cassandra was always so well put-together, thought Katie, trying to remember if she’d combed her hair today. She’d been painting the downstairs loo (Dulux Barley White) and was still in her decorating clothes.

“Of course,” she said. “They’re lovely, by the way. Are they new?”

“Gucci. I shouldn’t have, but Charles owes me.” She paused. “He’s been playing away. Bastard.”

Katie’s heart sank. “Oh, Cass, surely not. Come and sit down, let’s have a wine.”

They went through to the brand-new kitchen, completed that week. There were stripped pine cupboards with distressed pale blue tiles on the walls between. The floor was laid with terra-cotta quarry tiles, and copper saucepans hung from a rectangular metal contraption on the ceiling. In the center was a scrubbed pine table with a bowl of pomegranates in the middle.

“Bloody hell,” said Cassandra. “Fulham-en-Provence!”

“Do you think it’s too much? My kitchen designer said it’s all about country at the moment. Creating a rural idyll in the city, or something.”

“I blame that bloody Edwardian lady and her country diary,” said Cassandra. “Can’t even buy a bath towel without those wretched watercolor poppies. But no, darling, it’s charming, absolutely divine. Really.”

“Thank you.”

Katie glanced up at the saucepans before pouring them a wine. It was a devil getting them down for cooking, but they did look lovely.