CHAPTER 3

Harry

The baby was stillborn. A girl.

They called her Summer, in memory of those July days, when time had slowed and a languid torpor had settled over the cottage.

Already it felt like a lifetime ago.

Harry let himself in the front door and was met by a silence louder than any of the background sounds he’d grown used to, most often the tinny chatter of Radio 4 on the little set Katie took with her as she puttered around the cottage. He’d made fun of her premature middle age, but now he flicked on the red transistor sitting by the kettle, grateful as the evening news filled the kitchen.

Katie had gone to stay with her parents over in Gloucestershire. Germaine had insisted, and one didn’t argue with Katie’s formidable stepmother. It was probably for the best. Katie had been inconsolable, and all Harry had been able to do those first few days was hold her tight and cry with her. He was fairly sure Germaine didn’t consider male tears at all helpful.

His mother-in-law had swept into the hospital room, shooing away a grief counselor, on a mission to move things on. She’d organized Summer’s funeral, told Harry he needed to be strong for her daughter, and prescribed some time away from anything that would remind her of the baby she’d lost. Including Harry, it seemed.

“Of course it’s the most terrible thing, my darlings,” she’d said, “but there will be more babies; you’re young and healthy, one must move on. Chin up and all that.”

Harry thought Katie should be allowed plenty more chin-down days. But with a stiff smile he’d come home and packed up the denim booties, the clothes, blankets, mobiles, all the clobber they’d amassed since he’d graduated, sealing everything into cardboard boxes. Now they sat, together with the dismantled cot, in the smallest upstairs bedroom. Along with the baby things, he’d attempted to pack away his own grief, together with that for his mother, brother, and father.

He unloaded a bag of shopping onto the kitchen worktop, stabbed the lid of a meal-for-one with a fork, and put it in the microwave, turning up the radio so he could hear the news above the hum. He chuckled as the newsreader reported that production of the Sinclair C5 was to cease, as sales had been “disappointingly slow.” Slow? Harry had been keeping an eye on Sinclair’s invention and knew only a few thousand had been sold since its glitzy launch. The British media—and every bloke in every pub across the land—had pronounced the little electric vehicle ridiculous, so it had never stood a chance.

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 do alone. 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 would know he 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 he had achieved 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.

“Now, where did I put the cheese board?”

“Sod the cheese, Katie. Come and sit down. How have you been? Feeling better?”

“Oh, I’m fine, really.”

She wasn’t. And she felt as if she never would be again. But throwing herself into home renovations had helped. Cassandra was terribly kind, but Katie knew her friend thought she needed to move forward. Her battle-on attitude was like Katie’s stepmother’s—well intentioned but unhelpful.

“I saw that gynecologist you recommended,” she said, “and apparently all my bits and pieces are in good working order and there’s no reason we can’t have another baby right away. We’ve been trying.”

“Lordy,” said Cassandra with a cheeky grin. “Lucky you. You hit the jackpot with Harry, that’s for sure. Bloody gorgeous. Do birds flutter down and alight upon his golden head when he stands in the garden?”

Katie giggled. Yes, Harry could charm the birds out of the trees.

It should have been wonderful, the trying. But things had been feeling . . . off-kilter. She’d put Harry’s reluctance to make the most of her fertile days down to the stress of starting at Rose Corp. “Let’s just do it for pleasure and see what happens,” he’d said. “There’s no hurry, we’ve got years ahead of us.”

It was true. He was only twenty-two, probably too young to be a dad, and she was only twenty-seven.

But she couldn’t ignore the ache, the need to fill the hole that Summer had left. Harry hated sad talk, always turning the conversation to something more cheerful. She tried to get him to open up, reminding him how talking about his parents and brother had helped him deal with their deaths, but this time he just wanted to put it all behind him.

She changed the subject. “So, what’s this about Charles? What makes you think he’s been . . .”

“Playing away? Darling, they’re all at it, you know what they’re like. Idiot boys. Two years married and he’s already itching.” She took a large swig of her Chablis. “I won’t lie, Katie, it bloody hurt when I found out, but a word from Mama put me right. Part and parcel of marriage, she said. Grin and bear it, keep up appearances, etc., etc. Rein them in once in a while if scandal threatens. I don’t want a bloody divorce, I can tell you that.” She raised her glass. “This helps.”

“Do you know who? How did you find out?”

“Saw them, would you believe? Just some young thing from work, nothing serious, apparently. Do you think it’s better or worse when they say, ‘It meant nothing’? I can’t decide.”

Katie reached across and squeezed her arm.

Cassandra stared at her wineglass, twizzling it around by the stem. “I confronted him and he confessed. Said he’d never do it again. I don’t know if I believe him or not, but it doesn’t really matter, because the trust has gone now.” She sighed. “That’s it, Katie. It’s gone forever.”

“I’m sure it did mean nothing,” said Katie. “But, like you say, that’s not a great deal of comfort, is it?”

“None.”

They both stared at the table, then Katie said, “Do you think that’s true, what your mother said? That it’s the norm? I couldn’t bear it if I found out Harry had been with someone else.”

“Yes you could. And you’ll probably have to. Let’s face it, everyone fancies your husband, and he doesn’t exactly shun female attention. More fool us for marrying a couple of compulsive flirts. But I don’t think you need to worry just yet, darling, he’s still besotted.” She smiled. “Like I said, lucky you. But you know what? It doesn’t do to sit and brood, about husbands, children, or lack thereof—any of it. I know you’ve been up to your neck in home decorating, but maybe it’s time you got out of the house a bit more. Have you thought about going back to work?”

“Perhaps I should. Trouble is, my art history degree’s quite useless, and I don’t want to go back to cooking for bankers.” Katie had worked for a catering company that serviced the dining rooms of several City institutions, including the merchant bank that Charles worked for. “I was wondering about training as a teacher. Primary school, maybe.”

“Seriously? You’d be great, darling.”

“I was thinking it’d be a good job to fit around a family. If that ever happens.”

“Course it’ll happen. I tell you what, though. I could probably swing you a job in an art gallery in the meantime, just to get you out of the house. Charles’s brother has one on Wardour Street, and if he hasn’t got anything, he might know someone who has. With your degree and general loveliness, you’d be marvelous.”

“Do you think? That’d be nice, actually.”

“Leave it with me.”

“Thank you! You’re so kind,” said Katie.

Cassandra finished her second glass of wine and stood up, the pine bench scraping on the quarry tiles. “I have to dash, darling. Thanks for the wine, I’ll see you on your birthday.”

“Thanks for popping in, you’re always a tonic.”

As Katie opened the front door, Cassandra paused in buttoning up her coat. “Would you mind not discussing what I told you with Harry? I don’t want him to know, if he doesn’t already.”

“If you want. I promise.”

But Katie wondered what she would do with the information, now that she had it. She really wanted to know what Harry’s thoughts would be. Would he excuse Charles’s behavior? Harry looked up to his older friend, saw him as a role model. If he found out what he’d been up to, would it be more likely that he, too, might think it was OK to stray?

Cassandra’s words echoed in her mind: They’re all at it, you know what they’re like. Idiot boys.