CHAPTER 4

Harry

The taxi driver cursed as a woman loaded with shopping bags stepped off the curb and into his path. “Jesus Christ! The crowds are mental this year. You done your Christmas shopping yet, guv?”

“No, I’ve only just sorted the wife’s birthday,” replied Harry, looking out at the throngs fighting their way along Oxford Street.

The wife? Why was he speaking like a northern comedian?

Grimly determined office workers weaved through the herds of shoppers stopping to gaze at the Christmas lights overhead. Bob Geldof had switched them on, Harry remembered. The man was having quite a year.

The wet road reflected the headlights of London double-deckers and black cabs; in the yellowy interiors of the buses, commuters sat with their noses buried in their Evening Standards.

As Harry’s taxi drew alongside a bus, a girl with Walkman headphones clamped onto moussed blond hair wiped a circle in the steamed-up window and peered through. She caught Harry’s eye and smiled, and Harry winked back.

“Did you see the match last night?” said the driver. “What a finish.”

Oh no. Harry knew if he was ever to fully understand the British man on the street, he was going to have to watch more football.

“Missed it! Christmas function.” It was true. Yesterday’s lunch had gone on until seven thirty.

“You a Spurs man, perchance?”

Should he be a Spurs man? It was time he chose a team. He decided to channel Charles, who was far better at all this than he was. “Chelsea, actually.”

“You must be well pleased, great season so far.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Harry needed to change the subject before he was rumbled. “My wife’s birthday is less than two weeks before Christmas. I’m never sure whether to get one big present or two smaller ones.”

“I’d get two. But they could be connected. Like, a necklace, then the matching earrings for Christmas.”

“Excellent idea.”

The cab turned off Oxford Street and continued at its snail’s pace toward Soho. Harry was meeting Katie, Charles, and Cassandra in the Dog and Duck before they headed to L’Escargot for Katie’s birthday dinner. He looked at his watch; he was early. His birthday shopping in Selfridges had been a smash and grab. He’d hovered in the lingerie department but had realized anything focusing attention on the bedroom might not be wise, at present. Too loaded. Maybe she’d think he was trying to send a message—that sex was for entertainment, for pleasure. Whereas she was fixated on getting pregnant again.

She denied it, but he knew her too well. And while he wasn’t against it, he was mostly in favor of giving the baby business a rest, for now. He was only twenty-two, and Katie wasn’t old old. Not biological-clock-ticking old. There was plenty of time.

He wished they could rewind to how they’d been when they were first together. When sex was passionate, spontaneous, fun. Now there was always this unspoken question: Would it work?

He sighed and rested his head back. Since Summer, things had shifted. He’d done his best to reinject some of the spontaneity that had led to Katie becoming pregnant in the first place. But trying to be spontaneous was a contradiction in terms.

He’d abandoned lingerie and headed for jewelry, choosing a simple gold heart necklace with a discreet diamond. Very Katie.

The taxi had stopped. In spite of the chill December air, people were standing outside the Dog and Duck. They could well have been there since lunchtime. Harry loved the Christmas vibe of London, when normal office hours (and behavior) were abandoned, replaced by a week or two of lunches that morphed into evening drinks, parties galore, dashing out to shop between times. The sun was long gone by four, the winter darkness giving life to the Christmas lights.

“There you go,” he said. “Keep the change. Happy Christmas!”

Harry’s mood lifted as he entered the smoky, packed pub. He made his way to the bar, smiling at punters who lifted their drinks out of the way as he squeezed past. “Thanks . . . cheers . . . thanks very much . . .”

He was tall enough to see over most of the heads and quickly established that he was the first of the group to arrive. As well as Charles and Cassandra, Katie’s school friend Gemma and her boyfriend, Jonathan, were joining them. Gemma was pleasant enough, but Jonathan was altogether wet. Worked in book publishing and tried too hard to look the part.

“Yes-what-can-I-get-you?”

Harry turned from his recce of the room to order his drink.

“Oh! It’s you! How hilarious!” said the barmaid.

She looked familiar—petite, with Madonna-esque shaggy blond hair and accessories, including a multitude of chunky necklaces over her black top. She had a wide smile, and her blue eyes gazed directly into Harry’s.

He felt a flutter of something. “Sorry? Have we met?”

“Forgotten me already? I was on the bus, you were in the taxi.”

“Oh yes, of course!” Harry remembered the smile through the steamy glass.

“You winked.”

“Did I?”

“I liked it.”

“Good. Well, pint of best, please. And . . . one for yourself.”

“Thanks! I’m Bennie. And you?”

“Harry.”

She took a glass and pulled the giant pump handle toward her.

“How did you get here so fast?” asked Harry. “I’m sure we overtook you.”

“I got off and cut through. I was late, stupid bleedin’ Christmas shoppers—I couldn’t get on the first bus.”

“Do you have to come far?”

“Camden.”

“Ah. I’m not familiar with the frozen north. I live in Fulham.”

“Course you do!” She placed the pint on the brass drip tray. “One sixty-five, please.”

Harry handed over two of the pound coins that had recently replaced the old pound notes. “What do you mean, of course I do?”

“It’s where all you lot live, innit? Fulham, Clapham, Battersea.”

“Nonsense. I have friends all over. Hampstead, St. John’s Wood . . . um, Holland Park, Blackheath . . .”

“Sloane Square?”

“Oh well, yah,” he said, parodying himself. “All the rest live there.”

“But only during the week,” said Bennie, “before they head to the kent-reh for weekends.”

Harry usually found this sort of inverted snobbery tiresome, but he was enjoying sparring with Bennie. He liked the mixture of fun and challenge in her eyes.

She was also extremely pretty.

“Sorry, gotta serve the punters. It’s gonna be a mad night. Will you be sticking around? Are you on your own?”

“Meeting friends.”

Why hadn’t he said “my wife”? Because it would have sounded like a brush-off, and he didn’t want this harmless flirtation to end.

“Harry, old boy!”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Charles looking across the bar at Bennie, who had just rolled her eyes. “Chatting up the barmaid as per? Mine’s a pint, if you’d be so kind.”

“This your friend?” said Bennie.

“Meet Charles. He lives in Clapham,” said Harry, and they shared a grin.

“What’s the joke?” said Charles.

“Bennie here seems to think I’m posh,” said Harry. “Tell her I’m just your average chap, will you, Charles? Are the girls here?”

“Not yet. Cass rang—they’re running late. Couldn’t get a taxi.”

Over the music system, the Pet Shop Boys were singing about West End girls and East End boys, and Bennie was mouthing along to the words. She passed Charles his beer. “You are posh boys. Where did you go to school?”

“Don’t tell her,” said Charles, entering into the spirit. “Where did you go to school?”

“The local comp. That means com-pree-hen-sive, by the way.”

“Baha! Bet you had a better time than we did, eh, Harry?”

“Well,” said Bennie, “I suppose we didn’t have cold baths, or get whipped or bug—”

“I’ll have you know, things have moved on a bit since Dickens,” said Charles.

“Have they?” said Harry. “Were you not whipped, Charles?”

“Well? Were you, Chaaarles?” added Bennie, imitating Harry’s drawl.

“The cane was Mr. Fotherington’s punishment of choice,” said Charles. “He gave great cane. Really enjoyed himself. Nothing like a good spanking, what?”

“Oh my god, public schools are so perverted. Why would anyone send a precious child to one?” said Bennie.

“It’s what put the Great in Britain, sweetheart,” said Charles. “Loaded us with pluck and fortitude.”

“Fuck’s sake.”

“Hello, Charles, Harry.”

Harry noticed Bennie’s eyes slide down to his arm, which Katie had just hooked her hand under.

“Nice talking to you . . . chaps,” she said with a grin, before moving off down the bar.

“Hello,” Harry said, kissing Katie’s cheek. “Drink?”

“I think the barmaid’s gone. Must’ve been something I said,” replied Katie. “Having fun, were you?”

The possessive tone wasn’t like Katie. It was just a bit of banter with a barmaid, for god’s sake.

“Yes, actually. She was fun.”

The implication hung in the air.

He caught the hurt in Katie’s eyes, and guilt rushed in. She was looking lovely tonight. He’d become used to seeing her in overalls as she rubbed down a piece of pine furniture or rag-rolled another wall on her mission to create the perfect home. Tonight, a leaf-green cashmere jumper with a string of pearls set off her creamy complexion, and her blue eyes were accentuated by a tasteful touch of mascara. Her shiny dark red hair was clipped loosely back, and a dab of gloss made her lips gleam in the cozy pub lighting.

He draped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, kissing her hair. “You look gorgeous. Actually, you too, Cass.”

“You three, Harry,” said Cassandra with a grin.

“Me four?” said Charles.

“How’s your birthday been?” Harry asked.

He sensed Katie relax as Charles attempted to catch the attention of another barmaid.

“Lovely. I met Stepmama—we went up to Harvey Nicks and she bought me these.” She held up a foot, on which was a red lace-up ankle boot.

“Ye gods, that’s a breakaway from your usual look,” said Harry.

“I thought it was time I explored my wilder side.”

“Go, Katie!” said Cassandra. “No more Mrs. Nice Girl!”

“Steady on,” said Charles, returning with the drinks. “Katie’s the nicest girl I know. If she loses her nice, my faith in humanity will disappear.”

“Here’s Gemma and Jonathan,” said Cassandra as a tall, thin man with thick-framed glasses pushed his way toward them, followed by a matching thin, dark-haired woman.

“Hi, everyone! Happy birthday, Katie,” called Gemma, peering around Jonathan’s back. “Sorry we’re late, dreadful traffic.”

“Terrible,” said Jonathan. “Christmas should be banned.”

“Happy Christmas, Ebenezer,” said Harry, holding out his hand. Jonathan’s felt limp and slightly damp.

“Gemma, how the devil are you?”

She blushed. “Fine thank you, Harry. Lovely to see you.”

Gemma was pleasant enough, but rather boring. Harry was glad Katie got on so well with Cassandra, who was much jollier.

Although . . . he wasn’t sure how much the two girls shared about their personal lives. Charles had told him how Cassandra had discovered his latest affair, and Harry hoped she hadn’t told Katie. He didn’t want her thinking badly of Charles, didn’t want at some point to have to explain how Charles’s indiscretions had nothing to do with his relationship with Cassandra, that it didn’t mean he loved her any the less. Katie wouldn’t understand that, he felt sure.

His eyes moved back to Bennie, who was deftly filling glasses with one hand, while dropping slices of lemon into glasses with the other.

“Well, Harry?” said Cassandra.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Cassandra’s eyes fell on Bennie before narrowing and meeting his. “I asked what time the table was booked for.”

“Oh, eight. Plenty of time yet.”

“Jonathan, how’s the book trade?” said Katie. “What should I be reading?”

“The Bone People, of course.”

Harry bristled. The “of course” was unutterably smug. No doubt Jonathan would assume Harry and Charles were thrillers men.

“Is that the one that won the Booker?” said Katie. “I’ve heard it’s quite a difficult read.”

“Well if you want something easy, there’s always Danielle Steel or Jackie Collins.”

“I’m more of a Winnie-the-Pooh man,” said Charles.

“I’d recommend Sidney Sheldon and Freddie Forsyth for you boys.”

Good god. The man was insufferable. He knew the type—grammar school chippy.

Even Katie was looking uncomfortable now, and Harry sensed Cassandra getting hot under her turned-up collar.

“I read The Bone People,” said Cassandra. “No way would I recommend it to someone who’s been through so much this year.”

“Hear, hear,” said Charles. “A pox on depressing stories. Give me good old Wodehouse any day.”

“You should all read the new Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale,” said Gemma.

“Already have. Excellent if terrifying read,” said Harry.

“Talking of dystopian future scenarios, did you know this pub was George Orwell’s local?” said Jonathan, attempting to grab back the highbrow ground.

“Yes, but he was a bit shit really,” said Harry. “I mean—1984 is so last year.”

Everyone laughed, except Jonathan.

“Look, quick—a table,” said Cassandra.

As they made their way over, Katie took Harry’s hand and squeezed it. “Game, set, and match to you, darling. And . . . thanks for organizing this.” Her smile was the sweetest thing.