CHAPTER 10
Harry
Did you learn that in France too?” said Harry, falling back onto the sheets, a delicious exhaustion finally replacing the fire that had gripped him for the past hour. He pulled Merry’s head down to his chest and she snuggled in, drawing little circles on his sweaty skin with her beautifully manicured nails.
“Mais oui! The French aren’t at all uptight about sex,” she said. “They celebrate it. Having a mistress is de rigueur, always has been. The British could learn so much from them. I certainly did.”
“Well, that was formidable. I salute our traditional enemy,” said Harry. “But I’d like you to stick with the British now—and just this one for the foreseeable.”
“For now,” said Merry. “You’ll do just fine, Harry Rose.”
Harry finally summoned the energy to sit up, and poured them another glass of champagne. “To liaisons dangereuses,” he said, raising his glass.
“Salut,” said Merry.
The affair had begun precisely two days after Gemma and Jonathan’s wedding. Harry had put in a personal call to Merry (who’d slipped him her phone number while Katie was powdering her nose) and had organized to meet her “to discuss the Hooray! spread.”
“I’m ready and willing to discuss a spread,” Merry had said, and the laugh that followed was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard.
Harry had been standing at his office window, and as his secretary entered the room, he had to swiftly sit down behind his desk.
“Excellent,” he’d said. “I’ll have my assistant organize the meeting for later this week.”
“Tomorrow would suit,” came the reply. “Perhaps we should lunch in my suite at Claridge’s? I’m here for the week.”
Harry had paused. It was an extremely brief pause. “Right you are. Shall we say noon?”
“I’ll be waiting, Harry.”
Since then, Merry had arranged to spend as much time in London as possible. On their second afternoon together, Harry had suggested they jointly lease a London pad, ostensibly for her regular trips to town for McCarey’s board meetings. They’d found a flat in South Kensington, and Harry became adept at inventing two-hour meetings during which he was uncontactable.
Although, the mobile phone he now owned was making life difficult. He got around the problem by telling his secretary it was too heavy to carry—the thing was the size and weight of a brick—and by claiming he’d bought it mainly for research purposes, which was true. Harry thought mobile phones might be something for Rose to expand into in the future, if they ever properly took off.
Merry was like a living embodiment of Harry’s fantasies. Everything about her was curvy, soft, seductive. He wanted to eat her. She did things to him that made him lose all control, took him to a place he hadn’t even known existed.
Charles had guessed what was going on immediately. They’d been sitting on the terrace at the Hurlingham Club, sipping drinks after their usual midweek game of tennis, the gentle thock of tennis balls carrying through the warm evening air.
“What about old Gay Gordon, then?” said Charles. “Would you credit it? The guy who’s never wanted to shag a woman ends up with the woman every guy wants to shag.”
Harry knew his friend too well. He was digging.
“Indeed. Gorgeous.”
“She liked you.”
“Yup, she was friendly.”
“Liked you a lot, I think. Lucky sod. Would you, Harry?”
“I’m committed to Katie.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Well,” said Harry, “would you?”
“Resistance would be futile. It would be like saying no to Marilyn Monroe.”
It was as if Charles were giving him permission. Harry had sighed. “Look, Charles. I don’t want to hurt Katie. I do still love her.”
“But back to Merry?”
“Yes, Merry. We’re putting her and Will in Hooray! There’s a photo shoot up in Scotland in a couple of weeks. So I’ve been in touch with her, yes.”
“And? Look, Harry. You’re like my kid brother. Don’t hide important stuff from me. You might need my advice on this.”
“Ah. So you’re not just wanting to know what she’s like in bed, then?”
In spite of his knowing questions, Charles had been taken aback. Also, it had to be said, he looked uncomfortable. And definitely jealous.
“Bugger me, Harry. That was quick work.”
“Merry doesn’t muck about. She lured me to her hotel room two days after the wedding, to ‘talk about the shoot.’” He made quotation marks in the air.
“And you didn’t think to suggest lunch at a restaurant instead?”
“Not really, to be honest. Look, I’ve been faithful to Katie since we moved to Hampton Court. But she’s got her own life; it’s all about Maria, and the church, and her counseling training. We’re the proverbial ships in the night. I need more than that. Merry’s made me realize I’ve been sleepwalking through life recently. She’s made me feel alive again.”
“You’ll be telling me your wife doesn’t understand you next.”
“We’ve both gone into this with our eyes open. I’m not leaving Katie. Merry’s not leaving Will. It’s just for fun. We enjoy each other’s company, but she’s not remotely interested in the same things as me. It’ll probably fizzle out, but in the meantime—god, I’m going to enjoy every bloody minute of it.”
Charles laughed. “Message understood.” Then his face turned serious. “But for Chrissake, be discreet, Harry. I’d hate for Katie to get hurt again. And Cassandra mustn’t know. Those two are thick as thieves.”
“Discretion will be my middle name.”
They raised a glass to brotherliness.
Harry’s assistant buzzed to tell him Terri Robbins-More had arrived.
“Send her in.”
“Right you are, boss,” came Ben’s voice.
Right you are, boss? Harry made a mental note to speak to human resources about a replacement for Ben. He’d thought having a male secretary would fit with Rose Corp.’s well-publicized equality goals, but it wasn’t working out.
It was two years since the Sunday Times cover story, and Harry had been watching Terri’s journalistic star rise. She was known in press circles as Baskin-Robbins, thanks to her instinct for a good scoop.
Harry braced himself. Terri was fearless, didn’t give a toss whom she upset, and in normal life he’d have gone out of his way to avoid her. He still thanked the God of Secrets she hadn’t accompanied them on the zoo photo session.
Terri was a hugely popular writer, especially with the liberal left, and was a regular on Question Time and Newsnight, where she sometimes stood in for Jeremy Paxman. She was a champion of the people (especially northerners), fighting for the little guy, sniffing out corruption, exposing fat-cat chief executives and MPs with salacious secrets. She could spot bullshit from a thousand paces. Corporate and political empires had come tumbling down courtesy of Terri. Once she had you in her sights, it was like being a lumbering frigate in the crosshairs of an Exocet missile.
She still worked mostly for the Sunday Times, but Harry wanted Terri on his team, for two reasons. One, she had a way of finding out everything about newsworthy people. That included him, and it was only a matter of time before she turned her sharp eyes and matching pencil in his direction. He needed to keep this potential enemy close.
And two, she’d be perfect to head up the magazine he was planning to launch.
Terri strutted into the room on a pair of stilettos that could easily have served as weapons. Useful, considering how many people probably wanted to kill her. She still had her trademark sleek, jet-black bob, its razor-sharp edge mirroring her cutthroat jawline, but now there was a long fringe swept across at an angle, half hiding one eye. It gave her a piratical look.
“Terri, super to see you again. Ben, can we have coffee, please? Or tea if you’d rather, Terri?”
“Coffee,” she said, sitting down on the office sofa. “It’s been a while, Harry. What’s all this about, then?”
“Straight to the point, I see.” Harry slipped off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, then perched on the edge of his desk, crossing one ankle over the other.
“All right, let’s cut to the chase. I’m starting up a new magazine, and I want you to be its editor.”
“Seriously? What magazine?”
“It’ll be like Hooray!’s evil twin, if you like. Still all about celebrities, high-profile figures, but the truth, not the airbrushed version. There’ll be no spin—it’ll be street-smart and hard-hitting. Most importantly, every week we’ll do an in-depth cover story about someone highly newsworthy—the cool people, the movers and shakers. Movie stars, politicians, top businesspeople. The photographs will be iconic. But there’ll be no helpful lighting. Raw, exposed pictures, maybe black and white. Getting to the heart of the person, like the interviews. And in return for being the lead story in the UK’s hottest magazine—think a combo of Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair—there’ll be no PRs allowed, and there will be no restrictions on what we can ask them. Everything will be fair game.”
“Tsh!” snorted Terri. “As if anyone who matters will agree to that!”
“Oh, but they will,” said Harry. “It will always be the case that the famous need us more than we need them. And if our circulation is as enormous as I intend it to be, they’ll be queuing up to be in it. As you know, celebrities get to a stage where they believe their own hype. They think they’re infallible; clever enough to control their image, steer things their way. But you, Terri, will be like a human truth serum.”
“Everyone has secrets, Harry. And yes, I’m the one who finds them out. But people know that. So who the fook would agree to be in . . . what are you even calling it?”
“I thought the Rack.”
Terri snorted again. “I like it. They can’t complain if they get grilled, eh?”
“Right. But while it would be good to dig up the occasional skeleton, it won’t be grubby. We’re going to reveal the real person behind the facade. That’s what Joe Public wants. They don’t give a toss about Mr. Bigshot Movie Star’s take on his new film, but they sure as hell care about his love life and his battle with drugs and alcohol. No checkbook journalism, though. No doorstepping, no kiss ’n’ tells. This will be a whole new way of doing things, Terri.”
He stopped to gauge her reaction. Terri was tapping her pencil against her notepad and frowning at the floor, her eyes all but hidden behind her dark fringe.
“Who’ve you got in mind for issue one?” she said finally.
“To be decided. Princess Diana would be perfect, but unlikely. Bono? George Michael? Or that new model everyone’s talking about—Kate Moss?”
The meeting went on for another hour or so. Terri was a tough nut to crack, but he could see her warming to the idea of doing pretty much what she’d done at the Sunday Times, but with more of a free rein—and more money.
By the time she left, Harry was fairly sure he had his new editor.
He sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head and a contented smile on his face. Rose Corp. was well and truly blooming.