CHAPTER 38
Janette
June 2003
Bloody brilliant,” said Terri. “You gotta see it, Harry.”
Terri had recently interviewed Tracey Emin for the Rack, and was full of praise for her new exhibition. “I particularly enjoyed Fuck Off and Die You Slag.” She smirked at Janette as she said it.
“Sounds delightful,” said Harry. “Though I’m probably more of a Van Gogh man myself. Or one of the great portrait artists. Rembrandt, Hans Holbein.”
“Oh, I love Van Gogh!” said Janette. “Especially the ones with all the stars.”
Terri made a small noise in her throat. “Well, anyway, Harry, here’s to you on your fortieth. May you continue to avoid an untimely death by a hairsbreadth for the next forty years too.”
“An excellent sentiment,” said Harry, raising his glass.
A few members of staff had been invited to Harry’s office for Friday drinks to celebrate his birthday, which was the coming weekend. It was just heads of department, and Janette. Harry still found big parties too tiring. Janette could tell he was already in pain from standing for an hour or more, though he was too proud to sit down.
She’d make sure they left soon. At least Harry’s troublesome leg meant she didn’t have to endure these dos for long. Janette wasn’t sure who found them more awkward—the staff, who were coming to terms with her being Harry’s partner, or herself, trying to be that person.
Janette knew exactly who she felt like. One of her all-time favorite books was Rebecca. Right now, she was very much the second Mrs. de Winter, forever in her predecessor’s tall, slim, elegant shadow, knowing she could never match up to her cool sophistication. Harry was, of course, the perfect Maxim de Winter—self-confident and erudite—while Terri was the mad Mrs. Danvers, forever watching through narrowed eyes, needling her with barbed comments, reminding Janette of her unworthiness to follow in Ana’s footsteps.
Janette had never understood why Terri and Ana had got on so well, being such different women. Ana’s smooth path to the top had been like Harry’s—the result of a privileged background, expensive education, and impeccable social network. Conversely, Terri was from a working-class family and had fought her way up entirely on her own merits.
Anyone who’d come up against Ana had been dealt with via a withering glance and frosty silence, while Terri would tell people exactly what she thought of them using the strongest language.
Janette knew they’d laughed about her. The silly little secretary with a crush on her boss. And now that she and Harry were together, Terri’s opinion of her seemed only to have worsened. Janette had appealed to Harry about Terri’s attitude, but he’d only laughed and said she was a law unto herself, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “Don’t worry, it’s not just you,” he’d said. “She hates everybody.”
“Your girls coming up for your fortieth, Harry?” asked Terri.
“Yes. They’ll be staying at my sister’s. Six daughters between us—it’ll be quite the madhouse.”
“I can’t wait to meet Eliza,” said Janette. She was still in Wales with Katie, but Harry was hoping to bring her back to London soon.
He smiled. “You’ll love her. She lights up the room, and I know I’m biased, but that’s because she’s incredibly bright.”
“Takes after Ana, then,” said Terri.
There was an awkward silence, then Janette said, “Harry, you’re looking quite tired. Would you like to leave soon?”
“Who are you, his mum?” said Terri. “It’s his fortieth, for fuck’s sake!”
“I’ll give it another ten,” said Harry. “And in the meantime I need to . . . excuse me, ladies.” He headed off in the direction of the restrooms.
Janette knew what he’d do when he got there. Harry’s attempts to kick his painkiller habit seemed to have stalled.
An hour later they were back at the apartment, and Janette was sitting beside Harry on the bed, giving him a massage.
“You know what, Janette?” he said as she gently kneaded his leg. The scars had faded now, and his recent exercise regimen had returned his body almost to the size it was six years ago, in Manchester. As she slid her hands up his muscular back, she once again wondered how this spectacular man had come to be hers.
“What, Harry?”
“Of all the things I could be doing to celebrate my birthday, I can’t think of anything better than this.”
“Really? That makes me very happy. I know I’m not beautiful or clever, like your wives . . .”
“Janette, don’t put yourself down. I don’t want beautiful or clever. I want loving and kind and sweet . . .” He flipped over and propped himself up on his elbows. “And maybe, as it’s my birthday . . .”
“The special underwear?”
“Well, that would be nice, but what I was going to say was, maybe you’d agree to be my wife?”
Harry
As they relaxed at Charles and Megan’s after a birthday lunch, Harry and Janette shared news of their engagement.
Harry caught the looks on their faces. They didn’t think Janette was a suitable third Mrs. Rose. He didn’t care. He was sure when they realized how happy she made him, they’d understand. Being with Janette reminded him of his early days with Katie. Life was easy—no dramas, no point scoring, just a comfortable companionship and cozy times in the bedroom. Plus, Eliza needed a mother, and Janette would be perfect.
“Bit soon, isn’t it?” said Megan.
Janette blushed, her eyes lowered.
“We’re not in Victorian times,” Harry said. “There isn’t a compulsory mourning period. Why would we wait?”
“Fair enough,” said Charles. “Congratulations, then. When’s the big day?”
Harry was grateful to his friend for addressing the question to Janette.
“Oh, we haven’t arranged anything yet,” she said. “I don’t expect it will be a big do, will it, Harry?”
“Can I be a bridesmaid?” piped up Eliza from across the room. “I’d like a pink dress, with sparkles and lace.”
“I feel pink isn’t always the wisest choice for us redheads, sweet pea,” said Harry.
“Can I be one too?” chimed Francesca.
“And me!” shouted Helena.
“Janette might not want lots of bridesmaids, they don’t want a fuss,” said Megan.
“Oh, I think it would be lovely to have three little bridesmaids!” said Janette.
“Cassandra says we have to embrace our individuality,” said Eliza. “So I think I shall have a pink dress.”
“Good grief,” said Charles. “How old is she?”
“Five.”
“Knows her own mind, then.”
Harry grinned. “OK. Pink bridesmaids’ dresses for all—and let’s do pink hair things and pink shoes and all the other pink things.”
“YES, Daddy!”
“Yay!” cheered Francesca and Helena.
“How about I have a pink dress too!” said Janette.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” called Arabella from the sofa, where she and Milly were engrossed in a PlayStation game. “That would look totally gross.”
“Well, she can’t wear white,” said Maria loudly, looking up from her book.
“Uncalled for,” said Harry. She hadn’t meant it as a humorous comment. Maria didn’t do humor. Harry wondered how he and Katie had managed to produce this stern teenager who was surely destined for the judge’s bench later in life.
“Why can’t Janette wear white?” asked Eliza.
“Because she’s living in sin with our father,” said Maria. “And only good girls should wear white at their weddings.”
“Holy fuck,” said Milly.
“Milly!” chided Megan.
“Swearing is also a sin,” said Maria. “And—”
“That’s enough, Maria,” said Harry. “Please keep such opinions to yourself, especially in front of the little ones.”
“Well don’t expect me to come to your wedding,” she replied. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still married to my mother. Remember her? The one who never did anything wrong and never stopped loving you? You should look into your conscience sometime, Father.”
“Ouch,” muttered Charles.
If there was one thing Harry wanted to avoid right now, it was paying his conscience a visit. If he kept it at a distance, it remained clear. If he looked too closely, he might discover something in the shadows.
He looked across at the girls. Charles’s Milly and Arabella—Things One and Two—growing up so fast, already thinking about which universities to attend. The three little ones: Eliza, Francesca, and Helena, their heads bobbing over Lego. And Maria, her early years spent with a mother suffering dark depressive episodes, then her parents splitting up. He’d always worried how she’d turn out, growing up at Welshness, but had the feeling Maria would have become this unsmiling, judgmental person, no matter what environment she’d been brought up in.
“I want you all there, team,” he said. “Life’s been difficult for us all these past few years.”
“True,” said Charles, and he squeezed Megan’s hand.
“So we need a good excuse for a celebration. We’ll make it special, and perhaps Rose pink themed, eh, Eliza?”
“Yes! Can we have pink cake?”
“Somebody stop this child with her Disney ideas,” said Arabella.
“Harry’s right,” said Charles. “Things have been shite. But let’s hope we’ve turned the corner. Harry’s back on his feet and is going to be married again. So let’s be happy for him, eh?”