CHAPTER 43
Harry
July 2008
As Harry increased the speed on the treadmill at Abs Fab, he reflected on his conversation the previous evening with Charles. His friend had been distracted, fidgety, pale with worry. He claimed a banking crisis was about to blow that would send shock waves out into the UK economy, probably tipping it back into recession. Time could be up for those banks that didn’t ask too many questions about the source of their clients’ wealth. Which almost certainly included Charles’s.
Harry was instantly sidetracked from his worries about Charles as the petite blonde he hadn’t seen since the New Year appeared on the next treadmill along. Yes, it was definitely she of the silvery hair and tiny waist. She looked like the Barbie dolls Eliza had played with before Cassandra had convinced him they led to self-esteem issues.
He tried not to stare as she set off at a gentle pace, her ponytail swinging, and looked instead at his own reflection in the mirror. He was less than fourteen stone now, and the increased exercise had strengthened his bad leg, which had been hurting less. The only health cloud was his reliance on painkillers, which he’d get around to dealing with . . . sometime.
His gaze shifted to the view of the girl’s generous bust bouncing up and down in a most delightful way. And . . . again, he was sure he’d seen her before.
He was so busy trying to work out where that might have been that he mistimed his pace and found himself speeding backward, falling off the belt into an undignified heap on the floor.
Barbie hit her emergency stop and rushed to his side. “Hey, are you all right?” she said, touching his arm.
“My pride is most painfully wounded.”
She laughed, a sweet, tinkling laugh. “Happened to me when I was starting out. It’s Harry, isn’t it?”
He stood up. “It is. Have we met before?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I can’t imagine I’d meet you and then forget you. But I just can’t place you.”
“Annabel’s. You and your friend were with the Russian guy. We went back to his place to party, but you went home to wifey.”
“Of course!” He remembered now. It must have been eight or nine years ago. “Weren’t you related to Ana? My late wife?”
“Yes. I heard she died. That was sad. She had a lot of style. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” Harry was quiet for a moment. He felt uncomfortable— he didn’t like that she’d mentioned Ana and Andre together.
“You must miss her?”
“I do. She was a remarkable woman. I remarried, actually, but Janette died too, of complications after our son was born.”
“Holy shit! That’s so awful. It’s not been a good time for you, then.”
“You could say that.”
This girl was exquisite; she reminded him of Brigitte Bardot. He told her so, while being aware it was a cheesy line.
“Who?”
“She was a French film star. Absolutely gorgeous.”
“Oh, well, that’s OK, then!” She was smiling at him in a way that made him slightly reckless. That made him believe he might be ready to take a step along the road to a new romance.
“Do you live round here?” he asked.
“No, I work just up the road, for a PR agency.”
Harry rubbed his leg, which he realized was hurting after his fall. “Think I’ll call it a day. I might get a bite of lunch in the café before I go back to the office. Fancy a sandwich?”
Ten minutes later, after a speedy blast under the shower, Harry was sitting opposite Caitlyn. She’d reapplied her lip gloss and smelled of something delicious.
“I don’t need to ask what you do,” she said, looking at him with those big blue eyes. “You’re famous!”
“Hardly. At least . . .” Harry attempted to think of someone all the girls liked. “Not in a Colin Firth way.”
Caitlyn snorted. “My grandma likes him.”
“He’s older than me, of course.” Harry hoped this was correct. “Who on TV do you like, then?”
“The Kardashians.”
“Hm. I’m not one for reality TV.”
“I just love the family drama. And being real—that makes it more powerful.”
“Is it real, though?”
They continued their chat for another half hour; Harry enjoyed batting the young versus not-so-young ball across the net, back and forth.
Then she took him by surprise. “You’re a cool guy, Harry. I like you. Wanna go out sometime?”
“What?” he spluttered. “You mean, like . . . a date?”
“Yeah. I asked you once before, but you turned me down. Now you have no wife, so . . . how about it?”
Shouldn’t he be the one asking? But her direct approach was rather refreshing.
“Well, why not?”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a boyfriend,” said Harry, popping an olive into his mouth. Caitlyn had suggested a Soho tapas bar for their date. It seemed girls preferred less-formal eateries these days.
He had to stop thinking of her as a girl. She was a woman. He had no idea how old she was, but it couldn’t be more than thirty.
“I’m kind of with someone, but he’s not good for me, you know? I’m going to dump him.”
“Not good in what way?”
“He doesn’t respect me. You know what, Harry? Blokes my age have no idea how to treat a woman. Give me an older man any day, with their nice manners.” Her full lips curved into a seductive smile, and she reached across the table to touch Harry’s hand.
His reaction caught him off guard. That hadn’t happened in a while.
But it was hardly surprising. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her since she’d walked into the bar, causing heads to turn like a Wimbledon crowd watching a Federer ace. She was wearing leather trousers with high-heeled ankle boots, and a lace-up blouse that exposed her shoulders.
And . . . around her neck was a delicate gold chain that twinkled in the light of the candle on the table. The pendant hanging from it had settled in her cleavage. There were no words to describe how badly he wanted to pluck it out, imagining his fingers brushing her breasts.
He cleared his throat. “Well, yes. Your generation doesn’t seem as well versed in manners as mine. But when I say ‘your generation’—I’m a little intrigued. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Twenty-four. Nearly twenty-five. And you?”
“Quite a bit more than that.”
She leaned forward, reaching for a mini kebab, and his eyes dipped to see the trapped pendant at closer quarters. He imagined how warm it must feel, lying there against her skin.
“I’ll just google your age if you don’t tell,” she said.
“Cursed internet. Forty-five, then.”
“Oh, that’s not old old. In fact, that’s absolutely the best age for a man, I reckon. Look at George Clooney. He gets better looking every year. And you’re even more handsome than him.”
“I won’t deny it. Matinee idol is such a dated look.”
She giggled delightfully. He poured them more wine.
They finished their meal and walked out into the warm Soho night. The streets were full of people who’d gone for a quick drink after work and then forgotten to go home. It was one of those seductive midsummer evenings that did that to you.
“Can we do this again?” he said, putting a hand on her waist to guide her through the throngs.
“Tomorrow?” she said.
He laughed. “Not soon enough.”
“Want to come back for a nightcap?”
He was fairly sure she didn’t mean only a whisky. “I’d love to, sweetheart, but I have to catch the train to Richmond.”
She pulled him by the arm into a doorway. “I thought you said you had a live-in nanny? You gotta live in the moment, Harry. Carpe diem.”
“Caitlyn?” He moved in closer, ran his fingers down her arm.
“Yes, Harry,” she breathed. She hooked the fingers of one hand between his shirt buttons and pulled him further toward her. He felt her nails on his skin.
“Your necklace.”
“What about it?”
“The thing on the end of it . . .”
“It’s a topaz.”
“It’s a stuck topaz.”
“Is it?” She went to pull it out of her cleavage, but he grabbed her hand. “No. Let me.”
He trailed his fingers slowly down her chest, pressing lightly on the swell of her breasts before sliding them into the cleavage, where they stroked her skin for a moment before plucking out the jewel.
“Jeez, Harry. That was . . . You gotta come home with me, you can’t leave me like this.”
“Like what?” he said, his voice low, his hand sliding behind her waist. Their bodies met, then their lips.
Harry felt his body come back to life, but after a few seconds gently took her shoulders and pushed her away. “Not here—one never knows when the paparazzi might be lurking. Don’t want to be hoist with my own petard.”
“Your own what?”
“I should go home, Caitlyn. Yes, I do have a live-in nanny, but I also have two children who expect me to spread Marmite on their toast in the morning.”
He registered a fleeting expression on her face; part hurt and part . . . longing?
Then it was gone, replaced by a cheeky smile.
“OK, Dad. I’ll let you off this time.”