CHAPTER 45
Harry
Relations between London and Moscow hit a new low yesterday, read Harry as he sat in the waiting room of Dr. Butts’s Harley Street rooms.
He folded the newspaper and sat back, thinking. After Charles had shared his worries about the bank’s Moscow connections, Harry instructed Rose Corp.’s financial director to flag any Russian investments that could be problematic, should they come under scrutiny from the authorities. Of course, he had one particular investor in mind. If they could buy him out, Harry’s conscience might stop prodding him awake in the early hours.
A door in the oak-paneled wall opened and a nurse appeared. “Mr. Rose? Oh, Harry Rose! Fancy that!”
She seemed familiar. Fairish hair, twinkly brown eyes, the trace of a northern accent.
“You don’t remember? How about if I say, ‘Your special visitor’s here, Mr. Rose.’” She tapped the side of her nose.
“Nurse Clare!” Harry rose out of his chair. “How wonderful to see you! How long has it been? Six, seven years? You were a bright spot in those dark days.”
“Must be. I’ve been with Dr. Butts for a while now. Gosh, you were my favorite patient. You always had a friendly word and a joke, even when you were in pain. That was a dreadful injury you had, but the surgeons did a great job.”
“They did. I just get the odd twinge now and again.”
They stood smiling at each other, until Nurse Clare said, “I’d better stop holding you up—you can go through now.”
“Thank you, Nurse Clare.”
“Just call me Clare.”
“OK, Clare. And I’ll do my best to forget you emptied my bedpans and saw me in that bottom-revealing nightgown.”
“Let’s just say we have a special bond, Mr. Rose.”
“So how are we going with the leg?” asked the doctor.
“Pretty good. I’m playing tennis again—life without tennis was a sad affair. Although it does ache afterward.”
“Right, well hop up here and let’s take a look. And let’s have a chat about your latest medical results while we’re at it.”
“Must we?”
“They’re much improved,” Butts said, gently bending Harry’s leg at the knee. “But the old blood pressure and cholesterol are still too high, and I have one or two other concerns. But don’t worry, nothing that can’t be fixed with a few of those ‘lifestyle changes’ they bang on about. Basically means cutting down on the nice stuff, especially the alcohol— I know it’s a bore—and upping your healthy eating—even more of a bore.”
At least there was no mention of the painkillers.
Afterward, Harry didn’t return to the office. He’d blocked off the rest of the day and told Tina he was only to be contacted in case of emergency. This morning he’d driven into town in his DB9. He’d only had it a few months. After the accident he’d bought other cars, afraid of the memories another Aston Martin would bring back, but nothing had compared to the deep-throated roar of his old love.
He set off for Caitlyn’s Ladbroke Grove address. He felt young again, heading off in his sports car to pick up a gorgeous blonde for an evening of softly lit romance, followed by . . .
As he paused at a set of traffic lights, engine purring, Harry wondered how this would go. It had been so long—almost two years. There had been no one since Janette.
His head was telling him: Take it slow. She’s a flirtatious girl of questionable morals, and—let’s be honest here—she’s likely more interested in your millions than in your conversation.
But his heart—and body—were telling him to throw caution to the winds. Carpe diem, as Caitlyn had said. Outwardly she was sassy, self-confident, in control. But behind all that he thought he’d seen something of a little girl lost. Unexpectedly, Caitlyn had touched his heart.
An hour and a half later, they were driving through the sleepy Oxfordshire village of Great Milton, then pulling up outside the Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, all mellow, sun-warmed brick and tall chimneys.
“This do you?” said Harry, switching off the engine. Immediately the quiet of the English countryside settled over them, broken only by the trill of a skylark somewhere high above.
“Oh my gosh. When you said dinner . . . I’m not sure my table manners are up to this. At my manoir it was pretty much use your fingers or something fished out of the sink.”
“Then it will be my pleasure to instruct you in which fork to use for your French-foraged field mushrooms.”
He’d booked them a suite, and a table in the Michelin-starred restaurant for seven thirty. That was two hours away.
“I’d better hang up my clothes,” said Caitlyn. “I can’t look crumpled in one of England’s poshest restaurants. I still can’t believe you brought me here!”
He watched her exploring the room, opening cupboards and the minibar, exclaiming at the fruit and chocolates. As they’d left London behind, the girl-about-town had given way to a young person on an adventure. She was so appealing, her hair in a high ponytail, her trim body dressed in a pink shirt and white jeans.
She looked out at the gardens. “It’s so pretty! Shall we take a walk outside?”
He hesitated for a moment. Watching her had stirred him. But he’d waited all this time. What was another half hour or so?
Caitlyn linked her arm through Harry’s as they strolled past a bed of delphiniums. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she said. “I’ve never lived anywhere with a flower garden.”
The calm of the countryside after the buzz of London was soothing. Harry felt himself unwinding, relaxing. They turned a corner and found themselves in a secluded walled garden. Caitlyn stopped and pulled Harry toward her.
“I don’t want you to think I expect—”
“Sh,” she said. “I know you’re a gentleman, Harry.”
He moved closer, then stopped. “Caitlyn, I don’t think this is the sort of place that encourages snogging in the public areas.”
“Then we’d better go in, hadn’t we?”
It wasn’t terribly successful. Harry was out of practice, and his leg twinged when he put weight on it. Noticing his discomfort, Caitlyn moved so she was on top, but in spite of her breathing his name as she closed her eyes, he doubted she’d found the experience satisfying.
He said as much, as they lay beneath the canopy of the four-poster.
“Can I be honest with you, Harry?”
“Oh dear. Are you about to give me one of those ‘could try harder’ reports?”
“No. I wanted to tell you . . . there have been quite a few men. I grew up in a place where they believed in free love. That basically meant the men were free to do whatever they wanted to the women. And that wasn’t just the grown-up ones.”
Harry had been stroking her hair. Released from its ponytail, it was soft, like silk. His hand stopped.
“So you see, my early experiences of men weren’t great. Actually, my later ones haven’t been great either. Mostly horrible, actually. Now it takes me a lot to trust someone. But I think I trust you, Harry. You’re a decent bloke, I can tell.”
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “Thing is, I know I go on about sexual freedom, but quite honestly I’m not that fussed. I’ve had so many bad experiences, a lot of the time I actually dread it, you know? So it’s no big deal if your performance is below par sometimes. Quite often I’d rather just have a cuddle.”
Harry didn’t respond straightaway. “I’m good at cuddles,” he said eventually. Then, preferring not to delve further into her past just yet, he said, “Anyway, I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up rather an appetite. And seeing as a table at one of England’s finest restaurants is probably right now being laid with a confusing array of cutlery just for us, we should perhaps get ourselves down there.”
“Use that one,” Harry said, pointing to a small fork.
Caitlyn smiled. “I know, Harry. I’m not quite the street urchin I made myself out to be.” She lifted a morsel of food to her mouth. “Oh my god. I have never tasted anything this divine in my life.”
They were on the third of seven courses, L’Oeuf. This one was tiny but perfectly presented. A bit like Caitlyn.
“What even are morel and sabayon?” she said.
“No idea. The fewer words on the menu you understand, the better the restaurant, I always find.”
Caitlyn snorted. “You are funny, Harry. I’m having such a lovely time.”
He smiled indulgently. He was too. And he didn’t mind the eyes surreptitiously turned their way as diners clocked Harry Rose with a stunning blonde young enough to be his daughter. Let them stare. The men would undoubtedly love to be in his shoes, while the women would be whispering about his midlife crisis.
Caitlyn asked him about his work, and Harry, ever looking to identify future trends, asked her what she liked to watch on TV. Her favorite programs were the reality ones, she said, where anyone could become famous just for being themselves. She loved Britain’s Next Top Model, and Big Brother, had even thought about taking part. But the current series were feeling tired. Perhaps Harry should make something new? He should have done The Apprentice, she said. “You’d have been much better than Alan Sugar.”
Harry sipped his wine thoughtfully. He’d seen Sugar in the UK series and had watched the US version too. He remembered Donald Trump describing reality TV as “for the bottom-feeders of society,” before he’d gone on to star in his own series. Hypocrite.
“Hasn’t everything already been done, though?” he said. “We’ve had the boardroom, the Big Brother house, the ones where people eat disgusting things on desert islands. What’s left? Britain’s Top Accountant? MasterPlumber?”
“I liked that one where the boss had to do the lowest job. It’s good seeing people thrown into new situations, watching how they get on with others—it’s all about the relationships. That’s why the Kardashians is so good.”
“But you appreciate it’s not actually real. Bits of their bodies certainly aren’t. Kim’s bottom is highly suspect.”
“You and your bottoms,” said Caitlyn. “I saw you watching mine at the gym.”
“I may have been,” said Harry, with a wink. “So should I get my team onto it? Devise a quintessentially British reality show starring people who will end up hating each other and having highly watchable rows?”
“Yes! And, Harry, if you do, can I be in it?”
“Why on earth would you want to put yourself through that?”
“Doesn’t everyone want to be famous? Even if only for a little while?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Your generation needs help.”
They moved on to their fourth course, duck so delicious that Harry let out a little moan with each mouthful. Really, tonight had been a delight. The lively conversation; Caitlyn, looking lush in her red dress, the rose necklace against her creamy skin; the inspired food, outstanding wine . . . if not for his disappointing performance in the bedroom earlier, it would have been perfect. Perhaps later, now that his long sex-fast was behind him, he’d find his way back to his former glory.
Their second attempt was even more of a failure. It was true that Harry was feeling rather full, and had drunk more than his fair share of two bottles of wine, so the thought of an extended session was daunting. Nevertheless, he was full of desire for this lovely young woman, and as he explored her curves, hills, and valleys, his body responded in the expected manner. Until she whispered, “Now, Harry,” when all at once something mortifying happened, and Harry found himself in the embarrassing position of having to be encouraged back to full strength.
He lay staring at the canopy, Caitlyn asleep beside him. After the high of the evening, he’d plummeted into despair. What had happened to him? If he couldn’t perform properly for a luscious young thing like Caitlyn, did this mean he was forever doomed to bedroom failure?
He was overwhelmed with self-pity at this loss of his former self.
Caitlyn stirred beside him. “Don’t worry, Harry,” she whispered. “It’s quite normal, I hear. You know, in older men. There’s always Viagra.”
Caitlyn
It had almost been true, what she’d told Harry about her take-it-or-leave-it attitude to sex. At least, the part about her taking a while to get over the abuse by Mannox and his successors was true. For the longest time she’d hated anyone touching her but in her first years in London had accepted it was part of the survival deal. She’d got through it by focusing her mind on nice things, like a tropical beach, or playing with a kitten.
When she’d begun to make money and a life for herself, she started to say no. Then one or two of the nicer men she’d dated had made it through the armor, and she felt something, responded in a way that told her this might actually be pleasant, if she worked on suppressing those negative memories.
And then she’d met Frankie, who finally lit her fire.
Could she have both Harry and Frankie? Frankie was bad for her, she knew that. But he had a hold over her she couldn’t break. Harry was good for her. She’d felt herself sparkling under his gaze tonight. She knew it wasn’t her mind he was attracted to, but he did seem to enjoy her company.
Why? She had no idea. She was no Katie or Ana. Had no education, no particular talent. And she was damaged goods. But perhaps Harry would help her put all that behind her, launch her into a new life of comfort and security—maybe even fame. He’d been pretty interested in the reality TV idea.
She snuggled further into the arms of this man who was so knowledgeable, confident, and worldly. His arms tightened around her, and she felt something new: safe.