CHAPTER 46
Harry
January 2009
You can’t beat a real fire, thought Harry, feeding another piece of the dead Christmas tree into the wood-burning stove.
“One more time, Daddy?” said Eddie, from the sofa.
“Really? I’ll be saying it in my sleep!”
Harry returned to sit beside his son. On this chilly winter’s night, Eddie was snuggled into his fluffy green dressing gown. The pointy white teeth of the dinosaur hood framed his little face, which looked so much like Janette’s it tugged at Harry’s heart.
“The more it snows
Tiddely pom . . .”
As he read the Winnie-the-Pooh hum, Eddie joined in with the “tiddely poms.”
Harry had worked from home that day, as England was in the grip of something that belonged in the Arctic. Or perhaps it was from Russia with love. The Russians were of course in the habit of bringing over things capable of causing paralysis.
Deep snow had caused much of England to grind to a halt, and in the process had transformed the garden and Richmond Park beyond into Narnia. Harry had spent the afternoon making a snowman with the children, and hauling them through the park on the sledge. It had been a carpe diem moment, abandoning the computer for the outdoors and acting like a kid, throwing soft little snowballs at Eddie and proper ones at Eliza, who was deadly accurate with return fire. It was time to get her some top-notch tennis lessons.
When they arrived home, their hands had been numb with cold, and Lisa had made them mugs of hot chocolate to warm them up.
“No marshmallows in mine,” Harry had said, patting his tummy, and Eliza reminded him of the time Ana had called him a Tubbybelly.
“You remember that?” Harry had been surprised—she could only have been three or four.
“Yes, I don’t remember doing many things with Mummy, but that was the day we went to the pirate-ship park with Chess and Helena.”
Harry tended to block any thoughts of Ana that tried to wheedle their way in, but for once he allowed himself to remember. That had been the morning of his accident. They’d been making bacon sandwiches in the Chelsea house, the summer sun streaming in through the French doors.
Harry closed The House at Pooh Corner, and his thoughts of Ana. “Right, young stegosaurus. Time for bed.”
“I’ll take him, Dad,” said Eliza, jumping off the armchair where she’d been curled up with her own book.
He experienced a moment’s sadness at the new name—he wasn’t Daddy anymore. Eliza was growing up so fast, already a mini version of the smart woman who was surely going to blaze a trail through whatever field she chose. In her school reports, her teachers had run out of adjectives to describe her abilities. Mostly they just began, “Eliza continues to . . .” alongside the usual bank of As and asterisks.
“Come on, Iddie,” she said. Lisa’s Kiwi pronunciation had become his nickname.
Eddie slid off the sofa, his slippers making a soft thud on the thick carpet.
Harry switched on the TV, where that night’s episode of Dirty Rascals, his popular reality TV series, was about to begin.
“Oh, Dad, you’re not watching that rubbish again?” Eliza said.
“It’s work. I was supposed to be doing that today, remember?”
“Night night, Daddy!” called Eddie.
The news was still on, and it was mostly snow related. The other headline items were as grim as the weather outlook. More soldiers killed in Afghanistan; the government scrabbling to put bank bailout packages together.
Harry had hardly seen Charles recently. His friend had managed to keep his head above water, but the banking sector was in crisis, and the British public was turning on bankers like a bunch of outraged peasants with pitchforks.
The opening credits of Dirty Rascals came on. It was set in a castle—it had to be excruciatingly cold in there right now. His team had worked hard to find one they could use for the series, with the requisite features: moat, battlements, ancient working kitchen, garderobes with chutes leading to the pit . . .
Oh yes, the pit. It was already reality TV legend. Pit duty had been the downfall of several contestants, and made for compelling viewing.
After each episode, the public voted one of the contestants “King of the Castle” and another “Dirty Rascal.” The king (or queen) got to allocate people to carry out the next day’s tasks, while the Dirty Rascal was sent home. Castle jobs included cook, jester, archer, singer, and groom of the stool. Harry had drawn the line at bottom-wiping being part of the latter job description, even though his director had argued for complete authenticity. Instead they’d made it the groom’s job to clean out the pit.
Caitlyn was doing well and had rated highly in the voting. However, yesterday’s winner—today’s queen—had clocked her as a serious opponent and had made her groom of the stool.
Harry knew she’d handle it just fine. She was a clear hit with the audience, and the PR office had been inundated with requests for more background information on the prettiest girl in the competition. Interviews, features, even job offers were stacking up. She’d be thrilled. Which was just as well, as living in a medieval castle, cleaning out sewage pits, and plucking chickens, all the while trying to get on with contestants chosen for the likelihood they’d hate each other, must be tough.
And there she was, dressed in her peasant costume, delicately shoveling the contents of the pit into a pail. She was stiff with cold but, aware of the cameras watching her every move, kept her grim smile in place. She made a lovely peasant. The authenticity of her costume, with its emphasis on laces and frills, was questionable, but she looked charming, and that was the point.
It was three weeks since the final, and Harry was on his way to Caitlyn’s flat. She’d reached the final three, achieving the fame she’d hankered after. Harry was relieved she had lost out to the black guy with the big grin and generous spirit who’d won the hearts of Britain. Harry’s relationship with Caitlyn was certain to become public soon, and he didn’t want to be accused of rigging the result.
She’d been reluctant to invite him over until now, saying she was embarrassed by her flat. Well, if the talent agent she’d just signed with was as good as she seemed, Caitlyn would be able to buy something a lot fancier soon.
He parked up and knocked on the front door, stamping his feet to keep them warm. The weather was still bitterly cold, and Harry was wondering about a couple of weeks in the Caribbean. He’d been toying with the idea of buying somewhere over there, or perhaps a yacht. A recce, maybe. He could take Caitlyn with him.
She opened the door, and he held out the enormous bunch of red roses.
“Aw, thanks, babe!” She was dressed in a fluffy white jumper and jeans tucked into UGG boots, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was the same girl as before, but somehow more sparkly, buffed.
Over spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of red (“Sorry, Harry, this is the extent of my culinary expertise”), she talked and talked about her plans, the offers she’d had. She looked so happy, he didn’t feel inclined to warn her about the downside of fame. She’d find out soon enough.
“Oh, Harry, that was amazing!” said Caitlyn later. “I told you the Viagra would make you a new man.”
And it had. Caitlyn’s pink cheeks bore testament to his skill.
As he played with her hair, which was spilled across his chest, he was all at once overcome with emotion. She’d restored him, made him feel whole again. Before he could stop the words gathering in the impulse-governed part of his brain, they burst out in glee, saying, “Caitlyn, I love you, and you’d make me the happiest man alive if you became my wife.”
The headline in Hooray! read: HARRY ROSE AND HIS QUEEN OF THE CASTLE ANNOUNCE THEIR ENGAGEMENT!
Harry smiled as he pressed Send on the email, giving Mia the go-ahead to run the piece. He was a happy man. However, thanks to his experience of Ana’s divorce demands, he was seeing Tom Cranwell this morning to discuss a prenup. He believed Caitlyn when she said she loved him, but when one was as wealthy as he was, there was room for a little insecurity as to the reasons for that love.
They planned to marry on a Caribbean beach. It had been Caitlyn’s idea to combine the search for a property there (perhaps an island) with their wedding—as long as it could still be in Hooray!
Mia was sending a team. Caitlyn would have her feature.
Caitlyn
August 2009
Well, as Jane said, ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,’” said Florence, spearing kale with her fork. “Although you’re probably more of a Lydia Bennet than an Elizabeth.”
“What are you talking about?” said Caitlyn.
“Mr. Darcy. Colin F—never mind.”
Caitlyn’s boss had taken her to lunch to discuss the short list of interviewees they’d drawn up for Caitlyn’s replacement. After the wedding, she was leaving to pursue the TV career that had opened up as a result of Dirty Rascals.
So far, all they’d discussed was Harry.
“Mister who?”
“I’ll get you the DVD. Now look—what are you doing about Frankie?”
“Not this again. I’m onto it.”
“But are you?” said Florence. “Darling, things are different now. You can’t muck a man like Harry Rose about. Frankie needs to be an ex.”
“I haven’t seen him in weeks. Just a couple of texts.” She didn’t add that this was because he was on a tour of the States with Chaos.
Caitlyn had been putting off dealing with Frankie. After she’d finished Dirty Rascals he’d turned up, after weeks away, with a bunch of flowers. They were from the corner shop, but it was still a first-ever. He’d stayed for three weeks, coming and going in his usual lodger-with-benefits fashion. During that time he’d tried to convince her he should become her manager, in spite of Chaos’s success—he could easily do both.
It had been the first time she’d refused him anything, and there had been major sulks, a couple of explosive rows. But she’d stood her ground. She’d already made a verbal agreement with a major talent agency. He must understand that was the best thing for her career?
She’d told him how it had all begun, how during the date at the Oxfordshire hotel she’d sold Harry on the idea of the reality TV show.
“He gonna pay you for that?”
“It wasn’t actually my idea—just that he should do a reality show. The concept was dreamed up by his team at Rose. They’re cool people.”
“But it wouldn’t have got made without you feeding him the idea, right?”
“I like to think so.”
“So he owes you, babe. Don’t forget that.”
“I thought you’d be more concerned about the fact that I’ve been sleeping with him, Frankie. I know you said no ties, but don’t you mind at all?”
“You don’t turn down the chance to be Harry Rose’s bitch. Look where it’s got you already.”
How could someone with such a sweet face say such horrible things?
“I’m not his bitch. God, I hate that word. Look, if he is serious, you and me will have to cool things. He’s old-school, you know? Won’t want to share.”
“Yeah, well. It’s your body, not his. You get to share it with whoever you want.”
“Earth to Caitlyn?” said Florence.
“Sorry. Yes, I will sort it out. It’s just . . . I guess it’s hard to break up with someone when you’ve never been properly together. Frankie just comes and goes. He’s not really my boyfriend.”
“But you still sleep with him.”
“Well . . . yes.”
“So just tell him, only friends from now on. No one’s saying you can never see him again.”
“Right. Good plan.”
Florence leaned across the table and took Caitlyn’s hand. She looked up in surprise. Hard-nosed PR trout Florence wasn’t given to displays of affection.
“Caitlyn, when I met you, you were barely surviving. Now you’ve overcome an abusive background, resisted all sorts of crappy influences, and you’re making something of your life. You’ve started to believe in yourself. And so you should—you’re a great girl. Harry could take his pick, but he’s chosen you, probably because he’s seen the same things in you that I saw.”
Was it true? Could Harry really see beyond the buffed, toned facade she worked so hard to maintain, and not be appalled at what lay beneath?
“I think he just likes my arse.”
Florence laughed. “OK, well, it is a fine arse. Just promise me you won’t do anything to stuff this up. You’ve got the chance for a stellar career and a happy marriage. You shouldn’t let Frankie anywhere near your precious arse again. Ever.”