CHAPTER 49
Harry
The top floor was abuzz with preparations for that night’s reception. Caterers were setting up tables, the PR people were arranging information packs and name badges.
Plans for the new Rose building had finally been signed off. Harry was peeved that the Shard just up the riverbank had a head start, but they weren’t far behind.
The building would be shaped like an unfurling rose, with the outer petals open to the sky. Inside, offices would radiate out from a central atrium where light would flood down to a rose garden. Rose Corp. would occupy roughly a quarter of the office space, and there would be public areas—a café with sweeping views of the Thames, and an art gallery. A scale model would be the centerpiece of tonight’s function.
Harry slammed his office door against the noise. He should have been looking forward to tonight—he was creating a legacy for himself and an icon for his beloved city. But yet again, a woman was messing with his head.
He tried to focus on the spreadsheet in front of him, but Caitlyn’s face pushed its way into his mind again. He couldn’t forget the look in her eyes, how the hope in them had turned to anguish as he’d blanked her.
She’d walked into the boardroom looking like a little girl lost. The sparkle of recent months had faded, revealing the vulnerable girl beneath. And when he’d realized she thought there might be a reconciliation, he’d bled inside. The children were missing her terribly. As was he.
But the blackmail attempt by her “ex” had confirmed the truth—that he’d been taken for a ride. Caitlyn’s betrayals had made him feel like a middle-aged fool.
He’d needed to mine that fury to remain strong yesterday. There could be no way back for them.
Harry was hurting badly, inside and out. He couldn’t sleep from the stress of it all, and his leg was playing up. He’d upped the pills again. Pills to sleep, pills to stop the hurting, pills to perform in bed, pills simply to function. How was he ever supposed to give them up?
His phone buzzed. He ignored it. He’d told Tina he didn’t want to be disturbed—what part of that was so hard to understand?
It buzzed again.
He slammed his hand on his desk and looked up, ready to mime slitting his throat. But through the doors he saw two police officers.
For god’s sake. Could Cranwell not deal with the whole blackmail issue without dragging him into it? He paid the man enough.
There was a tap on the door. He ignored it, but it opened and Tina’s face peered around. “Sorry to disturb you, Harry. The police would like a word.”
“Can’t someone else talk to them?” he snapped.
“Sorry, they say it needs to be you.”
She showed them in and left the room.
He didn’t offer them a seat. “I take it this is about Caitlyn and her . . . associate?”
“I’m afraid it does concern your wife, Mr. Rose,” said the male officer. “But there’s no one else involved, as far as we know.” He looked at the female officer.
“Mr. Rose,” she began, “I’m very sorry to tell you that a body was found in the Thames this morning. We believe it’s your wife.”
Pain shot through his leg. “In the Thames? What do you mean, a body?”
As the officer’s words sunk in, the room seemed to tilt.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rose. She’d been dead several hours by the time she was found.”
The policewoman’s voice seemed to be coming from far away.
“Early indications are that she jumped from a bridge. We’ll be able to give you more information when our investigation is properly underway. We’ll need you to formally identify her. As her next of kin—”
“We’re . . . we were separated. Getting divorced.”
“There doesn’t appear to be anyone else we can ask, Mr. Rose.”
She looked so young; a pale, sleeping girl, and Harry’s heart broke all over again. How alone must she have felt? His conscience whispered terrible things. He shut out the voice, but he couldn’t stop the tears.
That night, in the restless half sleep before the pain woke him, the ghosts came back, and he knew that, this time, they wanted revenge.
WHY DID CAITLYN JUMP? screamed the headlines. Her bubbly personality had won her many fans, and opinion columns were full of speculation as to why someone so full of life could have wanted to end it all. Was it her split with Harry that had pushed her over the edge?
Harry went to ground, working from home. When Eliza quizzed him, he tried to fudge the truth about Caitlyn’s death, but she was thirteen now, and it was impossible. Her stepmother’s death was the hottest topic of gossip at school.
Once again, Eliza astonished him with her insight and maturity. “People who really want to be famous are usually insecure, Dad,” she said. “I bet she had an unhappy childhood.”
For a moment he couldn’t speak, remembering what Caitlyn had told him. “She did,” he said finally, giving her a hug. “When did you get to be so wise?”
“I was sad for some of my childhood too. I missed Mum, and it was horrible that she died. Then Janette died too. But I always had you, so I don’t feel like I want to be famous. Poor Caitlyn, I liked her a lot.”
Harry left the funeral arrangements to Cranwell, instructing him to make it small and discreet. No colleagues from Rock God or Dirty Rascals. He couldn’t stomach the thought of actor tears.
The police managed to track down Caitlyn’s father, Howie. Harry remembered her describing him as a “waste of space,” always broke, begging for handouts from relatives, and giving “precisely zero amounts of shit” about his children. Eventually he’d moved to Thailand to avoid his creditors.
One didn’t have to be Poirot to work out what had brought him home. When Howie pleaded insufficient funds for a plane ticket, Cranwell had wired him the money plus more for his expenses. The sorry wretch had touted his story around the tabloids, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t seen his daughter since she was five years old. On the morning of the funeral, the headline in the Sun read, CAITLYN’S DAD: I’LL NEVER FORGIVE MYSELF.
It was two months after the funeral, and the long, miserable winter was dragging on. Harry had spent a quiet Christmas at home with Charles, Megan, and the children. He’d drunk far too much and had carried on doing the same since. He wasn’t going to the gym anymore—too many Caitlyn-related memories—and was taking more pills than ever.
It was eight thirty in the morning, and Harry was waiting for Maria in a Thames-side café close to the Rose offices. She’d asked to meet him, and he’d suggested breakfast. He’d only recently started eating out again, but was still aware of the eyes focused on him. “Suicide” was an easy word to pick up when people were whispering about you.
He ordered a full English and opened the Times.
“Father.”
“Hello, Maria.” He stood and kissed her cheek. It was cold from the chill February air. She had a new short haircut; it was fittingly severe.
As she took off her coat, he was filled with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Fondness for the little girl he’d known before she went to Wales. Exasperation for this humorless creature who judged everyone and found them wanting. Especially him.
She ordered eggs and tea without looking the waitress in the face. How did that attitude go down in the human resources department?
“There are two things I want to talk about,” she said.
“Fire away.” There was no point in attempting preliminary small talk.
“Tom Cranwell.”
“What about him?”
“We’ve had a complaint. More than one, actually. I can’t go into detail because of staff confidentiality, but the general picture is sexual harassment. And verbal harassment—innuendo.”
“You have proof?”
“The reports are stacking up. It can’t be tolerated. Incidentally, Suvarna, the receptionist on your floor, saw him assault your ex-wife as she was leaving. And . . . I saw Caitlyn that day. I regret being a little short with her now.”
“What? He assaulted Caitlyn?”
“Suvarna saw him pat her on the bottom, and then he groped it. And he’s done the same to her.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Please don’t blaspheme.”
Harry took a bite of sausage, thinking. These claims weren’t a big surprise—anyone could see Cranwell was a lech. But he’d thought the man wouldn’t be stupid enough to act on his odious impulses, especially not on company premises.
Harry had been feeling uncomfortable with the lawyer since the blackmail attempt. Tom knew too much. This could, in fact, be good timing.
“I spoke to our department head, Lesley,” continued Maria. “She wants a formal written warning from you, as he’s not technically a member of staff.”
“Leave it with me. You said there were two things?”
“Yes, Father. The other one’s personal, and it’s . . .” She trailed off, fiddling with her napkin. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Yes?”
“It’s Mother. She’s been unwell.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. But no doubt Welsh Wellness will work its magic.”
Maria breathed in sharply. “Why do you always have to be so . . . facetious? I’m telling you Mother’s sick, and all you can do is make snide comments about her life.”
“Sorry. Is it depression?”
“No, Father. She was having stomach pains. Her doctor sent her for tests and it’s cancer. She’s starting chemo next week.”
The jolt to Harry’s heart was fierce. He lowered his knife and fork, his appetite gone. “Oh no. Maria, that’s terrible news. How is she?”
“Oh, you know Mother. Brave. Still worrying about everyone else, never herself.”
“Maria—what I can do? Anything. Anything at all.”
“Pray.”