Page 111 of Wife After Wife
But by jove, she was gorgeous.
“Well, Harry Rose, I have a surprise for you.” She flicked back her hair, which fell to her waist in a silvery sheet. He fought an impulse to stroke it, picking up his champagne glass instead.
Andre, he noticed, was embracing his own impulses. The girl in his lap was squirming in a most unsubtle manner—it was practically a lap dance—and the Russian’s eyes were glazing over.
Caitlyn leaned in toward Harry, and the eyeful he received was surely no accident.
“Surprise?”
“We’re related!”
“We are? How so?”
“Your wife’s my cousin. Though she’s quite a bit older than me, so I never really knew her growing up. My family are the poor relations.”
“Really? What’s your full name? I’ll have to tell her I met you.”
“Caitlyn Howe. But maybe you shouldn’t tell her. Kind of depends.”
Could she be any more forward? Girls of his generation had surely never been this uninhibited. Or maybe he’d just missed out on all that. He’d married so young.
“Darling, you’re absolutely delightful, but I’m very much a married man. I’m simply here babysitting my Russian friend. So I’d love to sipchampagne with you, even take a turn on the dance floor, but—well, ’tis all.”
He took her hand and kissed it.
“Bloody shame, you’re the hottest guy here by a mile.”
There was a bright flash. The blonde next to Charles was snapping photos of Andre and his brunette, with a tiny digital camera. Harry hoped she wasn’t going to attempt extortion at some later date. But somehow he suspected dallying in a London nightclub with young girls who weren’t his wife wouldn’t be high on the Russian’s list of crimes.
“Harry! Charles! We go!” bellowed Andre.
There was a moment of disappointment, Harry acknowledging how much he was enjoying flirting with this delicious young thing, swiftly followed by relief that he wouldn’t have to go once more into battle with temptation, or spend time arguing the toss with his old nemesis, conscience.
“Girls come too!” said Andre, and the brunette in his lap punched the air saying, “Yeah! Party!”
Charles rolled his eyes at Harry. The girl next to him was hanging on to his arm, and Charles’s hand was on her thigh. Harry tried not to think about Megan.
“Andre,” called Charles, “I need to go to the little boys’ room and then we’ll find a taxi.” He caught Harry’s eye and flicked his head toward the gents.
“Me too,” said Harry.
“We have to go along with this,” said Charles in the quiet of the washroom. “He’s out for a seriously good time; we’ll just have to suck it up. Maybe call Ana now? I’ll tell Megan we’re off to a late-night drinking club. I’ll try and be Responsible Charles, but if I have too much wodka and turn into Arsehole Charles, please keep schtum, my chum.”
“Of course, Charles. Far be it from me to judge—but do bear in mind who you’re married to. Let’s keep our Russian friend happy, let our hair down, but not disgrace ourselves.”
“Sounds like a planski.”
•••
They caught a cab to Andre’s mansion, where the Russian instantly turned one of the palatial reception rooms into a mini nightclub, with dimmed lighting, loud music, and a bar in the corner. Andre and his brunette soon disappeared up the grand staircase.
“He probably wouldn’t mind if we went off home now,” said Harry.
“Aw, come on, guys,” said Storm, the other blonde. She began to dance, closing her eyes and running her fingers through her long hair. Then she opened them and beckoned to Charles. He joined her and put his hands on her waist, and they danced, their eyes locked, inching closer together.
“Feeling like a wallflower here,” said Caitlyn, sitting beside Harry on the enormous leather couch. She put her hand on his knee. “Shall we join in?”
Harry brought Ana’s face to mind. And Eliza’s. And then there was Janette, and Katie and Maria. The vodka was making him sentimental. He loved them all, his women and his girls. He didn’t want to hurt any of them, ever again.
