Page 140 of Wife After Wife
“I agree. Tell you what, I’ll unpartner you. Like an online divorce. Then we can just be special friends.”
“Perfect.” He put a friendly arm around her shoulder. “Every cloud, right, Anki?”
“Quite,” Anki said, in a clipped imitation of Harry’s voice.
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.
