Page 149 of Wife After Wife
“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 ofDirty Rascalscame 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 theaudience, 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 andjeans 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 inHooray!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 inHooray!
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.”
