Page 110 of Wife After Wife
It was Saturday night, and Tegan’s evening off. Ana had just put Eliza to bed, and the house was silent. She closed the drawing room curtains, looking out at the street below, where wrought-iron lamps cast pools of light on the pavement.
Earlier today, Harry had gone to a football match with Charles and the Russian oligarch—what was his name? Smirnoff, or something. Harry wanted him to invest in Rose Corp.’s football channel and had taken him to see Arsenal play Manchester United. No doubt they were now at dinner somewhere eye-wateringly expensive. It was like trying to woo a princess.
The Russian was a football fanatic, and Harry had been swotting up on the beautiful game, being more of a rugger man himself.Match of the Dayvideos were stacked up around the TV. Harry had been looking forward to seeing “Man U.” Even Ana knew the club was on a roll this season. David Beckham was playing. He and his soon-to-be wife, Victoria, had featured in theRackrecently, and Terri had had the clever idea of asking Victoria to interview David, instead of doing it herself.
“Good grief, Terri,” Ana had said. “You must be the only woman in Britain to turn down one-on-one time with Becks.”
The photos of the incredibly photogenic pair had been a dream, and Ana had longed to design the layouts. Oh well, she’d be back at it soon, doing what she loved again.
She fetched her PowerBook and sat down to work on her business plan. Charles was going to give it the once-over before it was presented to the board. She’d found the perfect premises, on the top floor of a converted warehouse in Covent Garden. The rent was high, but Harry’s pockets were suddenly deep—one benefit of busting his affair.
She opened the document, brought up the Global Search and Replace window, and typed in “Ana Rose Design.”
Yesterday, Terri had said, “Not liking that name anymore, babe.”
“Why not? It was your idea.”
“Changed my mind. Rose isn’t your name, it’s his. New millennium coming, Ana. We women need to step it up.”
“So—Ana Lyebon Design? But I never call myself that.”
Terri grinned. “How about Ice Queen Design?”
“Sounds like a skate-wear company.”
“IQ Design,” said Terri. “You’re welcome.”
As she clicked Replace All, she looked at her watch: seven thirty. She wasn’t sorry Harry hadn’t asked her to join them for dinner. The Russian was apparently going to invite them to his mansion, so she’d meet him soon enough. She’d play the corporate wife, but felt uneasy about it. The papers were full of the “New Russians,” hinting at their connections to corrupt officials and criminal bosses. They made London’s own breed ofgangsters look positively cuddly. She wished Harry could have found a less menacing prospect.
Harry
As Harry looked for a taxi, he resolved never to take Andre Sokolov to a favorite restaurant again. His behavior had been excruciating, demanding off-menu dishes and obscure wines. Afterward, Harry had sought a quiet word with the maître d’ for fear he’d never be given his preferred table again.
Andre was well on the way to sozzledom and was giving Charles hearty slaps on the back. “My wonderful English friends, is best day in your country I ever have. The night is but young! We go to Annabel’s now, I think. Always many lovely young girls at this place.”
Harry and Charles exchanged a glance. If Andre wanted Annabel’s, Andre would get Annabel’s.
They were shown to a table with a ringside view of the rich and the beautiful. Andre ordered vintage Dom Pérignon that undoubtedly cost more than all three football tickets, before heading off to the dance floor.
“Churlish not to,” shouted Harry above the music, pouring two glasses of champagne.
“Successful day, wouldn’t you say?” said Charles.
“Not to jinx it, but I’d say we have our partner. Here’s to you, Charles, and I’d expect your bank to be suitably generous when it comes to bonus time.”
Andre returned with his arms around two girls, and one more following behind. The brunette sat on his lap, while the two blondes squeezed in on either side of Harry and Charles. Charles gave Harry a small smile and shook his head a little. Harry wasn’t sure whether it was ano wayshake or awhat can you do?shake.
“London girls not so beautiful as Russians,” hollered Andre, “but much more fun times!”
“Dom Pérignon!” said the blonde next to Charles. “My favorite tipple.”
“I’m Caitlyn,” said the girl next to Harry. “And you’re Harry Rose.”
“That’s right, how clever of you.”
Colored lights from the dance floor swept across her pale hair, turning it purple, green, and red, and illuminating her face, which was model pretty. And very young. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. Her dress screamed,I’m ripe now—peel me!It was low cut at the front and barely covered her thighs. Harry tried not to let his eyes settle on the twin globes spilling over her neckline.
No. He wasn’t going down that road again. A blond temptress had led him by the nose before, and that hadn’t ended well.
