Page 114 of Wife After Wife
Charles grinned. “How about it, Harry? Last to the Stag on the River buys a round, quick pint before home.”
Harry couldn’t resist. “You’re on.”
Their route began on the M3, then cut across to avoid the roadworks that had slowed them on the way south. Harry’s spirits soared as he sped along in his new baby, on an achingly beautiful late-summer evening. Above the golden cornfields, the sky was a deep blue. Megan was well, and Harry was going to be a dad again in a few months’ time. Maybe this time it’d be a boy. Life was bloody great.
He was almost at the pub now, speeding at ninety-five along the Guildford bypass, the deep roar of the Aston Martin’s engine filling his ears. If the police nabbed him, so be it. It was worth it.
In his rearview mirror, he saw Charles’s red Ferrari for the first time since leaving Southampton. Thanks to a fortuitous series of green lights, Harry had gained a comfortable lead even before leaving the coast. He glanced in his mirror again—the Ferrari was gaining on him. He accelerated, pulling out to overtake an Audi.
He pulled back into the slow lane. Ahead, a weekend driver in a Ford Mondeo was hogging the outside lane; he’d have to pass it on the inside. He looked in the mirror again and made out Andre leaning forward,egging Charles on. He grinned to himself. But as he returned his eyes to the road ahead, he saw a blue hatchback pulling onto the carriageway from the slip road.
He was going to hit it.
Instinctively he swung right, straight into the Mondeo.
There was a terrific bang and the screech of metal, the squealing of tires. Time seemed to slow as Harry gripped the wheel, trying to regain control. But he was powerless as the Aston flew back across the road toward a hedge of tall trees. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the tree trunk directly in his path.
CHAPTER 35
Harry
Life turns on such tiny moments of fate.
Harry’s mind was wandering, woozy from drugs as he lay immobile after his second round of surgery.
If one of those green lights had been red, or he hadn’t phoned Ana before leaving Southampton, or the M3 hadn’t been covered in cones, then he wouldn’t be here. And Ana wouldn’t have lost their baby.
He remembered nothing of the accident two weeks earlier. His last memory was of swerving to avoid the little blue car, then nothing.
The Mondeo driver, a kind man by the name of Alan, had regained control of his car, in spite of the enormous swipe that had sent him careening toward the median barrier. He’d escaped with only whiplash. Alan confirmed to the police that Harry had been driving dangerously but otherwise hadn’t wanted to cause any bother. Harry had sent him a check that would cover the cost of a new car—something rather more exciting than a Mondeo.
After the emergency services had cut Harry out of his Aston, he’d been taken to the Royal Surrey. One leg was crushed and he had severe internal injuries. He went straight into surgery and from there to intensive care.
Charles had driven back to London to break the news to Anapersonally, then had taken her to Guildford. The surgeon had told them Harry might not last the night.
As they waited, hour after interminable hour, the stress became too much for Ana. She’d started to have contractions and was admitted to the hospital herself. Efforts to halt the early labor had failed, and by the time Harry was out of danger, the baby was lost.
When Harry came to, his brain fuzzy with medication, the doctors had explained that his shattered leg bones had been pinned together with rods and plates, and he would need ongoing surgery. It could take up to a year before he could walk properly again. In the meantime he’d be laid up for weeks, if not months, and could be left with a limp.
Later, a nurse had told him about Ana.
When he was stable, Harry had been transferred to a hospital closer to home. His first visitor after the move was Charles.
“Guess I’m gonna have to find myself a temporary tennis partner,” joked his friend, looking at the metal contraption encasing Harry’s leg. It resembled a Tudor-era torture instrument. “Bloody inconsiderate if you ask me.” Then his smile disappeared. “Harry, I’m sorry—”
“Not your fault. Just shitty luck.”
“At least you’re still here, old boy. It was touch and go for a while there. How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad, until the painkillers start to wear off. How’s Ana?”
Charles looked away, fixing his eyes on the machine beeping behind Harry’s head. “Pretty upset, obviously, especially about the baby.”
“Does she blame me?”
“I don’t know. She knows about the race, and that you were driving dangerously.” He looked at Harry again. “Your Tom Cranwell’s on track to get you off with a fine, by the way. But Ana... well, you know how excited she was about this baby. She’s bound to be upset, worrying about you and coping with that. But she’s young. Plenty of time for another.”
Where had Harry heard that before?
