Page 175 of Wife After Wife
As Harry looked at the report, he could see it showed promise.
There was a knock on his door, and he waved Aleesha in.
“Mr. Latham’s here, Mr. R—sorry, Harry.”
Bugger. He’d forgotten Howe’s ambulance chaser of a lawyer was due. He hated the calendar app on his computer, but a desk diary was so last century.
Five minutes later, Aleesha placed two coffees in front of Harry and the lawyer, and once again Harry was treated to a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage.
“Thank you, Aleesha. Aha—real cups. Excellent!”
“Zero waste, Harry,” she said, and winked.
“Still pulling the young girls, eh?” said Latham as she left.
“Get to the point. I’m a busy man.”
Once again, the sniveling little lawyer trotted out his convoluted case, that Harry owed compensation to “Howie” Howe for the unreasonable behavior that had driven his daughter to suicide.
“Mr. Latham, unless you have something to add to the ridiculous accusations you leveled at me last time, I suggest you leave now. Why are you even here?”
“Mr. Howe now has evidence of verbal abuse, witnessed by your ex-lawyer. Mr. Cranwell is willing to testify that this would have significantly contributed to Caitlyn’s decision to kill herself. If you don’t want Mr. Howe to go to the press, I’d strongly advise an out-of-court settlement.”
“Hm. That would be the same Mr. Cranwell who sexually assaulted Caitlyn at the Rose offices—as witnessed by a receptionist who was similarly harassed by him. I suggest you leave now, Latham. Goodbye.”
The lawyer was sensible enough to do as he was told, and Harry was left alone.
An unwelcome image of Cranwell groping Caitlyn flashed into his mind, followed swiftly by a rush of shame. He should have believed her when she said she’d had nothing to do with the blackmail. Deep down,he’d known she was telling the truth. But at the time he was still too hurt by her infidelity to act reasonably.
Hypocrite, said the voice in his head.
He’d abandoned her, leaving her to be assaulted one last time, just before she ended her short life.
Maybe Harry shouldn’t be worrying about this #MeToo business, after all. Maybe he should welcome it, if it could expose creeps like Cranwell. Supposing someone assaulted Eliza like that. He’d want her to hashtag the hell out of whoever it was.
The phone rang. “It’s your sister, Harry,” said Aleesha.
“Put her through.” He was glad of the distraction.
“Megan! What can I do for you on this particularly grim and gray morning? Recovered from Christmas?”
“It’s not Megan, it’s Margot.”
Good lord, number one sister? Why on earth was she ringing him? He hadn’t seen her for years; she rarely left her Scottish castle.
“Quelle surprise!To what do I owe this honor?”
“It’s been so long, Harry. My New Year’s resolution is to do something about that. How about coming up for a weekend? I’m inviting Megan and Charles too. Bring the children. And your new wife, of course. This one’s called Clare, I believe?”
A few seconds in and she was already passive-aggressively judging him.
“That’s right. Well, I don’t see why not.”
“If you come before the end of the month, we can shoot pheasant. It would be nice for you to get to know Robbie better too.”
Harry could hardly remember her husband. He pictured the dour laird who’d never laughed at his jokes.
“And our daughters—Mackenzie and Eliza are about the same age.”
