Page 3 of Wife After Wife
Bono had leaped down off the stage—a not insignificant drop—and was trying to haul someone out of the crowd.
“Language, darling. You’ll have to stop that when there are little ears listening.”
“Sorry. Cup of tea?”
“Lovely, thanks.”
“English breakfast or mad pregnancy flavor?”
“Raspberry leaf, please.”
As he gently lifted her feet off his lap, Katie wondered if the cup would runneth over. Could life be any more perfect? Her tall, golden-haired Adonis there, busy in the kitchen of this idyllic cottage. Baby kicking in its appreciation of U2.
They’d been monitoring its responses to the bands. Status Quo had provoked the liveliest reaction so far, and Harry had wondered if denim rompers were a thing. That afternoon they’d spotted a pair of denim booties in Mothercare, and those were now sitting on the mantelpiece, along with a number of invitations, all of which they’d ignored since moving into their summer bolt-hole.
One of them was, in fact, a pair of tickets to Live Aid, with a note from Harry’s best friend, Charles. Like Harry, he was so well connected he could get tickets for absolutely anything: cricket at Lord’s, Centre Court at Wimbledon, the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.
Katie idly wondered if Harry had missed going to the summer events this year. He wanted to go to Live Aid, but Katie, eight and a half months pregnant, had preferred to stay home and watch it on TV. They’d had a near row; apparently this was going to betherock concert of the eighties. Surely she could manage a first-class train journey and a taxi ride to Wembley, Harry had said.
Katie had cursed inwardly when they’d spotted Charles and his wife, Cassandra, sitting two rows behind the Prince and Princess of Wales. Harry’s jaw had tightened. Hereallyhated to miss out, especially when his best mate, who was also something of a substitute older brother, was around. To distract him, she’d wondered out loud what Prince Charles and Bob Geldof might talk about between acts, but Harry had only grunted and left the room.
Charles probably considered Harry under the thumb. Katie got on well with him but suspected he wasn’t in favor of Harry taking up withsomeone older, quieter, more sensible. Possibly boring. Someone who’d been old-fashioned enough to expect Harry to marry her when she got pregnant.
Rock concerts weren’t really Katie’s thing. At twenty-seven, she already felt too old. The only performer she would have enjoyed was Paul McCartney. And maybe Elton John. The argument had been the first time she felt that the five-year age gap between them mattered.
She started as Harry put the mug down in front of her.
The Beach Boys were now playing, and the baby had gone quiet.
Katie picked up her tea. “Baby’s not a Beach Boys fan. I loved them when I was a girl.”
“Before my time,” remarked Harry, putting his feet up on the coffee table.
Katie looked sideways at him, but his face was expressionless. As he bent to sip his tea, a lock of hair fell forward—he’d let it grow longer on top, and the floppiness suited him.
The sun, now lower in the sky, slanted through the window, throwing puddles of light on the rugs and illuminating a vase of red roses she’d picked from the garden.
Katie’s heart constricted as she contemplated Harry’s profile. Her husband was outrageously beautiful. The sun was catching his long, thick eyelashes and his silky mane of hair, lightened by summer. Beneath fine blond hairs, the skin on his arms was sun kissed to a golden brown.
It was like sharing the sofa with a lion.
Unable to resist, she lifted a hand to stroke back the lock of hair, but Harry was already jumping up and pulling a curtain across. Then he sat down in an armchair, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“That’s better. Couldn’t see before.”
She felt the empty space beside her. The silence that had been so comfortable all at once felt awkward. It was as if she could sense Harry’s thoughts, turning from rock concerts and lazy summer days to the responsibilities of fatherhood and supporting her, his wife of two months.She sat up straighter, aware of her enormous bump. Oh, to have a waist again.
The beginning of their relationship had been anything but typical. No meeting down at the pub or at a university party for them. In fact, they had first met properly, as adults, at his father’s funeral. Harry had been in his final year at Eton when Henry Rose unexpectedly died of a lung infection that should have been easily curable. Harry suspected his father had never recovered from losing both his wife and eldest son within a year of each other.
Harry and his two sisters had suddenly found themselves orphans, and Harry had looked like a little boy lost.
Katie had known the family from when she dated Harry’s older brother, Art. Their mothers had been friends, and the two families shared a villa in the South of France in the summer of 1974. On the third day, Art had shyly asked if he could kiss her, behind the bougainvillea.
Katie remembered Harry, already wickedly good-looking at the age of eleven, full of life, cannonballing into the swimming pool. He was as tall as Art, and while the older brother had been quiet and thoughtful, the younger had been full of exuberant self-confidence.
When Art died in a freak skiing accident, Katie had been terribly sad. He’d been her first proper boyfriend. And Harry was heartbroken—she remembered him sobbing at the funeral.
Then, less than a year later, Harry’s mother had died. The two families lost touch after that, and rumor had it that Harry’s father, Henry, had turned to drink in his grief and rarely left his country pile. A few years later, he too had died.
