Page 143 of Wife After Wife
Caitlyn
I thought those went out yesterday?” said Florence Wells, head of Limelight PR, as she passed Caitlyn’s desk. Caitlyn was stuffing face serum samples into courier bags, along with mermaid-shaped invitations to the launch of this breakthrough treatment that contained extract of sustainable sea grass. Or something.
She was ready with her excuse. “Sorry, I slunk off early last night—hot date I needed to get ready for. It was a maximum prep job. Hair, nails, skin buff, the works.”
Florence halted. Florence liked to know everything. “Anyone I know?”
The smirk was coming, whether Caitlyn wanted it to or not. “Probably. Harry Rose.”
“What!TheHarry Rose? You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. We met at the gym. He fell off his treadmill and I picked him up. In both senses of the word, actually.”
“But he must be—what? Twenty years older than you?”
“Isodon’t have a problem with that. And he’s such a gentleman.”
“Gosh,” said Florence. “I met him once, years ago.” (Florence was of indeterminate age, thanks to a skin clinic close enough for lunchtime Botox sessions.) “He looked like a Greek god. I hear he’s made theForbesrich list this year.”
“Really?”
“Number eighteen, I believe. Are you seeing him again?”
“Forbes-so-lutely! Tonight, actually. I hope.”
“Wow, good work, Caitlyn. Um... what about Frankie?”
Caitlyn’s smile disappeared. “Look, it’s one date. I’ll worry about Frankie if and when I have to.”
Caitlyn went back to stuffing envelopes. It was a good, mindless task, allowing her thoughts to roam free. Yes, it had only been one date, but she was sure Harry’s interest was more than a passing fancy. He’d opened up to her over their tapas and had implied he was ready for another relationship after the death of his wife.
Of course, Caitlyn had googled Harry again as soon as she got home, in more depth this time. She’d examined the photos of Harry’s three wives with interest. The first one, Katie, was attractive in a classy, understated way. Number two, Ana, was of course a style icon, all sleek raven hair and dark eyes. The third one was a surprise. Sweet faced, but ordinary. Caitlyn would worry about matching up to numbers one and two but figured she’d trounce number three.
She sealed another package and threw it onto the pile. It was early days, but Caitlyn dared to wonder if, this time, things would be different.
Most—no, make thatall—of Caitlyn’s personal relationships, from the day she was born, had been shit. Her drug-addicted mother had died when Caitlyn was five. Unable to cope, her father had sent her to live with her grandmother, an impoverished aristocrat whose life had got stuck in 1967, the summer of love. She lived in a crumbling mansion in what she called an eco-community, but they were just aging hippies and their families.
The children of Chesworth Manor had been left to their own devices, under the guise of raising them in an environment free of constricting boundaries, which included going to school only if they felt like it.
When Caitlyn was thirteen, a rock musician freeloading at themanor had taught Caitlyn the guitar. With her ignorance of societal norms, she hadn’t realized it wasn’t usual for a music teacher to sit his pupil on his lap and, after gaining her trust, sexually abuse her.
And where Mannox went first, others soon followed.
When they were fourteen, Caitlyn and her friend Storm ran away to London. Caitlyn picked up a little modeling work, which was also her ticket into clubs and B-list social events. Soon, she and Storm were frequently in the company of men who had no idea the girls were underage.
“Coffee, sweetness?”
Caitlyn was brought back into the moment by Anton, her office BFF, perched on her desk holding two takeaway cups.
“Thanks.”
“What’s up? You were a zillion miles away.”
“I was just thinking about all the shitty relationships I’ve had and wondering if this guy I went out with last night might be a bit less shitty.”
“Who! Do tell.” Anton was more camp than a scout jamboree.
“Older man, but rich and handsome.”
