LOVING HARRY
Fashion designer Carla Kane has been too busy climbing the career ladder to sustain a long-term relationship – until she meets the charming, charismatic Harry Wilkinson, and falls deeply in love for the first time. There’s only one problem: Harry is already married to Barbara, a stay-at-home wife who’s been content until now to devote all her energies to looking after her husband and children. The close-knit Wilkinson family unit is blown apart when Harry leaves Barbara, deserting the family home to start a new life in Spain with Carla.
When Harry dies in strange circumstances, Carla does not know what to tell his family. His children want to evict her from the family home and the only weapon she has against them is the fact that she has recently discovered that, throughout their marriage, Harry and Barbara were keeping secrets from one another. Now that Carla has discovered the truth from an unexpected source, she has to decide whether to use this knowledge to save her home, knowing the devastation it would cause, or whether to let the past lie.
Available in paperback from most on-line bookstores and as an ebook from:
www.amazon.co.uk
www.amazon.com
Click here for a PREVIEW
Fashion designer Carla Kane has been too busy climbing the career ladder to sustain a long-term relationship – until she meets the charming, charismatic Harry Wilkinson, and falls deeply in love for the first time. There’s only one problem: Harry is already married to Barbara, a stay-at-home wife who’s been content until now to devote all her energies to looking after her husband and children. The close-knit Wilkinson family unit is blown apart when Harry leaves Barbara, deserting the family home to start a new life in Spain with Carla.
When Harry dies in strange circumstances, Carla does not know what to tell his family. His children want to evict her from the family home and the only weapon she has against them is the fact that she has recently discovered that, throughout their marriage, Harry and Barbara were keeping secrets from one another. Now that Carla has discovered the truth from an unexpected source, she has to decide whether to use this knowledge to save her home, knowing the devastation it would cause, or whether to let the past lie.
Available in paperback from most on-line bookstores and as an ebook from:
www.amazon.co.uk
www.amazon.com
Click here for a PREVIEW
Read an extract
The rain had stopped but the clouds hung over the Buckinghamshire countryside shrouding it in gloom. She had slipped down the motorway to the next exit then cut across the high ground, through Lane End, across Moor Common and into the village of Frieth. Tall trees lined the narrow roads, water still dripping from their leaves and collecting in small pools amongst their roots.Autumn arrived later these days and Carla wound down the car window to let in that sweet, fresh smell that brought with it memories of mouldering leaves and smoky bonfires. It was good to feel the damp air against her face. She was glad she had declined Jenny’s kind offer to collect her that morning and arranged for the hotel to get her a hire-car; the drive through the country lanes was raising her spirits.
Apart from a new conurbation of housing at Lane End nothing much had changed in the area. She came to the crossroads and carried straight across and up the hill. The village shop was where it had always been, as was the Yew Tree pub and at first glance the narrow High Street seemed unaltered. She felt hidden watchers follow her progress from the leaded glass windows of the tiny brick and flint cottages that lined the road. She was sure that little went unnoticed in this village. The church was at the top of the hill but she decided to park the car in the pub car-park and walk the rest of the way.
The church of St. John the Evangelist was a small, Victorian church originally built in the nineteenth century as a Chapel of Ease to the Parish Church of St. Mary the Virgin at Hambleden; Harry had been christened there, his father and grandfather were buried there and this was where she had decided that Harry too should be interred. It was tradition that had driven her to bury him here rather than faith; she had never been a religious person. As a child her mother had sent her to an Anglican Sunday School where she had learnt the Bible stories and coloured in pictures of saints and apostles along with other children that she never met anywhere else but there, but they never went to church as a family. When Harry died she had reached out to God hoping to find some comfort but none had come. She began to go to St. John’s Church in Málaga but the prayers and the hymns seemed superficial and nothing assuaged her grief. The congregation was almost entirely made up of retired English people, genteel middle-class souls who, if they had any money, gave no outward show of it. They were the sort of people she thought, peering at them from under her prayer folded hands, who, were they in England, would be striding about in tweeds and Barbour jackets, wearing sensible shoes. They kindly welcomed her into their midst, asking few questions and trying to involve her in rotas for flower arranging and visiting the elderly; they suggested she join the British Legion, the International Club, the Bridge Club, the Drama Group; whatever her persuasion there was a club to cater for it. Week after week she sat there listening to the organist mutilate the familiar hymns and tried to find a reason for being there; no gentle peace descended on her, cleansing her soul, easing her grief; no light dawned as to why these things happened in a world protected by a loving God; Jesus did not enter her heart and fill her with joy. Instead she sat there with the growing realisation that the Anglican Church was a middle-class institution designed to foster middle-class values and conservative ideas and God was their patron. The members of the congregation, when gathered outside in the bright Spanish sunshine, talked about coffee mornings and afternoon tea, drinks at six and the cheapest place to buy their gin. Ex-pats every one, they embraced the Spanish weather but clung to their English ways. After six weeks she knew she would never find salvation at St John’s and stopped attending.
The rain had stopped but the clouds hung over the Buckinghamshire countryside shrouding it in gloom. She had slipped down the motorway to the next exit then cut across the high ground, through Lane End, across Moor Common and into the village of Frieth. Tall trees lined the narrow roads, water still dripping from their leaves and collecting in small pools amongst their roots.Autumn arrived later these days and Carla wound down the car window to let in that sweet, fresh smell that brought with it memories of mouldering leaves and smoky bonfires. It was good to feel the damp air against her face. She was glad she had declined Jenny’s kind offer to collect her that morning and arranged for the hotel to get her a hire-car; the drive through the country lanes was raising her spirits.
Apart from a new conurbation of housing at Lane End nothing much had changed in the area. She came to the crossroads and carried straight across and up the hill. The village shop was where it had always been, as was the Yew Tree pub and at first glance the narrow High Street seemed unaltered. She felt hidden watchers follow her progress from the leaded glass windows of the tiny brick and flint cottages that lined the road. She was sure that little went unnoticed in this village. The church was at the top of the hill but she decided to park the car in the pub car-park and walk the rest of the way.
The church of St. John the Evangelist was a small, Victorian church originally built in the nineteenth century as a Chapel of Ease to the Parish Church of St. Mary the Virgin at Hambleden; Harry had been christened there, his father and grandfather were buried there and this was where she had decided that Harry too should be interred. It was tradition that had driven her to bury him here rather than faith; she had never been a religious person. As a child her mother had sent her to an Anglican Sunday School where she had learnt the Bible stories and coloured in pictures of saints and apostles along with other children that she never met anywhere else but there, but they never went to church as a family. When Harry died she had reached out to God hoping to find some comfort but none had come. She began to go to St. John’s Church in Málaga but the prayers and the hymns seemed superficial and nothing assuaged her grief. The congregation was almost entirely made up of retired English people, genteel middle-class souls who, if they had any money, gave no outward show of it. They were the sort of people she thought, peering at them from under her prayer folded hands, who, were they in England, would be striding about in tweeds and Barbour jackets, wearing sensible shoes. They kindly welcomed her into their midst, asking few questions and trying to involve her in rotas for flower arranging and visiting the elderly; they suggested she join the British Legion, the International Club, the Bridge Club, the Drama Group; whatever her persuasion there was a club to cater for it. Week after week she sat there listening to the organist mutilate the familiar hymns and tried to find a reason for being there; no gentle peace descended on her, cleansing her soul, easing her grief; no light dawned as to why these things happened in a world protected by a loving God; Jesus did not enter her heart and fill her with joy. Instead she sat there with the growing realisation that the Anglican Church was a middle-class institution designed to foster middle-class values and conservative ideas and God was their patron. The members of the congregation, when gathered outside in the bright Spanish sunshine, talked about coffee mornings and afternoon tea, drinks at six and the cheapest place to buy their gin. Ex-pats every one, they embraced the Spanish weather but clung to their English ways. After six weeks she knew she would never find salvation at St John’s and stopped attending.
Read an extract
She had met him at the charity fashion show. Baroness Zilinsky had invited her to take part in it to raise money for a charity to help deprived children, “Young Sport” it was called. It had been a glittering affair, held in a hotel in Kensington and everyone who was anyone was there, ex-kings, Saudi princesses, pop-stars, Jewish bankers, Russian businessmen, actors and actresses, the Baroness had many contacts. Carla was thrilled to be included, she took some of her favourite creations: zippered jackets made of rough crocodile leather and studded with diamonds, full-length leather coats with embossed shoulders, blouses made of soft calf skin tied at the waist with chunky belts, suede trousers in soft shades of plum and aubergine. She fussed around the models, checking their make-up, adjusting their hair, she would have liked to have dressed them all herself but that was impractical, so she contented herself with making small modifications to the final look, a last tweak at a hemline or a gentle tug at a sleeve, before she let them out on the cat-walk.
She had been so involved in making sure that everything went well that she had not noticed him at first, it was only when she was sitting back, her heart in her mouth, hoping that nothing had been overlooked and that the girls would strut their usual stuff, that she saw him. He sat to one side of the catwalk, a fairly ordinary looking man, dressed in casual jeans and an open shirt, but there was something about him that commanded attention. Maybe it was his eyes, the palest blue eyes she had ever seen. Or maybe his black hair, worn longer than the current fashion she noted, that flopped across his face like a teenager’s. He seemed to be looking straight at her and when he saw that she had seen him, he smiled and she felt a sudden jolt to her stomach. Perhaps it was because she was on a high from the show or just exhausted from all the preparations but the look he gave her made her feel weak. She felt her face grow hot and knew that she was blushing, she hurriedly turned away to concentrate on the compere whose glowing introduction was making the Baroness smile with pleasure. The fashion parade began, she tried to concentrate on the models, resisting the temptation to turn and see if he was still there, but the girls strutting on the platform in front of her lacked their usual fascination and his face kept reappearing in her mind. He could be a poet, she thought, or an actor, definitely someone artistic.
The music stopped and the applause began. Carla stood, turned to face the audience and bowed in gratitude. It had been a great success, for a moment she felt like a celebrity. Now it was the turn of another designer. The compere reappeared and began to announce the next collection, she gathered up her things and was about to slip away when a voice said:
‘Hi, are you leaving already?’
It was the man who had been looking at her, his voice was deep for such a slight man and there was just a touch of some country accent, Somerset or Berkshire, she could not quite place it.
‘Yes, I’ve got a lot to see to.’
‘Time for a quick drink?’
He smiled at her again, a wistful, lop-sided smile that turned her legs to jelly.
‘My name’s Harry, by the way, Harry Wilkinson,’ he continued, holding out his hand.
She took it nervously.
‘Carla Kane.’
‘I know.’
He nodded towards the banners with her name emblazoned on them.
She felt herself blushing again and was angry. This was not her, she was not a blushing teenager.
‘As I said, I’ve got quite a lot to pack up.’
‘Maybe later, when you’ve finished?’
She hesitated.
‘Come on, you should be celebrating, it was a great success.’
‘You think so?’
‘They loved it.’
‘It is for charity you know,’ she reminded him.
‘I know, but it can’t hurt your career, can it? There’re some pretty important people here tonight.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘So, what about that drink then?’
‘I’m supposed to stay for the party, afterwards. My agent says that’s the most important part of the evening, it’s when I could pick up some new clients.’
‘So you’ll still be working?’
His eyes never left her face.
‘I don’t need to stay too long,’ she found herself saying.
What was she doing? Jenny would be furious, this was a big event. Milk it for all your worth, she had told her, and here she was planning to leave early to have a drink with a man she had only just met.
‘Great. Do you know the Bull and Butcher? It’s just round the corner, I’ll wait for you there. Say around nine-thirty?’
‘Alright, nine-thirty.’
He smiled again and she felt the warmth of that smile reach out and touch her heart.
She had met him at the charity fashion show. Baroness Zilinsky had invited her to take part in it to raise money for a charity to help deprived children, “Young Sport” it was called. It had been a glittering affair, held in a hotel in Kensington and everyone who was anyone was there, ex-kings, Saudi princesses, pop-stars, Jewish bankers, Russian businessmen, actors and actresses, the Baroness had many contacts. Carla was thrilled to be included, she took some of her favourite creations: zippered jackets made of rough crocodile leather and studded with diamonds, full-length leather coats with embossed shoulders, blouses made of soft calf skin tied at the waist with chunky belts, suede trousers in soft shades of plum and aubergine. She fussed around the models, checking their make-up, adjusting their hair, she would have liked to have dressed them all herself but that was impractical, so she contented herself with making small modifications to the final look, a last tweak at a hemline or a gentle tug at a sleeve, before she let them out on the cat-walk.
She had been so involved in making sure that everything went well that she had not noticed him at first, it was only when she was sitting back, her heart in her mouth, hoping that nothing had been overlooked and that the girls would strut their usual stuff, that she saw him. He sat to one side of the catwalk, a fairly ordinary looking man, dressed in casual jeans and an open shirt, but there was something about him that commanded attention. Maybe it was his eyes, the palest blue eyes she had ever seen. Or maybe his black hair, worn longer than the current fashion she noted, that flopped across his face like a teenager’s. He seemed to be looking straight at her and when he saw that she had seen him, he smiled and she felt a sudden jolt to her stomach. Perhaps it was because she was on a high from the show or just exhausted from all the preparations but the look he gave her made her feel weak. She felt her face grow hot and knew that she was blushing, she hurriedly turned away to concentrate on the compere whose glowing introduction was making the Baroness smile with pleasure. The fashion parade began, she tried to concentrate on the models, resisting the temptation to turn and see if he was still there, but the girls strutting on the platform in front of her lacked their usual fascination and his face kept reappearing in her mind. He could be a poet, she thought, or an actor, definitely someone artistic.
The music stopped and the applause began. Carla stood, turned to face the audience and bowed in gratitude. It had been a great success, for a moment she felt like a celebrity. Now it was the turn of another designer. The compere reappeared and began to announce the next collection, she gathered up her things and was about to slip away when a voice said:
‘Hi, are you leaving already?’
It was the man who had been looking at her, his voice was deep for such a slight man and there was just a touch of some country accent, Somerset or Berkshire, she could not quite place it.
‘Yes, I’ve got a lot to see to.’
‘Time for a quick drink?’
He smiled at her again, a wistful, lop-sided smile that turned her legs to jelly.
‘My name’s Harry, by the way, Harry Wilkinson,’ he continued, holding out his hand.
She took it nervously.
‘Carla Kane.’
‘I know.’
He nodded towards the banners with her name emblazoned on them.
She felt herself blushing again and was angry. This was not her, she was not a blushing teenager.
‘As I said, I’ve got quite a lot to pack up.’
‘Maybe later, when you’ve finished?’
She hesitated.
‘Come on, you should be celebrating, it was a great success.’
‘You think so?’
‘They loved it.’
‘It is for charity you know,’ she reminded him.
‘I know, but it can’t hurt your career, can it? There’re some pretty important people here tonight.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘So, what about that drink then?’
‘I’m supposed to stay for the party, afterwards. My agent says that’s the most important part of the evening, it’s when I could pick up some new clients.’
‘So you’ll still be working?’
His eyes never left her face.
‘I don’t need to stay too long,’ she found herself saying.
What was she doing? Jenny would be furious, this was a big event. Milk it for all your worth, she had told her, and here she was planning to leave early to have a drink with a man she had only just met.
‘Great. Do you know the Bull and Butcher? It’s just round the corner, I’ll wait for you there. Say around nine-thirty?’
‘Alright, nine-thirty.’
He smiled again and she felt the warmth of that smile reach out and touch her heart.