by Jo Carnegie
About the Book
Life isn’t fun without a scandal
Newly-weds Caro and Benedict have swapped country life in Churchminster for an exclusive London mews. It’s blissful . . . until Benedict’s sister arrives, bringing with her a dangerous secret.
Fashionable socialite Saffron lives next door. She always thought the countryside was boring, but when she’s invited to Churchminster she is shocked to learn just how dirty rural life can get.
Saffron’s boss, workaholic editor Catherine, is fighting to save her ailing magazine. But her scandalous past threatens to destroy everything, especially when rugged builder John Milton strides into her life.
Following a sexy, colourful cast through city and country, Naked Truths is an addictive, funny, feel-good romantic romp.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Map
July
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
August
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
September
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
October
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
November
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
December
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
January
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
February
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
March
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
April
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
May
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Jo Carnegie
Copyright
Naked Truths
Jo Carnegie
To Emma Messenger, my ideal ‘ideal reader’
JULY
Chapter 1
SAFFRON WALDEN PEELED open a mascara-clogged eye. High above, a dusty lampshade dangled precariously from a peeling ceiling. Where was she? Saffron blinked and tried to focus. Her head pulsated unpleasantly, and fuzzy snapshots of last night danced through her mind. Oh God, it was all coming back to her now: she should never have let Fernando talk her into buying that last round of tequila slammers.
Saffron groaned loudly and struggled to sit up. As the duvet fell off she caught sight of herself in the cracked mirror opposite: alabaster white skin, small pert breasts, and a mop of peroxide blonde hair sticking out like it belonged to Worzel Gummidge. The remnants of last night’s Amy Winehouse-inspired eyeliner were streaked halfway down her cheeks.
‘You look like shit,’ she told herself, which wasn’t strictly true. Twenty-four-year-old Saffron Walden had an effortless cool that made her look cutting edge no matter how monumental the hangover.
‘You look pretty good from where I am, cariño,’ crooned a voice lustily. Saffron turned to find the glorious tanned physique of Fernando stretched out beside her. He was a beautiful Mexican barman she’d met in a club and been dating a whole six weeks.
Saffron looked round the bedsit distastefully. ‘Have you never heard of a Hoover? This place is a shit hole.’
‘I thought you liked it dirty,’ he breathed. Despite the pounding against her temples, Saffron resisted the urge to giggle. He’d clearly been watching too much cheap porn recently. Fernando smiled back at her, and looked pointedly downwards. A large bulge was forming like a mushroom cloud under the duvet.
‘I’ll give you something to look happy about,’ he said, suddenly pulling her on top of him. As he started grinding his hips against hers, Saffron could feel his erection burrowing underneath her like an overexcited ferret.
‘I feel like crap!’ she protested.
‘Shut up.’ Fernando kissed her, his tongue working into her mouth. He smelt of sweat and sex, mixed in with the faint tang of alcohol and aftershave. As his hands started running expertly over Saffron’s body, she started to respond.
‘Mmm . . .’
Miraculously, Saffron’s headache was starting to disappear. Fernando wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, she reflected, but he was a bloody good shag. He looked up from enthusiastically sucking her left nipple. ‘I told you I’d make you feel better,’ he murmured throatily. One hand slid down and roughly pulled her legs apart.
Succumbing to the moment, Saffron sighed happily and reached for the bumper box of condoms on the bedside table. Her jaw dropped. ‘Fuck me!’
Fernando groaned theatrically. ‘Yeah, baby!’
‘Not you, idiot!’ Snapping her legs together like a vice, Saffron grabbed the alarm clock. The red digits glared back accusingly: 10.10 a.m. ‘Shit, I am so late for work!’
Disentangling herself from Fernando’s amorous grip, she tumbled from the bed in a heap of long limbs. Her lover watched in disbelief as she retrieved a minuscule G-string from the floor.
‘Baby, you can’t leave me like this, my balls are gonna burst!’
But Saffron had already disappeared into the bathroom.
Exactly thirty-seven minutes later, Saffron flew through the doors of Valour Publishing, a gleaming modern tower just minutes away from the designer heaven of Bond Street in central London.
‘Late again, Saff?’ called out the cheery cockney security guard on the front desk. Saffron rolled her eyes as she rushed towards the lifts.
The middle doors opened to reveal the welcome form of Harriet Fraser, laden down with exquisitely wrapped parcels. Harriet beamed at Saffron. ‘Just on my way up from the post room. I think Catherine’s been sent another Cartier watch.’
The mountain of packages started to slide, and a small pink box fell out of Harriet’s arms. ‘Oh cripes!’ she gasped, but Saffron had dived into the lift and caught it. The doors slid shut.
‘Ouch, that hurt,’ Saffron winced, clutching her head.
‘Big night?’ Harriet’s eyes twinkled.
‘Wasn’t meant to be. Do I smell like a brewery?’
‘Nothing a Polo mint can’t cure. I’ve got some in my desk if you want.’
Saffron exhaled loudly and surveyed her wild-looking reflection in the mirrored wall. ‘I can’t believe I bloody overslept again. Catherine’s going to give me such a bollocking.’ Her face dropped even further. ‘Oh God, I’ve just remembered – I was meant to be doing a phone interview with Stella McCartney at 10 a.m.!’
The lift door pinged, and
the doors slid open on to the fourth floor. As they got out, Harriet turned to Saffron, who was looking distinctly green round the gills. ‘Don’t panic,’ she said kindly. ‘Catherine’s still at her editors’ breakfast, and Stella’s PR called. She’s been struck down with some bug, so the interview’s been rescheduled for next week. I’ve left a Post-it note with the details on your computer.’
Saffron grinned at her. ‘Dearest H, where would I be without you? In fact, where would any of us be without you? I can’t believe you’ve only been here six weeks.’
Harriet’s cheeks went pink. ‘Really?’
‘Totally! And the other day I overheard Catherine saying to the art desk that you’re the best PA she’s ever had. You’re like, a million times better than that useless old trollop Miranda. She only applied for the job because she thought she’d get to shag loads of male models.’ Saffron snorted. ‘As if!’ They reached the office doors, and Saffron glanced through the porthole window. ‘I’ve got to go and change in the loo. I had to make an emergency dash to Top Shop; otherwise everyone will know I’m a dirty little stop-out. Will you cover for me?’
‘I haven’t seen you,’ said Harriet, smiling.
‘You’re a star!’ Saffron placed the pink box in Harriet’s arms and rushed off down the corridor towards the ladies.
Harriet watched Saffron go, flushing with pleasure. They really liked her! When she’d applied for the position at renowned glossy magazine Soirée, she’d never thought she’d get an interview, let alone the actual job.
Her father, Sir Ambrose Fraser, hadn’t been able to understand why she wanted to leave her quaint little cottage in the gorgeous Cotswolds village where she had grown up. ‘Leave Churchminster? To move to London? What the bloody hell for?’ he had bellowed during their weekly Sunday dinner at Clanfield Hall.
Her mother, Lady Frances, had been more understanding. Harriet had been through some life-changing experiences in the past few years. As well as going travelling, she had been very involved in organizing the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction. The event had been put on to raise funds to buy a piece of the village under threat of development, and it had been a roaring success. It made her realize she really was good at something.
At the age of thirty-two, with no real career track record apart from occasional secretarial duties for her father, Harriet had known life was passing her by. So when the job as Soirée PA/events coordinator had been advertised in the Media Guardian, she’d immediately sent in her CV. Two weeks later she’d been offered the job.
Sir Ambrose had retired to his study and refused to speak to her for three days. But thankfully her mother had taken her side. ‘Churchminster will always be here, darling,’ Frances had told her as they’d walked arm-in-arm round the grounds of the Hall one fresh spring evening. ‘This job opportunity won’t.’
So six weeks ago, at the start of June, Harriet had packed up the Golf, put her beloved Puffa waistcoats in the attic, and left. Driving away from the little cottage she lived in on her parents’ estate had been dreadfully hard, especially when they, along with Cook and Mrs Bantry, the housekeeper, had come to wave her off.
Blinded by tears, Harriet had reversed over Sir Ambrose’s foot by accident and nearly crashed into a ditch. Then halfway down the M4, she had been gripped by a sudden terror. It had taken all her strength not to come off at the next junction and flee home. What if she wasn’t right for London, and Soirée? Everyone had seemed so stylish and together when Harriet had gone for her interview. Where on earth would her Laura Ashley wardrobe fit in?
To her immense relief, the team had been a down-to-earth lot, who were so pleased to have someone efficient after the disastrous Miranda that Harriet was given a hero’s welcome on her first day. She enjoyed working for the editor, too, the formidable Catherine Connor. Tough but fair, Catherine set high, exacting standards, and Harriet was relishing the challenge of meeting them.
As well as managing Catherine’s diary and making sure the office ran smoothly, Harriet was in charge of organizing Soirée’s famous autumn cocktail party. This year it was being held at the Natural History Museum. Harriet had been thrown in at the deep end, and was rushed off her feet liaising with florists and caterers, lighting people and guest lists, but she’d never felt so alive. Most nights, she would turn down invites from Saffron to go to one launch party or the other, and return to her rented garden flat in Fulham, exhausted but happy. For the first time in her life, Harriet felt like she was achieving something.
The only downside was that her love life was still so barren she made Ann Widdecombe look like a wanton harlot. She’d had one date, a picnic in St James’s Park with the brother of an old school friend, but it had ended up being a complete disaster. Hugh Bonneville-Thorpe-Radcliffe was fresh out of the Priory, having suffered a mental breakdown from his high-pressured job as a city trader. After two hours recounting every excruciating detail of his therapy sessions, he’d unexpectedly tried to mount Harriet’s leg. She still hadn’t managed to push him off by the time a nearby gardener had turned his hose on them, before frogmarching the pair out. Harriet hadn’t seen Hugh – or St James’s Park – since.
Despite the mortifying experience, Harriet knew there was a man out there for her. South-west London was teeming with jolly, well-built men striding around purposefully with cricket jumpers tied over their shoulders. One of them had to be her Mr Right; she couldn’t rely on the brooding Heathcliffe types in her romance novels for much longer.
But for now there were more pressing things to think about. Pushing the swing door open with her foot, Harriet entered the office. Music blared out from the stereo in the corner, while several staff tripped across the office on their way to a cup of tea and a gossip in the kitchen. Harriet remembered the first time she had walked in: it had looked like a cross between Ugly Betty and The Devil Wears Prada. Racks of expensive clothes had stood everywhere, while clouds of perfume and glitter billowed out from the beauty desk. All around there had been noise, and people laughing and talking loudly into their phones or shouting across the office about something. At that moment Harriet had felt like she’d stumbled on a really fun party, and she’d never wanted to leave.
Manoeuvring her way around the crate of Moët that had been sent from yet another PR company, Harriet deposited the parcels on her desk. Almost immediately the phone started ringing. With a smile she snatched up the receiver.
‘Good morning, Soirée magazine!’
Chapter 2
CATHERINE CONNOR WAS preoccupied as she strode through the office doors half an hour later, having finally escaped her breakfast meeting.
She had always dreaded editors’ breakfasts; they were just an excuse for most of them to show off their latest Chanel handbag, or get one over on a rival: ‘Such a shame Keira dropped out of your cover shoot – did I tell you we’ve got her for our Christmas issue?’
To her discomfort, Catherine had ended up sitting next to her arch-rival Isabella Montgomery. Isabella was editor of Grace, a monthly glossy that tried to be like Soirée but was nothing more than a collection of uninspiring features and advertisements. Small, pin-thin and with shiny blonde hair blow-dried daily at Nicky Clarke’s Mayfair salon, 43-year-old Isabella hid a vicious character behind her red-lipsticked smile.
‘Cath-a-rine!’ she had cried, when Catherine had entered the private dining room at the plush Wolseley hotel in Piccadilly. No one would have guessed that just twelve hours earlier Isabella had been naked save for a pair of thigh-length PVC boots, and riding her latest conquest to an early grave. He was a 71-year-old multi-millionaire German count, with the unfortunate combination of an over-ambitious libido and a pacemaker. Isabella liked money, power and sex – in that order.
‘I was just discussing Soirée’s plummeting sales figures with Fiona! You poor thing, you must be having a horrendous time.’
Fiona MacKenzie, the Australian editor of Teen Style magazine, had rolled her eyes behind Isabella’s back. Though no one woul
d dare say it to her pinched little face, Isabella Montgomery was about as popular in the industry as Ozzy Osbourne at a vicar’s tea party.
Isabella never passed up the chance to undermine Catherine; it was an open secret that she had got down to the last two for the Soirée editorship, and had been so sure of success she’d organized a congratulations party for herself. The day after Catherine got the job, a picture of a furious Isabella, sitting amongst dozens of open champagne bottles, at a party no one turned up to, was gleefully printed in several newspapers. The champagne sponsors had demanded compensation, and Isabella’s employers at the time had given her the sack. It had taken two years of arse-licking and giving blow jobs to the right people before Isabella got offered the Grace editorship, but her reputation had been tarnished. Jealous of Catherine’s success, Isabella somehow blamed her for all her misfortunes, and had had it in for her ever since.
Catherine had raised an elegant eyebrow at Isabella’s latest jibe. ‘They’re hardly plummeting.’
Isabella had arched an over-plucked eyebrow back. ‘But they are down, darling, aren’t they? I read something about it in the Media Guardian last week.’ A smug smile had flittered across her lips. ‘Slippery slope and all that. You must be beside yourself with worry, especially with Sir Robin Hackford at the helm now.’
Sir Robin ‘Hatchet’ Hackford was the chairman on Valour’s board of directors. A ruthless businessman, he had acquired an unrivalled reputation for driving profits up, usually by slashing budgets, cancelling expense accounts and laying off staff, regardless of their track record or length of service. His appointment at Valour six months earlier had set quite a few cats amongst the pigeons. Sir Robin presided over the board from the company’s plush Bond Street office, but despite this Catherine, and the other editors at Valour, had yet to meet him. It was well known that the 62-year-old didn’t mix with common employees, and preferred to let his own minions do his dirty work. Catherine thought he sounded like a complete arsehole.
‘Of course, we’re safe as houses at Grace, as we don’t have to worry about circulation like you do,’ Isabella had breathed. ‘Our advertisers wouldn’t like it if we got too big; one doesn’t want to lose one’s exclusivity. Clearly not something you’ve worried about . . . though I suppose now it could come back and bite you on the bottom! Oh dear.’
