by Jo Carnegie
Caro cast her mind back again. Throughout the divorce proceedings Benedict had been a tower of strength. When Sebastian had cancelled seeing Milo yet again at the last moment, Benedict had absorbed the news silently, and had taken Milo out for the day himself. He never referred to Sebastian, as though he’d washed her ex-husband out of their new existence. In most ways, it was just what Caro needed, and she was eternally grateful for Benedict’s undiminished support. But she had to admit, as she studied her beautiful blond husband across the table, that there were depths to him that still lay hidden. Was it just that he thought Sebastian beneath contempt, a waste of time and space, or was there something more to his feelings?
Benedict looked up. For a second, Caro couldn’t read his expression. She smiled. ‘You look miles away. What are you thinking?’
‘Oh nothing, just about my own university days.’
Caro looked eager. ‘I’d love to hear some stories. You’ve never really talked about that time.’
‘That’s because there’s nothing to tell,’ said Benedict. He snapped his menu shut decisively and put it down on the table between them.
‘Shall we?’
Chapter 11
ON THE SATURDAY morning Caro and Benedict took Milo to one of his nursery friend’s birthday parties. It was being held at a private children’s members club in Belgravia – ‘Good Lord,’ Benedict said when he heard the extortionate fees. ‘Is Milo expected to drive us there in his own Porsche?’ Benedict had been cornered by a skinny blonde dripping in jewels as soon as they’d walked in and Caro got stuck talking to a balding banker with halitosis on his third divorce, as hyperactive children called Artemis and Willow ran round throwing organic frozen yogurt over each other’s designer outfits.
‘Milo’s goody bag alone must be worth £100,’ said Benedict, peering into it when they finally got home. ‘What on earth happened to fairy cakes and kiss chase in the garden? I’m sure I never got a miniature gardening set and Moschino T-shirt when I was three.’
‘I’m sure Milo won’t mind you borrowing them,’ quipped Caro. ‘Would you mind keeping him entertained while I check my emails? Mummy says Camilla’s sent us all one about her travels and I’m dying to hear what she’s been up to.’
But to her surprise, her grandmother’s name was at the top of the inbox. Despite repeated instructions on how to use hotmail, her grandmother had up till then resisted.
‘Quite frankly, I don’t see the point. I can just pick up the phone and ring you in half the time it takes to lag on to that thing.’
‘I think you mean log, Granny Clem,’ Caro had told her.
But there it was, Clementine Standington-Fulthrope. Caro smiled. The name looked incongruous sitting there, next to a spam mail for penis enlargement. She clicked on it and opened the email. It was blank.
‘Oh!’ said Caro. Maybe Clementine hadn’t got to grips with it after all. Scanning down the other list of names, she saw another email from Camilla and one from her mother. No reply to the one she had sent her youngest sister last week, but staying in touch wasn’t one of Calypso’s strongest points. A few lines further down was her grandmother’s name again. This time she struck lucky.
To: Caro Towey
From: Clementine Standington-Fulthrope
Subject: Hello!
Darling, are you there? This really is the most ridiculous contraption, I tried to send you one earlier, but then the blasted screen went all funny and I lost all the words. I saw Jack Turner in the shop earlier; he was kind enough to pop over before he opened the Jolly Boot to show me how to use it. So here we are. I must admit, I’m rather at a loss for words. What is one supposed to write? Does no one write letters any more? Oh, I must tell you what Brenda told me when she came over to clean this morning. You’ll never guess who got so drunk at the church barbecue they had to be carried home in Ted Briggs’s wheel barrow . . .
Some time later Caro had worked her way through all her emails, including one from Benedict’s twenty-eight-year-old sister, Amelia, who was working in Moscow and having the time of her life.
Drinking more vodka than is good for me, but at least it’s keeping the cold out. That’s my excuse, anyway – even if it is summer! The men aren’t bad either . . . out on another date tonight with a twenty-six-year-old billionaire. He’s going to show me his palace, apparently; I’ll keep you posted! Love to you all, A xxx
Caro smiled, and wondered if she should let Benedict read it. He was notoriously protective of his younger sister. She looked at her watch: time to pick up Milo. As she went for a wee in the downstairs loo, she realized her T-shirt had jam smeared across the front from Milo’s breakfast. That would never do, she thought, running upstairs to change. I already look like a country bumpkin next to all the yummy mummies at the nursery gates. They’d have a field day if she turned up looking like Waynetta Slob.
As she got a clean shirt out of the wardrobe, something caught her eye. Caro peered out of the window. The blinds were open in the hospital room opposite, and she could see that Benedict had been right: it was some kind of consulting area. In one corner stood a hospital bed with a curtain rail round it. A man in a dark suit sat behind a desk in front of the window.
A sturdy woman in a dark-blue tunic entered the room. She shut the door. Her mouth moved silently as she spoke to the man. Caro was about to turn away when, to her absolute astonishment, the nurse stood in front of the desk and began to unbutton her tunic.
Caro stood frozen to the spot as the woman peeled off her clothes to reveal huge, pendulous boobs squashed into a black PVC bra, and matching knickers. She lifted one meaty finger and beckoned to the man. Caro could clearly make out bottle-top glasses, bushy eyebrows and a large hairy mole on her left cheek. The man obediently stood up and went round the desk. He looked at least a foot shorter than the woman, and as skinny as a schoolboy. He stood there limply as she undressed him.
As if in slow motion, Caro watched the woman push him on the bed and climb on top. It was like a hippopotamus mounting a field mouse. Her huge white thighs almost covering his entire body, she started furiously rocking back and forth.
‘Oh my God!’ Caro came to her senses and yanked the curtains shut. She stood there, not quite believing what she’d just witnessed.
The bedside phone rang, and Caro went to answer it. ‘Hello?’
‘Darling, is that you? You sound a bit odd.’ It was her mother.
Caro sat down on the bed and began to giggle. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Oh, my goodness!’
‘What are you laughing at?’
‘Mummy, you really don’t want to know! All I can say is, I’ve just seen the game “doctors and nurses” taken to a whole new level.’
On Monday evening Harriet decided to go for her first ever run. She’d gone out that lunchtime to Lillywhites, the huge sports shop at Piccadilly Circus, and on the advice of the gum-chewing shop girl, invested in new trainers, an extremely short pair of cycling shorts, and a ‘Shock Absorber’ sports bra. It certainly did give one a shock, Harriet thought, as she struggled to get it over her head. She could hardly breathe! At least it was all so tightly packed there was no chance of unwanted movement. She gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror and, rather alarmed by the amount of flesh on display, set off.
It had been an overcast day, and the sky was drab shades of black and grey as Harriet headed for the large park several streets down from her flat. After a few uncertain stretches on the path, she set off one way at a leisurely pace. The park was quite busy, as fellow-runners pounded past her and people wandered home from work. Harriet made her way past an ornamental lake with ducks floating lazily on the surface, thrusting their heads under the water intermittently. Things seemed to be going OK so far! Encouraged, Harriet glanced at her watch. She had been running for three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.
Two gorgeous young women approached from the other direction, each in tiny outfits showing off their Paris Hilton-like physiques. Deep in conversation, they glide
d past like two graceful gazelles on the Serengeti.
After five minutes, Harriet started to struggle. By ten minutes it felt like her lungs were on fire, her legs two dead weights underneath. As she rounded a corner, she could see a group of well-built young men standing around on the grass. One of them was holding a rugby ball. A few turned to stare as Harriet approached. She adopted a determined expression; what was that she’d read in Zest magazine about pumping your arms to run faster?
‘Check out Paula Radcliffe!’ one cheered.
‘Did you know your arse is hanging out?’ shouted another. The group hooted with laughter.
Flustered, Harriet put on a final sprint to the fading sounds of catcalls. Rounding the corner, she came to a shuddering halt and gingerly felt her behind. To her utter mortification, her shorts had ridden up and her right buttock was hanging out. Face bright red, and not just from the physical exertion, she fled home. From now on, she was wearing tracksuit bottoms.
An hour later, Harriet was sitting in front of the television with a large, straw-gold glass of Chardonnay. Now her face had returned to its normal colour and the bum-flashing episode was fading by the minute, she was feeling rather good about herself. Must be all those endorphins; Harriet vowed to go running twice a week from now on. There was something else she had been meaning to do as well. Reaching over to the coffee table, she turned on her laptop.
A homepage flashed up, dozens of photos of jolly broad-shouldered men cuddling their Labradors, or red-nosed and roaring with laughter with pints of mulled wine and ski slopes in the background. ‘Want to meet your Mr Right?’ asked the slogan. ‘Join Chapline! South-west London’s premier online dating agency for like-minded ladies and gents.’ Harriet looked into the hunky, carefree, fun-filled faces again. She noticed one man had exactly the same endearing eyes as his Labrador. Taking another courage-giving glug of wine, Harriet clicked on to the application form.
Chapter 12
FOR THE NEXT few weeks, Harriet was too busy to think about love. There was so much to organize for Soirée’s autumn cocktail party. Started in 1964 by then editor Penelope Wainright, it was held on the Wednesday of the third week in October. Over the years, the party had become something of an institution on the London social calendar. As well as attracting all the industry movers and shakers – actors and actresses, playwrights, celebrities, politicians, and even the odd royal had graced the illustrious guest list. The venues had always been show-stopping and Catherine had been impressed when Harriet, on only her third day, had managed to book the main hall at the world-famous Natural History Museum.
Even though it was still over two months away, Harriet was dealing daily with caterers, sponsors, drinks companies, florists, sending invites out, meeting with Health and Safety . . . The list was endless, and every day it seemed to get longer. Harriet didn’t mind, though, she wanted it to be perfect. Several times Catherine had come back from works drinks around 9 p.m. and still found Harriet poring over her computer. Catherine always made her go home, but not before filling her own bag with work. It was obviously a case of ‘do as I say, not as I do’ thought Harriet, as she gathered up her belongings one evening. Judging by the tired lines under her eyes, Catherine could do with a few nights off as well. Not that Harriet would dream of telling her that.
Adam Freshwater had returned from his indulgently long summer holiday, and sauntered into Catherine’s office one afternoon as she was up to her eyeballs reading pages for the next issue.
‘You look a bit peaky,’ he remarked, settling down in the chair opposite hers. He cast a smug glance down at his own suntanned arm.
‘Thanks,’ she said sardonically. ‘Nice break?’
‘Yah, really great,’ he replied. ‘Thomasina and I took the little ones to an organic windmill in Umbria, entirely self-sufficient you know. We ate off the garden for the whole three weeks!’
Catherine’s eyes glazed over as Adam droned on about the benefits of solar panels, and how to collect rainwater. He was married to a fanatical herbalist who ruled the roost at home and also thought she should be managing her husband’s career. Only last month, Adam had tried to make Catherine run an article on how drinking your own wee increased fertility. Unsurprisingly she had put her foot down.
She finally got a word in edgeways. ‘I take it you’ve heard about us losing the Gucci campaign, then?’
Adam frowned. ‘Not good, is it? We need the revenue more than ever at the moment. The board won’t be pleased, especially as Tatler trounced us again last month.’
Catherine exhaled crossly. ‘Tell the board to come down here and try running a magazine they won’t invest any money in. We’ve barely had any advertising in the last year, while our rivals have had TV adverts running every bloody five minutes. If Robin Hackford wants a quality product, he has to put the time and money into it.’
‘Sir Robin Hackford,’ corrected Adam sanctimoniously.
Catherine sighed. ‘Whatever.’
There was a pause. ‘The last two covers haven’t been that strong, either,’ Adam pointed out.
Catherine pushed her chair back, wearily running her hands through her hair. ‘Point taken,’ she conceded. ‘In our defence, it’s been a crap year for cover stars. No one seems to want to do anything any more, or they want to do the big American magazines instead. But we are working on that, I assure you. We’ve hopefully got Savannah Sexton for our Christmas issue.’
Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘Bloody hell, she never says yes to anything. That would be a coup.’ He echoed Catherine’s own words to her features team. ‘Make sure it happens, then. Boy, do we need Savannah Sexton.’
Later that evening Catherine stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in her living room. It had been yet another thunderous evening and the heavy, dank atmosphere seemed to pervade the penthouse apartment, carpeting the normal airiness. The forbidding shape of Battersea Power Station loomed in the distance. Long derelict, the immense redbrick building still had a commanding presence, the four huge white chimneys striking defiantly into the London skyline. Catherine had always found a strange comfort in their sheer vastness and strength.
Tonight, however, something had changed. The building had become an obstruction, the bricks and mortar morphing into something more symbolic. Catherine couldn’t see a way through it, just as she was running out of ideas to make Soirée the best on the market again. She really had to talk to Adam about the new cover price, as well as a new advertising campaign. Sighing heavily, Catherine turned away from the glass and made her way to the kitchen. It was a long gallery, sleek glossy white worktops set off by a huge black Smeg fridge. Catherine looked around. It was immaculately clean to the point of unused. It struck her, not for the first time, that there were no photographs of loved ones or holiday snaps adorning the fridge, nor delicious smells of a home-cooked dinner hanging in the air. Suddenly, the self-contained oasis Catherine had worked so hard to create felt horribly lonely.
Maybe I should get a cat, she thought, before giving a cynical snort. She couldn’t even look after a house-plant.
Half-heartedly she unpacked the bag of groceries she’d picked up from Tesco Metro on the way home. She’d fancied the fresh pasta and pre-bagged garden salad at the time, but now her appetite was waning. All she wanted was one of the chilled bottles of wine nestling in the cooler. Pulling it out, she emptied half of it into her oversized glass. She was relying on wine more and more to take the edge off the day, but Catherine told herself she deserved it. If she were completely honest with herself, alcohol helped to block out the past as much as the present – not that Catherine would admit that in a million years. Taking a resolute swig she wandered back into the living room to unpack her briefcase and get back to work.
AUGUST
Chapter 13
ASHLEY KING SHUT the door to the flat. It stuck as he pulled it, yet another thing that now needed repairing. It had been unseasonably grey and drizzly for a few days now, the dampness pervading the dimly lit
corridor. Pulling his hood up, Ash walked down and through the open door into the stairwell. It smelt of disinfectant, with undertones of lager from the empty cans littered in the corner of the landing. A few flights below, the outside door clanged and the sound of footsteps started up towards him. Ash hoped it wasn’t Mr Gregory from next door, he’d already had a go at Ash that week for playing his music too loudly, although in Ash’s defence the walls were so thin they might as well not have been there.
But instead of Mr Gregory’s flat cap and angry red face, a tall, leggy young woman dressed in a smart black suit and high heels appeared before him. Her hair was swept back off her face, showing off her almond-shaped eyes and perfectly applied red lipstick. In the dank surroundings of Acorn Court, Peckham, Ash thought she looked like some kind of goddess who’d been beamed down from heaven.
For a second they stood there, before the girl’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘Ash!’ she exclaimed. ‘Long time no see, how’s it going?’
The young man paused on the step, his face creased into puzzlement. Then his eyebrows shot up in surprise.
‘Nikki!’ he said. ‘I didn’t recognize you.’ Ash blushed, making his spots stand out like little red studs. ‘You look really, well, good.’
Nikki smoothed back her hair. ‘You saying I was a minger before?’ she asked in mock offence. Take away the angry red acne that criss-crossed his cheeks and forehead, and Nikki Jenson and her mum had always said Ashley King could be a dead ringer for Justin Timberlake.
Ash seemed to have some sort of obstruction in his throat. Nikki was suddenly so sophisticated and confident. He made an embarrassed gargling noise. ‘No, that’s not what I meant . . .’ he started.
Nikki laughed. ‘Chill your boots, I’m teasing.’ Two years older than Ash, she’d always treated the boy she’d grown up next to as another younger brother. And he’d always been easy to wind up.
