by Jo Carnegie
Velda smiled. ‘I know, I couldn’t believe it when she asked; I don’t think Saffron has stayed in on a Saturday night since she started living with me. The poor girl is a bit run-down at the moment, and needs a few quiet nights in. They’re working dreadfully hard at work.’
‘I know, Harriet was telling me about this “Project 300” campaign. Seems they’re asking a lot.’ Caro changed the subject. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but I was thinking of asking Rowena. Do you think there’s any chance she might come? Maybe I’m being an interfering old busybody, but every time I walk past, I think of her locked away in that house . . .’
Velda looked dubious. ‘I salute you for doing the good-neighbour thing, but come hell or high water, I don’t think you’ll get Rowena out.’
Later on that evening, Caro decided to try her chances. Cajoling a grumbling Milo away from his Lazytown DVD – ‘We’re just going for a little walk next door, darling’ – Caro took his hand and opened the front door. Helping her son across the cobbles, Caro approached Rowena’s house. The only sign that anyone lived there was visible between the thick velvet curtains drawn across one of the upstairs windows. A tiny chink of light. Downstairs, the windows were covered with heavy wooden shutters. The place looked like a fortress.
Feeling rather self-conscious, Caro knocked on the door. ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Rowena? It’s your neighbour at No. 2, Caro. We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.’
Silence. Caro felt like an idiot. Milo started to strain on her hand. ‘I’m cold, Mummy!’ he complained. Caro realized he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and was seized by guilt. Velda was right, she told herself. Rowena wants to be left alone. Caro was just turning away when she heard a creak, as if someone was coming down the stairs.
‘Hello?’ she called again. Nothing. Tentatively she lifted up the letterbox. She could just make out a long, dark hallway and the first couple of stairs. It looked like some washing had been left lying on the bottom step. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she called again. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to come to dinner at ours tomorrow.’
More silence. No one was there. ‘Mummy!’ Milo said even louder. Caro let go of the letterbox and allowed him to start tugging her back to their nice warm house. Christ, I just shouted through that poor woman’s letterbox! she thought, suddenly appalled. Was she turning into Lucinda Reinard? It was only when she’d got back into No. 2 and closed the door safely behind them that she realized what the pile of washing had been. A pair of baggy trouser-clad legs.
Rowena had been listening all along.
It had been a month since Catherine’s rousing speech to the team. Despite her trepidation, the ‘Project 300’ had started well. Not down to any help from everyone’s new branded merchandise, however. Alexander was pointedly using his mouse mat to wipe his feet on every time he came into the office.
Although time had been against them, Catherine’s patch-up job on the October issue had actually turned out rather well. Early indications showed they had added on an extra 10,000 sales, which was all good and well, considering. The real coup, however, was the redesign. It had been a real success, and everyone – including Adam – thought the November issue, due to hit the shelves in a few weeks, looked fantastic. It hadn’t been without sacrifice: Catherine had worked late every night all month, obsessing over each headline, picture and word, making sure it was all perfect.
They’d had one blow – despite Saffron’s (and not Annabel’s) best efforts, they still hadn’t managed to get Savannah Sexton, and it looked very unlikely they would secure her for the all-important Christmas issue. Catherine had taken the news grim-faced and retreated to her office.
Meanwhile Harriet had quickly realized her boss was a workaholic. In the whole five months she’d worked there, she didn’t think she’d heard Catherine talk once about an evening out with friends. Despite the expensive outfits her boss was looking tired and drawn. Catherine had told them all they wouldn’t be losing their jobs, but it didn’t stop the staff talking. Was the ‘Project 300’ just a stupid gimmick? If they didn’t reach the 300,000 would Valour really close Soirée down? Harriet felt dreadfully upset at the thought of losing her job. She was lucky enough to have a life to go back to in Churchminster, but it was more than that. Soirée had given her the sense of self-fulfilment she had been searching for all her life.
It was Saturday morning and Harriet was flopped on the sofa in her pyjamas watching an old rerun of Grand Designs. Kevin McCloud was awfully dashing, why couldn’t she find someone like him? To her delight Camilla had woken her up, unexpectedly calling from a train in Guatemala. They’d chatted excitedly for fifteen minutes, before Camilla said they were going through a tunnel and the phone went dead. Afterwards, Harriet was just thinking how nice it would be to be in Camilla’s sweet little cottage having a good old chinwag when her mobile rang again.
‘Bills?’ she sat up hopefully, using Camilla’s nickname.
‘No, darling, it’s me,’ Lady Frances said. ‘Were you expecting Bills?’
‘I’d just spoken to her, actually. We got cut off. She and Jed are on a train somewhere in the wilds of Guatemala.’
‘Good heavens, how ghastly!’ Lady Frances Fraser didn’t entirely approve of Camilla’s rough and ready adventure. ‘How are you, anyway? I’m concerned you’re working too hard. Ambrose said you looked rather pale when he came up to see you for lunch last week. I do worry all that pollution is playing havoc with your complexion.’
Harriet laughed. ‘I’m fine, Mummy! I’m rushed off my feet with the cocktail party, but I’m really enjoying it.’
‘Cook sends her love. She wants to know when you’re coming home, so she can feed you up. Her words, I hasten to add, not mine. You know I’m trying to get her to introduce a slightly more healthy menu, but so far she’s proving rather resistant to change.’
‘You know Cook,’ said Harriet fondly.
‘Indeed I do,’ said her mother drily. ‘I’m fighting a losing battle to get your father’s cholesterol levels down. Of course, it doesn’t help that Ambrose still insists on having his Thursday night steak and kidney pudding. Honestly, sometimes I think those two are conspiring against me . . .’
Thirty minutes later Harriet had received a full round-up of events in Churchminster, including Lucinda Reinard’s request to hold next year’s Bedlington Valley Pony Club camp in the grounds of Clanfield Hall.
‘We haven’t said yes, but I don’t see a problem if they’re tucked away in one of the back fields,’ her mother had said. ‘Your father’s not so keen, though, he’s grumbling about noise levels and litter.’ She’d laughed lightly. ‘But really, what can go wrong? For some strange reason Ambrose is convinced it will turn into the Cotswolds’ answer to Glastonbury!’
After her lazy start, Harriet had had rather a productive day. She’d cleaned the entire flat from top to bottom, and then gone through her wardrobe, filling three large black bin-liners with old clothes to give to charity. Harriet had been astounded at the amount of unwanted stuff she’d accumulated – how could one person have so many sweaters from Fat Face?
Afterwards, she’d felt so pooped she’d fancied nothing more than sinking back on the sofa with a cup of tea and the Home and Away omnibus. But instead she’d made herself go for a run. With her long hours at work and the nights drawing in, Harriet’s running had fallen rather by the wayside, and she was determined to get back into it and zap her wobbly bits.
Unfortunately, on this occasion the strap on her sports bra snapped just as she passed a group of people doing a military keep-fit lesson, and they fell about laughing as she tried to carry on, surreptitiously holding up one bouncing boob with her hand. When she got home, Harriet went online to see what Pilates classes were on in the area instead.
It had just turned 8 p.m. by the time Harriet made the short walk from hers over to Caro’s. The sky above Guinevere Road was charcoal black, Boeing 747s outbound from Heathrow roaring high away in the distance.
&n
bsp; Harriet reached the archway to Montague Mews and buzzed the intercom.
‘Hello?’ she called. A few seconds passed.
‘It’s open!’ crackled Caro’s disembodied voice, and the iron gate slowly swung wide. Harriet walked into the courtyard, where old-fashioned lanterns were aglow over each front door. It reminded her of a scene from a Dickens novel.
Caro was waiting in the doorway, arms open.
‘Come in from the cold.’
‘Oh, it looks enchanting!’ exclaimed Harriet.
Caro did have a knack for making a room look good: white church candles dotted the coffee table and mantelpiece, casting a warm, comforting hue. A rich cinnamon smell floated across the room from a scented oil bowl, while a fire roared away merrily in the hearth. Velda and Saffron were sitting around it, huge goblets of red wine in their hands.
‘Benedict’s gone out for the night, left us girls to it,’ explained Caro as she helped Harriet out of her coat.
‘Hey, H!’ Saffron put her glass down and went over to kiss her. ‘God, you’re freezing!’
‘It’s jolly cold out there. Hello, Velda,’ said Harriet. She handed Caro a bottle of wine.
‘What can I get you? Red or white?’ Caro asked.
‘Ooh, I think I’ll go for red tonight.’
‘Coming right up.’ A minute later, she reappeared with red wine and a tray laden with olives and bowls of crisps, dips and cashew nuts.
Saffron dived in. ‘Lush, Kettle Chips. Don’t let me eat all of these, I’ll never have enough room for dinner.’
She paused, a handful of crisps halfway to her mouth.
‘Is that burning I can smell?’
‘Oh bollocks, the mini-tartlets!’ Caro cried, and rushed off into the kitchen.
By ten o’clock the wine and conversation were flowing. After an ominous start, Caro had regained control of the cooking, and her smoked salmon roulade and Nigel Slater chicken dish had actually turned out rather well. Pleasantly replete, they decided to take a breather before dessert, and Velda started telling Caro and Harriet all about Yousef, her Moroccan husband, who lived in an artist’s commune in the Atlas Mountains.
‘I didn’t even know you were married!’ Caro exclaimed, as she got up to refill everyone’s glass.
Velda smiled. ‘I guess it’s not what you’d call a conventional set-up, but it suits us. We have our own lives and get together as much as we can. In fact, I’m going out there for Christmas.’
‘How long have you been married?’ asked Harriet.
‘Married for fifteen years, been together for twenty,’ Saffron interrupted. ‘Yousef is wicked, he’s done some really cool paintings for my bedroom. Velda took me out quite a few times to Morocco when I was younger. The markets in Marrakech are something else.’
‘How exotic!’ exclaimed Harriet.
Velda laughed. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘How’s your chap, Saffron? Are things going well?’ said Caro.
Saffron screwed up her face.
‘She’s fed up with him having no money,’ Velda told them, smiling. ‘I think he’s rather a poppet.’
‘Only because he butters you up so much when he comes round!’ Saffron turned to the other two. ‘Last night I came home from work to find them sitting in front of the fire, Fernando hand-feeding Aunt Velda oysters!’
Velda looked a bit embarrassed. ‘I did tell him I was happy with beans on toast, but Fernando is so persuasive,’ she sighed.
Caro smiled and changed the subject. ‘I hear work’s rather fraught at the moment.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Saffron. ‘The redesign looks fab, but there’s still a weird atmosphere in the office. I think people are worried about what’s going to happen. Another magazine closed last week, you know.’
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ said Caro. ‘Do you think you’ll be all right?’
Saffron shrugged. ‘Who knows? It doesn’t help that Catherine is walking around with a permanent case of PMT. I seriously think she’s having some kind of mid-life crisis.’
‘You’re her PA, Hats, what’s she like to work for?’ asked Caro.
Harriet paused, her wine glass halfway to her mouth. ‘She does work one jolly hard, but I admire her. She’s done awfully well for herself.’
Saffron refilled their glasses. ‘Don’t you think there’s something strange about her?’
‘Strange?’ asked Velda.
Saffron furrowed her brow. ‘No, that’s not the right word.’ She cast about for the correct one. ‘I don’t know, hidden. Like she’s keeping something back.’
Harriet thought about her boss: the long hours she worked, and the trendy flat she never seemed to want to go back to. Recently she was sure she’d smelt stale alcohol on Catherine’s breath.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said loyally. ‘Maybe she thinks it’s unprofessional to let her guard down. Catherine must be under awful pressure, what with the magazine and Soirée Sponsors.’
‘From what I hear, Soirée Sponsors is going great guns, though,’ Velda remarked. ‘There was a very interesting piece on it in the Observer last weekend. They’re thinking about expanding all over the country, aren’t they?’
‘I think that’s the aim,’ said Harriet. ‘Although I haven’t a clue how Catherine could take on any more. She’s stretched from pillar to post as it is.’
Saffron reached across for the bottle again. ‘More wine, anyone?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Caro. She never felt much like drinking when she was hosting a dinner party. She got up to get pudding, a delicious lemon tart she’d bought from the organic bakery down the road. She’d tried to make her own, but it had sunk in the middle like a cowpat and ended up in the bin.
As they tucked in, the conversation got round to Stephen and Klaus.
‘It’s wonderful having them as neighbours,’ said Caro. She laughed, ‘I’ve never seen Stephen without his cravat on, not even when he’s taking the rubbish out. He makes me feel like a dreadful scruff in comparison.’
Harriet giggled. ‘How’s your grandmother? Mummy tells me she’s taken Reverend Bellows under her wing.’
‘Poor man,’ said Caro. ‘I think Granny Clem got fed up with him “dithering” as she called it, over church affairs, and has taken over. According to Angie, the Harvest Festival was run out of Fairoaks like a military operation. Reverend Bellows hardly got a look in. I do hope he doesn’t get scared off – and realizes Granny Clem means well.’
Someone’s phone beeped. ‘Oh, that’s mine,’ said Harriet apologetically. ‘I meant to put it on vibrate.’
Saffron looked at her watch. ‘I bet that’s a bootie call!’ She surveyed Harriet wickedly. ‘Have you got yourself a bloke?’
‘No, of course not!’ Harriet protested. She paused. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
Caro sat up. ‘Ooh, do tell, H! Is there someone on the scene?’
Harriet went pink. ‘Well, not quite . . .’ and told them about joining Chapline.
Saffron pulled a face. ‘You’ve joined a dating agency? That’s really sad!’
Velda swiftly reprimanded her. ‘Don’t be so rude, Saffron.’
Saffron looked at Harriet. ‘Sorry, H. I just didn’t think you’d be mad enough to do anything like that.’ She grinned, waving her wine glass at Harriet. ‘Have you been stalked by any weirdos?’
‘There are some strange men out there, I must admit. I’d been emailing one chap, and then he told me he only ate orange foods, had been one of Jesus’s disciples in a former life, and had spent the weekend building the Sistine Chapel out of matchsticks. I don’t want to sound judgemental, but I was a bit put off.’
‘I’m not surprised!’ laughed Caro. ‘Have you met any nice ones?’
Harriet nodded. ‘There is one, called Thomas. He’s sent me a picture of himself. He’s awfully good looking. Runs his own headhunter’s company. He writes children’s poems in his spare time, and sent me a few. They were quite good, actually. I thought that w
as very sweet.’
‘Fit, loaded and sensitive,’ said Saffron. Her eyes were starting to glaze over. ‘Any more like him? Maybe you can set me up.’
Harriet blushed again. ‘I’ll ask him, if you like. We’re meeting up next week.’
Saffron whooped. ‘You are so going to get it! Like a rat up a drainpipe!’ She hiccupped loudly. ‘Fuck, when was the last time you had sex? It must have grown over down there.’
‘Caro, would you take that glass of wine off her?’ asked Velda.
Chapter 22
CATHERINE HAD SPENT most of the weekend at the office. Ever since all hope of getting Savannah Sexton for the Christmas cover had been extinguished, Catherine had been driving herself – and the team – even harder. The features team had managed to secure a popular British actress for the issue instead, but she lacked the chutzpah of Savannah, and Catherine was determined to make every page of the magazine work twice as hard instead.
The Soirée cocktail party was only two days away, and couldn’t have come at a better time. Everyone needed a break. In the office, there was rising excitement about what everyone would be wearing. Alexander was planning a grand unveiling on the night. Saffron had bleached her hair almost white, and was going to wear a minidress from Miu Miu dressed up with vintage diamanté jewellery from Portobello Market. After the pussy-bow-shirt debacle, Harriet had played safe and picked a plain, well-cut dress from Jigsaw.
On the day of the party, Harriet arrived at work early. Despite her magnificent organization, there was still a mountain of last-minute things to do. Tom Fellows was already there, poring over his computer screen. He blushed beetroot red behind his bottle-tops when she called out hello. As she sat down and switched on her own computer Harriet wondered if he was going to the party. Tom was such a shrinking violet that she imagined it would be his worst nightmare.
An hour later she was checking the guest list for the final time when the door swung open and Catherine walked in. She headed straight for her office without acknowledging Harriet. Harriet wondered nervously if she had forgotten to do something.
