Naked Truths

by Jo Carnegie

  ‘Anyway, John, it was good to see you.’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘It’s been good to see you, too, Cathy.’

  Her stomach dropped again, she hadn’t been called that in two decades. ‘It’s Catherine, actually,’ she told him coldly, looking over one of his broad shoulders. ‘I really must go.’

  John stepped back. ‘Of course, have a good night,’ he paused, ‘Catherine.’

  ‘Ooh, who was that hunk?’ asked Teen Style’s editor Fiona MacKenzie when Catherine ran into her a few moments later. ‘He’s a dead ringer for Clive Owen!’

  ‘What? Oh, just someone I used to know,’ said Catherine casually, even though her heart was hammering.

  Fiona raised one expertly plucked eyebrow.

  ‘Maybe you should get to know him again, darl. Is he single?’

  ‘I have no idea, and I’m not interested,’ Catherine said abruptly. A look of surprise crossed Fiona’s face, and Catherine tried to lighten the moment with a smile. ‘Sorry, Fi, I’ve just got a million and one things to think about tonight. Would you excuse me? I need a quick drink of water.’

  As she gripped the bar for support, Catherine’s heart was pounding. It felt as though the rug had literally been pulled out from underneath her. John Milton! What was he doing here? The mere mention of a name she had thought was dead and buried – Cathy – had brought it all rushing back. Taking a deep breath, she tried desperately to keep a jumble of confused, unwelcome memories from crowding into her mind.

  They’d first met at school when they were eleven years old and had been thrown together in a science lesson. She was the withdrawn, lanky one who always seemed to be tripping over in netball practice and spent every break and lunchtime by herself. He was the handsome, confident, popular rugby captain worshipped by pupils and teachers alike. But despite their differences, they’d clicked. They’d been friends at first, until the tentative blossoming of romance: a snatched kiss at the rec, illicit embraces in John’s bedroom while his parents were out. Then, when they were sixteen, and Catherine’s world had already been torn apart for ever, they’d slept together.

  Not long after that, something had shifted between them and they had grown apart, and it was only a few months later that Catherine had left Newcastle for the bright lights of London and a stellar career in journalism. From then on, she had had little time or inclination to think about John Milton. Catherine had honestly thought she’d never lay eyes on him again. He knew things about her that had to stay dead and buried.

  ‘A large vodka tonic,’ she told the barman. She needed something to calm her down. The chemistry she’d felt when they had shaken hands had both terrified and excited her. John Milton was part of a life that no longer existed. He knew who she was – no, who she had been. If anyone ever found that out, Catherine would be ruined. It was that simple.

  A light hand on her shoulder raised Catherine from her anguish.

  ‘Someone’s got a lot on their mind,’ said a smooth, chocolatey voice.

  Catherine turned round to see the upright figure of Tolstoy Peake. They kissed on both cheeks.

  ‘You look as gorgeous as ever,’ he said. ‘Chanel, isn’t it?’

  ‘Right as always,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve never known a straight man who was so into his labels.’

  Tolstoy smiled back, flashing perfect white teeth. In fact, everything about him was immaculate. Descended from Italian aristocracy, forty-four-year-old Tolstoy Peake was very much the dashing man about town. Health editor of an upmarket men’s magazine called Finesse, Tolstoy’s body was a temple. He was teetotal, ran ten miles daily and had a better manicure than Catherine’s. Olive-skinned and dark-haired, Tolstoy had a certain charm, and was often seen in the pages of Hello! escorting some Russian beauty or another to a glamorous do. Catherine always thought he was a little too clean-cut and anally retentive for her taste.

  ‘Ready for your ball, darling?’ he asked, summoning the waiter over with a little hand gesture. ‘Evian please. Make sure the glass is clean.’

  Catherine looked around. ‘Just about, apart from some minor drama with the harpist, apparently.’

  Tolstoy’s dark eyes sparkled. ‘Attention to detail; you’ve always had it, Catherine. In your parties, your magazine . . .’ his eyes looked over her again, ‘. . . and your outfits.’

  ‘Enough with the compliments!’ she laughed. In the background Harriet caught her eye surreptitiously and waved her checklist.

  Catherine touched Tolstoy’s arm. ‘Anyway, will you excuse me? I’ve just got to check with my PA about something.’

  He stepped aside. ‘Of course. We must do dinner soon.’

  ‘Fabulous,’ said Catherine, and hurried off, all thoughts of John Milton mercifully forgotten for the moment.

  Two hours later, the party was in full swing. Fashionable, well-dressed people were crammed wall-to-wall, waving champagne glasses about as they air-kissed furiously. Amongst the sea of faces were several A-list actresses, a few cool London pop stars, and a big-name Italian designer who had especially flown in from Milan for the occasion.

  Once she knew that everyone had turned up, and they weren’t going to run out of champagne, cocktails or canapés, Harriet started to relax. She had pulled it off!

  ‘Great party, H,’ said Saffron. They were standing by the bar with a cocktail each, observing the melee.

  Harriet let out a sigh of relief. ‘Phew, am I pleased! No one told me organizing parties was such hard work.’

  Suddenly Alexander descended on them like a vision. His silk pantaloons were tucked into black leather riding-boots and his flowing white shirt was unbuttoned virtually to the waist. Even in the dimmed lighting, Harriet could see he had almost returned to his normal colour.

  ‘Tan corrector. The beauty girls dug it out for me,’ he whispered. ‘Fuck, darlings, I thought I’d have to go into hiding!’

  Harriet laughed. ‘Well, we’re really pleased you’ve made it.’

  Tom Fellows from the art desk had joined them. His hair was its usual tangle of dark curls, but he’d traded his standard shapeless T-shirt and jeans in for a garish seventies-style shirt with matching kipper tie and unflattering tight trousers. They made his feet, encased in policeman-style black shoes, look like German U-boats. With a pang, Harriet realized Tom had tried to copy the art director’s smart, cool ensemble – and failed miserably.

  ‘Good party,’ he muttered, looking at the floor.

  Saffron looked at Harriet, raising her eyebrows slightly. She debated whether to ask Tom if he wanted to join them for a drink. What if someone she knew saw him with her? Luckily, she was saved from her dilemma.

  ‘I’m just going to look at the insect section,’ Tom mumbled, and shuffled off.

  ‘Goodness, he’s a funny one!’ exclaimed Alexander.

  Over the other side of the room Catherine had been talking to Valour’s chief executive, who’d told her he loved the redesign and to ‘hang in there’. Her pleasure had been short-lived, as she’d then got stuck in a long, intense conversation with the MD of one of the companies that had joined Soirée Sponsors. He had just spent the last fifteen minutes interrogating her about the future of Soirée, and Catherine was starting to tire of constantly being on the defensive.

  Alexander walked past. ‘Al!’ she exclaimed brightly. ‘Do excuse me,’ she said to the MD. ‘I’ve got some extremely important business to discuss with my fashion director.’

  She dragged Alexander over to the bar. ‘Bloody hell, I thought my ear was going to fall off, he was bending it so much.’

  ‘Have you seen, Isabella Montgomery’s here! And Vanessa Cunningham, her frightful old crone of a fashion editor. I swear she hasn’t eaten for the last century.’ They looked over to where an anorexically thin woman was standing, black hair pulled back from her gaunt face. She saw Alexander, muttered something to the person next to her, and then waved at him.

  ‘Darling! You look radiant!’

  ‘You too! We must do lun
ch!’

  ‘What the fuck is Isabella doing here?’ asked Catherine. But before Alexander could answer, a tiny figure in a long, tight red dress had materialized beside them.

  ‘Cath-a-rine!’ cried Isabella, standing on tiptoes to air-kiss her. ‘How nice to see you!’ She looked Catherine up and down. ‘Chanel, isn’t it? Last season?’

  Alexander smiled sweetly. ‘I’ll leave you ladies to it,’ he said and floated off.

  You little shit. You’ll pay for that, thought Catherine.

  ‘Wonderful turnout!’ Isabella cried. Her blue eyes widened. ‘Of course, you must be awfully upset that Helen Mirren and Kate Moss couldn’t make it. But then again Soirée doesn’t quite have the cachet to pull in the really big names, I suppose.’

  Catherine gritted her teeth. ‘They’re both out of the country at the moment,’ she told her.

  ‘If you say so!’ Isabella said gaily.

  Catherine couldn’t work out what she was doing here, Isabella certainly hadn’t been on the guest list. The other woman seemed to read her mind.

  ‘I’m Teddy Barsmann’s plus one,’ she breathed. ‘Ted and I go way back, he’s simply a poppet.’ Teddy Barsmann was an extremely rich American financier who owned, amongst other properties around the world, a twenty-million-pound townhouse in Belgravia. He was also seventy-eight, four times divorced, and Isabella’s latest lover.

  Isabella tilted her head on one side and looked at Catherine.

  ‘How are you?’ she said, trying to sound sympathetic, and failing miserably.

  ‘Great, thanks for asking,’ Catherine told her, looking round for an escape. The familiar irritation Isabella brought out was starting to creep over her like poison ivy.

  ‘One does have to keep up appearances, I agree,’ Isabella said. ‘For the sake of the team, and all that. Of course, if I’d decided to take the job editing Soirée in the first place, it wouldn’t be in this mess now.’

  She knew she shouldn’t rise to the bait, but Catherine couldn’t help it. ‘I think we both know that’s a lie, Isabella,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t know if you’ve turned up tonight purely to crow over Soirée’s sales figures, but you’re wasting your time. We’re doing fine. Now, if you don’t mind? I’ve got other people to talk to.’

  The mask of benevolence dropped momentarily from Isabella’s face.

  ‘You really don’t want to cross me, Catherine.’ Her voice was low and quiet, like a hiss. ‘You may think you’re something special just because you’ve got Soirée, but I wouldn’t be so pleased with myself, I really wouldn’t.’

  Catherine’s annoyance was quickly turning into anger.

  ‘Isabella, why don’t you get a life? Then you wouldn’t have to spend so much time being interested in mine.’

  Isabella narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t test me, Catherine. I make it my business to know about other people’s lives.’ She smiled nastily. ‘I’ve found it’s come in rather handy when I need things to go to my advantage.’

  Catherine didn’t bother hiding her distaste. ‘You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?’

  Isabella’s smile widened. ‘I must say, darling, you’re being awfully defensive. Have you got some skeletons in your closet you don’t want me to find out about?’

  Catherine couldn’t help stiffening, and Isabella noticed. ‘Oh, I’ve hit a nerve there, haven’t I? Who would have thought it? Miss Goody Two Shoes has a dark past!’

  Somehow Catherine managed to keep her composure as she looked down at her rival.

  ‘Isabella, why don’t you do us both a favour and fuck off?’

  With that, she walked off, one ankle turning over just ever so slightly.

  Chapter 24

  THE PARTY WAS a huge success. The next day, pictures of the celebrities and high-profile socialites who’d attended were splashed all over the London newspapers. Catherine had also been in talks with one of the national papers, who wanted to run yet another two-page article on Soirée Sponsors; and as she sat in her office the next morning, she was delighted to see it had gone in. After her confrontation with Isabella, the night had, thankfully, gone in a more positive direction. She had even persuaded several more influential industry people to sign up to Soirée Sponsors.

  Harriet, meanwhile, was the heroine of the office. She had been quite overcome when Catherine had presented her with a huge bouquet of flowers at the end of the night.

  She was just about to turn her computer off when Saffron bounded across.

  ‘I completely forgot, haven’t you got a date this week?’

  Harriet blushed. ‘Tomorrow, actually. I’m meeting him at eight o’clock in a pub on the Fulham Road.’ The Fulham Road was one of the most famous streets in south-west London, and its pubs heaved with a curious mixture of antipodean backpackers and Sloaney men and women every evening.

  ‘Tarquin, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Thomas.’

  Saffron looked at Harriet’s computer screen. ‘Let’s see a picture. He’s got an online profile, right?’

  Harriet nodded and pulled up the Chapline website. Moments later, a picture of a blond, heavily tanned man with swept-back hair appeared.

  ‘What do you think?’ Harriet asked hopefully.

  With his toothy smile and suggestive wink, he reminded Saffron of Lord Flashheart out of Blackadder Goes Forth, but she wasn’t going to tell Harriet that.

  ‘What does his profile say?’

  Harriet clicked on another icon and the details came up.

  Name: Thomas Ford-Bugle

  Age: 34

  Sex: Yes please!!

  Lives: Fulham, of course!

  Occupation: MD of my own hugely successful headhunting agency.

  Interests: Game birds (of the human variety – only joking, ladies!!), rugby, drinking games, rugby . . . er

  Ideal woman: Someone with a good sense of humour and an even better pair of hooters!! Ha ha ha ha!!!!!!!!!!!

  ‘He’s not like that once you get talking,’ Harriet said hurriedly when she saw Saffron’s face. ‘I told him in one of my emails my dream was to go and help build school classrooms in Uganda, and he replied saying he’d just spent six months in Peru building a village, complete with running water, for a local tribe facing extinction!’ She looked at the photo again. ‘I suppose that’s why he’s got such a good tan.’

  Saffron looked at Thomas Ford-Bugle’s pampered, self-indulgent face and thought his tan was more likely to have come from a booze-filled jaunt to some castello in Tuscany with his toff friends than any benevolent urge to save the planet, but again she didn’t say anything. She only hoped Harriet’s good nature wasn’t about to be taken advantage of.

  ‘Oh darling, I’m not sure.’

  In Churchminster, Freddie leaned back against the Aga, a glass of Merlot in his hand. It had suddenly turned very chilly, and the huge fireplace that dominated one wall of the kitchen glowed orange, casting out delicious warmth. Angie got up from the table and went to throw another log on it.

  ‘It would only be for a few months, Freds, and I do need a spare pair of hands in the shop. You’re always saying I should get someone else in.’

  Freddie still looked dubious. ‘Where’s this fellow going to live?’

  Angie stoked the fire, her back to him. ‘I thought he could stay in the granny annexe.’

  Freddie sounded rather shocked. ‘You want him to stay here? We can’t let a complete stranger into the house! And from what you tell me, he comes from quite a troubled background. I’ve only just got over Archie’s MC Hammer phase.’ A few years ago their son Archie had dropped out of college to smoke drugs, and begun talking like a Harlem rapper. It had caused his parents no end of trouble.

  Angie came back and sat at the table. ‘Freds, not all young people are like that. Besides, Archie’s fine now.’

  Freddie grumbled something about his eardrums and loud music.

  ‘He won’t be in the main house, so we won’t hear any music he wants to play,’ soothed Angie.
‘Come on, Freds, this scheme sounds like such a good idea, and one does like to give something back. Won’t you even think about it?’

  Freddie sighed. ‘All right. But don’t get all carried away and start planning things.’ He stopped. ‘What’s this young chap’s name again?’

  Angie tried to hide her grin; she knew the battle was nearly won.

  ‘It’s Ashley. Ashley King.’

  NOVEMBER

  Chapter 25

  SAFFRON’S HEAD WAS aching. She’d had a shit day: her interview with an American pop star at a suite in the Ritz had been delayed for three hours. When she’d finally got in there, the singer’s control-freak press officer had insisted on sitting in on the interview and butting in every ten seconds, telling Saffron she couldn’t ask that question or that question. Saffron had only just stopped herself grabbing the PR by her skinny arm and manhandling her out. To make matters worse, Annabel had called in sick for the third day running, but then changed her Facebook status to say she was looking forward to her date with a man called Barnabus that evening. Saffron didn’t know if Annabel was just plain stupid, or simply couldn’t resist the chance to show off the fact someone actually found her attractive. Saffron was seriously considering putting in a complaint to Catherine, but her boss seemed so preoccupied and stressed at the moment, she didn’t know how well it would be received.

  It was 9 p.m. by the time she got home to Montague Mews. Velda was out seeing a play with friends, and the house was dark as she let herself in. Dumping her bag at the bottom of the stairs Saffron wearily tramped through to the living room. As she switched on the light by the door and light flooded the place, she screamed. Lying expectantly on the sofa opposite was Fernando, wearing nothing but a huge smile.

  ‘Hey, baby!’

  Saffron clutched her heart and collapsed in the chair opposite. ‘Fucking hell, Fernando! You nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?’