by Jo Carnegie
A black cab approached and John flagged it down. ‘Where are you going?’
Catherine told him her address.
‘I live that way. Why don’t we share a cab back? We’ll drop you off first.’
The car pulled up and they got in. John issued directions to the cabbie, and sat back as they started towards Battersea. Even through her cloud of drunkenness, Catherine was still aware of the sexual energy that surged around them.
A few minutes from home the driver took a sharp turn. The sudden movement caused Catherine to slide along the seat into John.
‘Sorry about that!’ the cabbie called back cheerily.
Catherine barely heard him. It was as if everything had suddenly come into focus. Her body was pressed against John’s, and she was acutely aware of every muscle and hard contour. Catherine felt a throb of long-dormant desire. She savoured the moment, drawing in the warm scent of his aftershave.
As the car pulled up to her apartment block, she didn’t move.
‘Would you like to come in?’ Embarrassingly, she found herself tripping up on the words. She’d drunk too much again.
John turned to face her. He was so close Catherine could feel his breath on her cheek. He was going to say yes . . .
‘I’ve got a really early start in the morning,’ he murmured.
Catherine burned with the shame of rejection. What had she been thinking? She leant across and tugged at the door handle.
‘Of course, goodnight,’ she said hurriedly, and got out. John started to say something, but Catherine interrupted.
‘Thanks again for dinner.’
She pushed the door shut. Not pausing to look back, she fled inside the building, past the bemused concierge and into the lift. As the doors slid shut, Catherine leant against the wall. She was breathing heavily.
‘Well, that was cool,’ she said out loud. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ She didn’t know whether she was more furious at her lack of self-control or the fact that, in that moment, she’d wanted him so badly.
Going out with John Milton had been a horrendous mistake. It was one she had no intention of repeating.
Chapter 30
TWO WEEKS LATER Caro had her first scan at the private wing of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. To her and Benedict’s elation and relief, everything was fine.
Benedict put a protective arm round his wife as they made their way out.
‘I’m pregnant, not terminally ill,’ she told him fondly. He had started treating her like a piece of china, and it was all she could do to stop him employing a full-time housekeeper.
He gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m being overprotective, aren’t I? It’s just that you and this baby are so important . . . I’d never forgive myself if anything happened.’
‘Nothing is going to happen, darling.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘People get pregnant every day.’
‘But not with my baby,’ he pointed out.
She laughed. ‘I should bloody hope not!’
That evening Benedict had a client dinner to attend. Velda had asked Caro over to hers for a simple supper, extending the invite to Amelia, who’d declined.
‘Benedict’s rather worried about her,’ Caro confessed to Velda as they sat in her cosy dining room eating a delicious lamb tagine. ‘She looks so thin and pale, and she’s barely left the house since she came to stay. You’d never know it to look at her normally, but Amelia suffers terribly from depression. She’s told Benedict she’s having another bout, and he’s awfully upset as he feels he should be able to do something.’ Caro sighed. ‘It’s hardly a surprise the poor girl gets like this, considering what the family has been through.’
‘They lost their parents in a car crash, didn’t they?’ asked Velda. ‘How desperately sad.’
Caro nodded. ‘Amelia was only young at the time, and it fell to Benedict and his twin brother Harry to look after her. It was a dreadful time for all of them.’
‘I didn’t know Benedict had a brother!’ said Velda. Caro’s face changed.
‘He’s dead as well, now: bacterial meningitis.’
Velda looked shocked. ‘Oh, how awful!’
‘It really was, especially as he and Benedict had fallen out at the time.’ Caro hoped Velda wouldn’t press it any further. It really was awkward to explain that the reason they weren’t talking was because Harry had run off with Benedict’s first wife, Caitlin. It was an area of Benedict’s life he still found it difficult to talk about, even with Caro.
Velda, as perceptive as ever, murmured her sympathies and moved the conversation on, telling Caro about her plans for Christmas. She was flying out to Morocco for two weeks to see Yousef.
‘Sounds super,’ said Caro. ‘I hear the climate is glorious this time of year. What’s Saffron going to do?’
‘Actually, she’ll be in your neck of the woods. Harriet’s invited her back to stay in Churchminster.’
‘At Clanfield Hall? How marvellous!’ exclaimed Caro. She laughed. ‘I hope Harriet pre-warns her about Sir Ambrose. He’s not a bad sort, but he can be rather temperamental at times.’
‘I think she’s more worried about what clothes to take,’ smiled Velda.
‘Are her and Fernando still off?’
‘Yes, I have to say I was rather sceptical when she said she was swearing off men. But there’s been no one since. She’s been really focused on her job.’
‘Good on her,’ said Caro.
‘Quite. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was made editor of something one day, she’s certainly got the talent. More tagine?’
Caro looked at her stomach, which was now sporting a little bump. ‘Yes, please. I won’t use the eating-for-two line, though. I’m just greedy.’
She watched as Velda spooned more of the casserole from the terracotta pot on to their plates.
‘I really don’t want to pry,’ she said when Velda sat down again. ‘But I just wondered about Saffron’s parents. Isn’t she seeing her mother for Christmas?’
Velda paused. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t ever see that happening.’ She smiled wryly. ‘We’ve got a few family dramas of our own. Did you know about Saffron’s father?’
‘Harriet did mention it to me,’ Caro admitted.
Velda put her fork down. ‘That was Harry Walden, the famous yachtsman? I don’t know if you’ve heard of him.’
‘The name rings a bell . . .’
‘It’s probably a bit before your time,’ Velda smiled. ‘Harry was the superstar of his day in the sailing world. Won dozens of major races. Of course, he loved the glamour of that set. All those parties, women throwing themselves at him . . . He met my sister – Saffron’s mother – at Cowes, when she was down there painting. Belle fell completely head over heels in love. She fell pregnant with Saffron after a year, but by then Harry’s eye was already wandering. He left them both when Saffron was six months old.’
‘Poor girl,’ said Caro, putting her fork down.
Velda nodded. ‘Saffron was the casualty in the whole sorry mess. I’m afraid Belle has never been good with the reality of day-to-day life, and after Harry left she went to pieces. Could barely look after herself, let alone a daughter. Saffron was packed off to boarding school at age five, and went home to her mother in the holidays, but it wasn’t easy. In a funny way, I think each blamed the other for Harry leaving. Saffron idolized him, you see, wouldn’t hear a word said against him. When he died in the sailing accident, you can imagine how traumatized she was.’
‘When did she come and live with you?’
‘Just after her thirteenth birthday,’ replied Velda. ‘By then things had broken down so irrevocably between her and her mother, there was no other choice. At first it was a culture shock, as much for myself as for Saffron, but we got on with it. Now, I couldn’t imagine her not being a part of my life.’ A sadness entered Velda’s eyes that Caro hadn’t seen before. ‘Do you know what’s the worst thing of all? Belle has missed out on seeing such a spirited, funny, talented – infuriating at times
– girl growing up. I know what joy Saffron has brought to my life. How can my sister not feel that void?’
‘Are you still in contact with her?’
‘The odd phone call or card. It’s difficult. She’s not a bad person, but I can’t condone what she did. Besides, I dread to think what would happen if Saffron knew we’d met up. She’d feel dreadfully betrayed.’
‘It must be hard for you, though. No matter what she’s done, she’s still your sister,’ Caro pointed out.
Velda looked away. ‘Sometimes in life you have to make difficult choices.’
‘Do you think they’ll ever be reunited?’ asked Caro.
Velda was quiet for a moment. ‘I would love nothing more. But in my heart of hearts I think irreversible damage has been done.’ She paused. ‘Caro, I would love to share something with you. To be honest, it has been playing on my mind ever since you moved here, and now I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Is it something I’ve done?’ Caro asked in alarm.
‘Gosh no! I love having you here. Sorry, I didn’t put that very well.’ Velda sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know if it’s fair to burden you with it.’
‘Hey, we’re friends. You can tell me anything.’
Velda smiled, her green eyes crinkling up at the corners. ‘I know. You’ve become a good friend to me, Caro. In fact, maybe it’s better at this stage I don’t drag you into it. But I might need your support in the future.’ Her face looked serious again. ‘You see, I am allowing something to happen that could have dreadful repercussions.’
‘I’m always here for you,’ Caro told her, wondering what on earth Velda had done. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good.
Chapter 31
HARRIET WAS IN the middle of Catherine’s expenses form when a new email popped up in her inbox. She looked at the name in surprise: Thomas Ford-Bugle. Harriet felt a rather unpleasant lurch in her stomach. Saffron’s prediction had unfortunately come true: her date had been a disaster.
There was no denying that Thomas, with his superhero physique and pale blond hair, swept proudly back over his head, had been good-looking. But he’d also turned out to be a total nightmare. After mysteriously turning up with a green-and-white striped golfing umbrella, even though it was a hot and sunny evening, Thomas had taken Harriet to an Italian round the corner, where he had ordered for both of them without even asking, and then proceeded to talk about himself non-stop for three hours. When Harriet had tried to escape outside afterwards, pleading a headache, Thomas had leapt on her and stuck his tongue in her mouth, like an eel that’d been kept in a tank of liquid Viagra. Harriet had managed to push him off and jump in a cab. She hadn’t heard from him since. Heart slightly in mouth, Harriet clicked on the email.
Hi sexy! Been away in Belize scuba-diving, thought you might like to see my tan!
With a feeling of foreboding, Harriet opened the accompanying attachment. There stood Thomas, legs astride and hands on hips, completely naked. Even worse, he had the most enormous erection.
Someone cleared their throat behind her. Harriet jumped guiltily and swivelled round. To her mortification, it was Adam Freshwater, his eyes fixed, limpet-like, on her computer screen.
‘Oh!’ she squeaked.
Adam looked rather unsettled. ‘Where’s Catherine?’
‘She’s in a meeting with marketing,’ Harriet stuttered.
‘OK, I was just passing through. Can you tell her to give me a call?’ Adam lowered his voice. ‘Look, Helen . . .’
‘It’s Harriet,’ she said apologetically.
‘Oh. Right. Well, look, Harriet. I don’t really think you should be looking at that sort of thing in work time. The company has a very strict policy about using pornographic sites.’ Adam eyed her sternly. ‘I’ll ignore it this time, but don’t let it happen again.’
As he walked off, Harriet, overwhelmed by shame, buried her face in her keyboard.
Catherine returned from her meeting twenty minutes later. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked her PA, who was still as white as a sheet.
‘Never been better,’ replied Harriet faintly, and passed on Adam’s message.
Catherine thanked her and went into her office. For once, work wasn’t at the forefront of her mind. It had been four days since she’d gone out with John Milton, and she’d been mercilessly beating herself up ever since. He hadn’t tried to make contact with her, but then again why would he? She’d got drunk and made an ill-advised pass at him, which had been rebuffed. Christ knows what he thought of her.
It’s best this way, Catherine consoled herself. You know you can’t start anything with him. But deep down, she was gutted he hadn’t called.
Her phone rang, startling her. Adam. It felt like he was calling her every five minutes at the moment, he must have realized his job was as much on the line as the rest of them.
‘Hi, Adam, what can I do for you?’ she asked wearily.
A chuckle sounded at the other end, followed by the now familiar deep voice. ‘Sorry to disappoint, it’s John.’
Catherine sat bolt upright in her seat. John! ‘Hi!’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m great. Thanks for a nice evening last week.’
Well, that’s a lie, she thought. He’d obviously called out of some misplaced sense of duty.
‘I’d really like to see you again.’
Catherine was so surprised, she didn’t respond.
‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m here,’ she told him.
‘What do you think?’
Catherine wanted to say no so badly, but found that she couldn’t.
‘My treat this time. How are you fixed for Friday?’
It was 10 p.m. and Catherine had spent an hour luxuriating in a long hot bath, trying not to think about John Milton. Eventually, when the water had turned cool and her skin wrinkly Catherine reluctantly climbed out and dried herself off. What she really fancied now was a nice nightcap. She went to put on her silk kimono, but it wasn’t in its normal place on the back of the bedroom door. After looking around everywhere for it, she remembered she had spilt coffee on it at breakfast, and for some reason had thought it would be a good idea to hang it on the balcony to dry.
‘Bollocks,’ cursed Catherine. She’d meant to get it in before she’d left for work; it had probably been ravaged by the November temperatures and ruined by now. Still naked – no one was going to see her thirty floors up – she darted across the living room and opened the door on to the decked balcony that ran the full length of the room. The kimono was hanging on the back of the wooden sunlounger she kept out there. Catherine walked over and picked it up, but just then a huge gust of wind came from nowhere and blew the garment out of her hands and straight over the balcony.
‘Shit!’ shouted Catherine, as she watched the kimono float away like an exotic butterfly across the grey skyline. That thing had cost her a fortune from Liberty’s. Sighing, she turned back to the door.
Except that it had swung shut behind her, and was securely locked.
‘Fuck! Oh shitting bollocks, open!’ wailed Catherine, but it was to no avail. After five minutes of frantic pushing and pulling, the door remained firmly stuck.
In desperation, she looked around. She was butt naked, hundreds of feet up in the air, and it was freezing cold. Her mobile was lying tantalizingly on the coffee table just a few feet away through the glass window. She couldn’t even ring for help. What was she going to do?
Looking round the balcony, something caught her eye. As she squinted in the gloom, she saw a Hermès towel lying behind a pot plant in the corner. She’d forgotten it was there, left over from sunbathing in the summer. Catherine retrieved it and shook it, grimacing as a dead spider fell out. Then she wrapped the damp material round her and tried to think rationally.
She was stuck on her balcony with no way of getting back in. So, she had to come up with another strategy, and that meant climbing over her neighbours’ balcony an
d praying they were in. The neighbours were a haughty looking couple called the Edgar-Phillipses. They were in their late sixties and the concierge had told Catherine he was a retired army brigadier who spent most of his time at his private members’ club in Pall Mall. Catherine had only exchanged pleasantries in the corridor with them, but even so, they had definitely struck her as a pair who would not be impressed by her sudden arrival, semi-naked, in their living room. Still, needs must, and – steeling herself – Catherine moved forward. The two balconies were only a foot apart, but one false move and she would fall to her death. Heart hammering, she climbed up on the sunlounger and slowly swung one leg over into next-door’s balcony.
‘Don’t look down, don’t look down,’ she repeated to herself like a mantra. She looked down. ‘Oh Christ!’ she moaned, feeling sick with terror. The pavement seemed like an eternity away, and a little group of people had gathered to watch, clutching each other and pointing upwards.
The wind howled past, and she almost lost her balance. She screamed, and, with one last effort, hurled herself forward. She was aware of a loud ripping noise as the towel got entangled with the sunlounger and was pulled off her.
Catherine tumbled to the floor in a heap, gasping and sweating. She’d made it! As she lay there shivering, the realization dawned that she was not alone. She blinked into the light streaming out from the other side of the glass door, where four people now stood open-mouthed. Two were the Edgar-Phillipses, he in a navy blazer and war medals, she in an old-fashioned evening dress. The third person was a tall, thin lady with a disapproving look on her face. The fourth person . . . Catherine had to look once, twice, a third time at the fourth person to see if this really was happening to her.
There, in a smart black evening jacket, curling his lips, was Sir Robin Hackford.
After what seemed a lifetime, the men looked away. In a futile attempt to preserve her modesty Catherine scrambled behind the nearest thing to hand, which was a miniature wheelbarrow filled with stone ornaments and flowers. The two women carried on staring in horrified fascination, as if Catherine was some kind of foreign species they had just captured in a net.
