Naked Truths (10 page)

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.

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.

‘You back seeing your mum, then?' asked Ash, recovering slightly.

‘Yeah,' Nikki looked at her watch pointedly. ‘I'm running late as usual, gotta be back at work soon.'

Despite the hint, Ash seemed to want to talk. ‘You still working up west?'

Nikki smiled. ‘Yup. I was made permanent a month ago, got myself a nice little pad in Shepherd's Bush.' She laughed. ‘It's the size of a postage stamp, but it's my postage stamp. I love it.'

Ash shot her an ironic look. ‘Don't miss this place, then?'

Nikki pulled a face. ‘Aside from Mum and my sisters? Can't say I do, surprisingly.'

Ash looked down at his trainers. ‘Don't blame you,' he muttered.

It had only been Ash and his dad next door for as long as Nikki could remember. Ash's mum had run off to Spain with a builder years ago, and his older sister Beverley had moved out soon after.

‘How are things at home?' Nikki asked.

He shrugged. ‘Same as, old man's still a full-on piss head.'

Nikki smiled sympathetically. ‘You still going round all those antique markets? Remember when we went to one together, and I bought that china pig? You said it was a load of crap, and you were right. I dropped it a few days later, and inside it said it was from Woolies.' She started laughing. ‘I was gutted, I thought I'd discovered the Holy bloody Grail!'

Ash's solemn face broke into a smile. ‘Yeah, I remember. That was a good day. Not that I've been doing the markets as much these days; I'm doing temp work now.'

Nikki studied him. ‘You shouldn't give up on it, Ash, I reckon you've got a real eye for all that stuff.'

He shrugged again. ‘How am I going to get into something like that? All the lads round here think I'm weird enough as it is.'

Nikki looked thoughtful. ‘I may be able to help, let me have a think.' She glanced at her watch again.

Ash stepped aside. ‘You better go and see your ma.'

Nikki started up the stairs before looking back. ‘I mean it, Ash, I will see if I can do anything.'

He flashed her a brief, tight smile. ‘Thanks, Niks, but don't waste your time. I gave up on all that stuff a long time ago.' Then he opened the door and vanished into the rainy day.

IT WAS THE
Friday before the bank holiday and the weather had finally turned for the better. Britain was in the middle of a heat wave. Every day the
Sun
and
Daily Mirror
were full of bikini-clad babes, splashing around in the sea up and down the country from Blackpool to Brighton. London had grown languid under the intense heat. The parks were packed with office workers lingering over an alfresco sandwich, before returning to work with pink noses and shoulders. Content-looking people ambled along the hot pavements, or sat outside cafés enjoying a chilled beer or glass of rosé. No one seemed in a rush to get anywhere, and, for once, the city slowed down to enjoy a slower pace of life.

In the
Soirée
office, the last issue had just been put to bed. The staff were winding down, in preparation for a few precious extra days away from the office. Harriet was telling Saffron her plans for the weekend when Annabel bustled over.

‘Saffron, I want you to go and pick up a preview tape of this new TV show Joely Richardson is in. I'm interviewing her on Tuesday, so I need to watch it over the weekend.'

‘Where from?' asked Saffron.

Annabel looked belligerent. ‘Flame TV.'

Saffron pulled a face. ‘It's going to take me hours to get there. Why can't you get it biked over?'

‘Because someone needs to go and meet them in person, and I'm too busy!' she said grandly.

‘Busy eating your body weight in biscuits,' Saffron said in an undertone to Harriet.

‘Excuse me, what was that?' demanded Annabel.

‘Nothing, dear,' said Saffron sardonically. Annabel turned to walk off, and went slap bang into the new designer. 28-year-old Tom Fellows looked more like a train-spotter than a designer on one of the most famous magazines in Britain. Tall and clumsy, he had bottle-top glasses, bushy black hair, and long gangly limbs he always seemed to be falling over.

‘Watch it, you great clodhopper!' she cried. Tom went bright red.

‘Sorry,' he mumbled.

‘He didn't do it on purpose!' Saffron exclaimed as Tom shuffled off, eyes on the floor.

‘People should watch where they're going,' huffed Annabel. She eyed Harriet sniffily.

‘Where are you going this weekend, anyway?'

‘Norfolk, actually, to see an old school friend,' Harriet told her. ‘I'm rather looking forward to it, we're going on lots of nice walks and—'

‘Well, I'm going to Great Winnington Hall. You must have heard of it, yah? My friend Felix's sister Bella's best friend is married to the sixth Earl of Haverly, who lives there. He's got some events company in to put on the most a-may-zing murder mystery dinner party. I'm going as a French maid.'

The art director, a laid-back Paul Weller lookalike, strolled over at that moment. On overhearing Annabel's revelation, his eyebrows shot into his artfully tousled hairline.

‘You know, it's very hard to get an invite to Winnington,' Annabel said grandly. ‘Only the movers and shakers get a look-in. Everyone I know is green with envy.'

‘Sounds lovely,' said Harriet dutifully. Behind her, Saffron rolled her eyes. ‘A-may-zing!' she mouthed.

Harriet tried not to giggle. Just then Catherine came out of her office.

‘What's this, a mothers' meeting?' She smiled.

Harriet flushed. ‘Er, just discussing our bank holiday plans. Are you up to anything?' she added politely.

As usual, Catherine had no plans. ‘Just seeing a few friends, keeping it low-key,' she lied. The thought of rambling round her huge penthouse all weekend suddenly made her feel very lonely.

‘Does anyone fancy a drink after work?' she blurted out. ‘On me, of course.'

Everyone looked shocked, and then a bit embarrassed. Catherine instantly regretted it.

‘I've got plans with the missus,' said the art director apologetically, while everyone else muttered their excuses about getting away before the Friday-night rush.

‘No problem,' replied Catherine brightly. ‘Just thought I'd mention it.' She turned and went back into her office, cringing to herself. No one fraternized with the boss, especially on a bank holiday weekend. They had probably seen right through her for the sad case she really was.

THE NEXT MORNING,
Caro and Benedict had planned to leave Montague Mews at 11 a.m. for Churchminster. Clementine had organized a drinks party in the garden at Fairoaks.

‘We may as well make the most of the weather, darling, my gloriosas are looking splendid.'

Caro threw the last bag in and pulled the boot shut. The mews was unusually quiet today: Benedict had had to go into work unexpectedly for a few hours, and was due back soon. Stephen and Klaus were staying at a friend's castle in Tuscany and Velda had gone to an art fair in Pembrokeshire. Only Rowena's house was the same, still and silent behind the brick facade.

Caro's mobile rang.

‘It's me.'

‘Is everything OK?'

Her husband sounded preoccupied. ‘Not really. We've had a major cock-up with some designs due in next week, and the client's not happy. We're really up against it. I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to stay up to make sure we meet the deadline.'

Caro's heart sank. ‘Oh, Granny Clem was so looking forward to seeing you. And you really do need a few days off. I was looking forward to spoiling you.'

‘I know, me too. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about it. I'm sorry, darling, really I am.'

Despite her disappointment, Caro understood he had no option. ‘Of course. Look, I'll ring you when I get back. Love you.'

‘Love you, too, beautiful.'

It was half past two when Caro finally pulled off the junction on the M4 for Churchminster. Not normally good on long car journeys, Milo had been happily playing with Rory the racing car in his back seat.

‘You know where we're going, darling, don't you?' Caro said, smiling at him in the rear-view mirror. She knew how he must be feeling. Since they'd broken free of the hellish jams out of London, excitement had been mounting inside her. They were going home!

Half an hour later, Caro felt like she was entering a different world. The twisty country lanes unfurled in front of them, lined by tall, flourishing hedgerows and the familiar honey-coloured stone walls. Every now and again they would break to reveal vast, Van-Gogh-yellow fields of oil-seed rape, and endless, brilliant-blue skies. Caro opened the sunroof, and warmth flooded in. She looked around her, savouring the view. Every field was so ripe, every plant and tree so lush. The countryside had never looked more alive or beautiful. She felt her spirits soaring.

A signpost appeared on the horizon.

Bedlington 1 mile. Churchminster 3 miles.

Caro turned left at the crossroads. Compared to the smooth tarmac of London, the roads felt more precarious than ever. A large pothole suddenly appeared on the road in front of them and Caro had to swerve right to avoid her tyres being mangled.

As she approached the town of Bedlington, the roads evened out. It was the farmers' market day and the place was bustling. She slowed down as she drove past the large square filled with stalls, where people milled around trying everything from locally reared partridges to shiny, fat green olives. Caro passed the tiny police station on her left and followed the Bedlington Road out of town. Before long, she'd reached the outskirts of Churchminster and her heart gladdened.