Naked Truths (16 page)

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.

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 was 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.

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.

‘Morning, Catherine!'

Her boss stopped. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Have you been in long?'

Catherine's head was pounding unpleasantly from the bottle and a half of wine she'd had last night. She hadn't meant to drink so much, but had passed out on the sofa, awaking dry mouthed and disorientated at 3 a.m. She was now filled with self-disgust and a sinking disbelief that she'd let herself get like this on one of the most important days of the year. Did she have any paracetamol left in her desk drawer?

‘Not really, just making sure all the VIPs are on the guest list,' Harriet said brightly. Catherine looked exhausted, she thought. Her skin was grey and dull and there were dark circles ringing her eyes.

‘Are the
Soirée
Sponsors team on there?' Catherine had made it a priority to invite them. As well as giving them the chance to meet the
Soirée
editorial team and other types, it was a kind of informal ‘thank you' for all their hard work throughout the year.

‘All except Gail. She phoned me yesterday to say she couldn't make it.'

Catherine smiled. ‘That doesn't surprise me. Gail's always said she doesn't do “la-di-dah”. Her words, not mine.' She frowned. ‘I hope that building work's finished by now, we can't have our guests getting covered in cement dust.'

‘I've been assured by Ken – he's the foreman – and the Natural History's site manager, that it will all be finished this morning.'

Catherine looked concerned. ‘God, I hope so. That's cutting it a bit fine.'

Harriet looked downcast. ‘It's overrun by two weeks. I had no idea they'd still be there.'

Catherine noticed her PA's expression. ‘Hey, it's not your fault. You've done a really great job.'

Harriet looked happier. ‘Let's hope it goes smoothly tonight!'

Catherine smiled. ‘I am sure it will.' She paused as she opened her office door. ‘Would you mind popping out to Boots and getting me some painkillers? I've got a really bad headache coming on, must be a migraine or something.'

Ten minutes later, Harriet was back, along with a steaming hot cappuccino for Catherine.

‘You star,' said Catherine. As she reached for her purse, she knocked a pile of papers off her already crowded desk.

‘Bollocks!' Catherine cursed, but Harriet had already scooped them up and deposited them back on the desk.

Catherine thanked her. ‘It's all my
Soirée
Sponsors stuff. We've been asked to open a new centre in Manchester.'

‘That's fantastic news!' Harriet said, but Catherine didn't seem to share her enthusiasm.

‘Hmm, well, we've got a lot of things to think about at this end, first.' She paused. ‘That reminds me . . . I don't suppose you know anyone who works in the antiques world, do you?'

A name immediately came into Harriet's mind.