Naked Truths (17 page)

‘I do actually, Angie Fox-Titt. She owns an antiques shop in the village I come from.'

Catherine looked mildly surprised. ‘Churchminster, isn't it?'

Harriet was rather flattered her boss had remembered.

‘Only I'm trying to get this young lad on a placement somewhere, and we're not having much luck so far.'

‘Why don't I ask Angie?' offered Harriet. ‘You never know.'

‘Mrs Fox-Titt would have to join up to the scheme and go through all the usual vetting procedures.' Catherine shot Harriet an apologetic look. ‘It's quite a commitment.'

Harriet smiled. ‘No harm in trying. In actual fact, my mother is going out riding with Angie tomorrow. I'll get her to mention it then.'

By 4 p.m., work had stopped for the day. Even Catherine had downed tools and gone out for a two-hour pampering session. Music blared out much louder than normal from the stereo, while champagne was handed out in plastic cups from the water cooler to get the party atmosphere going. Mindful she had to keep her wits about her, Harriet topped hers up with tons of orange juice to make a very weak Bucks Fizz.

The beauty team had booked a manicurist to come in, and the woman had set up an impromptu salon in the small room at the back of the office that acted as a fashion cupboard. It was in here, amongst the racks of clothes and piles of shoes that Harriet and Saffron sat, Saffron blowing on her freshly applied bright-orange varnish, and sipping from her plastic cup while the manicurist started to paint Harriet's nails in a pretty coral colour.

‘What time are you going down there?' asked Saffron.

‘Around 6 p.m. Catherine wants to have a last-minute recce to make sure everything's in place,' said Harriet, watching the manicurist painstakingly apply the varnish to her nails. She wished she could put on polish properly herself: she either ended up smudging it or painting it halfway down to her knuckles. A jolt of nerves flashed through her stomach. ‘God, I hope there're no last-minute disasters!'

Saffron opened her mouth to offer reassurance but something caught her eye. Her face froze in astonishment.

‘Look out there!' she mouthed to Harriet.

Harriet turned her head to be confronted by the sight of Annabel in a lime-green evening dress that looked like it had been plucked straight out of the eighties. It had a floor-length puffball skirt and flouncy sleeves, and Annabel had coordinated it with a black Alice band and satin evening gloves. As she turned round to model it to a slack-jawed chief sub, they saw there was a huge bow attached to the back of the dress, stretching across her ample bottom. Annabel spotted them staring and bustled across.

‘What are you doing in here?' she asked, gooseberry eyes suspicious.

‘What does it look like?' asked Saffron. Annabel looked down at Harriet's nails.

‘That colour does nothing for your skin tone,' she said patronizingly. ‘You should have gone for a French manicure like me.'

‘Are you planning on taking those lovely gloves off, then?' asked Saffron innocently. ‘What a shame, they really make your outfit.'

Annabel looked at her, not sure if she was being made fun of. Her ego took over. ‘Yah, I look great, don't I? Should do, this bloody thing cost me a fortune.'

There was a sudden commotion outside. Saffron leapt up and ran out, and Annabel cast one more disparaging look at Harriet's nails before following her. Harriet could hear raised voices, one high-pitched hysterical one in particular. After a few moments, Saffron came back in. She had the most peculiar expression on her face.

‘What on earth's the matter?' said Harriet, in alarm.

‘Alexander has had a slight mishap,' replied Saffron. A giggle erupted and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

‘What's happened? Is he OK?' said Harriet. Just then the fashion director flew into the room, hotly pursued by the picture editor who was brandishing a wet paper hand-towel. Alexander stopped and threw his hands in the air.

‘Look at me!'

Harriet had never seen anything like it. Alexander was bright orange. Every inch of his flesh glowed radioactively, while more fake tan congealed unattractively around his eyebrows and hairline.

The picture editor was a mum of three who was experienced in such matters. She dabbed at his face. ‘It'll come off if I give it a good scrub . . .'

‘I look like a fucking Oompa-Loompa,' shrieked Alexander. He caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. ‘Those bitches at
Grace
will have a field day!'

‘I'm sure it'll wash off,' offered Harriet, but Alexander was beyond consolation.

‘Six weeks I've worked on my outfit for tonight! Six weeks! And now it's all ruined! This is a fucking disaster.'

Always one to gain delight from another's misfortunes, Annabel had edged her way in. At this last comment, she adopted her most worthy expression. ‘I think you'll find babies starving in Africa is a real disaster, Alexander,' she said condescendingly. This was met with a look that could have felled grown men, and reluctantly Annabel backed out of the room.

Alexander had had enough. His face twisted into a tragicomic mask of outraged despair. ‘All of you, out, OUT! I want to be alone.'

‘He went to try out this new spray-on fake tan,' whispered the picture editor as they were bundled out, manicurist and all, from the cupboard. ‘I think it went a bit wrong.'

There was another plaintive wail from inside. ‘Maybe not the best time to ask if Jodie Marsh is his new style icon,' said Saffron, her mouth twitching.

Harriet tried not to laugh. ‘Oh, poor Alexander!'

THE PARTY WAS
starting at 7 p.m. By 6.23 p.m. Catherine's taxi was pulling up outside the Natural History Museum. She climbed out and stopped for a moment to savour the vast building with its majestic turrets, stone gargoyles and huge arched windows, all lit up by industrial-sized spotlights. High up on the roof was a flagpole, a crisp Union Jack swaying proudly in the night breeze. Catherine walked towards the entrance gate, where a bored-looking man in a black suit stood sentry. His eyes lit up at the sight of Catherine and he gave her an obvious once-over. Ignoring him, she opened her black clutch bag to produce the glossy laminated ticket everyone in the industry had been falling over themselves to get.

‘Party doesn't start yet, darlin',' the man leered.

Catherine smiled. ‘I know, it's my party.'

The doorman's face fell and he quickly adopted a more businesslike expression. ‘Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. Name?' He looked down at his clipboard.

‘Catherine Connor,' she said, and swept past him.

Just inside the door was a girl dressed in head-to-toe black wearing a small headpiece. Catherine repeated her name, and after confiding breathlessly that
Soirée
was her favourite magazine, the girl waved her through.

‘Let me know if you need anything,' she called as Catherine walked into the central hall. It wasn't the first time Catherine had been to the museum, yet it still left her speechless. It was such a commanding place, with its sweeping ornate balcony running both sides of the room. At the far end was a grandiose staircase, overlooked by three beautiful stained-glass windows, while the high domed ceiling was covered with intricate drawings of flora and fauna. The whole thing would have reminded Catherine of a cross between a cathedral and a Victorian railway station, if it hadn't been for the huge black skeleton of a plant-eating Diplodocus dinosaur, its massive frame dwarfing the entire room.

On either side of the room were alcoves that had been transformed into different bars for the evening. One was a neon-lit cocktail bar with a large black cauldron as its centrepiece, bubbling with some kind of alcoholic concoction.
Cute
, Catherine thought. The party had cost a fortune, yet Catherine wasn't surprised Sir Robin had let it go ahead. Heaven forbid that any of his business rivals think Valour was in any kind of
trouble.

Already the place was alive with activity. Cocktail waitresses dressed as burlesque dancers sashayed past, while handsome barmen busied themselves with last-minute preparations. At the champagne bar, a pyramid made up of hundreds of glasses was being painstakingly assembled, soon to be filled with bottles of cascading golden liquid. In the middle of all this, studying her clipboard intently, was Harriet.

As if suddenly aware of Catherine's presence, she looked up and rushed over. ‘Hullo, Catherine, I was hoping you'd be here!'

Harriet was looking slightly pale. Her nerves were starting to take over, and she'd had to phone home to Clanfield Hall to get a pep talk from her mother.

‘Darling, you'll be fine,' Frances had told her. ‘This is what the Frasers do well. Have you had your hair straightened?'

‘Yes, Mummy,' Harriet had replied dutifully.

‘What about those control knickers I bought you for Easter, instead of the Green & Black's egg you wanted?'

‘Present and correct!'

Harriet had heard her mother sigh with satisfaction. ‘One word of advice, Harriet, do stay off the champagne – in fact any alcohol – until at least an hour before the end. It's most unbecoming for the hostess to be rolling around drunk.'

Harriet hadn't been able to face telling her mother, once again, that she wasn't actually hosting the party, nor that she'd abandoned her good intentions and had just gulped down a large glass of house white at the bar to calm her nerves.

In fact, she thought she might need another now. Catherine's keen eyes were scanning the room, as usual missing nothing.

‘The orchestra have got to set up on the staircase,' Harriet said hurriedly. ‘At least they're here, which is more than I can say for the harpist: poor woman is stuck in traffic. And of course, the waiters and waitresses aren't in position . . .'

Catherine's face broke into a huge smile. ‘It looks bloody fantastic! I think it's going to be our best party yet.'

‘Oh, thank you!' Harriet felt weak with relief: she had so wanted Catherine to be pleased. ‘At least the builders have gone. I was having nightmares about guests getting bumped off by bits of falling scaffolding!'

Catherine smiled. ‘Well I didn't see any bodies on the way in, so I think we'll be all right.' She looked around. ‘I'm just going to the cloakroom. Is there anything you need me to do?'

‘I think we're fine, thank you.' Harriet paused, wondering if she was about to step over the line. ‘I have to say, Catherine, you look jolly good! That dress fits you like a glove.'

Catherine looked down at her outfit and laughed. ‘It's so bloody tight I won't be able to eat one canapé, but it's nice of you to say so.'

Looking in the bathroom mirror a few minutes later, Catherine conceded she was looking good. That afternoon's facial and body exfoliation had left her skin taut and glowing. Her hair was freshly cut and shiny, while her full lips, which were normally covered by a slick of clear lip-gloss, had been painted a bright, luscious red. She had kept the rest of her make-up to a bare minimum: several coats of carefully applied black mascara which brought out the blue of her eyes, and a subtle pink cream blusher. Square-cut diamond earrings from De Beers jewellers on Bond Street sparkled next to her face, softening her strong bone structure. They had been Catherine's Christmas present to herself two years ago.

Her eyes moved downwards, on to the black knee-length Chanel dress that Alexander had called in for her. Beautifully tailored, it was strapless with a ruffle detail around the bust. Harriet was right, it fitted her like a second skin. Before she'd retired to the sofa with a bucket-sized glass of wine last night, Catherine had practised for ages walking in her new Marc Jacobs heels. Apart from the odd wobble, she seemed OK.
Please, God, don't let me go arse over tit tonight
, she thought, cursing choosing a profession which required vertigo-inducing shoes. It would have been much easier to be a farmer or something.

Catherine stared at her reflection again. Her outward appearance was a complete contrast to how she felt inside. She had expected nerves about the party, but it still wasn't enough to drown out the gnawing anxiety that seemed to be part and parcel of her these days. She sighed. To the outside world, she had it all. So why did she feel so empty?

It was ten to seven. The cloakroom attendants were in position, while the sound of the orchestra tuning up floated across the room. Security men with walkie-talkies strode purposefully about, while waitresses stood around the bar chatting and waiting for their trays of cocktails to be made. Catherine was just on her way to introduce herself to the museum's events manager when a voice stopped her stone dead.

‘Cathy? Is that really you?'

Catherine froze. She knew that voice. It was deeper than she remembered, but the familiar intonation was still there, underneath the soft Geordie lilt. My God, she hadn't heard it in nearly twenty years . . .

‘It is you, isn't it? I'd recognize that walk anywhere.'

Slowly Catherine turned around. Her jaw slackened and fell open. Standing there was her past, in all of his six-foot-four glory. More muscular than when she'd last seen him, the thick dark hair, strong jaw and arresting green eyes were still the same. His once-perfect nose was now slightly bent and battle-scarred, but the imperfection only enhanced his ruggedness. There was the beginning of a six o'clock shadow on his chin. In contrast to the dinner jackets around him, he was dressed in a paint-splattered T-shirt and jeans, a pair of well-worn Timberland boots on his feet. Somehow, he still looked at ease in the opulent surroundings. As he shifted slightly, Catherine saw a glimpse of a powerful, tanned thigh through a rip in his jeans.

Catherine took an involuntary step backwards.

‘John? John Milton? What are you doing here?' She knew her tone wasn't friendly.