Naked Truths (18 page)

Despite this, John Milton gave an easy grin. ‘I'm working.' He waved an apologetic hand over his garb, ‘Hence the outfit.'

‘You're a painter?' Catherine asked stupidly.

John smiled again. ‘No, I'm in the building industry. We've had a big contract down here, and I've been doing a few last-minute jobs.'

‘Oh,' said Catherine. She felt at a loss for words. Despite standing nearly six feet in her heels John Milton towered over her.

‘You're clearly not in a manual labour job,' he said drily, appraising her dress. Somehow his gaze wasn't sleazy like the bouncer's had been.

‘I edit a magazine. We're hosting a party here tonight.' Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine could see some of her team arriving, along with a few other faces she knew. A few were looking over at her with interest. Shit!

‘Which one?' John asked.

‘
Soirée
,' Catherine said. She was feeling more unnerved by the second.

John shook his head. ‘Never heard of it, I'm afraid.' Catherine's eyes darted back to the entrance. ‘Look, I'm obviously keeping you . . .'

She jerked her head back. ‘I've got to go and meet the VIP guests.' She started to edge away. John studied her, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

‘Don't let me stop you.' He held out his hand as a friendly farewell. Catherine hesitated and took it. A jolt of electricity seemed to pass between them. Catherine snatched her hand back awkwardly.

‘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 lunch!'

‘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.

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.