Naked Truths (19 page)

Harriet, meanwhile, was the heroine of the office. She had been quite overcome when Catherine had presented her with a huge bouquet of flowers at the end of the night.

She was just about to turn her computer off when Saffron bounded across.

‘I completely forgot, haven't you got a date this week?'

Harriet blushed. ‘Tomorrow, actually. I'm meeting him at eight o'clock in a pub on the Fulham Road.' The Fulham Road was one of the most famous streets in south-west London, and its pubs heaved with a curious mixture of antipodean backpackers and Sloaney men and women every evening.

‘Tarquin, wasn't it?'

‘Thomas.'

Saffron looked at Harriet's computer screen. ‘Let's see a picture. He's got an online profile, right?'

Harriet nodded and pulled up the Chapline website. Moments later, a picture of a blond, heavily tanned man with swept-back hair appeared.

‘What do you think?' Harriet asked hopefully.

With his toothy smile and suggestive wink, he reminded Saffron of Lord Flashheart out of
Blackadder Goes Forth
, but she wasn't going to tell Harriet that.

‘What does his profile say?'

Harriet clicked on another icon and the details came up.

‘He's not like that once you get talking,' Harriet said hurriedly when she saw Saffron's face. ‘I told him in one of my emails my dream was to go and help build school classrooms in Uganda, and he replied saying he'd just spent six months in Peru building a village, complete with running water, for a local tribe facing extinction!' She looked at the photo again. ‘I suppose that's why he's got such a good tan.'

Saffron looked at Thomas Ford-Bugle's pampered, self-indulgent face and thought his tan was more likely to have come from a booze-filled jaunt to some
castello
in Tuscany with his toff friends than any benevolent urge to save the planet, but again she didn't say anything. She only hoped Harriet's good nature wasn't about to be taken advantage of.

‘Oh darling, I'm not sure.'

In Churchminster, Freddie leaned back against the Aga, a glass of Merlot in his hand. It had suddenly turned very chilly, and the huge fireplace that dominated one wall of the kitchen glowed orange, casting out delicious warmth. Angie got up from the table and went to throw another log on it.

‘It would only be for a few months, Freds, and I do need a spare pair of hands in the shop. You're always saying I should get someone else in.'

Freddie still looked dubious. ‘Where's this fellow going to live?'

Angie stoked the fire, her back to him. ‘I thought he could stay in the granny annexe.'

Freddie sounded rather shocked. ‘You want him to stay
here
? We can't let a complete stranger into the house! And from what you tell me, he comes from quite a troubled background. I've only just got over Archie's MC Hammer phase.' A few years ago their son Archie had dropped out of college to smoke drugs, and begun talking like a Harlem rapper. It had caused his parents no end of trouble.

Angie came back and sat at the table. ‘Freds, not all young people are like that. Besides, Archie's fine now.'

Freddie grumbled something about his eardrums and loud music.

‘He won't be in the main house, so we won't hear any music he wants to play,' soothed Angie. ‘Come on, Freds, this scheme sounds like such a good idea, and one does like to give something back. Won't you even think about it?'

Freddie sighed. ‘All right. But don't get all carried away and start planning things.' He stopped. ‘What's this young chap's name again?'

Angie tried to hide her grin; she knew the battle was nearly won.

‘It's Ashley. Ashley King.'

SAFFRON'S HEAD WAS
aching. She'd had a shit day: her interview with an American pop star at a suite in the Ritz had been delayed for three hours. When she'd finally got in there, the singer's control-freak press officer had insisted on sitting in on the interview and butting in every ten seconds, telling Saffron she couldn't ask that question or that question. Saffron had only just stopped herself grabbing the PR by her skinny arm and manhandling her out. To make matters worse, Annabel had called in sick for the third day running, but then changed her Facebook status to say she was looking forward to her date with a man called Barnabus that evening. Saffron didn't know if Annabel was just plain stupid, or simply couldn't resist the chance to show off the fact someone actually found her attractive. Saffron was seriously considering putting in a complaint to Catherine, but her boss seemed so preoccupied and stressed at the moment, she didn't know how well it would be received.

It was 9 p.m. by the time she got home to Montague Mews. Velda was out seeing a play with friends, and the house was dark as she let herself in. Dumping her bag at the bottom of the stairs Saffron wearily tramped through to the living room. As she switched on the light by the door and light flooded the place, she screamed. Lying expectantly on the sofa opposite was Fernando, wearing nothing but a huge smile.

‘Hey, baby!'

Saffron clutched her heart and collapsed in the chair opposite. ‘Fucking hell, Fernando! You nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?'

His smile dropped slightly. ‘I thought you'd be pleased to see me.'

Saffron's breathing started to return to normal. She picked up Velda's latest copy of the
Spectator
and threw it at him.

‘For God's sake, sit on this. I don't think Aunt Velda will want to know you've been lounging on her sofa with your meat and two veg out.'

Fernando sat up, looking rather hurt. ‘What's this? I thought it would be a sexy surprise for you. Don't you fancy me any more?'

Saffron looked across the room. The rippling muscles that had once been so irresistible now seemed insignificant. All Saffron could think was how silly he looked.

‘It's not that,' she sighed. With one bound, Fernando was across the room and crouching beside her.

‘What is it, then?' He sounded panicked.

Saffron thought fleetingly of his squalid flat, with skid-marks down the toilet and stale milk in the fridge. Fernando had been spending more and more time at Montague Mews, eating Velda out of house and home. The few times Saffron had tried talking to him about getting a proper job, he had changed the subject. He was on to a good thing here, and knew it. Suddenly, Saffron couldn't stand his freeloading a moment longer.

‘Look, babe, it's been great and everything, but I don't think this is working.'

He looked shocked. ‘Of course it's working! Come on, baby, we have fun, don't we?' His tone was almost wheedling.

‘Life's not just about having fun, Fernando!' Saffron cried, rather surprised at herself. ‘Don't you want a career or anything? To earn your own money?'

‘Ah! So this is what it's about!' he said sulkily. ‘You don't love me any more because I'm not rich enough for you.'

‘That's ridiculous!' she shot back. ‘I've been paying for everything since we've started going out. You don't have to be rich, Fernando, but it would be nice if you put your hand in your pocket now and again.'

‘It takes time!' he said huffily. ‘Once I get into acting school, I just know someone is gonna give me my big break. One day, baby, I'll be richer than you can ever imagine . . .'

Saffron had heard it all before. She had a career and life to get on with.

‘Fernando, there's no easy way of saying this. It's over.'

He gave a scandalized gasp. ‘You're
dumping
me?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

He jumped up angrily, grabbing a cushion to preserve his modesty. ‘Let me tell you, no one dumps Fernando Romero!'

Saffron stood up. ‘I'm afraid they just did.'

His handsome, vain face tightened. ‘You think you're such a hot pot, but you'll never get anyone better than me.'

Saffron didn't rise. ‘I'll leave you to get dressed.' She went to touch his arm, but he pulled it away as if he'd been scalded.

‘Don't touch me!'

‘Fine,' Saffron sighed. ‘Don't forget to leave your key on the coffee table on your way out.' She left the room and went up to her bedroom.

A few minutes later the whole house reverberated as Fernando slammed the front door angrily. Saffron closed her eyes, but found she felt only relief, not sadness. She didn't care how sexy he had been, she was never going near such a waster again.

‘Darling, it's me.'

‘Hullo, Granny Clem!' Caro put Milo down and watched, exasperated, as he scampered out of the kitchen. For the last ten minutes she had been trying to get him to eat his bowl of spaghetti hoops, but they seemed to have ended up everywhere but his mouth.

‘You sound a bit harassed.'

Caro flopped back down at the breakfast table. ‘Just giving Milo his lunch. It's not proving a great success, I'm afraid.'

‘Let him go without.' A steely note entered her grandmother's voice. ‘That's what I used to do when your father tried to play up. He soon came around. Anyway, I wanted to make sure you're all still attending Bonfire Night . . .' The village was putting on a fireworks display that Saturday in a field at the back of Clementine's house.

‘Yup, still coming!' Caro had already told her grandmother this about ten times.

‘Excellent. Ted Briggs is in charge of the fireworks display, and Jack and Beryl are putting on a marvellous spread out of the pub kitchen.'

‘What time does it start, again?'

‘It says on the ticket I sent you. Six o'clock. Sharp.'

Caro smiled to herself. Her grandmother's organization of village events was meticulous. Her father Johnnie had often joked that Clementine was wasted on Churchminster and should be out commanding the British army.

‘See you there, Granny Clem. We won't be late, I promise.'

In the
Soirée
office, Catherine was responding to a pile of emails she'd been putting off when Harriet called through.

‘I've got John Milton on the line.'

Catherine's heart leapt up into her mouth. What was he doing calling?

‘Thanks, Harriet, can you put him through?'

There was silence for a few seconds. ‘Hello?' said Catherine cautiously.

‘It's John.' His mere presence at the end of the line seemed to fill the very room.

‘John. Hello! What can I do for you?' Her voice was unnaturally high.

‘How did the party go?' By contrast he sounded relaxed and confident.

‘Good,' Catherine said. She knew she sounded curt, but couldn't help it.

‘I'm sure you're really busy, so I won't keep you.'

Catherine interrupted. ‘I am, actually.'

‘Good for you.' Was that a soft chuckle at the other end? John continued. ‘If you're available, I was wondering if I could take you out for dinner next week.'

‘Well . . . er,' she stuttered. She hadn't been expecting this.

John didn't say anything, which added to her discomfort.

‘The thing is, I'm really snowed under at the moment.'

‘Then the least I can do is take you out. You must need a night off.'

Catherine felt she was being backed into a corner.

‘I'm seeing someone!' she blurted.

When John answered, he sounded amused.

‘I didn't assume that you weren't.'

Catherine cringed at herself. Why was she acting like such an idiot?

‘Look, John . . . it's nice of you to ask, but I'm afraid I can't.'

‘Take my number, anyway,' he said lightly. ‘If you do change your mind about meeting up with an old friend, give me a shout.'

After a second's agonizing, Catherine grabbed her pen and took it down. After she had practically hung up on him, so desperate had she been to get off the phone, Catherine put her face in her hands and groaned. What a neurotic fool he must have thought her! As much as she tried to wish he hadn't called, Catherine could feel a churning in her stomach that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

‘You're not going, end of story,' she said to herself, out loud. Screwing up the Post-it note the number was written on, she leant down to throw it in the bin, but something stopped her.

‘Oh, for fuck's sake!'

Opening her drawer, Catherine threw the crumpled piece of paper in the furthest corner before slamming it shut again.

CARO WAS UNLOADING
the dishwasher when the doorbell sounded. ‘I'll get it,' Benedict called from the next room. He was working from home. Caro heard footsteps across the wooden floor, and the front door open. There was silence for a few seconds, then Benedict's voice rang out, loud with shock.

‘My God, what are you doing here?'

Caro stopped what she was doing.

‘Benedict, is everything all right?'

There was a pause. ‘Yes, it's fine. Caro, come out. Amelia is here!'

Caro's eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh my goodness! What a lovely surprise! Amelia, you should have told me you were coming . . .' As she walked into the living room her words trailed off. Now she could understand why Benedict had sounded so strange.

Twenty-eight-year-old Amelia Towey stood next to her brother. Or at least, a shadow of the tall, vivacious girl Amelia used to be. Her face was pale and wan, her sparkling eyes dulled. Her hair, normally a glossy brown mane, hung drab and lank around her shoulders. As Caro stepped forward and hugged her sister-in-law, she could feel beneath the long, cashmere cardigan just how thin she'd become.