Naked Truths (2 page)

As well as managing Catherine's diary and making sure the office ran smoothly, Harriet was in charge of organizing
Soirée
's famous autumn cocktail party. This year it was being held at the Natural History Museum. Harriet had been thrown in at the deep end, and was rushed off her feet liaising with florists and caterers, lighting people and guest lists, but she'd never felt so alive. Most nights, she would turn down invites from Saffron to go to one launch party or the other, and return to her rented garden flat in Fulham, exhausted but happy. For the first time in her life, Harriet felt like she was achieving something.

The only downside was that her love life was still so barren she made Ann Widdecombe look like a wanton harlot. She'd had one date, a picnic in St James's Park with the brother of an old school friend, but it had ended up being a complete disaster. Hugh Bonneville-Thorpe-Radcliffe was fresh out of the Priory, having suffered a mental breakdown from his high-pressured job as a city trader. After two hours recounting every excruciating detail of his therapy sessions, he'd unexpectedly tried to mount Harriet's leg. She still hadn't managed to push him off by the time a nearby gardener had turned his hose on them, before frogmarching the pair out. Harriet hadn't seen Hugh – or St James's Park – since.

Despite the mortifying experience, Harriet
knew
there was a man out there for her. South-west London was teeming with jolly, well-built men striding around purposefully with cricket jumpers tied over their shoulders. One of them had to be her Mr Right; she couldn't rely on the brooding Heathcliffe types in her romance novels for much longer.

But for now there were more pressing things to think about. Pushing the swing door open with her foot, Harriet entered the office. Music blared out from the stereo in the corner, while several staff tripped across the office on their way to a cup of tea and a gossip in the kitchen. Harriet remembered the first time she had walked in: it had looked like a cross between
Ugly Betty
and
The Devil Wears Prada
. Racks of expensive clothes had stood everywhere, while clouds of perfume and glitter billowed out from the beauty desk. All around there had been noise, and people laughing and talking loudly into their phones or shouting across the office about something. At that moment Harriet had felt like she'd stumbled on a really fun party, and she'd never wanted to leave.

Manoeuvring her way around the crate of Moët that had been sent from yet another PR company, Harriet deposited the parcels on her desk. Almost immediately the phone started ringing. With a smile she snatched up the receiver.

‘Good morning,
Soirée
magazine!'

CATHERINE CONNOR WAS
preoccupied as she strode through the office doors half an hour later, having finally escaped her breakfast meeting.

She had always dreaded editors' breakfasts; they were just an excuse for most of them to show off their latest Chanel handbag, or get one over on a rival: ‘Such a shame Keira dropped out of your cover shoot – did I tell you we've got her for our Christmas issue?'

To her discomfort, Catherine had ended up sitting next to her arch-rival Isabella Montgomery. Isabella was editor of
Grace
, a monthly glossy that tried to be like
Soirée
but was nothing more than a collection of uninspiring features and advertisements. Small, pin-thin and with shiny blonde hair blow-dried daily at Nicky Clarke's Mayfair salon, 43-year-old Isabella hid a vicious character behind her red-lipsticked smile.

‘Cath-a-rine!' she had cried, when Catherine had entered the private dining room at the plush Wolseley hotel in Piccadilly. No one would have guessed that just twelve hours earlier Isabella had been naked save for a pair of thigh-length PVC boots, and riding her latest conquest to an early grave. He was a 71-year-old multi-millionaire German count, with the unfortunate combination of an over-ambitious libido and a pacemaker. Isabella liked money, power and sex – in that order.

‘I was just discussing
Soirée
's plummeting sales figures with Fiona! You poor thing, you must be having a
horrendous
time.'

Fiona MacKenzie, the Australian editor of
Teen Style
magazine, had rolled her eyes behind Isabella's back. Though no one would dare say it to her pinched little face, Isabella Montgomery was about as popular in the industry as Ozzy Osbourne at a vicar's tea party.

Isabella never passed up the chance to undermine Catherine; it was an open secret that she had got down to the last two for the
Soirée
editorship, and had been so sure of success she'd organized a congratulations party for herself. The day after Catherine got the job, a picture of a furious Isabella, sitting amongst dozens of open champagne bottles, at a party no one turned up to, was gleefully printed in several newspapers. The champagne sponsors had demanded compensation, and Isabella's employers at the time had given her the sack. It had taken two years of arse-licking and giving blow jobs to the right people before Isabella got offered the
Grace
editorship, but her reputation had been tarnished. Jealous of Catherine's success, Isabella somehow blamed her for all her misfortunes, and had had it in for her ever since.

Catherine had raised an elegant eyebrow at Isabella's latest jibe. ‘They're hardly plummeting.'

Isabella had arched an over-plucked eyebrow back. ‘But they
are
down, darling, aren't they? I read something about it in the Media
Guardian
last week.' A smug smile had flittered across her lips. ‘Slippery slope and all that. You must be beside yourself with worry, especially with Sir Robin Hackford at the helm now.'

Sir Robin ‘Hatchet' Hackford was the chairman on Valour's board of directors. A ruthless businessman, he had acquired an unrivalled reputation for driving profits up, usually by slashing budgets, cancelling expense accounts and laying off staff, regardless of their track record or length of service. His appointment at Valour six months earlier had set quite a few cats amongst the pigeons. Sir Robin presided over the board from the company's plush Bond Street office, but despite this Catherine, and the other editors at Valour, had yet to meet him. It was well known that the 62-year-old didn't mix with common employees, and preferred to let his own minions do his dirty work. Catherine thought he sounded like a complete arsehole.

‘Of course, we're safe as houses at
Grace
, as we don't have to worry about circulation like you do,' Isabella had breathed. ‘Our advertisers wouldn't like it if we got too big; one doesn't want to lose one's exclusivity. Clearly not something you've worried about . . . though I suppose now it could come back and bite you on the bottom! Oh dear.'

She'd looked around her to see who was listening. ‘I hear Valour's board aren't happy at all with
Soirée
's performance,' she'd added loudly. ‘Have you spoken to them at all yet, darling?' She'd taken a sip of mint tea, ice-blue eyes looking innocently at Catherine above the bone china cup.

Luckily Fiona, sensing war was about to break out, had dived in and changed the subject. Ten minutes later, Catherine, not sure she could stop herself pouring the remains of her tea all over Isabella's head if she stayed, had made her excuses and left.

As much as Catherine hated to admit it, Isabella's words had touched a nerve. Over the past twelve months,
Soirée
's sales figures
had
been declining. The only consolation for Catherine was that they weren't alone. The whole monthly market was suffering. Nowadays women were increasingly turning to the internet to get their news, fashion and gossip. Catherine had always wanted to work in glossies because they delivered that once-a-month, quality, luxurious treat. The anticipation was part of the pleasure. Now those times were gone, and the once-hallowed stamping ground was under siege. Especially as the price of
Soireé
had gone up – one of Sir Robin's first implementations. Catherine had protested to senior management at the time but it had fallen on deaf ears. It was an added pressure she didn't need, especially as magazine closures were becoming more frequent.

There was a tentative knock on her office door, rousing Catherine from her thoughts. Harriet's head popped round. ‘Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, sparkling mineral water?' she asked brightly.

Catherine flashed a brief smile. ‘I'm fine, thanks, Harriet. But can you get on to that lunch booking at the Ivy? I'm taking the Fashion Council lot there next week.'

‘Already booked!' answered Harriet, and discreetly disappeared back behind the door.

Alone again, Catherine leaned back in her chair and sighed. It hadn't been a great week so far. The day before she had found out that
Soirée
had lost another major advertising campaign, which would leave a big dent in their revenue. Was it an omen? Catherine shook her head. She was getting way too jittery, and Isabella hadn't helped.

Despite telling herself this, Catherine couldn't shake off her unease. It would have been nice to have had someone to talk to, and assure her everything was OK, but her own boss,
Soirée
publisher Adam Freshwater, was away on yet another holiday with his family. To add to her unease, when she'd bumped into the normally friendly chief executive, one of Valour's board of directors, in a restaurant last week, he'd barely been able to meet her eye before rushing off, mumbling something about his sea bass getting cold. A clammy knot materialized in the pit of Catherine's stomach. She was getting a very bad feeling about this indeed . . .

With her air of confidence and mantelpiece of ‘Best Editor' awards, 35-year-old Catherine Connor was the archetypal successful career woman. Getting the
Soirée
editorship had been her defining moment, a mark of just how far she'd come. First published in 1865,
Soirée
was Britain's oldest and most prestigious glossy magazine. In the nineties it had floundered under a directionless editor, but that was before Catherine arrived and revived the title. Tough and demanding, she had nonetheless won her staff's respect and loyalty with her hard work, vision and dry sense of humour.

Along with the accolades, Catherine Connor looked the part. Tall and leggy, she had shoulder-length chestnut brown hair, cut by the top stylist at Charles Worthington. Her strong, chiselled face was saved from being too masculine by indigo-blue eyes framed by long eyelashes, and a full, cherry-red mouth. For all the labels gracing her wardrobe, Catherine favoured functionality over frippery, and wore minimal jewellery, light make-up and well-cut trouser suits. High heels were a different matter. Some women were born to glide across rooms in them – unfortunately Catherine wasn't one of them. A tomboy by nature, she still found it hard to walk in anything more than three inches, and often padded round the office in her stockinged feet.

A seemingly good ‘catch', Catherine was not married, nor was she in any relationship. In fact, apart from an ill-judged fling – with an Italian financier who had erectile problems – two years ago, Catherine couldn't remember the last time she had been in anything meaningful. Had she ever been? Motherless, fatherless, and an only child, the truth was Catherine Connor was a loner, a driven perfectionist who lived for her job. At work she was reserved, holding herself at arm's length from her team. She was their boss, not their friend, and everyone who worked for her respected that, imagining that outside the office she led an exciting and glamorous life, full of ‘mover and shaker' dinner parties and VIP invites.

Little did they know that, away from the work dinners in Michelin restaurants, most evenings Catherine was curled up on the sofa by herself with a plate of beans on toast and a bottle of Jacob's Creek Sauvignon Blanc. Even her apartment, a fabulously expensive penthouse south-London apartment overlooking the River Thames, set Catherine apart, sitting high above the London skyline, with its floor-to-ceiling views of Battersea Power Station.

Even though Catherine could come across as aloof, underneath she was funny and warm. Originally from Newcastle (her accent had been refined, along with her wardrobe), Catherine had lived in London for nearly twenty years. Despite this, she didn't have any close friends. Catherine always told herself that was just the way she liked it; she had learned early in life to survive on her own. Friendships meant sharing confidences, and Catherine's past hid a dark secret she was determined to keep hidden.

If it ever got out, it would be the end of her.

IN THE PRETTY
Cotswold village of Churchminster, another resident was preparing for a move to London. At Mill House on the edge of the village green, Caro Towey, wife of the gorgeous Benedict, was lugging the last of the luggage into the boot of her 4×4.

Caro's two-year-old son Milo, who had been dozing happily in his car seat, had just woken up and was demanding Pickles, his bedraggled teddy bear. She couldn't for the life of her remember where she'd packed it, and it didn't help that her suitcase, which she had been meaning to replace for ages, had finally given up the ghost as she'd heaved it over the front doorstep. Caro's control-panel knickers, and various other bits of underwear, had flown everywhere.

Caro had quickly shoved them into Waitrose carrier bags and was just depositing the last few in the car when her grandmother appeared.

‘Darling!' For the warm summer day, Clementine had traded in her usual uniform of Hunter wellies and waxed jacket for a well-cut cotton blouse and tweed skirt. ‘I know we've said goodbye already, but I just had to come and see you off.' Her stiff upper lip gave an uncharacteristic wobble. ‘I'm being such a sentimental old fool, but I'm going to miss you all dreadfully!'

Caro hugged the upright, grey-haired woman fiercely. ‘We'll miss you, too, Granny Clem. Don't worry, I'll come home lots, and you must come and visit us. London's not that far away. And now Benedict has set your hotmail account up, we can email every day!'