Naked Truths (23 page)

‘Twenty years, give or take a month or two. God, that makes me feel old.'

‘Do you miss Newcastle?'

Catherine stiffened. ‘No,' she said shortly. ‘Leaving was the best thing I ever did.' To her relief John steered the conversation back to safer waters.

‘I still go back. To see my mum. She's retired now, I don't know if you remember she was a teacher?'

Catherine didn't know why she said it, she was so desperate to put distance between herself and the place. ‘Shouldn't that be yer
mam
,' she asked mockingly.

John Milton gazed at her steadily. ‘I'm not ashamed of where I come from.'

Shame burned through her. At that moment their main courses arrived.

‘Can we order another bottle of the same?' she asked the waiter desperately.

For a few moments, they ate their food in silence. Catherine's sea bass was wonderfully moist and light, but she could barely swallow it.

‘Look, sorry about that comment,' she said awkwardly. ‘I shouldn't have said it.'

John shook his head. ‘Don't worry.'

The meal carried on, and Catherine began to relax. Despite her earlier reservations, she was finding John easy to talk to. He asked intelligent questions about her job, and seemed genuinely interested in
Soirée
Sponsors. Catherine was also becoming conscious of a charge running through the air.
Is it just me or does he feel it too?
she wondered uncertainly. John had been nothing but the perfect gentleman. Emboldened by the alcohol flowing through her veins, she strayed into new territory.

‘Are you married?'

He put down his knife and fork. ‘I had a long-term relationship that finished eighteen months ago. I've pretty much been on my own ever since.'

Catherine wryly thought someone as attractive as John Milton could never be short of female company.

‘What happened?'

John shrugged. ‘The same old story: we just wanted different things. Ariana loved the high life, and wasn't too impressed when I came home covered in muck after a day on site. Whereas I didn't want to spend every evening drinking champagne and hearing who'd got what in the latest high-profile divorce. I wish her well, though; I hear she's married to an American financier now. Got an apartment on Fifth Avenue and a two-hundred-foot yacht, amongst other things.' He chuckled. ‘Ariana had an admirable talent for always getting what she wanted.'

As he leant forward to fill their water glasses, his knee brushed hers. Catherine's stomach clenched.

‘How about you? You said you were involved with someone?' he asked, placing the bottle back on the table.

Catherine had forgotten about that. ‘Oh, it's nothing serious,' she said evasively. ‘I'm so busy with work, you know how it is . . .'

The waiter came over to ask if they wanted to see the dessert menu. Catherine declined, so John asked for the bill. When it came she tried to put her card down, but John got there first.

‘Please, my treat.'

As they stood up, Catherine realized how much wine she'd consumed. They'd had two bottles with dinner and she must have drunk most of it. Concentrating on her step, she made her way out of the restaurant towards the cloakroom. Her heels suddenly felt like they were eight feet high.

Outside, it was bitterly cold. Buses filled with night-shift workers and people on their way home from an evening out rumbled past. A rowdy group of twenty-something men and women, all dressed in suits and on the tail-end of their work drinks staggered by, trying to find a late-night bar.

Catherine looked at her watch; to her surprise it was nearly half past eleven. Suddenly, she lost her footing and stumbled backwards.

John took her arm. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Bloody shoes,' she muttered.

A black cab approached and John flagged it down. ‘Where are you going?'

Catherine told him her address.

‘I live that way. Why don't we share a cab back? We'll drop you off first.'

The car pulled up and they got in. John issued directions to the cabbie, and sat back as they started towards Battersea. Even through her cloud of drunkenness, Catherine was still aware of the sexual energy that surged around them.

A few minutes from home the driver took a sharp turn. The sudden movement caused Catherine to slide along the seat into John.

‘Sorry about that!' the cabbie called back cheerily.

Catherine barely heard him. It was as if everything had suddenly come into focus. Her body was pressed against John's, and she was acutely aware of every muscle and hard contour. Catherine felt a throb of long-dormant desire. She savoured the moment, drawing in the warm scent of his aftershave.

As the car pulled up to her apartment block, she didn't move.

‘Would you like to come in?' Embarrassingly, she found herself tripping up on the words. She'd drunk too much again.

John turned to face her. He was so close Catherine could feel his breath on her cheek. He was going to say yes . . .

‘I've got a really early start in the morning,' he murmured.

Catherine burned with the shame of rejection. What had she been thinking? She leant across and tugged at the door handle.

‘Of course, goodnight,' she said hurriedly, and got out. John started to say something, but Catherine interrupted.

‘Thanks again for dinner.'

She pushed the door shut. Not pausing to look back, she fled inside the building, past the bemused concierge and into the lift. As the doors slid shut, Catherine leant against the wall. She was breathing heavily.

‘Well, that was cool,' she said out loud. ‘Shit, shit, shit!' She didn't know whether she was more furious at her lack of self-control or the fact that, in that moment, she'd wanted him so badly.

Going out with John Milton had been a horrendous mistake. It was one she had no intention of repeating.

TWO WEEKS LATER
Caro had her first scan at the private wing of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. To her and Benedict's elation and relief, everything was fine.

Benedict put a protective arm round his wife as they made their way out.

‘I'm pregnant, not terminally ill,' she told him fondly. He had started treating her like a piece of china, and it was all she could do to stop him employing a full-time housekeeper.

He gave a rueful smile. ‘I'm being overprotective, aren't I? It's just that you and this baby are so important . . . I'd never forgive myself if anything happened.'

‘Nothing is going to happen, darling.' She squeezed his hand. ‘People get pregnant every day.'

‘But not with my baby,' he pointed out.

She laughed. ‘I should bloody hope not!'

That evening Benedict had a client dinner to attend. Velda had asked Caro over to hers for a simple supper, extending the invite to Amelia, who'd declined.

‘Benedict's rather worried about her,' Caro confessed to Velda as they sat in her cosy dining room eating a delicious lamb tagine. ‘She looks so thin and pale, and she's barely left the house since she came to stay. You'd never know it to look at her normally, but Amelia suffers terribly from depression. She's told Benedict she's having another bout, and he's awfully upset as he feels he should be able to do something.' Caro sighed. ‘It's hardly a surprise the poor girl gets like this, considering what the family has been through.'

‘They lost their parents in a car crash, didn't they?' asked Velda. ‘How desperately sad.'

Caro nodded. ‘Amelia was only young at the time, and it fell to Benedict and his twin brother Harry to look after her. It was a dreadful time for all of them.'

‘I didn't know Benedict had a brother!' said Velda. Caro's face changed.

‘He's dead as well, now: bacterial meningitis.'

Velda looked shocked. ‘Oh, how awful!'

‘It really was, especially as he and Benedict had fallen out at the time.' Caro hoped Velda wouldn't press it any further. It really was awkward to explain that the reason they weren't talking was because Harry had run off with Benedict's first wife, Caitlin. It was an area of Benedict's life he still found it difficult to talk about, even with Caro.

Velda, as perceptive as ever, murmured her sympathies and moved the conversation on, telling Caro about her plans for Christmas. She was flying out to Morocco for two weeks to see Yousef.

‘Sounds super,' said Caro. ‘I hear the climate is glorious this time of year. What's Saffron going to do?'

‘Actually, she'll be in your neck of the woods. Harriet's invited her back to stay in Churchminster.'

‘At Clanfield Hall? How marvellous!' exclaimed Caro. She laughed. ‘I hope Harriet pre-warns her about Sir Ambrose. He's not a bad sort, but he can be rather temperamental at times.'

‘I think she's more worried about what clothes to take,' smiled Velda.

‘Are her and Fernando still off?'

‘Yes, I have to say I was rather sceptical when she said she was swearing off men. But there's been no one since. She's been really focused on her job.'

‘Good on her,' said Caro.

‘Quite. I wouldn't be surprised if she was made editor of something one day, she's certainly got the talent. More tagine?'

Caro looked at her stomach, which was now sporting a little bump. ‘Yes, please. I won't use the eating-for-two line, though. I'm just greedy.'

She watched as Velda spooned more of the casserole from the terracotta pot on to their plates.

‘I really don't want to pry,' she said when Velda sat down again. ‘But I just wondered about Saffron's parents. Isn't she seeing her mother for Christmas?'

Velda paused. ‘Unfortunately, I can't ever see that happening.' She smiled wryly. ‘We've got a few family dramas of our own. Did you know about Saffron's father?'

‘Harriet did mention it to me,' Caro admitted.

Velda put her fork down. ‘That was Harry Walden, the famous yachtsman? I don't know if you've heard of him.'

‘The name rings a bell . . .'

‘It's probably a bit before your time,' Velda smiled. ‘Harry was the superstar of his day in the sailing world. Won dozens of major races. Of course, he loved the glamour of that set. All those parties, women throwing themselves at him . . . He met my sister – Saffron's mother – at Cowes, when she was down there painting. Belle fell completely head over heels in love. She fell pregnant with Saffron after a year, but by then Harry's eye was already wandering. He left them both when Saffron was six months old.'

‘Poor girl,' said Caro, putting her fork down.

Velda nodded. ‘Saffron was the casualty in the whole sorry mess. I'm afraid Belle has never been good with the reality of day-to-day life, and after Harry left she went to pieces. Could barely look after herself, let alone a daughter. Saffron was packed off to boarding school at age five, and went home to her mother in the holidays, but it wasn't easy. In a funny way, I think each blamed the other for Harry leaving. Saffron idolized him, you see, wouldn't hear a word said against him. When he died in the sailing accident, you can imagine how traumatized she was.'

‘When did she come and live with you?'

‘Just after her thirteenth birthday,' replied Velda. ‘By then things had broken down so irrevocably between her and her mother, there was no other choice. At first it was a culture shock, as much for myself as for Saffron, but we got on with it. Now, I couldn't imagine her not being a part of my life.' A sadness entered Velda's eyes that Caro hadn't seen before. ‘Do you know what's the worst thing of all? Belle has missed out on seeing such a spirited, funny, talented – infuriating at times – girl growing up. I know what joy Saffron has brought to my life. How can my sister not feel that void?'

‘Are you still in contact with her?'

‘The odd phone call or card. It's difficult. She's not a bad person, but I can't condone what she did. Besides, I dread to think what would happen if Saffron knew we'd met up. She'd feel dreadfully betrayed.'

‘It must be hard for you, though. No matter what she's done, she's still your sister,' Caro pointed out.

Velda looked away. ‘Sometimes in life you have to make difficult choices.'

‘Do you think they'll ever be reunited?' asked Caro.

Velda was quiet for a moment. ‘I would love nothing more. But in my heart of hearts I think irreversible damage has been done.' She paused. ‘Caro, I would love to share something with you. To be honest, it has been playing on my mind ever since you moved here, and now I just don't know what to do.'

‘Is it something I've done?' Caro asked in alarm.

‘Gosh no! I love having you here. Sorry, I didn't put that very well.' Velda sighed. ‘Oh, I don't know if it's fair to burden you with it.'

‘Hey, we're friends. You can tell me anything.'

Velda smiled, her green eyes crinkling up at the corners. ‘I know. You've become a good friend to me, Caro. In fact, maybe it's better at this stage I don't drag you into it. But I might need your support in the future.' Her face looked serious again. ‘You see, I am allowing something to happen that could have dreadful repercussions.'

‘I'm always here for you,' Caro told her, wondering what on earth Velda had done. Whatever it was, it didn't sound good.

HARRIET WAS IN
the middle of Catherine's expenses form when a new email popped up in her inbox. She looked at the name in surprise: Thomas Ford-Bugle. Harriet felt a rather unpleasant lurch in her stomach. Saffron's prediction had unfortunately come true: her date had been a disaster.

There was no denying that Thomas, with his superhero physique and pale blond hair, swept proudly back over his head, had been good-looking. But he'd also turned out to be a total nightmare. After mysteriously turning up with a green-and-white striped golfing umbrella, even though it was a hot and sunny evening, Thomas had taken Harriet to an Italian round the corner, where he had ordered for both of them without even asking, and then proceeded to talk about himself non-stop for three hours. When Harriet had tried to escape outside afterwards, pleading a headache, Thomas had leapt on her and stuck his tongue in her mouth, like an eel that'd been kept in a tank of liquid Viagra. Harriet had managed to push him off and jump in a cab. She hadn't heard from him since. Heart slightly in mouth, Harriet clicked on the email.