Naked Truths (24 page)

With a feeling of foreboding, Harriet opened the accompanying attachment. There stood Thomas, legs astride and hands on hips, completely naked. Even worse, he had the most enormous erection.

Someone cleared their throat behind her. Harriet jumped guiltily and swivelled round. To her mortification, it was Adam Freshwater, his eyes fixed, limpet-like, on her computer screen.

‘Oh!' she squeaked.

Adam looked rather unsettled. ‘Where's Catherine?'

‘She's in a meeting with marketing,' Harriet stuttered.

‘OK, I was just passing through. Can you tell her to give me a call?' Adam lowered his voice. ‘Look, Helen . . .'

‘It's Harriet,' she said apologetically.

‘Oh. Right. Well, look, Harriet. I don't really think you should be looking at that sort of thing in work time. The company has a very strict policy about using pornographic sites.' Adam eyed her sternly. ‘I'll ignore it this time, but don't let it happen again.'

As he walked off, Harriet, overwhelmed by shame, buried her face in her keyboard.

Catherine returned from her meeting twenty minutes later. ‘Are you feeling all right?' she asked her PA, who was still as white as a sheet.

‘Never been better,' replied Harriet faintly, and passed on Adam's message.

Catherine thanked her and went into her office. For once, work wasn't at the forefront of her mind. It had been four days since she'd gone out with John Milton, and she'd been mercilessly beating herself up ever since. He hadn't tried to make contact with her, but then again why would he? She'd got drunk and made an ill-advised pass at him, which had been rebuffed. Christ knows what he thought of her.

It's best this way
, Catherine consoled herself.
You know you can't start anything with him
. But deep down, she was gutted he hadn't called.

Her phone rang, startling her. Adam. It felt like he was calling her every five minutes at the moment, he must have realized his job was as much on the line as the rest of them.

‘Hi, Adam, what can I do for you?' she asked wearily.

A chuckle sounded at the other end, followed by the now familiar deep voice. ‘Sorry to disappoint, it's John.'

Catherine sat bolt upright in her seat. John! ‘Hi!' she said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘How are you?'

‘I'm great. Thanks for a nice evening last week.'

Well, that's a lie
, she thought. He'd obviously called out of some misplaced sense of duty.

‘I'd really like to see you again.'

Catherine was so surprised, she didn't respond.

‘Are you still there?'

‘I'm here,' she told him.

‘What do you think?'

Catherine wanted to say no so badly, but found that she couldn't.

‘My treat this time. How are you fixed for Friday?'

It was 10 p.m. and Catherine had spent an hour luxuriating in a long hot bath, trying not to think about John Milton. Eventually, when the water had turned cool and her skin wrinkly Catherine reluctantly climbed out and dried herself off. What she really fancied now was a nice nightcap. She went to put on her silk kimono, but it wasn't in its normal place on the back of the bedroom door. After looking around everywhere for it, she remembered she had spilt coffee on it at breakfast, and for some reason had thought it would be a good idea to hang it on the balcony to dry.

‘Bollocks,' cursed Catherine. She'd meant to get it in before she'd left for work; it had probably been ravaged by the November temperatures and ruined by now. Still naked – no one was going to see her thirty floors up – she darted across the living room and opened the door on to the decked balcony that ran the full length of the room. The kimono was hanging on the back of the wooden sunlounger she kept out there. Catherine walked over and picked it up, but just then a huge gust of wind came from nowhere and blew the garment out of her hands and straight over the balcony.

‘Shit!' shouted Catherine, as she watched the kimono float away like an exotic butterfly across the grey skyline. That thing had cost her a fortune from Liberty's. Sighing, she turned back to the door.

Except that it had swung shut behind her, and was securely locked.

‘Fuck! Oh shitting bollocks, open!' wailed Catherine, but it was to no avail. After five minutes of frantic pushing and pulling, the door remained firmly stuck.

In desperation, she looked around. She was butt naked, hundreds of feet up in the air, and it was freezing cold. Her mobile was lying tantalizingly on the coffee table just a few feet away through the glass window. She couldn't even ring for help. What was she going to do?

Looking round the balcony, something caught her eye. As she squinted in the gloom, she saw a Hermès towel lying behind a pot plant in the corner. She'd forgotten it was there, left over from sunbathing in the summer. Catherine retrieved it and shook it, grimacing as a dead spider fell out. Then she wrapped the damp material round her and tried to think rationally.

She was stuck on her balcony with no way of getting back in. So, she had to come up with another strategy, and that meant climbing over her neighbours' balcony and praying they were in. The neighbours were a haughty looking couple called the Edgar-Phillipses. They were in their late sixties and the concierge had told Catherine he was a retired army brigadier who spent most of his time at his private members' club in Pall Mall. Catherine had only exchanged pleasantries in the corridor with them, but even so, they had definitely struck her as a pair who would not be impressed by her sudden arrival, semi-naked, in their living room. Still, needs must, and – steeling herself – Catherine moved forward. The two balconies were only a foot apart, but one false move and she would fall to her death. Heart hammering, she climbed up on the sunlounger and slowly swung one leg over into next-door's balcony.

‘Don't look down, don't look down,' she repeated to herself like a mantra. She looked down. ‘Oh Christ!' she moaned, feeling sick with terror. The pavement seemed like an eternity away, and a little group of people had gathered to watch, clutching each other and pointing upwards.

The wind howled past, and she almost lost her balance. She screamed, and, with one last effort, hurled herself forward. She was aware of a loud ripping noise as the towel got entangled with the sunlounger and was pulled off her.

Catherine tumbled to the floor in a heap, gasping and sweating. She'd made it! As she lay there shivering, the realization dawned that she was not alone. She blinked into the light streaming out from the other side of the glass door, where four people now stood open-mouthed. Two were the Edgar-Phillipses, he in a navy blazer and war medals, she in an old-fashioned evening dress. The third person was a tall, thin lady with a disapproving look on her face. The fourth person . . . Catherine had to look once, twice, a third time at the fourth person to see if this really was happening to her.

There, in a smart black evening jacket, curling his lips, was Sir Robin Hackford.

After what seemed a lifetime, the men looked away. In a futile attempt to preserve her modesty Catherine scrambled behind the nearest thing to hand, which was a miniature wheelbarrow filled with stone ornaments and flowers. The two women carried on staring in horrified fascination, as if Catherine was some kind of foreign species they had just captured in a net.

‘I've locked myself out!' she shouted helplessly. The women looked at each other and said something. Mrs Edgar-Phillips disappeared. A minute later, she returned with a hideous nylon floral dress. The door opened a fraction, and the dress was held out.

‘Here,' she said imperiously. ‘Come in when you've made yourself decent.'

Thirty seconds later, Catherine was inside but beginning to think the balcony was a better place. She had obviously interrupted a dinner party: silver cutlery and a candelabra stood on the table, while the port had just been brought out.

‘So the door locked behind you, Miss Connor, and all your clothes just fell off?' asked Sir Robin coldly. He sounded entirely unconvinced.

‘No, I was naked already,' she said. All four of them looked at each other. ‘I'd just got out of the bath,' Catherine offered lamely. ‘Bloody door, I've been meaning to get it fixed for ages now.'
God
, she thought, toes curling up inwardly in horror,
get me out of here!

‘Robin, how do you know this woman?' asked Sir Robin's wife frostily.

He looked at Catherine with distaste. ‘Ms Connor edits
Soirée
.'

Lady Hackford's eyes swivelled back to Catherine. ‘Oh, it's
you
.' By the way her mouth set in a thin line, it was clear Catherine's name wasn't mentioned in glowing terms in the Hackford household.

Mr Edgar-Phillips was looking distinctly put out. ‘Is there anyone we can call for you?' he asked reluctantly.

Catherine sprang up from the hard leather chaise longue where she had been sitting.

‘No, really. You've been very kind, but I'll go down to the concierge. He can call a locksmith.'

‘If you say so,' replied his wife. She looked down pointedly at the dress Catherine was wearing. ‘I'd like it dry-cleaned as soon as possible, please, and I only use Buttons of Belgravia.'

Catherine gritted her teeth. ‘Of course.' She looked round the room with as much grace as she could muster. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening.'

Sir Robin was the only one who answered. ‘Make sure you shut the door properly on the way out.'

Catherine ended up slamming it by mistake.
That'll make them jump in their china teacups
, she thought, with a small amount of satisfaction. She was still reeling. Of all the people in the world, she had to end up living next door to Sir Robin Hackford's snotty friends. Just thinking about Valour's chairman seeing her sprawled out naked in front of him sent Catherine spinning with horror. She groaned out loud; it was sure to give him more ammunition against her.

Catherine's spirits plummeted even more when she saw her reflection in the lift. She couldn't be seen in public like this! She looked like a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Aunt Sally. Frantically, she tucked the huge frilly collars in and hitched up the dress a few inches. A plastic flower pulled out of the arrangement in reception added a makeshift corsage. As Catherine headed for the concierge, to her mortification Hermione Baker was walking straight towards her. Hermione was a highly respected fashion journalist who lived several floors down from Catherine.

Catherine tried to hide behind a potted plant, but it was too late. ‘Darling!' Hermione cried, her eyes sweeping over Catherine's outfit.

‘Love the dress. Retro is all the rage again!' With that, she disappeared out of the front door in a haze of overpowering perfume.

Catherine staggered over to the bemused concierge.

‘Can you call me a locksmith, please?' she asked weakly.

THE WHOLE SORRY
saga was thankfully a fading memory by the time Catherine sat opposite John Milton in a starkly lit Japanese restaurant that Friday. She'd deliberately chosen it for the austere, unforgiving surroundings. She needed to keep in control tonight, for her sake more than anything. She also wondered if the snob in her was testing John to see how he would behave in these surroundings, but he was perfectly at ease with his chopsticks. In fact, John seemed at home wherever he was.

‘More sushi?' she asked.

He shook his head. ‘I always forget how filling it is.'

Catherine smiled. ‘Funny, I had you down as more of a steak and kidney pie man.' Despite her intentions, she found herself once again disarmed by John. He was so easy-going, it was impossible not to get on with him, no matter how prickly she tried to be.

He eyed her. ‘What? Because I work on a building site and come from Oop North?' he asked drily.

Catherine flushed. ‘No, that wasn't what I meant.'

‘I'm teasing you,' he told her.

I don't know what to make of him
, Catherine thought. John hadn't brought up their background again, but she could feel it there, like a big black albatross. She wondered what he was really thinking.

Luckily the rest of the meal passed without her putting her foot in it. As they left the restaurant in Covent Garden, Catherine looked up. Above the orange glow of city life, London was nestled under a velvet-blue starry sky. Catherine breathed the night air in. For once, her head felt wonderfully clear.

John offered his arm. ‘Shall we?'

After a moment's hesitation, Catherine took it. Even through the soft material of his jacket, she could feel how rock-hard his biceps was. They started to walk down past the tube station into the bustling Covent Garden piazza. The smoky windows of pubs were filled with people laughing and vying for attention at the bar, while a large crowd had formed to watch a man, painted entirely white and wearing a Grecian drape, standing as still as a statue.

John and Catherine made their way down across the still-busy Strand and towards Embankment tube station. They crossed over the road to walk along the path beside the Thames, the magnificent Houses of Parliament lit up in front of them. Couples passed, giggling and stopping to kiss each other, inhibitions stripped away by a few drinks at dinner.

Catherine was regretting wearing her Jimmy Choos. She could feel blisters growing with every step she took.

‘Are you all right?' John asked.

She winced. ‘New shoes.' Why did she never learn to wear them in round the house first?

‘Come on, we'll get a cab.' They walked for a few more minutes, Catherine holding on to John's arm and hobbling like a little old lady. Not quite the image she wanted to project. Eventually they hailed a cab and Catherine sank back down on the seat in relief.