Naked Truths (29 page)

After a three-course dinner, during which she was forced to endure a long conversation about the wonder of spreadsheets with the finance director, Catherine escaped the table and went to find Fiona at the bar. She asked the barman for a large glass of white wine, and drank half of it in one gulp.

‘Steady on there, gal, you'll be flat on your back!'

‘I need it after the conversation I've just had.'

‘Talking shop?' asked Fiona sympathetically.

‘That and other things. It just feels so fake. There we all are, sitting round and toasting
Soirée
when we all know we could bloody fold in a few months. It would be the end of
Soirée
Sponsors, too.'

Fiona's eyes widened. ‘Are things really that bad?'

Catherine stopped. ‘Look, Fi, I shouldn't have said that. I'm just pissed off . . .'

Her friend nodded perceptively. ‘It gets to us all.'

Catherine stared at the floor.

‘I mean it, Catherine, it's crap for all of us at the moment. You mustn't let yourself get down.
Soirée
is one of the biggest titles out there. When the shit hit the fan it was always going to fly your way first. More to stick to.'

‘Nicely put,' said Catherine, allowing herself a smile. ‘What if they're right, though? What if
Soirée
has had its day?'

‘Somehow, I don't think the whole magazine industry is going to fall like a pack of cards overnight. I know it must be scary carrying the can, but you can do it. You've got bigger balls than any man I know!'

Catherine laughed. ‘I
think
that's a compliment, thanks Fi. Another drink?'

‘OK,' Fiona said. She watched Catherine signal for the barman again before adding, ‘There is something I need to talk to you about . . .'

‘That sounds ominous.'

Fiona glanced round. ‘It's probably nothing, but I've heard on the grapevine that Isabella's been saying things about you.'

Catherine's stomach dropped. ‘Like what?'

‘Oh, the usual Isabella stuff. How badly
Soirée
's doing, how they should get her to do the job . . .'

Catherine rolled her eyes. ‘Not that old chestnut.'

Fiona wasn't finished. ‘Apparently she's been saying personal stuff about you, as well. Like you can't cope, and the board don't trust you and want you out.'

‘I knew she was shagging one of them!' said Catherine furiously. ‘That poisonous dwarf, how dare she cast aspersions about me!'

Fiona put a placating hand on her arm. ‘I don't want to upset you. In normal circumstances, I wouldn't even have said anything. No one would believe that horse shit anyway, especially when you're so bloody good at your job.'

She paused. ‘You do need to watch your back with Isabella, though. Tittle-tattle aside, I've heard she's destroyed people's reputations before. She hates anyone who's got more than she has. Just keep an eye on her.'

Catherine was on the way to the loo when someone touched her arm.

‘Would you hold it against me if I said how gorgeous you look tonight?' Tolstoy Peake was looking rather dashing in a beautifully cut dinner jacket. He was also sporting a deep tan, his dark eyes even more alert than usual.

‘My God, look at the colour of you!' Catherine laughed. ‘Have you been away somewhere?'

‘I've just got back from Hawaii, actually, doing another Iron Man race.'

Catherine was impressed, even though it reminded her she had only used her hugely expensive gym membership twice in the last six months. Tolstoy did look well. He was leaner than ever, while his skin had the clearness of someone who had never gone near an additive in their life.

‘You make me feel like such a slob.'

Tolstoy looked her up and down. ‘Oh, I think you're getting away with it so far, darling. If you ever fancy training with me, though . . .'

Tolstoy had once done two triathlons back-to-back, and then swum the English Channel.

‘I'll think I'll pass, if you don't mind,' smiled Catherine. ‘Anyway, sorry to love you and leave you, but I must go to the loo.'

Tolstoy bowed and stepped aside. ‘Of course. Don't forget about that dinner we're going to have.'

Catherine had only gone a few metres when her heel caught on something on the carpet, making her stumble. She clutched a nearby table, spilling wine glasses everywhere. Everyone turned round and stared. As she raised her head, Catherine literally wanted to die with embarrassment.

‘Oh dear, darling!' Someone was leaning over her. ‘You really must watch where you're going.' It was Isabella Montgomery, eye-blinding in a fuchsia-pink dress.

‘Did you just trip me up?' shouted Catherine furiously.

Isabella's eyes widened. ‘Of course not! Take better care next time. She's probably had too much to drink,' she whispered loudly to the group of guests who had crowded round.

‘I've only had two glasses, how dare you!' shouted Catherine. By then Tolstoy Peake was upon her, an arm around her waist. Catherine caught a waft of strong aftershave.

‘I say, darling, are you all right?'

Blood boiling, Catherine looked around, but Isabella was nowhere to be seen. Catherine's eyes pricked with rage and humiliation.

‘If you don't mind, I'm going to call it an early night,' she told him, and made a sharp exit. Once outside, Catherine tried to compose herself. Her hands were shaking from what had just happened; was Fiona's warning about to come true?

ASH'S HEAD WAS
spinning. He'd never actually thought Nikki would go ahead and do what she'd promised, but now he'd had a call from a woman called Gail Barker from
Soirée
Sponsors, and been asked down to her office for a meeting.

‘So what do you think?' Gail asked him. ‘I've spoken to Angelica Fox-Titt, and she's more than happy for you to go and do a placement at her shop.'

Ash didn't know what to say. Apart from a school trip to the Brecon Beacons when he was eleven, he'd never been to the countryside. It felt more alien than exciting.

Gail knew it was a lot for him to take in. Nikki had told her all about Ash and his unhappy home life.

‘Shall I leave you to think about it?' she asked kindly.

Ash nodded dumbly. The thoughts were coming thick and fast. Could his dad cope without him? Would the temp agency take him back afterwards? And what was he going to do for money?

Gail seemed to read his mind. ‘Mrs Fox-Titt has already said she will pay you an hourly rate, and there is separate accommodation at her house that you can use, free of charge.' She looked at her notes. ‘The place is called the Maltings.' Gail grinned at Ash. ‘Sounds very posh.'

‘Dad! Are you here?' Ash called as he let himself into the flat sometime later. There was a sour smell in the hallway; his dad still hadn't taken out the rubbish like Ash'd asked him to. Ash stepped over the bin bags and made his way down the corridor to the living room. No decorations had been put up, there was no Christmas tree in the corner. Ash had always thought that his dad had stopped living the moment his mum had walked out. Now his dad just existed, taking no notice of everyday life. Today he was sitting under a blanket watching a daytime telly quiz show. His greying hair and unshaven, sunken face made Ash suddenly realize how old he was.

‘Hi, son,' Mr King said wearily. For once, he had a cup of tea in his hand instead of a can of lager. That would change later, though. ‘Can I make you a brew?'

Ash shook his head. ‘Don't get up. I've got something to tell you.'

Mr King looked up. ‘This sounds a bit serious. You doing a runner and leaving me?' He said it in a jokey manner, but Ash saw the panic in his eyes. Ash sat down on the other end of the sofa.

‘I've been offered a new job. Well, kind of, it's a work-placement at this antiques shop. In this place called Churchminster. Starts next month.'

Mr King eyed him. ‘What about your job?'

Ash shrugged, ‘My contract runs out soon, anyway, I can always get a new one when I come back.'

His dad took a sip of tea. ‘Antiques, eh? You've always been interested in them.' His brow furrowed. ‘Is this stuff legit? I mean, who's in charge here?'

Ash felt unexpected emotion: his dad never normally cared about that stuff. ‘Yeah, Dad, it's through this scheme called
Soirée
Sponsors. They give kids like me the chance to work in really cool places.'

‘
Soirée
Sponsors.' Mr King rolled the words around his mouth reflectively. ‘How long's it for?'

Ash shrugged casually, trying to hide the guilt building up inside. ‘Only a few months. I might even come back early if it's boring.'

Mr King looked round the tiny room, with the broken armchair and cracked window that was held together with gaffer tape. Despite Ash's repeated phone calls the council still hadn't been round to fix it. He turned and studied Ash, his own tired sad eyes on Ash's pale-blue ones.

‘I want you to make something of your life, son, and not be stuck here looking after me.'

‘Dad . . .' Ash started to say, but the older man stopped him.

‘You've got potential, kid, I can see it. Don't make a mess of your life like me. I'll be all right. Just send me the odd postcard.'

The two shared their first smile for what seemed like years.

‘Thanks, Dad,' said Ash. He really meant it.

Catherine was parched, another legacy from drinking too much wine last night. She walked out of the office and headed down to reception to get a Diet Coke from the vending machine.

As she turned the corner, she saw a man standing with his back to her at the front desk. Those powerful shoulders looked familiar . . . Catherine felt a sudden jolt of sickness as she realized it was John. Ducking out of sight, she raced back down the corridor and took the stairs two at a time, past a startled person from accounts. She had to get Harriet to stop him coming up . . .

‘Tell him I'm not in,' she gasped as she screeched to a halt in front of her desk. Harriet was already on the phone. Had reception beaten her to it? Catherine watched Harriet's face anxiously.

If Harriet was startled by her normally ultra-cool boss arriving wide-eyed and panting, she didn't show it.

‘I'm afraid Catherine is in a meeting,' she said. ‘No, I don't think she'll be back in the office today.' Harriet listened. ‘Jolly good. Will do.'

‘I know who it was,' Catherine interrupted, as Harriet opened her mouth to relay the message. She took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, it's just that I'm really busy today, and I don't have time to see anyone.'

Harriet smiled cheerfully. ‘Don't worry, I'll take any messages.'

Unnerved, Catherine went into her office. What more did she have to do to put the man off? Walking over to the window, she pulled the blinds apart and looked down on to the street. After a few moments, John Milton's dark head appeared. As if aware that Catherine was watching, he looked up. Catherine dropped the blind. Shit! Heart thumping, she sat down behind her desk and tried to get on with some work.

Leave me alone, for God's sake, please
, she said to herself.
Don't you know it's better like this?

THE RESIDENTS OF
Montague Mews were busy preparing for the holidays. Stephen and Klaus had already departed for their month-long tour of the Napa Valley vineyards, while a taxi had turned up at the crack of dawn that morning to take Velda to Heathrow. It was mid-afternoon and shadows were already lengthening through the house. Benedict had gone to the shops with Milo, and Caro was making the most of it by having a much-needed lie-down on the sofa. Her energy levels had been flagging recently, and she hadn't been able to chase round as much as normal after her son.

As she stared up at the ceiling, it dawned on her just how much there was to do back in Churchminster. Excluding Camilla, her entire family were descending on Mill House in under a week's time. Caro hadn't stayed in the place since Bonfire Night, and it was probably lying under a foot of dust. Then she had the decorations to put up, beds to make, food to get in . . . oh God, why wasn't she more organized? At least they were going to Granny Clem's for Christmas dinner. Even better, they would be spared Brenda's distinctly unholy cooking, as Caro's father Johnnie was traditionally in charge of the festive feast.

Despite her growing panic about getting everything ready in time, Caro was excited about going home for the holidays. Christmas was one of the few times her close-knit family all got together, and they always had a wonderful time, even if it had taken her three days and as many packets of Nurofen to get over last year's champagne-induced hangover.

She found her thoughts wandering to Rowena, two doors down. What would her Christmas be like? Caro pictured her waking on Christmas morning to a dark, empty house. Who would Rowena toast the day with, or tell off for talking all the way through the Queen's speech? For some reason, Caro found this last thought unbearably sad, and her eyes started filling up with tears.

‘What's wrong?' exclaimed Benedict, when he and Milo returned a short while later. Caro looked up from the sofa, eyes swollen and red with tears. Milo ambled over to his mother and laid a little mitten-clad hand on her arm. His sweet gesture made Caro cry even harder.

‘I was thinking about Rowena,' she sobbed. ‘How alone and unloved she'll be on Christmas Day. She hasn't even got anyone to pull her c-c-cracker with!'

Benedict sat down beside her. ‘Do you always get this emotional when you're pregnant?' he asked sympathetically.

‘S-s-sometimes!' She let out a snot-filled snort.

‘There, there, my darling.' Benedict stroked her wet cheek.

‘I'm being p-p-pathetic,' Caro wept. ‘For all I know Rowena could be a bloody J-j-jehovah's Witness.'