Naked Truths (37 page)

‘Bugger, my fiancée. I thought she wasn't back until tomorrow.'

‘Your fiancée?' asked Harriet weakly.

Rupert gave her a fond slap on the bottom. ‘Yup, the fragrant Cecilia. I'm making an honest woman of her in May. Can you call me a cab, old bean?'

CATHERINE'S CHRISTMAS DAY
had been terrible. She'd watched television virtually non-stop, then in the evening made herself a microwave meal and gone to bed early. On Boxing Day, depressed beyond belief at the thought of another twenty-four hours alone, she'd drunk herself into a blur. When she'd woken on the twenty-seventh, dehydrated, exhausted and wretched, she'd decided to drag herself into the office.

John Milton still hadn't called, but then again, she hadn't expected him to. The one occasion her phone had rung, Catherine's heart had been in her mouth. But it hadn't been him. At one particularly low point on New Year's Eve, she had even considered texting him, before putting the phone down again. She couldn't contact him after the things she'd said, he'd probably laugh in her face. Catherine made herself face up to the fact that she would never hear from him again.

The only positive thing that kept her going was the news that the Christmas issue of
Soirée
had flown off the shelves, selling a very respectable 265,000 copies. They were now only 35,000 copies – and three more issues – off the ‘Project 300' mark. According to Adam, all they had to do now was keep the momentum going. Hope was growing by the day and even though it was January, the office felt a happier place than it had been for months. If they carried on at this rate, they'd sail past the 300,000 mark.

Despite this achievement, Catherine still didn't feel happy. So many people's futures were riding on her, and she was now under the most incredible pressure to deliver the goods. If the December issue always sold well, the January one didn't. Adam appeared to think it didn't matter, saying they were on a roll, but Catherine wasn't so sure. She felt tired to her bones, and her once indefatigable energy was becoming harder to draw on. Her dream of getting a Savannah Sexton cover was also quashed. Despite Saffron's best efforts, it hadn't happened. Savannah was taking an extended holiday in the States to see her boyfriend Casey, and wasn't doing any press.

To make matters worse, a supposed exclusive interview with an ex-catwalk model, who had just married the new Italian prime minister, had also ended up in
Grace
magazine. Catherine hated it when they were screwed over, and had angrily told Annabel to get on to the ex-model's management to find out what the hell had happened.

Then, three days after the team returned to work, a national media supplement published an article on
Soirée
's ‘Project 300' campaign, calling it ‘over-ambitious and unrealistic'. The same day, a ‘wicked whisper' appeared in a column in the
Daily Mercy
, a salacious paper aimed at the middle classes which was nothing more than a jumped-up gossip column.

‘Bloody libellous shit!' Catherine shouted angrily to Adam when he came into her office, thrusting the offending item under his nose. She had no doubt who was behind it. Isabella Montgomery was best friends with the columnist, a fifty-something bitter divorcée called Henrietta Lord-Wyatt.

Adam shrugged feebly and said it was best not to draw attention to it, but Catherine wondered if he'd have felt the same way if it had been him they had written about. The fact that he hadn't disagreed with the wicked whisper made her feel even worse.

Saffron had an equally unpleasant start to the year. The day after her run-in with her mother, she and Harriet had driven back to London in virtual silence. Any attempt at conversation by Harriet had been met with short shrift. Saffron knew her friend was worried about her, but she couldn't help it: she wanted to be by herself and away from anyone or anything who was connected with Churchminster. The place had transformed from a garden of Eden to a chamber of horrors in a matter of hours, and her world had been turned upside down. Things would never be the same again.

Burning with anger, Saffron felt so deceived by her aunt that when she got back to Montague Mews later that day she packed up her things and moved in with friends across town. She left a furious note for Velda on the kitchen table, telling her exactly what she thought of her and asking her not to make contact.

The day Velda got back from Morocco she came round to Caro's in a terrible state, eyes red from crying.

‘Oh my goodness,' Caro cried when she opened her front door. ‘What on earth's the matter? Come in.'

Velda burst into tears again. ‘I've done something terrible.'

‘Oh, I'm sure it can't be that bad,' said Caro kindly.

Velda wiped a paint-streaked hand across her face, leaving a little trail of something purple. ‘You know that thing I said I couldn't talk to you about, the one I had been thinking about since you moved in?' She paused. ‘Well, I've always called my sister by her childhood nickname Belle, but you probably know her as Babs Sax.'

Caro was stunned for a few seconds. ‘Babs is your
sister
?' The penny dropped. ‘But that makes her Saffron's mother!'

Velda tried to smile through her tears. ‘Messed up, isn't it? I honestly thought that I would never persuade her and Saffron to meet again, and they would each grow up without a mother or daughter. I always knew Stephen and Klaus had a cottage in Churchminster, of course, but when you moved here as well – well I started to think it was fate. And when Saffron and Harriet became such good friends, and Harriet invited Saffron back for Christmas, I really thought it was a sign.'

Caro handed Velda a tissue and she took it, blowing her nose loudly.

‘I agonized over it, you know, whether to tell Saffron her mother had moved to Churchminster. But I knew she would refuse point blank to go.' Velda smiled sadly. ‘I just thought that maybe if they bumped into each other, there might be some chance . . . So many years have passed now.' She sniffed. ‘I should have known better, what a fool I've been! Saffron's moved out, she won't take my calls, and I've no idea how to get hold of her!'

Caro patted her shoulder. She was still trying to take it all in. She now knew why Velda had looked so familiar to her when they'd first met. Although Babs was taller and thinner than her older sister, they both shared the same colouring and bone-structure. As did Saffron. Saffron had even told Caro she was a natural strawberry blonde.

‘Velda, you're not a fool. You've only got Saffron's best interests at heart, and you did what you thought was right.'

‘I was wrong, though, wasn't I?' said Velda. ‘How could I have misjudged it so badly?'

Caro didn't know quite what to say. ‘Give it time, I'm sure Saffron will come round.'

Velda looked at her through reddened eyes. ‘And if she doesn't?'

Unfortunately Caro had no answer for that one.

Saffron was deep in thought as she stepped into the lift at lunchtime. She didn't realize Tom was there until he spoke.

‘Did you have a good Christmas?'

Saffron looked up. ‘I've had better,' she said, a little shortly.

Tom went a mottled red, and Saffron felt a bit of a heel. It wasn't her fault she had the family from hell, after all.

‘How was yours?' she asked, trying to sound more friendly.

‘All right,' he muttered.

The two lapsed into silence. Saffron looked down at the floor. Christ, he had big feet! Tom was wearing an unfashionable pair of trainers, the laces done up in huge bows. For some reason Saffron found herself wondering if big feet did really mean a big cock . . .

The lift door pinged open. ‘See you later,' she said quickly, and made a swift exit.

ASH STEPPED UNCERTAINLY
off the train at Bedlington. He felt like he was in the middle of a
Heartbeat
episode. The station had just one platform and a tiny stationmaster's office, an old-fashioned clock ticking loudly overhead and flower boxes neatly lined up outside.

Ash still wasn't sure if this was a good idea, and the two-hour train journey had only unsettled his thoughts further. He had two months in this place. This Mrs Fox-Titt woman – what kind of name was that? – had sounded dead posh when they'd spoken on the phone. What the hell was he going to have in common with these people? They probably drank tea out of china cups with their little finger stuck up.

‘The 10:04 a.m. from London Paddington has now arrived,' a woman's voice called cheerily over the loudspeaker. Ash noticed no one else had got on or off. He was in the middle of the bloody wilderness! Slinging his sports bag over his shoulder, he walked towards the exit.

‘Hello there!' someone cried as he walked out of the station. Ash turned to see a short, round-faced man standing by a muddy Range Rover. He was wearing a quilted jacket, and corduroys tucked into equally muddy boots. ‘You must be Ashley!' said the man cheerily, striding up, arm outstretched. ‘I'm Freddie Fox-Titt.'

Ash shook his hand limply. ‘All right,' he mumbled. There was an awkward silence.

‘Come on, then!' said Freddie, a little too heartily. ‘Let me take your bag and we'll be off home.'

Climbing up into the Range Rover, Ash had to move aside several copies of
Horse and Hound
from the passenger seat. The back seat had a saddle on it, and a blanket covered in dog hair. Ash was a bit scared of animals. His reservations grew even stronger.

‘Just chuck them in the back,' said Freddie. ‘I've been meaning to have a clear-out for ages.' He looked down at Ash's gleaming white trainers and chuckled. ‘Those aren't going to stay clean long!'

Ash looked dismayed: his vintage Nike Air Jordans were his pride and joy.
Take me back to Peckham
, he thought miserably, as the vehicle pulled out of the car park, narrowly missing a tractor coming the other way.

Fifteen minutes later Freddie indicated right. Archie had been mesmerized by the size of the houses they'd passed. He couldn't believe people lived like this.

‘Nearly home!' Freddie announced, to Ash's relief. The winding lanes had been making him feel sick. As they bumped over the cattle grid, he could see a large square farmhouse at the end of a drive in front of them. Big green fields surrounded by wooden fences stretched as far as he could see. Ash raised an eyebrow. This gaff had to be worth a few million.

Freddie pulled up outside the house, and Ash could hear the sound of frantic barking from inside. The nausea returned.

Freddie got Ash's bag out of the back and opened the front door, ‘After you.'

Accustomed to his poky flat, Ash was once again struck by the size of the place. There seemed to be doorways leading off everywhere, while the ceilings stretched up high. For someone used to living in municipal straightness, the old house seemed to curve and lean in every direction. Every inch of wall space seemed to be filled with paintings: it was like walking into an art gallery.

Suddenly, two large brown dogs appeared from nowhere and threw themselves at Ash. He couldn't help but let out an involuntary scream: they were massive!

‘Avon! Barksdale!' Freddie pulled them off. ‘Sorry, Ashley, they're just being friendly.' With some difficulty he pushed the yapping creatures into a nearby room and shut the door. Ash wasn't sure if he'd heard the dogs' names right. Freddie second-guessed him.

‘Our son Archie named them. Apparently after a character in a TV show –
High Wire
, or something. I must admit, I wasn't sure, but Angie thought “Barksdale” was a rather jolly name for a dog.'

‘
The Wire?
' Ash asked, incredulously.

Freddie looked pleased. ‘That's the one! Do you know it?'

‘Yeah,' Ash muttered.
Shit, man, these people were nut jobs!

Freddie turned and looked up the stairs hopefully.

‘Darling, are you there?'

A muffled voice replied. ‘I thought I heard the dogs. I didn't think you'd be back yet!'

Moments later, a middle-aged woman appeared on the top step. Ash thought she looked quite pretty in a mumsy, outdoorsy way. As she made her way down towards them Ash could see some kind of weird white cream smeared along her top lip.

Freddie evidently didn't know what to make of his wife's appearance, either.

‘Er, darling,' he said staring at her mouth quizzically. ‘This is Ashley King.'

‘It's Ash,' he mumbled.

Freddie held his hand behind his ear. ‘Didn't quite catch that, sorry.'

Ash blushed. ‘It's Ash. Hi, Mrs, er, Mrs . . .' Shit, he'd forgotten her name!

She smiled, ‘Angie, please. I like the name “Ash”, it's got rather a ring to it.'

Freddie cleared his throat. ‘Darling, what's that on your face?'

His wife laughed without embarrassment.

‘Sorry, you caught me in the middle of bleaching my moustache! You must think we live in a madhouse,' she added to Ash, noticing his horrified expression.

‘Anyway, come through to the kitchen, I'll put the kettle on.' As they walked down the hallway Ash noticed a painting on the wall.

‘Is that Thomas Gertin?' he asked without thinking.

Freddie looked bemused, Ash dropped his ‘t's so he hadn't got a clue what he'd just said. Angie however, looked delighted.

‘Yes! Do you know him?'

Ash shrugged, blushing under their gaze.

‘Is this Gertin some kind of whizz? I'm afraid art's not my strong point,' said Freddie.

‘Darling, he wasn't just any old artist!' Angie said. ‘Thomas Gertin was one of the earliest pioneers of using watercolour paint as an art form!'