Naked Truths (41 page)

Alexander, who had been chatting up the barman, came and plonked himself down. He raised his glass in the air. ‘Here's to us!' he announced. ‘And to that young man over there, with the buttocks you could crack walnuts in. Oh my!'

Everyone giggled. Alexander could always be depended on to raise their spirits.

An hour later, everyone was feeling pretty merry. The art director and chief sub had gone to play snooker, and everyone else was playing a game of: ‘I have never.'

‘I have never been naked in a public place,' said the picture editor.

Everyone except Annabel took a sip from their glass. ‘This is
so
childish,' she huffed, clearly annoyed she was the odd one out.

‘I have never had it off with a member of the royal family,' said Alexander. He drank heavily from his flute.

‘You haven't!' someone cried. ‘Alexander!' His eyes flashed wickedly. ‘Oh, he was only a very minor member, don't worry!' He paused for effect. ‘Although I seem to remember there was nothing minor about his member.' They all howled with laughter.

‘You're disgusting,' said Annabel sanctimoniously.

Alexander dismissed her with a flick of his hand. ‘Haven't you got a party to go to, darling?'

‘Not while there's free champagne here,' muttered Saffron, a little too loudly.

Annabel glared at her. ‘Well, I've clearly outstayed my welcome. Excuse me, I've got some grown-ups to go and meet.' She stood up and tried to walk off, but someone had tied the laces together on her frumpy ankle boots, and she managed one step before falling flat on her face.

‘I say, Annabel, are you all right?' Harriet asked, trying desperately not to laugh.

Red with fury, she surfaced from under the table. ‘That is so immature! I ought to report all of you to human resources.' With some difficulty Annabel yanked her laces apart and stomped out.

A few minutes later, Saffron turned from her conversation with Harriet to see Tom Fellows sitting beside her. He was perched awkwardly on a stool, long legs folded up underneath him like a dead spider.

‘Hi,' he muttered. He was wearing a crumpled lumberjack shirt, which was open to reveal a ‘Mr Messy' T-shirt underneath. His mane of black curls was wilder than ever, bottle-top glasses steaming up slightly from the heat of the room.

‘Tom, I didn't see you there,' said Saffron. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?'

Tom looked down at his huge feet. ‘It's all right,' he muttered.

‘Good stuff!' said Saffron, hoping someone would come along and save her. Tom carried on looking at the floor. Saffron glanced around desperately. ‘Anyway, if you don't mind, I've got to go to the loo,' she said eventually. ‘All that champagne . . .'

She started to squeeze past him, but Tom suddenly looked up so they were face to face. His bottle-tops seemed thicker than ever. ‘Would you like to go out for a drink some time?' he blurted.

Saffron was so shocked she said yes.

It was Valentine's Day. Everywhere Catherine looked she seemed to be confronted by smug girls skipping along the street with huge bouquets of flowers. Restaurants were booked up with ‘couples only' meals, and radio stations were playing a marathon of nonstop love songs.

Catherine normally dismissed the day as a load of rubbish. This year, however, it had really got her thinking. She didn't want to admit how much she missed John, but maybe she
had
been too hasty in cutting him out of her life. Maybe her past didn't have to come between them, and he seemed to be the first person who hadn't judged her. But then surely John would become part of her lie . . . and could she really trust him?

Catherine rubbed her eyes. She felt so confused. Relationships had always been a no-go zone, she'd made sure of that. But John had made her feel properly alive for the first time in her life. Catherine could hardly dare consider it . . . but
could
they make a go of things after all? When she considered the prospect, she felt a lurch of both excitement and fear.

She ran her hands through her hair. It had been a trying couple of days. Adam had broken the news that Valour's board needed to cut costs, and could no longer afford to pay all the
Soirée
Sponsors staff salaries. As Gail's super-efficient PA, a twenty-something single mum called Cheryl, had been the most recent joiner, it was her that the axe was falling on. Valour had ‘generously' given her a three-month notice period, but it still didn't make breaking the news to Gail or Cheryl any easier. It was as if they had started shutting up shop already.

On top of this, Catherine felt trapped in a relentless grind of deadlines. She had made everyone go hell for leather on the February issue, but mid-month sales indicated it was barely going to make a dent in the huge sales increase expected of her. The enthusiasm everyone had summoned up was starting to wear off, and they were behind on the March issue. Saffron had landed a sought-after aristocratic model for the cover, but even that hadn't lifted spirits. Everyone was tired, demoralized and uncertain about their future.

Catherine didn't feel like going out tonight, but it was the third time Tolstoy had asked and it was difficult to keep saying no. Besides, she thought as she switched off her computer, what had all this hard work achieved? Nothing. Yet again, she was the last person left in the office, and no doubt everyone else was enjoying a romantic dinner with their other half, or drinks with friends.
I have to get a life
, thought Catherine decisively.
It's not all about magazines and busting a gut to meet pie-in-the-sky targets.

By total coincidence Tolstoy had booked a table at Duvall's, the restaurant Catherine and John had been to on their first date together. This was another reason Catherine hadn't been so keen on going, and she was momentarily overcome by a set of the wobbles as she walked in. It was as if John's ghost was hanging over the place, and it only highlighted the fact that this time she was meeting a man she didn't care about. She had to phone John, but what if he didn't want to know? She could hardly blame him.

Tolstoy was already at the table as Catherine entered the familiar room. To her discomfort, there was an undeniable air of romance in the air. Pink roses adorned each table, gentle piano music played, and couples sat hands entwined and staring into each other's eyes.

‘You look a dream, I'm the envy of every man here,' Tolstoy said as he stood up to kiss her, his lips lingering on both cheeks.

‘Thanks,' said Catherine rather self-consciously. She was wearing a low-cut Stella McCartney blouse that showed off a little more than she liked of her cleavage. She noticed Tolstoy's eyes brush over it.

He looked as impeccable as ever, his olive complexion set off perfectly by a midnight-blue suit and crisp white shirt.

‘What can I get you to drink?' As usual, Tolstoy had a glass of still mineral water.

‘Large glass of house white, please.'

Tolstoy frowned. ‘That's more than all your daily recommended units in one glass, you know.'

‘Oh well!' said Catherine. ‘It hasn't killed me yet. Besides,' she shot him a sardonic glance, ‘I really am old enough to know whether I want a glass of wine or not.'

Tolstoy conceded with grace. ‘Of course, I'm being rude.' He smiled, a flash of white over the table. ‘You're just such a perfect specimen I'd hate to see you damage yourself in any way.'

Bit too late for that
, thought Catherine, as the waiter came up and handed them a menu each. After choosing the pea and watercress soup for a starter and asking about the calorific content of the seared tuna steak, Tolstoy leaned back and looked at Catherine.

‘I've finally got you out then. I was beginning to think you were playing hard to get.'

‘I've been busy,' apologized Catherine.

The Colgate white smile again. ‘Oh, don't worry, as you know I like a
physical
challenge.'

He leaned back and cocked his head at Catherine. ‘You know, you do remind me of someone. I can't think who, though.' He smiled. ‘You weren't some huge child star back in the day, were you?'

Catherine fixed a smile on her face. ‘Sorry to disappoint.'

Tolstoy shrugged. ‘You have such a familiar face. I'm sure I'll get it at some point. My memory is normally excellent.'

The waiter appeared at Catherine's elbow. ‘Bread, madam?'

‘No, thank you,' said Tolstoy before she could answer.

She glared at him. ‘I was hungry!'

‘White carbs play havoc with your blood sugar levels,' he replied smoothly.

Catherine took a defiant glug of her wine.

Tolstoy waited for her to put her glass back on the table. ‘I've never had you to myself properly before. So, what makes Catherine Connor tick?'

Catherine began to feel like she was on a psychiatrist's couch. It wasn't a nice sensation.

‘Would you like to start a family one day?' Tolstoy asked.

‘No,' said Catherine shortly. As if she'd tell him anyway.

Tolstoy smiled. ‘Sorry, darling, I wasn't trying to get your back up.' His tone was genuine. ‘It's hard for women to have it all in this industry, isn't it?'

‘I suppose so,' she admitted, eager to move the conversation on from being about her. ‘So tell me, have you got any more Iron Man races lined up?'

Half an hour later, Catherine knew more about training techniques and personal bests than she cared to, and Tolstoy had excused himself to go to the gents. Catherine finished her wine just as someone appeared at her elbow.

‘Oh, can I have another glass of this please?' she said, thinking it was a waiter.

‘Catherine? I didn't expect to see you here.'

She looked up and her stomach dropped to the floor. Standing there, as impossibly handsome as ever, was John Milton. He looked as astonished as she did.

‘John! I think I could say the same thing.'

To her relief John smiled, his green eyes as arresting as ever under the midnight black hair. ‘You look great, how are you?'

‘Couldn't be better,' Catherine lied.

His face fell, but only for a moment. Catherine felt mean and happy all at the same time. ‘How was the heli-skiing?'

John looked surprised. ‘You remembered . . . It was great.' He smiled the wry boyish grin that made her stomach go funny. ‘I think it may be the start of a rather expensive new pastime.'

‘Men and their hobbies,' she teased.

He grinned at her, and Catherine suddenly felt the greyness had been lifted from her world. She took a deep breath.

‘Look, John, I've behaved appallingly. I know I don't deserve a second chance, but can I take you out for a drink to talk about things?'

John opened his mouth, but someone else got there first.

‘Cath-a-rine!'

To her absolute horror, Isabella Montgomery had materialized next to John like a malevolent genie.

She linked a possessive arm through John's. ‘I see you've met my date. I do hope you weren't trying to steal him off me.'

Catherine gaped at John. ‘You're with
her
?'

A look of discomfort passed over his face, but before he had a chance to reply Isabella started gushing. ‘John and I have become very good friends, haven't we, darling?' She leaned up to wipe a lipstick mark off his cheek. ‘Come on, Johnny, our first course has arrived.' Isabella looked down at Catherine. ‘Here by yourself again, darling? You're going to end up an old maid at this rate!'

Johnny? Catherine could take no more. ‘Enjoy your meal. If you'll excuse me . . .' she said quietly, and jumped up from the table, pushing past them for the ladies.

It took her fifteen minutes to calm down. By the time Catherine got back to the table, Tolstoy was sitting there with two cold starters in front of him, looking rather put out.

‘I thought you'd run off!'

Catherine didn't want to glance up and risk seeing John and her nemesis all over each other. ‘Tolstoy, I've suddenly lost my appetite. I'm sorry, but do you mind if we get out of here? I'll pay for dinner.'

He looked at her curiously. ‘Are you all right?'

‘I'm fine,' she said through clenched teeth.
Of all the people John Milton could end up with!
Her humiliation at asking him for another chance was turning to anger. At least she knew what kind of person he was now, going for someone like Isabella. It still didn't make her feel any better.

If Tolstoy was confused by her change of mood, he recovered quickly. ‘Of course, darling, you look quite pale, where would you like to go?'

‘Anywhere with a bar.'

Catherine opened her eyes. She felt dreadful. Her tongue was thick and furry, and a drum was banging relentlessly inside her head. She stared up at the ceiling – hang on, that looked different . . . As her eyes frantically swept round the unfamiliar room, the horrified realization struck . . . she was in someone else's bed.

‘Morning, darling.'

Pulling the covers right up to her chin, Catherine slowly turned over. Tolstoy Peake was standing by the end of the bed in a minuscule pair of pants. Aside from the fact that he was balancing on one leg, his hands pressed together in front of him as if in prayer, Tolstoy didn't appear to have one hair on his entire body. Catherine wondered with a shudder if he shaved his legs.

‘Tree pose,' he said, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall above the bed. ‘I always like to start the day with ninety minutes of yoga.'

Catherine was in shock. She needed to know what she'd done. ‘Have we, I mean did we . . .' she gabbled. At least she still had her underwear on, unless Tolstoy had put it back on afterwards. She felt sick.

He turned his head and looked at her, a faint smile playing over his lips.

‘Did we have sex, do you mean? I'm afraid not. You were so drunk by the end of the night you could hardly stand up. I thought it best to bring you back here, so I could keep an eye on you.' A faintly lascivious look crossed his face.