Naked Truths (48 page)

On the morning of her seventeenth birthday, and halfway through her uninspired choice of A-Levels, Cathy walked out of her grandmother's house and never went back. With only a small bag containing her meagre wardrobe, and all her savings from the building society, she bought a one-way coach ticket to London, hidden away under a big hat and bulky coat. At Victoria Station, she went straight into the toilets and hacked off her long hair into a short crop. As she stared at herself in the mirror afterwards, she was startled by the transformation. It wasn't just the hair, she just looked . . . different. The name was the next thing to go, and suddenly Cathy Fincham had disappeared, replaced by a more sophisticated-sounding Catherine Connor. Suddenly it was as if her former life had never existed.

Catherine Connor found the capital to be a different world, a place where people were more interested in their own lives than in others'. In those early months she was terrified at the thought of someone recognizing her, but somehow they never did. Despite her lack of experience her determination paid off, and it wasn't long before Catherine landed a job as a junior writer at a small women's weekly. The pay was crap, and the hours shitty, but from that moment on Catherine felt like she had a second chance at life. She'd been unhappy for so long, but now it was time to put her anguish and heartache – along with the memory of her mother and John Milton – away in a box she swore never to open again. Catherine told herself it was the only way, a clean break.

Although people occasionally remarked that her face looked familiar, Catherine would casually brush them off. The press had moved on to other things by then, and although her mother's case was still reported on occasionally, the fate of the Crimson Killer's kid had slowly faded out of public consciousness and Catherine hadn't been found out.

Until now.

The implications hit Catherine again as she sat, weak from crying. Her life had been ruined, irrevocably. It was a savage irony that the one person who had been her saving grace all those years ago had proved her downfall in the end. How else could Isabella have found out?

Bile rose in her throat and Catherine rushed for the toilet. She would be sacked from
Soirée
on the spot, and would lose her home, her belongings, everything. As she retched into the bowl, Catherine Connor realized she was now nothing more again than miserable, scared, hated Cathy Fincham.

CARO HAD JUST
put the kettle on when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was still early, who could be calling at this time?

Her grandmother was talking even as she picked the receiver up.

‘Darling, you'll never guess what's happened! Angie's just been round; young Ashley has taken off, just like that! Angie has no idea where, and she can't get hold of him. She's awfully upset.'

‘Oh, the poor thing!' Caro really felt for her friend, she knew how fond Angie had grown of her new protégé.

‘Freddie has done a thorough check of the estate, just to make sure he hadn't gone off for a walk and fallen in a ditch or something,' said Clementine. ‘Remember that awful time when Archie came off his quad bike and they didn't find him under the hedge for hours? Luckily it was only minor concussion, but one can never be too prudent about these things.'

Clementine sighed. ‘Of course, he's obviously decided to throw the towel in and hotfoot it straight back to London.
So
unfair on poor Freds and Angie, they've worked wonders with that boy. His spots had even started to clear up.' Clementine made a cross noise. ‘Young people! They just don't have the commitment these days. When I was in the Land Girls . . .'

Caro could feel one of her grandmother's diatribes coming on. Absent-mindedly she walked over and switched on the small television that stood on the corner of the worktop. As the morning news flickered to life, Caro frowned. That face looked familiar . . . With Granny Clem still talking in the background, she reached across for her new copy of
Soirée
. On the first page was the editor's letter, and Caro gasped in recognition. It
was
Catherine Connor! She reached for the remote control and turned the sound up. The newsreader was just starting her piece.

Caro nearly dropped the remote. She remembered that case, it had been huge! On the other end of the line in Churchminster, Clementine was still in full flow.

‘The government just haven't got the backbone these days, that's the problem. We could sort out this ASBO problem once and for all by bringing back national service . . .'

Caro interrupted. ‘Sorry to be rude, Granny Clem, but can I call you back?' She had to talk to Harriet.

At some point Catherine must have cried herself to sleep, curled up on the bathroom floor, because the doorbell woke her with a jump. She looked round confusedly, a few seconds of merciful respite before the horror of her situation hit home. The doorbell went again, this time whoever it was was keeping their finger on the buzzer. Still groggy from sleep and crying, Catherine got up to answer.

No sooner had she opened the door, than a flash went off in her face, momentarily blinding her. A babble of voices started, and as the stars faded from Catherine's eyes, she could see the jostling crowd of reporters, shouting and shoving their microphones in her face. Another flash went off, making her eyes water. Through the melee, she saw the concierge standing at the back, wringing his hands.

‘They just pushed past me!' he shouted. ‘Your intercom is off, I've been trying to get hold of you all night!'

Somehow, Catherine forced the door shut. She thought she might be sick again. Someone had thrown in a copy of the
Daily Mercy
, and along the top screamed the headline of her nightmares.

‘WE'VE FOUND THE CRIMSON KILLER'S KID! FULL SHOCKING STORY PAGES 4, 5, 6 & 7.' Shaking like a leaf, nausea almost drowning her, Catherine opened the paper. Inside, it was even worse: ‘FROM GUTTER TO GLAMOUR – HOW THE CRIMSON KILLER'S KID FOOLED THE WORLD!' There was a small, grainy photograph of Annie Fincham with Ray Barnard in happier times, but the main photo was a very unflattering one of Catherine, taken a few years ago at an awards ceremony. She was holding a glass of champagne and had obviously blinked at the flash, her eyes half-closed. The accompanying caption claimed that she was known in the industry for liking a drink.

The main story was attributed to Isabella's friend Henrietta Lord-Wyatt, but the words were straight from the mouth of the
Grace
editor herself. The tone was breathy, bitchy and went straight for the jugular.

‘Bitch!' shouted Catherine furiously, briefly roused from her misery.

‘Read that as Isabella,' Catherine said through gritted teeth.

And so it went on. Vitriolic sentence after vitriolic sentence. Catherine retched several times as she read it, but made herself finish. Then she ripped it into shreds and didn't stop until the living room floor was covered with paper.

When she finally collapsed on the sofa, arms shaking from exertion, Catherine waited for an avalanche of fresh tears. But this time none came. Instead, she was left with an overwhelming emptiness. In one single article, Isabella had bulldozed away two decades of hard work and recognition. If Sir Robin needed any more ammunition to shut
Soirée
down, this was it, taking
Soirée
Sponsors – and the future of thousands of young kids – along with it. As far as she was concerned, Isabella and John Milton had blood on their hands. Bitter bile rose up at the back of Catherine's throat. She was feeling anger now, a heat that burned through her veins and raced round her head.

‘Fuck you both!' she shouted. ‘Go to hell!'

An hour later the concierge looked up from his desk and his mouth fell open. Striding out of the lift, the stunning woman in the fitted red dress and killer heels was a world away from the red-eyed, bewildered person he'd seen a short time earlier. Catherine glanced briefly outside, where a media pack had already assembled. As soon as they saw Catherine, they went wild.

‘Your cab's outside,' stuttered the concierge. ‘Would you like me to walk you to it?'

Catherine shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I can manage,' she said and walked off into the eye of the storm.

Watching from the other side of the road, beneath a large oak tree, John Milton couldn't help but smile. Catherine Connor was some woman. He didn't know why he'd come really. For a moment he thought about whether to run over, see if she really was OK, but John knew there was no way she'd speak to him. As far as she was concerned, he'd done the worst thing imaginable. His face dropped as the cab drove Catherine away and out of his life. Not for the first time, John cursed that he had ever set eyes on Isabella Montgomery.

There was another pack of reporters outside Valour, but Catherine kept her head down and strode through them, blocking out the shouts in her ears. She'd half-expected to be barred from the building; her phone had been switched off from last night, so she didn't know if Adam had left a voicemail telling her not to come back. But to her surprise, instead of blocking her entrance with folded arms, the security guard was there to pull the door open and usher her in. ‘Morning, Miss Connor,' he said almost reverentially, ushering her towards the lifts.

Catherine was astonished, hadn't he read the papers? By the time she approached the door to
Soirée
, she'd never felt so nervous in all her life. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open, not looking left or right, aware everyone had stopped talking. Harriet tried to meet her eyes as she swept past, but Catherine didn't falter until she had pulled her office door closed behind her. She let the blinds down and sank into her seat. Her heart was hammering. Catherine had sworn she wouldn't slink away as Isabella wanted her to, but now she'd made it to work, her resolve was faltering. What on earth was she to do now, wait for Adam to come and fire her on the spot?

Suddenly there was a loud bang on the door. He hadn't wasted his time. Steeling herself, Catherine sat up.

‘Come in.'

To her surprise it was Alexander, looking extremely excited.

‘Darling!' he exclaimed. ‘You never told me! How thrilling!' He checked himself. ‘Of course, I'm not making light of your misfortunes; you must have suffered dreadfully. I was almost
hysterical
with tears reading it.'

Catherine couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. ‘You're not disgusted?'

One of Alexander's eyebrows shot up. ‘Heavens, no! Why on earth would you think that?'

Catherine thought he must be winding her up. ‘Al, haven't you seen the
Daily Mercy
?'

Alexander's top lip wrinkled distastefully. ‘Oh that. Everyone knows it's just a spite-filled old rag. They've made quite a fool of themselves. That revolting little rat Drew Summers must be spitting.'

Still Catherine didn't understand. ‘What are you talking about?'

Alexander threw a bundle of newspapers down on her desk, his eyes shining. ‘
You
, darling! You're the new Diana!'

Catherine's face was on every front page she could see. Hands shaking, she picked up a copy of Britain's biggest tabloid, the
Scoop
. ‘CLEAR THEM!' the headline shouted.

Catherine gulped and read on.