Naked Truths (49 page)

Catherine couldn't speak. How had they got this? They may not have got hold of Catherine herself, but the paper had done a thorough job. The piece was extensive, and the
Scoop
had spoken to several people who still lived on Catherine's old estate, who'd been too scared to reveal at the time that Ray Barnard had a history of being a wife-beater. ‘That poor little girl and her mother,' said one neighbour, who declined to be named. ‘It was a witch-hunt that went on here, people should be ashamed of themselves.'

‘The
Scoop
does love a campaign,' Alexander said happily.

It wasn't just the tabloids: an influential broadsheet had devoted their front page and two spreads inside to the Crimson Killer case, saying it had been a pivotal point in reassessing the British justice system. A retired policeman who'd worked on the case was interviewed, revealing his unease when Annie Fincham had been charged with manslaughter on what should have been a domestic-violence case. Another tabloid, perhaps somewhat crassly, had called Catherine and her mother the ‘Real Life Jordaches', referring to the infamous Brookside storyline in which Anna Friel's character Beth Jordache and her mother Mandy had killed violent dad Trevor Jordache and buried his body under the garden patio. Catherine cringed when she read that comparison, but the message coming through was loud and clear. Her mother's imprisonment had been one of the worst miscarriages of justice the country had ever seen, and the entire British press had gone gaga over the story.

Harriet's head suddenly appeared round the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Catherine, but you've got messages from the
Sun
,
Daily Mirror
,
Daily Telegraph
and the
New York Post
to call them.
Sky News
are ringing every five minutes, and I've also had seven book publishers ring up in the last hour wanting to talk to you urgently. What shall I say to them?'

Catherine gave herself a mental shake, trying to clear her head. ‘Tell them they'll have to wait.' In the madness of the last few hours, she had forgotten what this day was really about.

It was time for her meeting with the board.

It was 11.15 a.m. as Catherine arrived at Martyr House, inside a blacked-out people carrier. She'd spent the journey in quiet reflection, her mobile still switched off. She'd deal with all that later. As the car sat in the slow London traffic, passing pedestrians had no idea that behind the glass was that day's most talked-about woman in Britain.

There was a new girl in reception, and her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Catherine. ‘Oh, it's you!' she gasped.

Catherine tried to smile. ‘I'm here to see Sir Robin Hackford.'

Without taking her eyes off Catherine, the girl picked up the phone. Catherine felt rather like an exotic specimen in a museum. ‘The board aren't ready for you yet,' the girl said apologetically. ‘Can I get you anything, tea, coffee, sparkling water?'

‘I'm fine, thanks.'

Catherine took a seat. The waiting area was empty, the only sound a giant clock ticking loudly overhead. It felt symbolic, like it was counting down her final moments with the company. Catherine noticed her palms were sweating.

Eventually the receptionist smiled reverentially. ‘You can go up now.'

On the top floor Catherine stepped out on to the thick carpet. As before, the wide corridors were empty, the air strangely lifeless. ‘Boardroom' read the sign in ornate gold letters. As if in a dream, Catherine lifted her hand and knocked on the heavy wooden door.

‘Enter,' commanded the voice of Sir Robin Hackford.

A room of solemn faces greeted her, including Fiona MacDonald-Scott, the woman Catherine had sent a ranting email to by mistake. Ms MacDonald-Scott's lips were pursed disapprovingly.

‘Sit down,' said Sir Robin. It wasn't an invitation but an order. He looked more like a silvery fox than ever; white hair brushed back, high feline cheekbones.

‘So,' he announced, an unpleasant smile curling at the edge of his mouth. ‘I had no idea we had such a
celebrity
in our midst.' Fiona MacDonald-Scott let out a thin titter. The chief executive played unhappily with his cufflinks. Beside him sat Adam, looking every bit like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He clearly had no idea what was going on, still.

Catherine ignored Sir Robin's jibe as she sat upright in her chair, ankles neatly crossed and hands clasped in her lap where no one could see them. ‘You wanted to see me?'

Her nemesis stared at her, relishing the power he held. His voice was slow and deliberate. ‘Six months ago I set you the biggest challenge of your career, Miss Connor, the “Project 300” campaign. The idea was that you were to improve
Soirée
's falling sales, and push them over the 300,000 mark.'

‘I am aware of this,' she said acidly. Sir Robin stared at her as if she had just crawled out of a hole in the ground.

‘I have been monitoring your progress
extremely
carefully.' He looked down at a single piece of paper.

‘Here, in front of me, are the final sales figures.'

No one said anything. It was so quiet Catherine could only hear the air conditioning and the laboured breathing of one of the more elderly directors.

‘Have you got anything to say before I read them out?' asked Sir Robin.

Her gaze was just as cold as his tone. ‘What do you want me to say? That we haven't reached our target and
Soirée
is finished? Oh, not to forget about the dreams of about ten thousand kids with fuck-all in life who were looking to us for a better start.'

Around the table, all eyes turned to him. His lips had turned white with anger, and when he eventually spoke, his voice was barely controlled.

‘Miss Connor, it is no secret that I think you do this company more harm than good, and never more so than over the last twenty-four hours.' He peered at her disgustedly, over his half-moon glasses. ‘In the circumstances, it might also have been prudent to inform the company beforehand of your
controversial
background.'

Humiliated, Catherine flushed.

‘I say, I'm not sure what that's got to do with anything,' protested the chief executive.

Sir Robin flashed a contemptuous look at him and turned back to Catherine. ‘You are a loose cannon who consistently flouts authority, someone who thinks with her heart and not with her head. In business, this is not the way we do things.' He smiled at her for the first time. It reminded Catherine of a frozen lake cracking up. ‘As the final figures have shown.'

She stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘I'm not an idiot, Sir Robin. I know we've suffered another drop.'

‘Indeed.' Sir Robin laboured over every word, maximizing his pleasure. ‘The final sales figure you reached by the end of last month was . . .' he paused, savouring the moment, ‘273, 876.'

All Catherine heard were the first two digits. Her mind went into a blur as the last bit of hope was extinguished.

‘A long way short, by anyone's reckoning,' said Sir Robin, rubbing salt into the wound. ‘You have failed to meet the “Project 300” Ms Connor.'

If he was expecting a reaction, he didn't get one. Catherine slumped back in her chair, utterly defeated.

It was over. She'd known it all along, really, and she had known that he had set her an impossible task. But instead of anger, she just felt sadness. She had filled people with false hope, and now she had let so many down, including herself.

For thirty seconds Sir Robin just looked at her. Catherine had had enough.

‘For God's sake, say something!' she cried. ‘What, do you want us out of the building by the end of the day? So who's got the swinging great bollocks to come down and tell my team they haven't got a job any more?'

To her surprise, the chief executive let out a burst of laughter.

‘It wasn't that funny,' said Catherine in astonishment.

‘Bloody was,' he chuckled, ignoring a death stare from Sir Robin.

Catherine looked round at the others. ‘What's going on?'

The chief executive leaned in. ‘She needs to know, Robin. Stop dragging this out.'

Catherine's eyes darted between them. ‘Know what?
Soirée is
closing down, isn't it?'

Silence, as everyone waited for Sir Robin to speak.

‘What the hell is going on?' repeated Catherine.

Sir Robin cleared his throat. Suddenly, he looked as sick as a pig. ‘
Soirée
has failed to meet its targets. Therefore, theoretically, it
should
close.'

‘Get on with it, man!' The chief executive was almost shouting now.

On the other hand, it looked like it was physically painful for Sir Robin to talk. ‘However, certain things that I – we – were not expecting to happen, have happened. This Savannah Sexton issue looks to outsell the entire monthly market put together.'

‘How many?' asked Catherine.

Sir Robin forced the words out. ‘It's early days, but if we carry on selling like this, we're predicted to sell over one million.'

Anyone would think he'd just told everyone someone had died, not that
Soirée
had just made magazine history.

‘Oh my God!' shrieked Catherine, jumping up. The chief executive did the same, and they high-fived each other over the desk, whooping loudly.

Fiona MacDonald-Scott's mouth virtually disappeared at this display of over-exuberance. Catherine couldn't have cared less.

Sir Robin looked equally disapproving. ‘I'm confident it's a one-off, something
Soirée
will never achieve again, and I know many of the board agree with me.' Several suits mumbled their agreement.

‘However,' he swallowed hard. ‘It appears I have been overruled on this occasion. The latest developments have attracted a wave of new interest from advertisers and company investors, and new recent reader research has also proved extremely favourable. Therefore I have been advised by certain key figures in the company that it is not in our best interests to close the magazine. Despite it not reaching its intended target,' he added venomously.

Catherine couldn't quite take it in. ‘We're not closing?'

The chief executive broke into a broad smile. ‘We're not closing! Catherine, this is a new era for
Soirée
.'

‘What about
Soirée
Sponsors?' Catherine could hardly bring herself to hear the answer.

‘Safe as houses! Even with the current economic climate, we know we're on to a winner here. The company is investing millions of pounds in the
Soirée
brand, across all areas.'

Catherine put her head in her hands, trying to keep the tears from coming. ‘Thank God,' she muttered. ‘Thank God.' After a moment she regained her composure, stood up and smoothed her dress down.

‘I have an announcement of my own to make.'

She looked down at them all.

‘I would like to take this opportunity to hand in my resignation.'

Around the table, everyone's mouth fell open. ‘Y-y-you can't!' stuttered Adam Freshwater.

Catherine looked at him with something like pity. ‘Yes, I can. I'm proud to have brought
Soirée
to the top of its game again. But I've got nothing left. I need to do something else while I've still got the chance.'

She looked pointedly at the chief executive. ‘I would like to take this opportunity to thank those of you who have always supported me, and I would like to recommend Fiona MacKenzie of
Teen Style
for my position. She is an exceptionally talented editor and journalist.'

‘What are you going to do?' gasped the chief executive.

Catherine smiled wryly. ‘Apart from get a life and face the demons I've been running from all these years? I'm going to go straight down to
Soirée
Sponsors and ask them for a job.'

Despite his shock, the chief executive looked impressed. ‘Good on you, Catherine.'

Sir Robin Hackford wasn't so complimentary. ‘Give up all this prestige and power under some self-deluded notion of being the next Mother Teresa? You're mad, woman!'

Catherine looked down at his cold, unpleasant face. ‘Oh, back in your box, Robin. You're the one who needs help.'

And with that, she swept out.

Two industry announcements were sent out that afternoon. The first was news that Sir Robin Hackford was leaving Valour's board of directors by ‘mutual agreement', and that more resignations were expected to follow. The other, announced by Valour's rival publishing company Signet, was that following a catastrophic fall in sales,
Grace
editor Isabella Montgomery was standing down, with immediate effect.

ANGIE WAS STANDING
at the kitchen sink when she saw the taxi coming up the drive. Instantly, she knew who it was. She rushed out, Avon and Barksdale trotting close behind.

‘Oh, darling, where have you been?' she cried, as Ash climbed out of the cab. ‘I've been so worried.'

Ash looked contrite. Despite her concern, Angie noticed how much his skin had cleared up; he really did have a lovely bone structure.

‘Sorry, I should have called. It's just all been a bit mental.'

‘Are you OK?' she persisted, ushering him inside to the kitchen. Freddie looked up from reading the racing pages of the newspaper.

‘Hello there, young fellow! We were beginning to think you'd fallen down a great big hole or something.' Although he'd stopped his wife phoning the missing person helpline, Freddie was relieved to see Ash back again.

‘Darling, give the poor boy a chance to put his bag down!' he added.

Ash put his Adidas holdall on the floor, and Avon pounced on it, his wet nose snuffling around in a pocket open at one end.

Ash turned to the Fox-Titts, his face serious. ‘I've been in London. Dad's in hospital, he had an accident.'