Naked Truths (6 page)

A few minutes later, they'd reached a row of shops. Mouth-watering smells floated out of an organic bakery where candy-coloured cakes were piled high, while next door was an upmarket wedding shop with a bejewelled corset magically suspended in the window, surrounded by the biggest vases of pink lilies Caro had ever seen.

Resisting the urge to go in the bakery and buy a box of muffins, Caro spotted a café up the road where people were sitting outside enjoying an alfresco lunch. Even better, there was a free table. Picking up speed on the pushchair, she hurried over.

Several minutes later a chic French waitress came to take their order. Feeling positively cosmopolitan, Caro decided to throw caution to the winds and ordered a glass of wine. Milo was entranced with his picture book about tigers, and he and his mother sat in companionable silence until their lunch arrived.

Afterwards, as spaghetti-full Milo dozed off in his chair, Caro took the opportunity to people-watch. Everyone looked very stylish, but they seemed in such a rush to get somewhere, she thought, as passers-by hurried past with their heads down or talking loudly into their mobile phones. An Amazonian woman, her caramel-blonde hair flying behind her, cycled past on an old-fashioned bicycle with a little boy strapped into a child's seat. Caro's heart jumped: she could have sworn it was Elle Macpherson! She was sure she'd read in
OK!
magazine the supermodel lived round here. Wait until she told her mother, a glossy magazine devotee, about her new star-studded neighbourhood.

Caro smiled as she imagined Tink's reaction, but her excitement was suddenly replaced by a stab of loneliness. How was she ever going to fit in with celebrities and supermodels? At that moment Milo burped contentedly, waking himself up. Caro took the opportunity to catch the waitress's eye and get the bill, and they began to make their way back to Montague Mews.

As she walked back into the courtyard, Caro saw a flash of movement from an upstairs window. The mysterious Rowena! She looked up expectantly, but the barred panes of glass stared blankly back. Caro noticed a security camera high on the house. It seemed to be trained right on her . . . Trying to shake off the uncomfortable thought that she was under surveillance, Caro unlocked her new front door.

Five minutes later, she was cajoling Milo out of his tomato-stained T-shirt when the phone rang.

‘What ho, Mrs Towey!'

‘Harriet!'

Caro felt ridiculously happy to hear the familiar voice.

‘How are you all settling in? I must come round soon to see you all, your new place sounds fabulous.' There was the sound of drilling in the background.

‘We'd love that!' said Caro. ‘It's so nice you're practically round the corner.' The drilling got louder. ‘Goodness, are you on a building site or something?'

‘Just about! I'm down at the Natural History Museum doing a recce for the cocktail party. There're men in hard hats everywhere, I think they're adding on a new extension.'

Visions of a fashionably clad, all-in-black Harriet holding a clipboard and issuing orders flashed through Caro's mind. ‘Sounds awfully glamorous, are you sure you want to come and hang out with us? You must get invited to exciting parties all the time!'

There was a slight hesitation. ‘To be honest, they're not really my thing. I'd much rather come and see you and Milo.'

Caro felt a flash of happiness. ‘Well in that case, you must be our first official guest!'

There was the sound of muffled voices in the background.

‘Ooh, I'd better shoot,' said Harriet. ‘I'll call you soon to make plans!'

Caro put the phone down, feeling London wasn't such an unfriendly place after all.

SAFFRON WAS LATE
for work. Again. She had stayed at Fernando's last night and he'd been in a particularly amorous mood. At 4 a.m., pleading exhaustion, Saffron had put a pillow between them and rolled over to try and get some sleep. It was all right for Fernando, he didn't have to get up in the morning. Apart from a bar job he didn't turn up to very often, her boyfriend spent the majority of his time sunbathing, lolling around watching
The Jeremy Kyle Show
, or honing his six-pack down the gym. Fernando had joined a small-time modelling agency, and claimed he wanted to get into acting school, but the biggest gig he'd got so far was showing off his torso for some dodgy sounding fat-reduction pills, the kind of advert found in the low-rent Sunday supplement magazines. Still, that hadn't crushed his dreams of becoming the next Al Pacino.

‘The world isn't ready for Fernando Romero yet, but when I hit the big time – oh boy!' he'd say to Saffron with his usual air of drama. So far she had stopped herself from pointing out that Al Pacino hadn't hit the big time by lying under his duvet wanking all day.

Sometimes, when it was left to her to get the drinks in again, or she phoned Fernando at lunchtime to discover he hadn't got out of bed yet, Saffron wondered what she was doing with such a waster. Then again, she knew exactly why: she loved pretty boys, and wasn't embarrassed to put sexy looks before scintillating conversation. At this stage in her life, that was all Saffron wanted. Plus the fact he could do things with his tongue she had scarcely thought possible. A memory of last night came back, and her eyes glazed over.

‘Saffron? Have you got a minute?' Catherine's voice interrupted her lustful reverie. Saffron flushed guiltily, her boss didn't look very happy. She followed Catherine into her office and shut the door.

Catherine didn't mince her words. ‘Saffron, is your alarm clock not working? This is the third time in the last week you've been late.'

Saffron looked contrite and chewed her bottom lip. ‘Sorry, Catherine.'

Catherine eyed her over the desk. ‘Sorry I won't do it again? Or sorry I seem to have a problem getting up in the morning?'

Saffron blushed, feeling rather stupid. ‘It won't happen again, I promise.'

‘See that it doesn't.' Catherine surveyed her features writer over the desk, not unkindly. ‘Saffron, I believe you've got a lot of potential, but punctuality is important. I need to know I can trust you to get here on time. We're not in sixth form any more.'

Saffron met her eye. ‘You can trust me, Catherine.'

‘Good,' Catherine nodded in the direction of the door. ‘Dismissed.' Lightening the moment, Saffron did a mock-salute, and left the office.

Catherine couldn't help but smile. She liked Saffron and had high hopes for her, especially now the timekeeping issue had been addressed. Mind you, if she, Catherine, had to come in and work for the features editor Annabel Trowbridge every day, she'd have a problem getting out of bed in the mornings as well. Catherine groaned inwardly as, yet again, she cursed one of her rare errors of judgement in giving Annabel that job.

With her baggy V-neck M&S jumpers, frumpy skirts and long, lank hair, 37-year-old Annabel Trowbridge hadn't changed her wardrobe since her sixth-form days boarding at St Mary's School in Ascot. She had a pale, moon-shaped face, bulbous blue eyes, and a bottom so wide it could knock a coffee cup off a desk from twenty paces.

Despite her unfortunate appearance and even worse personality, Annabel Trowbridge thought she was the best thing since sliced bread. The features editor was singularly unpopular in the office, a fact to which she was oblivious. Barely a day went past without her extolling her own virtues, usually putting someone else down in the process. Saffron had soon got wise to her ways and given her short shrift, but Annabel had only directed her snide comments at someone else, which at the moment seemed to be poor Harriet.

Annabel had come with good credentials from a reputable paper, but Catherine had found out too late that her glowing track record was only due to the fact she had been sleeping with the deputy editor and was threatening to tell his wife. It had only taken a few weeks for Catherine to realize how work-shy her new recruit actually was. Two years on, she was still trying to work out how to get rid of Annabel.

A few minutes later, Catherine went over to the features desk.

‘Any news on Savannah Sexton?'

Annabel hastily closed down her Facebook page and reached for her notepad, flashing Catherine an obsequious smile.

‘Yah, still chasing them, but I'm very confident,' she gushed. ‘I spoke to Savannah's manager this week and she says Savannah's schedule is
manic
, but as she's been so impressed by the way I've dealt with things, and as Savannah is a fan of
Soirée
, she's sure she'll do something with us for the release of
Power Trip
.'

Savannah Sexton was a young English actress who Hollywood had gone mad for. As well as being hugely talented, and about to appear in the most-hyped film of the last five years, Savannah was beautiful, chic and going out with Casey Fulbeck, star quarterback for the world famous Boston Tigers and the new face of Abercrombie & Fitch. Together they were a dream team. Magazines, newspapers, fashion houses, TV and radio stations alike wanted a piece of Savannah Sexton. Getting her on the front cover was just what
Soirée
needed.

Sitting on the other side of the desk, Saffron's cheeks were red with fury. She'd been the one who had put the calls into Savannah's management, and now that evil old bint was taking all the credit! ‘Unbelievable,' she hissed under her breath. Annabel looked over and narrowed her eyes at Saffron.

Catherine didn't miss the exchange. ‘Well, keep me posted,' she said, shooting a meaningful glance at Saffron. ‘No ifs, no buts, I want Savannah Sexton.'

‘Morning, my darling!' Catherine turned round to be confronted by the sight of her flamboyant fashion director, Alexander Napier, bounding across the office. In his mid-thirties, Alexander's OTT histrionics belied a marvellous fashion eye, utter dedication and steely organizational skills. He was the son of a feared High Court judge who was often trumpeted in the
Daily Mail
for his unforgiving approach to hooliganism, repeat offenders and under-age drinkers. Quite what Mr Napier Senior made of Alexander, who was today dressed in a Jean Paul Gaultier sailor's top and what appeared to be a padded lime-green G-string over his skin-tight satin trousers, no one knew.

‘Nice outfit,' Catherine remarked. Alexander looked down.

‘Oh, I'd forgotten I was still wearing them. Aren't they vile? They were sent in today, apparently the new ‘wonder pants' for men. Can't say I notice any difference. Besides that colour is enough to put any potential shag interest off.'

Catherine raised an amused eyebrow. ‘How did the shoot with Sienna Miller go?'

‘Ms Miller was adorable! That woman would look fabulous in a bin bag,' he said, handing her a Polaroid. Catherine nodded in approval. ‘These are great, Al,' she said. ‘Did you manage to get her in all the outfits?'

‘Of course, darling,' exclaimed Alexander. ‘By the way, love your suit. Stella McCartney?' Catherine smiled.

She and Alexander were probably the only people on the planet who were allowed to get away with calling each other ‘Al' and ‘darling'. ‘I've just been sent some delicious Christian Louboutins, your size,' he whispered conspiratorially.

‘How high are they?' Catherine asked. Alexander looked down at her feet, in their stockings as usual, and sighed dramatically.

‘I am going to get you walking in proper shoes if it kills me!'

As Catherine made her way back into her office her phone started ringing. A gruff, London accent greeted her.

‘Catherine?'

‘Gail, how are you?'

‘Sorry for the short notice, like, but I've had a few more calls from businesses interested in joining up to
Soirée
Sponsors. They're coming in next Wednesday, and would really like to meet you. Anyway you could come down to the office and give 'em the
Soirée
spiel?'

Catherine got her diary out. ‘I can come in at eleven, just as long as you don't play your Daniel O'Donnell CD. My ears are still recovering from last time.'

The other woman gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Bloody cheek, the man's a sex god!'

Catherine smiled as she put the phone down. In an industry full of egos and back-stabbing, it was so refreshing to work with Gail. Two years after she had become editor, Catherine had been invited on the off-chance to speak at a young persons' youth group in Peckham, south-east London. The area was extremely disadvantaged, but the local community groups were working hard to breathe in new life and opportunities for the teenagers growing up there. Something about their plight had struck a chord with Catherine, and she had agreed to do it.

The woman who called had turned out to be Gail Barker, a formidable but kind-hearted ex-social-worker who ran the youth group in her spare time. She'd confessed afterwards she'd never expected a big-shot editor like Catherine to take her up on the offer – and when a nervous Catherine had first walked into the centre, she'd expected a wall of hostility or bored indifference at the very best. Instead she was surprised at how intelligent, inquisitive and ambitious these young people were. It quickly became apparent they wanted to make something of their lives, and were frustrated at being marginalized in society, just because of the postcode they lived in.

After the talk, in which she had described her job,
Soirée
and working in the magazine industry, a pretty young girl with black hair cascading down her back had approached Catherine to say how much she had enjoyed the talk. Her name was Nikki, and when Catherine had admired a multi-coloured glass bead necklace Nikki had been wearing, she'd proudly revealed she'd made it herself. ‘My dream is to study at the London College of Fashion and become a jewellery designer,' she'd told Catherine wistfully. ‘But that's all it is, a dream. Mum's on her own and there's four of us at home. I could never afford to go somewhere like that.'