Naked Truths (9 page)

Caro cast her mind back again. Throughout the divorce proceedings Benedict had been a tower of strength. When Sebastian had cancelled seeing Milo yet again at the last moment, Benedict had absorbed the news silently, and had taken Milo out for the day himself. He never referred to Sebastian, as though he'd washed her ex-husband out of their new existence. In most ways, it was just what Caro needed, and she was eternally grateful for Benedict's undiminished support. But she had to admit, as she studied her beautiful blond husband across the table, that there were depths to him that still lay hidden. Was it just that he thought Sebastian beneath contempt, a waste of time and space, or was there something more to his feelings?

Benedict looked up. For a second, Caro couldn't read his expression. She smiled. ‘You look miles away. What are you thinking?'

‘Oh nothing, just about my own university days.'

Caro looked eager. ‘I'd love to hear some stories. You've never really talked about that time.'

‘That's because there's nothing to tell,' said Benedict. He snapped his menu shut decisively and put it down on the table between them.

‘Shall we?'

ON THE SATURDAY
morning Caro and Benedict took Milo to one of his nursery friend's birthday parties. It was being held at a private children's members club in Belgravia – ‘Good Lord,' Benedict said when he heard the extortionate fees. ‘Is Milo expected to drive us there in his own Porsche?' Benedict had been cornered by a skinny blonde dripping in jewels as soon as they'd walked in and Caro got stuck talking to a balding banker with halitosis on his third divorce, as hyperactive children called Artemis and Willow ran round throwing organic frozen yogurt over each other's designer outfits.

‘Milo's goody bag alone must be worth £100,' said Benedict, peering into it when they finally got home. ‘What on earth happened to fairy cakes and kiss chase in the garden? I'm sure I never got a miniature gardening set and Moschino T-shirt when I was three.'

‘I'm sure Milo won't mind you borrowing them,' quipped Caro. ‘Would you mind keeping him entertained while I check my emails? Mummy says Camilla's sent us all one about her travels and I'm dying to hear what she's been up to.'

But to her surprise, her grandmother's name was at the top of the inbox. Despite repeated instructions on how to use hotmail, her grandmother had up till then resisted.

‘Quite frankly, I don't see the point. I can just pick up the phone and ring you in half the time it takes to lag on to that thing.'

‘I think you mean log, Granny Clem,' Caro had told her.

But there it was, Clementine Standington-Fulthrope. Caro smiled. The name looked incongruous sitting there, next to a spam mail for penis enlargement. She clicked on it and opened the email. It was blank.

‘Oh!' said Caro. Maybe Clementine hadn't got to grips with it after all. Scanning down the other list of names, she saw another email from Camilla and one from her mother. No reply to the one she had sent her youngest sister last week, but staying in touch wasn't one of Calypso's strongest points. A few lines further down was her grandmother's name again. This time she struck lucky.

Some time later Caro had worked her way through all her emails, including one from Benedict's twenty-eight-year-old sister, Amelia, who was working in Moscow and having the time of her life.

Caro smiled, and wondered if she should let Benedict read it. He was notoriously protective of his younger sister. She looked at her watch: time to pick up Milo. As she went for a wee in the downstairs loo, she realized her T-shirt had jam smeared across the front from Milo's breakfast.
That would never do
, she thought, running upstairs to change.
I already look like a country bumpkin next to all the yummy mummies at the nursery gates
. They'd have a field day if she turned up looking like Waynetta Slob.

As she got a clean shirt out of the wardrobe, something caught her eye. Caro peered out of the window. The blinds were open in the hospital room opposite, and she could see that Benedict had been right: it was some kind of consulting area. In one corner stood a hospital bed with a curtain rail round it. A man in a dark suit sat behind a desk in front of the window.

A sturdy woman in a dark-blue tunic entered the room. She shut the door. Her mouth moved silently as she spoke to the man. Caro was about to turn away when, to her absolute astonishment, the nurse stood in front of the desk and began to unbutton her tunic.

Caro stood frozen to the spot as the woman peeled off her clothes to reveal huge, pendulous boobs squashed into a black PVC bra, and matching knickers. She lifted one meaty finger and beckoned to the man. Caro could clearly make out bottle-top glasses, bushy eyebrows and a large hairy mole on her left cheek. The man obediently stood up and went round the desk. He looked at least a foot shorter than the woman, and as skinny as a schoolboy. He stood there limply as she undressed him.

As if in slow motion, Caro watched the woman push him on the bed and climb on top. It was like a hippopotamus mounting a field mouse. Her huge white thighs almost covering his entire body, she started furiously rocking back and forth.

‘Oh my God!' Caro came to her senses and yanked the curtains shut. She stood there, not quite believing what she'd just witnessed.

The bedside phone rang, and Caro went to answer it. ‘Hello?'

‘Darling, is that you? You sound a bit odd.' It was her mother.

Caro sat down on the bed and began to giggle. ‘Yes, I'm fine. Oh, my goodness!'

‘What are you laughing at?'

‘Mummy, you really don't want to know! All I can say is, I've just seen the game “doctors and nurses” taken to a whole new level.'

On Monday evening Harriet decided to go for her first ever run. She'd gone out that lunchtime to Lillywhites, the huge sports shop at Piccadilly Circus, and on the advice of the gum-chewing shop girl, invested in new trainers, an extremely short pair of cycling shorts, and a ‘Shock Absorber' sports bra. It certainly did give one a shock, Harriet thought, as she struggled to get it over her head. She could hardly breathe! At least it was all so tightly packed there was no chance of unwanted movement. She gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror and, rather alarmed by the amount of flesh on display, set off.

It had been an overcast day, and the sky was drab shades of black and grey as Harriet headed for the large park several streets down from her flat. After a few uncertain stretches on the path, she set off one way at a leisurely pace. The park was quite busy, as fellow-runners pounded past her and people wandered home from work. Harriet made her way past an ornamental lake with ducks floating lazily on the surface, thrusting their heads under the water intermittently. Things seemed to be going OK so far! Encouraged, Harriet glanced at her watch. She had been running for three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

Two gorgeous young women approached from the other direction, each in tiny outfits showing off their Paris Hilton-like physiques. Deep in conversation, they glided past like two graceful gazelles on the Serengeti.

After five minutes, Harriet started to struggle. By ten minutes it felt like her lungs were on fire, her legs two dead weights underneath. As she rounded a corner, she could see a group of well-built young men standing around on the grass. One of them was holding a rugby ball. A few turned to stare as Harriet approached. She adopted a determined expression; what was that she'd read in
Zest
magazine about pumping your arms to run faster?

‘Check out Paula Radcliffe!' one cheered.

‘Did you know your arse is hanging out?' shouted another. The group hooted with laughter.

Flustered, Harriet put on a final sprint to the fading sounds of catcalls. Rounding the corner, she came to a shuddering halt and gingerly felt her behind. To her utter mortification, her shorts had ridden up and her right buttock was hanging out. Face bright red, and not just from the physical exertion, she fled home. From now on, she was wearing tracksuit bottoms.

An hour later, Harriet was sitting in front of the television with a large, straw-gold glass of Chardonnay. Now her face had returned to its normal colour and the bum-flashing episode was fading by the minute, she was feeling rather good about herself. Must be all those endorphins; Harriet vowed to go running twice a week from now on. There was something else she had been meaning to do as well. Reaching over to the coffee table, she turned on her laptop.

A homepage flashed up, dozens of photos of jolly broad-shouldered men cuddling their Labradors, or red-nosed and roaring with laughter with pints of mulled wine and ski slopes in the background. ‘Want to meet your Mr Right?' asked the slogan. ‘Join Chapline! South-west London's premier online dating agency for like-minded ladies and gents.' Harriet looked into the hunky, carefree, fun-filled faces again. She noticed one man had exactly the same endearing eyes as his Labrador. Taking another courage-giving glug of wine, Harriet clicked on to the application form.

FOR THE NEXT
few weeks, Harriet was too busy to think about love. There was so much to organize for
Soirée
's autumn cocktail party. Started in 1964 by then editor Penelope Wainright, it was held on the Wednesday of the third week in October. Over the years, the party had become something of an institution on the London social calendar. As well as attracting all the industry movers and shakers – actors and actresses, playwrights, celebrities, politicians, and even the odd royal had graced the illustrious guest list. The venues had always been show-stopping and Catherine had been impressed when Harriet, on only her third day, had managed to book the main hall at the world-famous Natural History Museum.

Even though it was still over two months away, Harriet was dealing daily with caterers, sponsors, drinks companies, florists, sending invites out, meeting with Health and Safety . . . The list was endless, and every day it seemed to get longer. Harriet didn't mind, though, she wanted it to be perfect. Several times Catherine had come back from works drinks around 9 p.m. and still found Harriet poring over her computer. Catherine always made her go home, but not before filling her own bag with work. It was obviously a case of ‘do as I say, not as I do' thought Harriet, as she gathered up her belongings one evening. Judging by the tired lines under her eyes, Catherine could do with a few nights off as well. Not that Harriet would dream of telling her that.

Adam Freshwater had returned from his indulgently long summer holiday, and sauntered into Catherine's office one afternoon as she was up to her eyeballs reading pages for the next issue.

‘You look a bit peaky,' he remarked, settling down in the chair opposite hers. He cast a smug glance down at his own suntanned arm.

‘Thanks,' she said sardonically. ‘Nice break?'

‘Yah, really great,' he replied. ‘Thomasina and I took the little ones to an organic windmill in Umbria, entirely self-sufficient you know. We ate off the garden for the whole three weeks!'

Catherine's eyes glazed over as Adam droned on about the benefits of solar panels, and how to collect rainwater. He was married to a fanatical herbalist who ruled the roost at home and also thought she should be managing her husband's career. Only last month, Adam had tried to make Catherine run an article on how drinking your own wee increased fertility. Unsurprisingly she had put her foot down.

She finally got a word in edgeways. ‘I take it you've heard about us losing the Gucci campaign, then?'

Adam frowned. ‘Not good, is it? We need the revenue more than ever at the moment. The board won't be pleased, especially as
Tatler
trounced us again last month.'

Catherine exhaled crossly. ‘Tell the board to come down here and try running a magazine they won't invest any money in. We've barely had any advertising in the last year, while our rivals have had TV adverts running every bloody five minutes. If Robin Hackford wants a quality product, he has to put the time and money into it.'

‘
Sir
Robin Hackford,' corrected Adam sanctimoniously.

Catherine sighed. ‘Whatever.'

There was a pause. ‘The last two covers haven't been that strong, either,' Adam pointed out.

Catherine pushed her chair back, wearily running her hands through her hair. ‘Point taken,' she conceded. ‘In our defence, it's been a crap year for cover stars. No one seems to want to do anything any more, or they want to do the big American magazines instead. But we are working on that, I assure you. We've hopefully got Savannah Sexton for our Christmas issue.'

Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘Bloody hell, she never says yes to anything. That would be a coup.' He echoed Catherine's own words to her features team. ‘Make sure it happens, then. Boy, do we need Savannah Sexton.'