Naked Truths (26 page)

Catherine had taken the decision early on that she wouldn't tell her team the exact sales figures every month, in case they got either complacent or despondent, depending on how well they'd done. They still had a long way to go, even though she was hoping to add even more on the Christmas issue, which traditionally had the highest sales of the year, even without the Anya Hindmarch trump card.

As she stroked the gold-embossed cover absent-mindedly, her phone started ringing.

‘It's me.'

‘Who?' Catherine replied, even though she knew perfectly well.

‘Was our date that unmemorable?'

She smiled down the phone. ‘It wasn't a date, as far as I remember.'

John laughed. ‘Are you free for lunch? I'm in the area.'

Catherine felt thrown. ‘I don't know . . .' She never took lunch, especially with someone as devilishly attractive as John Milton.

‘Come on, I'm sure they can spare you for a couple of hours.'

Catherine looked through her window into the office, where everyone sat working industriously. They'd had a few good days . . .

‘All right. But I really can't be long.'

Caro was beginning to regret driving into central London to do all her Christmas shopping. Every year she seemed to leave it to the last minute, and end up flapping around in a mad panic on Christmas Eve, buying just anything. Last year Benedict had got a pair of flashing Rudolph underpants that he, unsurprisingly, hadn't worn once. Caro was determined not to let the same thing happen again this year, especially with the credit crunch.

Unfortunately, it seemed half of London had decided to get their Christmas shopping done early. As she stop-started her way along the choked streets Caro was seriously kicking herself for not doing it all online. She needed to get to Fenwicks, where in heaven was she going to park? In desperation, she pulled off down a slightly quieter street, lined with grand houses. As Caro passed one with scaffolding criss-crossing it, she noticed a tall, elegant woman standing outside, gazing up. Her smart suit seemed at odds with the scruffiness of the building. Caro noticed the woman was wearing a sky-scraping pair of Gucci heels that had been in Vogue that month. She felt a pang of envy: the woman was probably one of those amazing super-mums who managed to combine six children with a stylish wardrobe and a million-pound salary. Caro glanced down at her own battered old ankle boots from Hobbs. Was that a blob of ketchup on the toe? Her own life would never be that together. Changing gear into second she edged forward, looking for an elusive parking space.

John had told Catherine to meet him at an address five minutes round the corner, but when Catherine got there she was puzzled. It was a derelict house being renovated! A few men in hard hats high up on the scaffolding wolf-whistled at her.

‘Nice pins, darlin'!' Catherine looked up and shot them a sardonic glance. She hadn't realized her skirt was quite so short. She looked up and down the street, wondering what to do. Just then John emerged from the open door of the house, dressed down in jeans and a khaki jacket, a hard hat on his head. He looked so gorgeously masculine that Catherine's heart did an involuntary jump.

‘Sorry if I confused you, but I thought you might like to see the house we're working on.' He leant forward and kissed her on the cheek. This time, Catherine's stomach dropped. Dammit, she wasn't supposed to be feeling like this!

John handed her a hat.

‘You want me to wear that?' she asked.

He shot her a cheeky look. ‘It's a special one that won't mess up your hair.'

‘Ha ha,' retorted Catherine. She went to follow him in, but couldn't move her right foot. Then she looked down and realized one of her new Gucci heels had got stuck in a crack in the pavement. She tried to pull it out, nothing happened. Embarrassment flowed into her cheeks, and she gave one final yank before the heel finally came out. Nearly toppling over, Catherine had to grab on to a parking meter to right herself.

John turned around on the doorstep, one eyebrow arched quizzically.

‘Everything all right?'

‘Fine,' Catherine gasped. ‘Just having a problem with my shoe.'

John's lips curved into a smile. ‘I've never met a woman who looked so good in high heels, yet was so bad at walking in them.'

‘You're funny today,' said Catherine acerbically, secretly delighted at the backhanded compliment.

Inside, the house was in complete disarray, but Catherine could see it had once been quite something. Sweeping corridors and high ceilings gave it a feel of long-forgotten grandeur. Original cornices ran the length of the ceilings, while the floor was patterned with beautiful black and white mosaic tiles. A magnificent mahogany staircase stretched up and up.

‘It was owned by a Lord Fairfax in the mid-nineteenth century,' John told her. ‘He was a notorious figure on the London social scene. His wife left him due to his excessive philandering, and Lord Fairfax bought this place to carry on his carousing. He hosted some of the wildest parties of that era, mostly involving upper-class gentlemen like himself and East End prostitutes. London society was scandalized at the time, and soon Fairfax had drunk himself into an early grave. Syphilis would have finished him off otherwise.'

‘Sounds like a nice guy.'

John grinned. ‘But he did have great taste in houses. Come here, I want to show you something.'

Carefully, she followed him up the stairs, acutely aware of the noise her heels were making on the polished wood. Builders stuck their heads out of different rooms as she passed, looking appreciatively at her legs. Catherine ignored them. They had climbed four storeys and she was getting out of breath when John stopped.

‘Here's the attic room. Not a bad view.'

Catherine was mesmerized. She could see all the way across London out of the tiny window, from the Gherkin in the City to the Millennium Wheel on the south side of the Thames. They were so high up it was completely quiet, the only noise coming from straggly pigeons swooping past looking for somewhere to land.

‘It's stunning! Like looking at a completely different city.'

‘Lord Fairfax thought so, too, until one of his guests took a tumble out of the window after a particularly big session. The papers made a huge thing of it, speculating that Lord Fairfax had actually pushed his guest out to his death. Our titled friend sold this place shortly afterwards.'

Instinctively Catherine took a step back away from the window, straight on to John's foot.

‘Sorry!' she exclaimed, but he didn't move.

‘One of the benefits of hob-nailed boots,' he said. ‘You never know on a building site when some gorgeous woman is going to grind her stiletto heel into your foot.'

Catherine giggled. John studied her. ‘You look like a girl I used to know.'

Catherine stopped laughing abruptly. ‘She disappeared a long time ago.' There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘Shall we go and get some lunch?' John asked.

Harriet cradled her cappuccino between her hands. London had woken up to freezing fog hanging over the rooftops, and temperatures hadn't improved as the day went on.

Saffron finished her lunch and eyed Harriet's half-eaten chicken and avocado salad. ‘Aren't you eating that? Do you mind if I have some?'

‘Of course, help yourself,' said Harriet. Her clothes had been feeling even tighter recently, and she'd vowed to eat healthily in the run-up to Christmas. As the dark, cold evenings had drawn in, she'd decided to take up swimming, too. She'd only made it to the health club near her flat twice, and had spent more time in the Jacuzzi than the pool, but it was a start. Harriet watched enviously as Saffron applied more full-fat salad dressing and tucked in.

‘Catherine seems very cheery at the moment,' Saffron said after a few mouthfuls. ‘I had a meeting with her this morning and she was positively beaming. Let me tell you, Catherine Connor isn't the kind of woman who “beams” very often.'

‘I know!' said Harriet. ‘She went out on an awfully long lunch yesterday. I can't remember her ever doing that before.'

Saffron looked hopeful. ‘Maybe that means things are improving, if she's taking her foot off the brake a bit.'

Harriet took a sip of her coffee. ‘Are you worried about your job?'

Saffron shrugged. ‘A bit, I suppose. I mean, I haven't got a family to support like some people in the office. Maybe I'm being naïve – there's all this doom and gloom but people seem to forget Catherine
is
shit-hot at her job. I do have faith in her.'

‘It must be hard for her, though. All that responsibility and no one to talk to.'

Saffron shrugged. ‘They say an editor's job is a lonely one.'

She wasn't aware just how lonely it could get.

THE FESTIVE SEASON
had descended upon London. Flashing decorations stretched high above the towering streets, while each pub and restaurant sported big, fat, overdressed Christmas trees. Slade's ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas' blasted from every shop, and pretty girls dressed in red minidresses with a white fur trim hovered by the entrances of department stores, enticing shoppers in with a smile and a mince pie.

Montague Mews was looking magical. The residents had decorated the iron gates with fairy lights, while Christmas wreaths adorned the doors and candle arches twinkled in the windows. All except Rowena's; her house remained as dark and still as ever.

At No. 2, Caro, Benedict and Milo had spent all afternoon decorating the tree. There had been one sticky moment when Milo, desperate to hang a bauble on one of the higher branches, had pulled it down and ended up with the whole tree on top of him, but luckily they hadn't been far into decorating at that stage. Once Caro had pulled the last of the pine needles out of his hair and jumper, the little boy had been raring to get going again.

By contrast, Amelia had completely retreated inside herself once more. Benedict had tried talking to her, but she'd almost completely shut down, answering his questions with monosyllabic answers.

‘It's not healthy for her to be shut away in that room,' he'd said to Caro. ‘No job, no social life, watching television for twelve hours a day.'

There had been no more frightening faces at the window, although Benedict had invested in new locks. Caro didn't want to mention it to Benedict, but she wondered if the intruder had been linked to Amelia. Several times, Caro had heard urgent whispering inside Amelia's room, as if she was pleading with someone on the phone. She had assumed it was boyfriend issues at first, but now she wasn't so sure.

She tried to broach it one evening, when she took Amelia up a bowl of homemade soup for dinner.

‘Amelia, I don't know how to put this,' she said hesitantly. Amelia looked up from where she was lying on her bed.

‘I mean, I don't want to pry or anything,' Caro continued. ‘But, well, are you in any kind of trouble?'

Amelia sat up and hugged her knees. ‘What do you mean?' Her tone was defensive.

‘Because if you are, if there's anything we can do to help . . .' Caro stopped, not really knowing what else to say. Amelia stared at her, and just for a moment, Caro thought she saw her plead with her eyes. ‘Honestly, darling, if there's anything you want to talk about . . .'

Amelia cut her off. ‘I'm fine, Caro. Really.' She forced a smile. ‘Thanks for the soup. It smells delicious.'

After her Oxford Street nightmare, where all she'd got was a parking ticket, a congestion-charge penalty and a stress-induced headache, Caro decided it was far cheaper and more pleasant to travel by bus to the nearby King's Road for her Christmas shopping. Once famous for being part of the ‘Swinging Sixties' social scene, it now boasted a variety of boutiques, high street stores, wine bars and restaurants – all packed with ultra-tanned Euro Sloanes.

A biting wind was blowing as Caro stepped down from the bus. Hordes of red-nosed shoppers streamed past, laden down with beautifully wrapped parcels and designer carrier bags. Heaving her handbag over her arm, Caro started towards Peter Jones department store. She had seen a set of silver napkin holders on their website that would be perfect for her grandmother.

This time her trip was a lot more successful, and two hours later Caro had got nearly all her presents. All that was left was a visit to the Crabtree & Evelyn store for her mother's favourite rose water hand cream. Benedict's present, a pair of cufflinks from a jeweller's off Piccadilly, was already wrapped in its box at the back of Caro's knicker drawer.

‘Watch it!' said a male voice crossly as someone banged into her. ‘Bloody people, why don't you watch where you're going?'

‘Oh, I'm frightfully sorry—' Caro began to say, even though it had been the man's fault. Then her jaw dropped.

‘What are you doing here?' she gasped.

Her ex-husband looked equally surprised for a moment, before his cold blue eyes focused. Sebastian was dressed in a loud pinstriped suit with a pink tie. His blond bouffant hair looked freshly streaked, and Caro noticed he'd put on a few pounds around his jawline. It looked like all those boozy client lunches were catching up with him.

Sebastian looked down his nose. ‘I live here, what's your excuse, darling? Annual country bumpkins' coach trip to London?'

Caro resisted the urge to stamp on his foot. Thank God she was wearing a big coat and you couldn't see her bump. She didn't want Sebastian knowing anything about her life with Benedict.

‘You know we're in London, my solicitor informed yours. Why haven't you been in contact with Milo?' she asked, trying to keep down the familiar flame of anger Sebastian always ignited when it came to their son.

Sebastian actually looked a bit shamefaced. ‘Yah, sorry about that. I've been frightfully busy at work recently. How is the little fellow?'