Naked Truths (7 page)

Afterwards, when she'd got back to the office, Catherine hadn't been able to stop thinking about Nikki. She'd had such talent, that for Catherine to see it all thrown away just because Nikki had had a shitty start in life would be a travesty. Catherine had felt she had to do something. She'd called Alexander, then deputy fashion editor, into her office, and explained what she wanted to do. He'd listened, nodded, and whipped through his neon-pink contacts book to give Catherine the names of several people who might have been willing to take Nikki on for work experience. On only the second one, Catherine had struck lucky. Within two weeks a delighted Nikki had been working part-time for a top Bond Street jewellers, who'd offered to pay her travel expenses and a small daily allowance. She might not have got her coveted place at college, but Nikki had finally been given her big break, especially when one of her designs had made it into the shop just a few months later.

Catherine had realized she was on to something. With the magazine's prestige and connections, they were sitting on a potential gold mine! So she had gone to Valour's board and presented the idea of
Soirée
Sponsors, a scheme that placed disadvantaged young people in south-east London in creative work-placements and traineeships with businesses across the country.

Despite her fear they might not approve, the board had been delighted.

‘Just the sort of social cause
Soirée
is known for, advertisers will love it,' they'd told her.

A contract had quickly been drawn up, and Valour had agreed to contribute a substantial amount of money to set up an office to run the scheme. Even though she was to be the figurehead for
Soirée
Sponsors, Catherine had still had her own job to do. She'd needed someone organized, hard-working and determined, and had wasted no time approaching Gail.

In the first year of setting up
Soirée
Sponsors Catherine had wondered at times if she had taken too much on. As well as running the magazine and going to all the social functions she had to attend, Catherine had needed to spend hours ringing round trying to get people on board. Fashion designers, hairdressers, photographers, marketing firms, florists, travel companies, beauty PRs, catering firms, model agencies, health and fitness clubs . . . anyone who
Soirée
had ever featured or worked with had been approached to see if they could do something.

After twelve exhausting months, her efforts had started to pay off. As word spread, more industry people had wanted to come on board and give something back. Each week a growing number of young people had joined up to
Soirée
Sponsors, hopeful that for the first time they could make something of their lives. To cope with the increasing workload, Valour had put up the money to recruit a team, who now worked out of a small office in Brixton, south London. Now in its third year, the scheme was thriving. Only a few months ago, it had been named in an influential survey as one of the most up-and-coming charities for disadvantaged people. Now there was talk about taking
Soirée
Sponsors nationwide, an idea that excited and daunted Catherine in equal measure.

In the last six months, as Gail and the rest of the team had taken on more responsibility, Catherine had had the chance to take her foot off the gas. She had found it very hard to do, however, and as well as editing
Soirée
full-time, Catherine still attended lunches, dinners and other functions to raise awareness of the scheme. To Catherine's delight, Gail had rung her last week to proudly inform her that Nikki, now working at the Bond Street store on a properly salaried job, had just been shortlisted for a young designer of the year award. Although she was driven by her day job, Catherine felt more affinity with these tough, bright-spirited young people than with all the Hooray Henries and spoilt trust-fund kids she had encountered since working in glossy magazines.
Soirée
Sponsors had enriched her life far more than any six-figure salary or designer lifestyle ever could. Although she would never admit it to herself, it was the closest thing Catherine had ever had to a family.

A FEW DAYS
later Saffron plonked herself down on Harriet's desk.

‘Do you fancy a drink after work? I haven't got a press launch to go to for the first time in about a gazillion weeks.'

Harriet had told herself she was off the booze for a while. Her mother had come down last week and taken her out for lunch at Claridges, where she had been quick to point out Harriet was looking a little puffier in the face. It was true: after losing nearly two stone travelling Harriet had returned to her old bad habits and was piling it back on rather fast.

‘Are you drinking too much wine again, darling? You know how it bloats you.'

Harriet put Frances's disapproving face out of her mind; a slimline gin and tonic wouldn't hurt.

‘Oh, go on then, you've twisted my arm,' she said cheerfully.

Half an hour later they were ensconced at a cosy table for two in the George, a pub down the road. As usual it was full of office workers enjoying a drink after work before rushing off to Waterloo or Paddington to get the train home.

‘Cheers! Here's to us!' said Saffron. They clinked glasses. ‘To us!' Harriet smiled back at her. It was funny, on paper she and Saffron were polar opposites. Eight years older, Harriet was a home bird, while Saffron was out every night at parties. Harriet hadn't got a clue about fashion, relying mainly on Laura Ashley – or the Boden catalogue if she was feeling daring – while Saffron bought her clothes from designer boutiques and trendy vintage shops. Harriet had classics like
Emma
and
Wuthering Heights
on her bookshelves; Saffron's idea of reading was flicking through
POP
magazine and going on Twitter. Yet for some reason, the two gelled, and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. In a way, Saffron reminded Harriet of the younger sister she'd always wanted.

Saffron drank greedily from her glass. ‘God, I needed that.'

‘Bad day?'

Saffron sighed. ‘Can you believe that stupid cow Annabel took all the credit for the progress I've made with Savannah Sexton?'

‘Couldn't you say something?' ventured Harriet.

Saffron sighed again. ‘She'll just twist it round and make out I'm moaning for no reason. Besides, as she is so bloody fond of reminding me, she's my line manager and anything she says, goes. Anyway, I don't want to waste a second longer talking about old Troutbridge.'

Instead she started telling Harriet about a media party she had been invited to at Downing Street, which soon led on to a highly entertaining story about the time she'd gone out to an all-night rave with the son of a disgraced Tory peer, and ended up trying to break into the Houses of Parliament.

‘I've grown out of that sort of thing, now. At least I hope I have!'

Harriet giggled. ‘Have you always lived in London?' she asked.

‘I moved here about eight years ago to live with my aunt. Before that I lived all over the place.'

‘Oh, right,' said Harriet. She didn't know whether to ask about Saffron's family; her parents could have been killed in an awful road accident or something.

She didn't have to. ‘My dad's dead,' said Saffron. ‘He died in a yachting accident when I was little. He was a really cool guy.'

‘I'm really sorry to hear that,' Harriet told her. ‘What about your mother?'

Saffron made a derisive noise. ‘She might as well be dead. We never really got on: she was always too wrapped up in herself and her stupid life. It got really bad when I was a teenager, so Aunt Velda said I could go and live with her. I've been there ever since.' She finished her drink. ‘Velda's been more of a mum to me than she ever was.'

‘Have you stayed in contact?' Harriet asked carefully.

This was clearly a difficult subject for Saffron. Her eyes had become flat, and the spark had gone from her voice. She shrugged. ‘She came to visit once, and it was such a disaster I told her never to come back again. She phoned a few times after that, but you could tell she was only doing it because she thought she had to.' She gave a sarcastic smile. ‘The phone calls stopped, too. I guess I wasn't worth making the effort for.'

‘I'm sure that's not true,' Harriet started to say, but Saffron cut her off.

‘Honestly H, it's cool. I'm over it now. I haven't got a clue where she is or what she's doing, and I like it that way. Can we talk about something else? This is boring. Tell me about where you live, instead. Christchurch or something, isn't it?'

‘Churchminster. It's a little village in the Cotswolds,' said Harriet.

Saffron finished her drink. ‘I've never been out that way.' She laughed. ‘I'm not much of a country girl.'

‘You might like it,' said Harriet. ‘It really is a wonderful place. A lot more goes on in the country than you might think.'

Saffron smiled. ‘Muddy wellies and ruddy-faced farmers? Not really my thing.'

Harriet noticed her empty glass. ‘I'll get these,' she said and went off to the bar.

By the time she returned, Saffron had company. ‘H!' she said. ‘I've just bumped into some mates. Trey, Damien, this is Harriet Fraser. We work together at
Soirée
.'

The short, skinny man sitting in Harriet's seat glanced up. Even though he looked about forty, he was dressed like a teenager: in ridiculously baggy jeans with a chain hanging off them, and an oversized T-shirt over his skinny frame. His rat-like eyes cast themselves over Harriet, unimpressed.

‘Delighted,' he said in a mockney accent, sounding anything but.

‘Trey's a photographer, he's just done a major advertising campaign with Elizabeth Jagger,' said Saffron. ‘And Damien works for a record label.'

A younger man in his mid-twenties, with a shaved eyebrow and a trilby hat, raised his hand un-enthusiastically. ‘Word.'

‘I was just telling the guys about this new bar I've discovered in Hoxton,' said Saffron. Harriet had vaguely heard of the place, it was somewhere really trendy like east London. As the three of them sat there talking about bass lines and dry ice, it sounded as exotic and faraway to Harriet as Zanzibar. Seeing as Trey clearly wasn't going to give her seat back, she went off in search of a stool.

Twenty minutes later, Harriet had had enough. Despite Saffron's repeated attempts to draw her into the conversation, Trey and Damien had barely said two words to her. At last the two men got up to go and play on the fruit machine.

‘What do you think of Trey? He's just finished with his girlfriend. I think you could be in there!' whispered Saffron loudly.

Harriet tried to be diplomatic. ‘He's not really my type. And I definitely don't think I'm his.'

‘Who cares about a type! You just need a shag. Trey told me he's looking for a bit of action.'

Harriet thought about her bikini line, which was looking more overgrown than Hampstead Heath after a year's worth of fertilizer.

‘Well . . .'

‘When did you last have a cock up you?' Saffron demanded.

Harriet looked sheepish. She had lost her virginity late in life to a braying idiot called Horse, and despite a few nights of sweating, sand-filled passion with a Canadian kayaking instructor in Thailand, there had been nothing – or no one – since. Suddenly, an alarming image of herself as an 80-year-old spinster being eaten alive by cats flashed through her mind.

‘Do excuse me,' she said and fled to the bathroom. Inside, looking at her reflection, Harriet half-understood why Trey and Damien were being so sniffy. The purple pussy-bow chiffon shirt – which Saffron had persuaded her to buy from a trendy boutique one lunchtime – made her look more like a matronly schoolmistress. She also had the beginnings of a cold, and her nose and eyes were starting to go a rather unattractive red. After powdering her face fruitlessly, Harriet gave up and went back to the others. The pub was packed by now, and she was just trying to edge past a group of rowdy men in suits when Trey's reedy voice came floating over.

‘What you doing with a frump like her, Saffron? Thought you'd have more taste in mates.'

Damien wheezed with laughter, but Saffron sounded affronted. ‘Don't be rude! H is cool. She's just not into high fashion or anything.'

Fighting an out-of-character urge to kick Trey in his puny shins, Harriet approached the table. She looked at Saffron.

‘Would you mind awfully if I pushed off?'

Saffron looked disappointed. ‘Are you sure?'

‘I've got an early start in the morning,' Harriet said apologetically. She did have a mountain of things to get through in the office.

Saffron jumped up. ‘I'll walk you out.' After a lukewarm farewell, they left Trey and Damien and made their way to the door.

‘Trey's a bit of a knob isn't he?' said Saffron. ‘I might as well stay for another drink, though, good for contacts and all that.' A black cab drove up and Harriet flagged it down.
I'll get the tube home tomorrow
, she thought guiltily, as she jumped in and waved goodbye to Saffron.

‘Fulham, please,' she told the driver. As the car pulled off in the direction of her cosy garden flat with its M&S risotto for one in the fridge, Harriet yawned and felt relief wash over her.

‘I'm not cool and I don't care,' she said. The driver turned his head round.

‘What's that, luv?' he said.

‘Sorry, just thinking aloud.'

Harriet sank back into the seat. She should have been upset by Trey's comments, but oddly, they had just made her more determined. Mr Right was out there somewhere. Hit by a sudden flash of inspiration, Harriet knew exactly how to find him.

‘
WHY DIDN'T YOU
return my call last night?' Fernando's tone was petulant. Saffron pulled a face. He was turning out rather more possessive than she liked.