Shameless Exposure (15 page)

She looked through the cardboard box which had once contained thermometers.

“Where’s my laptop?”

“Company property, evidence.”

“You realise that everything I need to make my defence is on the phone and computer?”

“Let me know if there’s anything specific you need and I’ll see what I can do. But you’re wasting your time.”

“I want to file a grievance.”

“You can’t file a grievance when you’re subject to company disciplinary proceedings. That would lead to chaos. It’s in black and white in the HR manual. Go home, and may I remind you you’re not permitted to talk to any employees of Monsaint or our customers whilst you are suspended. Sorry it had to come to this, Caroline.”

Caroline returned home on autopilot, taking a taxi from the station for the last three miles to her desirable pile. She opened the substantial front door and picked up the junk mail from the mat. How would they pay the mortgage? Robert would divorce her. She would be homeless and living on the streets. It was two-thirty, when commuter Surrey was catatonic with inactivity. She put on the television to distract herself but the adverts were for funeral insurance.

She picked up the mail from the kitchen counter: double glazing; breast cancer appeal; the credit card bill. No, she couldn’t face that today. She examined the one item of mail from a real person, her name and address written in ink with an elegant sloping script. She always examined the postmark, the handwriting, the type of envelope used, and worked out who it was from before opening the letter. But this time there were no clues to anyone she knew.

She got a knife from the kitchen and carefully opened the letter. There was the faintest hint of a flowery scent that reminded her of someone familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She opened out the single page.

It was from her mother. Not Bettina, her other mother. And she wanted to meet Caroline soon. Caroline cried.

 
Fourteen

“I had no idea this was going to be such a big deal,” said Caroline. “I didn’t think TV would be here.” The platform was lit like a stage for the cameras. At the other end of the room, a string quartet played Beethoven. The tension in the gallery was mounting; security guards were speaking into their chests. Princess Fiona would be arriving at any moment.

Caroline was glad Antonia was there for support. It was kind of Antonia to come, given the prohibition against Caroline having any contact with other Monsaint employees. Just like old times, they had got glammed up together at Antonia’s flat, helping each other with hair, make-up, and choice of underwear, though Antonia wouldn’t let Caroline wear any because she said it spoiled the line of her dress. Caroline might be persona non grata at Monsaint, but Antonia refused to abandon her friend or miss the opportunity to meet Erik Bellinker.

Arriving at the steps of the gallery, they were amazed at the crowd of journalists and photographers that were already there. Anything to do with Princess Fiona always brought out the step-ladders. They fought their way in, trying to smile, and sat in the chairs laid out for the audience and guests. They waited for Robert, Erik, Xena - anybody they knew - to arrive.

“I’ve never been up a red carpet before,” said Antonia. “You could hardly see the steps for all the flashes. Those photographers assumed I was one of the models. They kept shouting which month was I.”

“I’m dreading the moment they pull back the curtains on the pictures. God knows what Erik’s done to me since the last sitting. He’s pissed off that I backed off from him.”

“It won’t matter what he’s done. Everyone can see you look fabulous.”

“Does it work, this dress? I was worried the slit was too long and the see-through bits were in the wrong places.”

“No, it’s stunning, and slimming; dark blue really suits you. The cameras will love you.” Antonia smiled at a cameraman who was filming them perched on their seats. His young producer came over to them.

“Can I ask your name in case we use the pictures? I’ve got you down in the press pack as Miss November.”

“It’s Mrs, actually,” said Caroline. The producer had no reply.

“I’m a Miss,” said Antonia. “But just a hanger-on.”

Robert waved at them from across the room and hurried across to join them.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “The copyright dispute’s flared up again. All the band members have lost so many brain cells over the years that they can’t remember who wrote what. I left them there arguing. I hope they don’t trash the office for old times’ sake.”

Caroline looked at him frostily. “The surprise is not that you’re late. It would have been a surprise if you were on time.”

“Let me straighten your bow tie,” said Antonia, trying to be a peacemaker. Caroline had told her at the flat that things between her and Robert had been strained since she had been suspended from work. He didn’t believe her dismissive explanation that it was office politics which would blow over in a couple of weeks. She had aroused his suspicions about Andreas on that wild night at Antonia’s, and that was where his suspicions remained fixed.

“Have you heard anything from HR today?” said Robert. “You really should let me help, Caroline.”

“Now is not the time or place,” said Caroline.

“When you’re evasive it means there’s something wrong.”

“You’re doing that couples thing,” said Antonia. “Talking to each other like I wasn’t here. I’m going to find someone interesting to talk to.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” said Caroline. “Don’t upset Antonia, she’s the only friend I’ve got at the moment.”

“Just let me help you. I know about this stuff.”

“Well if you insist, I did hear something today. I asked Ivan my boss to do some digging behind the scenes.”

“And?”

“He said he wasn’t allowed to talk to me but that I should understand that Andreas is under a lot of pressure from the shareholders and people do weird things when they’re under pressure; that I shouldn’t hold it against him.”

“You shouldn’t hold what against him?”

“I don’t want to tell you, Robert.”

“I can help. It’s what I do for a living, for goodness sake.”

“Reading between the lines I think they’ve found out that you’re representing Melody Bigger. If she wins the claim and gets the fifty million share options paid it will hit this year’s figures and Andreas will be toast. So I’m the sacrificial lamb. They’re saying I’ve betrayed the organisation’s trust by giving out false information, suggesting there’s a culture of harassment. Something on those lines.”

“So it’s my fault?” said Robert.

“In a word, yes,” said Caroline. “And now we’ll lose the house and everything I’ve worked for.”

“This can’t be right,” said Robert. “How could they know I’ve been taking instructions from Regina? We haven’t even filed a claim yet.”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. Just stop asking questions.” Caroline ran off leaving Robert to ponder the twin mysteries of married and corporate life and to curse his wife’s stubbornness. She was heading towards a cluster of people being filmed by the cameraman.

The camera had plenty to point at. The great and the good had come to the National Portrait Gallery to be present when Princess Fiona, the charity’s patron, unveiled the twelve pictures and launched the worldwide online bidding. The charity was expecting to raise millions even before the calendar was published. Evening dress was de rigueur. The artists’ models had been asked to make a special effort to make sure there were plenty of pictures in tomorrow’s papers and newsfeeds.

Xena had arrived and was attracting attention. She saw such happenings as a work of performance art, and had managed to dress in a manner which suggested nudity more completely than if she wasn’t wearing a stitch. Caroline and Antonia worked their way over to her. Xena abandoned the journalist who was hanging on her every word when she saw Caroline approaching.

“Darling, at last. Where have you been?” She planted warm kisses on Caroline’s cheeks. “This young journalist has suggested I am under-dressed and that the Princess may be offended. Just wait ‘till she sees the paintings. In fact, I told him he should examine me more closely. It is a clever illusion, even my ankles are covered.”

“It’s certainly dramatic,” said Antonia. “I suppose it was made especially for you. I can’t imagine it would fit anyone else quite so perfectly.”

“I should have introduced you two,” said Caroline. “Xena, this is my best friend at work, Antonia. She’s brilliant at PR and a good pole dancer to boot.”

“Ah, another performance artist,” said Xena. “Welcome to the club. Is it difficult, pole dancing in boots?”

“It’s just a hobby,” said Antonia. “Caroline’s being wicked; I do it for fitness.”

“But you perform, yes?”

“I did once, and I loved it. And I’ve given one or two private shows.”

“I prefer intimate events myself,” said Xena. “This is all too predictable; except for one thing. Why are there four paintings on the wall behind the stage? That makes thirteen, unless I’ve forgotten how to count.”

The violins came to a sublime conclusion. An avuncular man, the chairman of the charity, coughed into the microphone on the stage. The hubbub subsided and the guests hurried to occupy the velvet covered seats arranged in rows in front of the stage.

“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you for giving up your time to be here. This is a very special event for BCRI, marking, as it does, our thirtieth anniversary. I trust it will be the biggest fundraising event in our history. I know you haven’t come to listen to me talk about all the fantastic work done by our army of helpers, but there are sixteen special volunteers that I want to introduce to you this evening.

“Firstly, the three artists, who have given many hours of their time and the gift of their talent. Could you stand up please?” The artists rose artistically from their seats, except Cecil Sharpe who, well into his nineties, painted from a wheelchair. They received the acclaim to which they were accustomed as multiple prize winners.

“And next, the twelve models. Now I should explain, these are not professional models in the usual meaning of the word, although I know they all approached their role with the utmost professionalism. They are ordinary women – nurses, businesswomen, civil servants – doing something extraordinary. They were chosen specifically by the artists because they felt they were the right women to convey the message and spirit of the charity’s research and support work.

“They too have given up many hours of their precious time to further our work. They have also given something of themselves, as we will all see shortly. It is very brave of them, they have made an outstanding contribution, and they have our thanks. Could you stand please, models, starting with January?”

One by one the models rose from their chairs. The audience applauded each one generously, but Caroline noted that August got the longest ovation.

“Finally, there is one volunteer who has contributed more to our work than any other individual. Princess Fiona of East Anglia has been our patron for nearly five years and not one month has gone by without her being involved in one of our events. She has visited literally hundreds of women who have benefited from the treatments made possible by the charity. And by agreeing to attend our launch this evening, she has lent her weight to our ambitious plans for international fundraising over the next decade.

“I am sure you will appreciate how difficult it is for her to be in the public eye every moment. The press have, at times, overstepped the bounds of good taste on the pretext that our patron is interested in breasts. I am confident that the generous support of the public will send a strong message that good works will always triumph over sordid intentions.” The crowd applauded the sentiment loudly.

“Now I will shut up because I know it’s not me you want to look at on the podium. May I introduce our patron, Princess Fiona of East Anglia? Ma’am?” The chairman extended an arm towards a door at the corner of the gallery, and Princess Fiona floated into the room, preceded by a duo of shaven-headed security guards and followed by a trio of ladies-in-waiting.

All eyes were trained on the imposing figure of Princess Fiona as she glided with perfect posture to the podium. The chairman bowed slightly and shook her hand before retreating a respectful distance. Two official photographers were permitted to take a number of pictures of the Princess smiling at the audience, and were then ushered to the back of the room. The Princess did not speak often in public and an expectant hush settled over the gallery.

“Thank you, Mr Chairman, for inviting me to speak to you this evening. I am full of admiration for the work of the BCRI and it will always have my support. I have to correct one point, Mr Chairman. You suggested that I have contributed more than any other individual and that is certainly not the case. On the contrary, I feel I take more than I give. The cancer sufferers and volunteers I speak to are an enormous inspiration to me. So much so, that they have given me the courage to take an important step, one which would have seemed impossible for one in my position just a few years ago.

“In fact, I have to correct you, Mr Chairman on two points. The second one is the suggestion that I am lending my weight to this campaign to raise funds worldwide. It is not a loan. My energy will be behind this more than ever, though admittedly in a different way. I intend to dedicate myself fully to the cause.”

Puzzled looks began to be exchanged and the journalists in the back row began surreptitiously texting their colleagues. They sniffed a significant announcement.

“Sorry, three points, Mr Chairman,” continued the Princess. “You said it is difficult for me to live every moment in the public eye. You are wrong. It is a privilege. I’m sure I would have been very lonely at times on that Caribbean island were it not for the gentlemen of the press emerging from behind a coconut palm or out of the waves in their wet suits.” The audience laughed.

“I do admit the attention can be a little tiresome when added to the speculation about my possible relationship with every eligible bachelor in Europe. I wish to confirm that the rumours concerning a future marriage to Prince Lippi of Giulia are entirely erroneous. This evening I plan to put all speculation to rest.” The journalists began hopping up and down with excitement. News was about to happen. A security guard forced them to sit down on pain of expulsion.

“But before I give everything away,” continued the princess, “it is my great pleasure to declare the online bidding open for these unique works of art, and to ask each of the models to pull the curtain back on their likenesses for the first time in public.”

Caroline, Xena and the ten other artists’ models assumed their stations by the curtained pictures and awaited the signal from the chairman, who led the assembly on a countdown.

“Ten, nine, eight…” Princess Fiona left the podium and slipped to the back of the stage with one of her ladies-in-waiting, beneath the thirteenth painting.

“Three, two, one. Miss January, please.” Miss January pulled the chord and revealed herself in goose bumped glory. The audience applauded nervously, unsure how enthusiastic they were supposed to be when faced with bare flesh in front of royalty. As each painting was revealed, the applause grew more confident. When Xena’s likeness was exposed in all its lush summer glow, a raucous male cheer was added to the clapping. Xena smiled slightly, knowing that Erik had captured something true.