Naked Truths (15 page)

‘I'll be speaking to each department individually. We've got an amazing team here, but I need you to put in 110 per cent from now on. With
Soirée
Sponsors going from strength to strength, let's make the
Soirée
brand as good as we can. Are you all with me?'

The team, galvanized by the speech, nodded enthusiastically. Catherine looked pleased by what she saw. ‘Excellent.' Her smile became slightly frozen. ‘Now I'll hand you over to Adam, who'll explain the nuts and bolts of the “Project 300”.'

Soirée
's publisher blinked nervously. Public speaking wasn't his forte. He stepped forward.

‘Yes, right!' Adam's Adam's apple bobbed furiously. ‘Um . . .'

There was an excruciating silence, before he took a resolute swallow.

‘This just isn't good enough!' he said loudly.

Catherine groaned inwardly, he'd obviously had a pep talk from Sir Robin to go in heavy-handed.

Adam started striding up and down in front of them, looking more like he was searching unsuccessfully for his car in a multi-storey car park than an inspirational leader rousing his troops.

‘Valour's about winning!' he declared. ‘And what are we? Losers!'

Everyone looked at Catherine. Her mouth had dropped open, but by now Adam was in full flow.

‘Valour doesn't do losers! We're in it to win it. And that's why the “Project 300”, a brilliant idea devised by Sir Robin Hackford himself – has been put into practice. At the moment
Soirée
is selling 200,000 copies a month.'

At this the team looked slightly relieved. That sounded all right, didn't it? Adam noticed their glances and pounced. ‘You think that's good enough? It's not. Our rivals are selling tens of thousands more a month!'

Probably because they haven't got a bunch of muppets in charge and an extortionate cover price. Catherine fumed inwardly.

Adam ploughed on. ‘We want to be at the top of our game again, where Valour Publishing belongs! So,' he puffed up self-importantly, ‘you have all been set the challenge to increase
Soirée
's sales by 100,000 to reach that “Project 300” mark. And there's no time to waste, because you've got six months to do it!'

‘Six months?' someone echoed.

‘Yup,' said Adam confidently.

‘That's March,' another voice said weakly.

‘Uh-huh! Of course I expect you to have it all sewn up by then.'

Mouths gaped, and once again everyone turned to look at Catherine. Her jaw was set like granite. Adam stopped striding and put his hands on his hips, crotch pointing out rather offensively.

‘OK?' he said. ‘Are we clear on that?' His voice rose louder and he raised his fist in the air, Rocky-style. ‘What are we, winners or losers? Let's hear it for “Project 300”!' He punched the air. ‘Yeah!'

The only sound was the distant hum of a photocopier. Catherine quickly stepped in.

‘I think we all understand the concept, Adam,' she said, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible.

Adam blinked again, back to his normal ineffectiveness. ‘Oh, of course,' he stuttered. ‘There is one more thing.' He looked at Saffron, who was standing near the large cardboard box he'd brought in. ‘If you could bring that over here . . .'

After a moment's hesitation Saffron bent down to pick it up, but Tom Fellows beat her to it. ‘I've got it,' he mumbled.

Everyone looked down curiously as Adam pulled the flaps open.

‘To kick-start the “Project 300” campaign, Valour Publishing is generously donating a branded mouse mat and mug for each and every one of you. Please replace your old ones with these, it is compulsory to use them.'

He bent down and triumphantly pulled out a garish black mug with the slogan ‘
Project 300
' emblazoned across it in bright yellow letters. ‘From now on, whenever you step into the building, you'll be living, breathing and working the “Project 300”! This is to ensure maximum success.' Adam thrust the mug aloft, like some kind of abhorrent Father Christmas. ‘Are there any questions?' he asked.

This time, Catherine didn't dare look at any of her team.

‘Thank you, Adam. I'll make sure everyone gets their new equipment. And thanks everyone, you can all get back to work now.'

People started shuffling back to their desks, talking incredulously in low voices. Catherine knew how they felt. She went back into her office, heart heavy. Adam followed. ‘That went well, didn't it?' he said hopefully.

Catherine went round the other side of her desk. ‘Depends what you term “well”.' She looked over at him. ‘I don't appreciate you calling my team “losers”, Adam.'

He flushed. ‘Maybe that was a bit much. Thomasina bought me this American self-help book on how to motivate one's workforce. It was rather extreme.'

Catherine raised an eyebrow. ‘I think they got the message.' What a bloody farce! As if Sir Robin thought spending £50 on a load of tacky Valour merchandise was going to help them achieve the ridiculous target he'd set. Catherine gritted her teeth, they'd be a laughing stock when this got out.

‘Was there anything else?' she asked abruptly. Suddenly she wanted Adam out of her office, and as far away from her as possible.

‘Er, no. Just keep me up to date with progress, and, of course, I'll be reporting back to Sir Robin with the monthly sales figures.'

No offer of any help or ideas from him, then, she noted. Not that she was surprised: Adam had the creative vision of a concrete bollard. ‘As you can imagine, I've got a lot to get on with,' she said.

Adam smoothed down his tie. ‘Of course, I'll leave you to it. Well, good luck.'

Catherine shut the door firmly behind him, not even caring that she'd dismissed her own boss.
We'll need more than luck, mate
, she thought grimly as she kicked off her heels and prepared to get stuck into the October issue.
You're asking me to perform a bloody miracle
.

AS THE DYING
embers of summer moved into autumn, Montague Mews was aglow with new colours. Branches from the horse chestnut trees drooped into the courtyard, their green leaves slowly turning a burnished copper. As they fell, they covered the cobbles, transforming the ground into a flame-coloured carpet. Returning home from shopping late one Wednesday afternoon, the sun was slowly creeping down the century-old brick walls, Caro thought it looked like a golden pocket of loveliness.

That weekend Benedict was away on a work trip, so Caro decided to invite Harriet and Velda round for dinner on Saturday.

Velda popped in the day before to ask if Saffron could come as well. ‘Of course,' Caro said. ‘I only didn't invite her because I thought she'd have better things to do.'

Velda smiled. ‘I know, I couldn't believe it when she asked; I don't think Saffron has stayed in on a Saturday night since she started living with me. The poor girl is a bit run-down at the moment, and needs a few quiet nights in. They're working dreadfully hard at work.'

‘I know, Harriet was telling me about this “Project 300” campaign. Seems they're asking a lot.' Caro changed the subject. ‘I know it's a long shot, but I was thinking of asking Rowena. Do you think there's any chance she might come? Maybe I'm being an interfering old busybody, but every time I walk past, I think of her locked away in that house . . .'

Velda looked dubious. ‘I salute you for doing the good-neighbour thing, but come hell or high water, I don't think you'll get Rowena out.'

Later on that evening, Caro decided to try her chances. Cajoling a grumbling Milo away from his
Lazytown
DVD – ‘We're just going for a little walk next door, darling' – Caro took his hand and opened the front door. Helping her son across the cobbles, Caro approached Rowena's house. The only sign that anyone lived there was visible between the thick velvet curtains drawn across one of the upstairs windows. A tiny chink of light. Downstairs, the windows were covered with heavy wooden shutters. The place looked like a fortress.

Feeling rather self-conscious, Caro knocked on the door. ‘Hello?' she called. ‘Rowena? It's your neighbour at No. 2, Caro. We haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet.'

Silence. Caro felt like an idiot. Milo started to strain on her hand. ‘I'm cold, Mummy!' he complained. Caro realized he wasn't wearing a jacket, and was seized by guilt. Velda was right, she told herself. Rowena wants to be left alone. Caro was just turning away when she heard a creak, as if someone was coming down the stairs.

‘Hello?' she called again. Nothing. Tentatively she lifted up the letterbox. She could just make out a long, dark hallway and the first couple of stairs. It looked like some washing had been left lying on the bottom step. ‘Sorry to disturb you,' she called again. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to come to dinner at ours tomorrow.'

More silence. No one was there. ‘Mummy!' Milo said even louder. Caro let go of the letterbox and allowed him to start tugging her back to their nice warm house.
Christ, I just shouted through that poor woman's letterbox!
she thought, suddenly appalled. Was she turning into Lucinda Reinard? It was only when she'd got back into No. 2 and closed the door safely behind them that she realized what the pile of washing had been. A pair of baggy trouser-clad legs.

Rowena had been listening all along.

It had been a month since Catherine's rousing speech to the team. Despite her trepidation, the ‘Project 300' had started well. Not down to any help from everyone's new branded merchandise, however. Alexander was pointedly using his mouse mat to wipe his feet on every time he came into the office.

Although time had been against them, Catherine's patch-up job on the October issue had actually turned out rather well. Early indications showed they had added on an extra 10,000 sales, which was all good and well, considering. The real coup, however, was the redesign. It had been a real success, and everyone – including Adam – thought the November issue, due to hit the shelves in a few weeks, looked fantastic. It hadn't been without sacrifice: Catherine had worked late every night all month, obsessing over each headline, picture and word, making sure it was all perfect.

They'd had one blow – despite Saffron's (and not Annabel's) best efforts, they still hadn't managed to get Savannah Sexton, and it looked very unlikely they would secure her for the all-important Christmas issue. Catherine had taken the news grim-faced and retreated to her office.

Meanwhile Harriet had quickly realized her boss was a workaholic. In the whole five months she'd worked there, she didn't think she'd heard Catherine talk once about an evening out with friends. Despite the expensive outfits her boss was looking tired and drawn. Catherine had told them all they wouldn't be losing their jobs, but it didn't stop the staff talking. Was the ‘Project 300' just a stupid gimmick? If they didn't reach the 300,000 would Valour really close
Soirée
down? Harriet felt dreadfully upset at the thought of losing her job. She was lucky enough to have a life to go back to in Churchminster, but it was more than that.
Soirée
had given her the sense of self-fulfilment she had been searching for all her life.

It was Saturday morning and Harriet was flopped on the sofa in her pyjamas watching an old rerun of
Grand Designs
. Kevin McCloud was awfully dashing, why couldn't she find someone like him? To her delight Camilla had woken her up, unexpectedly calling from a train in Guatemala. They'd chatted excitedly for fifteen minutes, before Camilla said they were going through a tunnel and the phone went dead. Afterwards, Harriet was just thinking how nice it would be to be in Camilla's sweet little cottage having a good old chinwag when her mobile rang again.

‘Bills?' she sat up hopefully, using Camilla's nickname.

‘No, darling, it's me,' Lady Frances said. ‘Were you expecting Bills?'

‘I'd just spoken to her, actually. We got cut off. She and Jed are on a train somewhere in the wilds of Guatemala.'

‘Good heavens, how ghastly!' Lady Frances Fraser didn't entirely approve of Camilla's rough and ready adventure. ‘How are you, anyway? I'm concerned you're working too hard. Ambrose said you looked rather pale when he came up to see you for lunch last week. I do worry all that pollution is playing havoc with your complexion.'

Harriet laughed. ‘I'm fine, Mummy! I'm rushed off my feet with the cocktail party, but I'm really enjoying it.'

‘Cook sends her love. She wants to know when you're coming home, so she can feed you up. Her words, I hasten to add, not mine. You know I'm trying to get her to introduce a slightly more healthy menu, but so far she's proving rather resistant to change.'

‘You know Cook,' said Harriet fondly.

‘Indeed I do,' said her mother drily. ‘I'm fighting a losing battle to get your father's cholesterol levels down. Of course, it doesn't help that Ambrose still insists on having his Thursday night steak and kidney pudding. Honestly, sometimes I think those two are conspiring against me . . .'

Thirty minutes later Harriet had received a full round-up of events in Churchminster, including Lucinda Reinard's request to hold next year's Bedlington Valley Pony Club camp in the grounds of Clanfield Hall.

‘We haven't said yes, but I don't see a problem if they're tucked away in one of the back fields,' her mother had said. ‘Your father's not so keen, though, he's grumbling about noise levels and litter.' She'd laughed lightly. ‘But really, what can go wrong? For some strange reason Ambrose is convinced it will turn into the Cotswolds' answer to Glastonbury!'

After her lazy start, Harriet had had rather a productive day. She'd cleaned the entire flat from top to bottom, and then gone through her wardrobe, filling three large black bin-liners with old clothes to give to charity. Harriet had been astounded at the amount of unwanted stuff she'd accumulated – how could one person have so many sweaters from Fat Face?