Naked Truths (27 page)

‘He would appreciate a Christmas present from you, at the very least,' Caro said. Her voice rose. ‘You've got responsibilities, Sebastian, you could at least pretend you care!'

Several shoppers turned to look at them. Sebastian pulled Caro to the side of the pavement by her elbow. ‘Come on, darling, don't go all Jerry Springer on me and start rowing in public,' he said patronizingly. ‘It's frightfully vulgar.'

A homeless man was sitting near them, his back against a shop window. He looked up hopefully. ‘Spare a little change, guv?'

Caro looked at him apologetically before turning back to Sebastian. ‘I just want you to be a proper father to your son,' she said angrily. ‘Is that really so hard?'

Sebastian blew on his nails and polished them against his lapel. ‘I pay maintenance, don't I?'

‘You can't buy his love!' Caro retorted. ‘Benedict has been more of a father to Milo than you ever have.'

At the mention of Benedict's name Sebastian looked furious. ‘I was wondering when that twat's name was going to come up! Towey must be feeling very pleased with himself after stealing my wife off me.'

‘No one stole me, I was divorcing you anyway,' she pointed out.

‘Whatever,' said Sebastian. A funny look crossed his face, one that Caro hadn't seen before. He almost looked vulnerable.

‘What, so you're happy? I bet he hasn't got a bigger cock than me.'

Caro sighed. ‘Is that what this is about?'

Sebastian flashed his white teeth at her nastily.

‘Don't flatter yourself, darling. I've got more birds hanging off my arm than a Balmoral gamekeeper.'

Caro picked up her shopping bags. ‘I give up on you,' she said wearily. ‘You're never going to change. I just feel sorry for poor Milo.'

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. ‘I feel sorry for the poor little sod, having to put up with that fucking codpiece Towey. Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I've got a few million-pound deals to make.'

He turned round. The homeless man looked up at him again. Sebastian curled his lip and made a great show of digging in his pocket. He pulled out a big handful of one- and two-pound coins, and flung them at the man. One coin hit the poor fellow above the eye, and he winced.

‘Help yourself, old chap, I hate carrying all that fucking shrapnel around, anyway,' Sebastian drawled as he strode off.

Horrified, Caro rushed over to the man and crouched down. ‘Are you all right?' she cried. ‘I really must apologize for his behaviour.'

The man touched his head gingerly. ‘No wonder you divorced him. What a wanker. Still, there must be thirty quid here.' Moments later they both had a prize view as Sebastian went slap bang into a passer-by, spilling her Starbucks coffee all down himself.

The homeless man held up some of the coins and grinned. ‘You want some of these back for your dry-cleaning bill, mate?'

Sebastian shot a furious look at them. ‘Go and get fucked,' he snarled, stomping off, a halo of blond malevolence amongst the happy Christmas shoppers.

CATHERINE FELT STRANGE.
No, it wasn't that, she felt
happy
. No matter how much she'd tried to resist letting John into her life, he had changed things. She had started to look forward to his phone calls and text messages, their meandering walks through nearby Green Park when Catherine could get away at lunchtime.

Catherine could still feel that kiss on her lips if she tried hard enough. There had been no real physical contact since, aside from John putting a protective arm on hers as they crossed a road, or a hand on her back as he guided her through a door. But this was still enough to make Catherine tingle, and she found herself aching for his touch, imagining his strong hands running all over her body . . .

Then she would come back to earth with a bump again. The subject of her past had still been studiously avoided by both of them, but Catherine could feel it hanging over her like an ugly cloud, seeping into everything. There was no future for her and John. How could there be when she couldn't let him in?
I'll break it off tomorrow
, she found herself saying more than once,
I'll make up an excuse
.

She still hadn't quite brought herself to do it.

That Friday Catherine had arranged to meet John at Somerset House, an eighteenth-century art museum on the Strand that was famous with Londoners for its seasonal ice-skating rink. Catherine could easily have done another few hours of work, but she made herself switch off the computer.

‘Off out?' asked Harriet. She was one of the few people left in the office.

‘Yes, I'm going ice-skating,' Catherine told her. ‘Don't work too late!'

‘I won't, goodnight,' Harriet called after her, smiling. This new chap must really be something.

‘Nice bobbles.'

‘Thanks.' Catherine grinned at John as he admired her knitted Chloé scarf.

The rink looked magical, its white surface glittering under the overhead lights. Skaters of varying speeds laughed as they went round in circles. A young man in a bright red hat sped past going backwards. He did a graceful figure of eight to applause from the impressed onlookers. As they queued up to get their skates Catherine started to feel slightly self-conscious.

‘I think I'm too old for this.'

‘Nonsense,' John replied. He was wearing a thick olive-green jumper that matched his eyes, and Catherine noticed he was getting admiring glances from a few women in the line.

They swapped their footwear for a retro pair of skates and made their way clumsily towards the rink, tripping over the uneven rubber surface. John gestured, ‘After you.' Catherine stepped out tentatively. She hadn't been ice-skating for years. What if she fell flat on her arse?

Luckily her fears were unfounded. She wobbled precariously for the first few seconds, but somehow kept her balance.

‘Bravo!' shouted John. Catherine turned round to watch him. As soon as John put one skate on the ice, his legs went from underneath him like Bambi. Flying up into the air, he crash-landed flat on his back.

‘Oh God, are you OK?' Catherine called, slowly making her way over to where he was trying to stand up.

‘I thought I'd be good at this,' he said wryly.

For the next hour, Catherine couldn't remember the last time she had laughed so much. She got the hang of it quite quickly, but for all his manly prowess, John was the worst skater she had ever seen. Every time he let go of the barrier, he fell over. Tears of merriment coursed down her cheeks as she helped him up time and time again. His jumper and trousers were completely sodden with ice.

‘I will master this,' he said through gritted teeth as he pushed off again. ‘Oh shit!' His arms started flailing like a windmill besieged by a force-nine gale. ‘Watch out!' The skaters gave him a wide berth as he disappeared into the middle of them. Ten seconds later, John's legs flew up in the air again and he landed spectacularly on his bottom.

Catherine couldn't breathe for laughing. She skated over, to where John was still lying on his back, looking at the stars.

‘Thought I'd stay down here, it's safer.' As Catherine offered her arm to give him a hand up, he pulled her down on top of him.

‘John, what are you doing!' she gasped.

‘I feel a bit faint. You might have to give me mouth-to-mouth.' Before she knew it, he had pulled her lips down on to his.

‘Get a room, you two!' someone yelled good-naturedly. They stopped and looked at each other, smiling. Catherine's cheeks were burning pink from embarrassment and pleasure.

They decided to retire before John did himself some permanent damage. As they walked back down the Strand afterwards, Catherine's spirits were so high, she was practically skipping. She was having real, proper fun.

At first, he said it so quietly she didn't hear.

‘Sorry, what was that?' she smiled, turning to him.

‘You left without saying goodbye.'

The simplicity of his words startled her into silence.

John carried on looking ahead as he walked. ‘I understand the reasons you went, but it was still a shock.'

‘We'd grown apart,' was all she could say, but John Milton shook his head.

‘It was just a blip. We were just kids. Sleeping together for the first time probably threw us.'

‘Yes, we were just kids,' she reminded him. ‘It was a long time ago.'

‘We had something, though, didn't we?' He stopped walking and turned to her. ‘There was always something different about you, Catherine.'

‘Didn't I know it,' she said bitterly.

John smiled tenderly. ‘I meant that in a good way. In a funny sense, I felt like the odd one out, too. Rugby captain, good marks, the popular one everyone wanted to be mates with. But underneath, I never felt like one of them. Do you know what I mean?'

‘Oh, yes,' she said softly.

He lifted a hand and traced the outline of her face. Every fibre of her skin tingled.

‘Why didn't you leave a forwarding address, a phone number, anything? You just vanished.'

Catherine sighed. ‘I didn't leave any forwarding details because I didn't know where I was going. Besides, it was better that way. It wasn't easy being a figure of hate.' She smiled grimly. ‘“Rot in hell” I think was one of the nicer comments I got.'

John shook his head but didn't say anything. They were down a quieter side street now, away from the main thoroughfare. Catherine took a step backwards, away from him.

‘No. Please, John, I can't do this.'

He moved towards her. ‘I know how difficult things must have been for you . . .'

Catherine interrupted, her voice suddenly choked with tears. ‘You have no idea what it was like! I was
fifteen years old
!'

A couple walking past turned round at her raised voice. Catherine dropped her head, furiously blinking back the tears. ‘Look, I don't know what you want from me, but I can't give it to you. You're part of what I was, and I can't go back. Do you know what it's taken to get this far?'

The tears coursed down her face, blinding her. ‘Sorry,' Catherine whispered and walked away quickly. She had to get away from him.

She heard John shout after her, but it was just a blur. Oblivious to the looks people were giving her, Catherine started to run, down the road and through the crowds of late-night shoppers and revellers, just wanting to put as much space between her and John as she could.

Suddenly she tripped and fell to her knees. A sharp pain went through her right leg, making her wince. Catherine quickly pulled herself up, hoping no one had noticed. Hobbling over to the side of the road, she propped herself against a shop wall.

Why is this happening to me?
she moaned inwardly. Trying to steady herself, Catherine opened her bag and started scrabbling around for a tissue. She needed to calm down, and dry her eyes before she drew any more attention to herself.

The black cab pulled up without Catherine realizing it. The door flung open and John Milton jumped out. He looked frantic with worry.

‘Catherine, for God's sake . . .'

‘Just leave me alone,' she said, suddenly embarrassed by her behaviour. ‘I mean it, John, I'm no good for you. I'm damaged goods.'

His strong jaw tensed, eyes full of a million questions.

‘Let me be the judge of that.' He held out his hand. ‘Please, Catherine. We need to talk. Can't we go back to mine and sort this out once and for all?'

‘There's nothing to sort out!' she told him with more anger than she actually felt.

‘OK,' he sighed. ‘But at least let me help you, you're in no state to walk.'

Catherine looked down, and was shocked to see blood seeping through a hole in her tights. She must have cut her knee.

John held out his arm. After what seemed an age, Catherine took it. Slowly they walked over to the car, where the impatient cabbie was waiting. He'd seen it all before, it was just another young lovers' tiff.

John gave the man his address, and the cab set off for south London. Catherine sat as far away from John as she could, as if she would literally scald herself if she touched him.

‘How's the leg?' he asked.

‘Fine,' Catherine replied through gritted teeth. It was really starting to sting.

They didn't talk again until the car pulled up outside a row of stunning three-storey houses on Clapham Common. John paid the driver and went to help Catherine out, but she pushed him away.

‘I can manage.'

John looked hurt for a moment, and Catherine hated herself even more. Why was she such a bitch to him?

Trying not to hobble, Catherine followed him up the path. Even in the dark, she could see how beautiful the house was, with its impressive frontage and original sash windows. John unlocked the door and, standing aside, ushered her in.

Inside was not the bare, modern bachelor pad she had been expecting, but the stunning interior of an elegant country home. The wide floorboards were painted dark brown, a beautifully woven rug running the length of the corridor. The walls were simple white, with evocative gilt-framed pictures of eighteenth-century hunting scenes. A huge grandfather clock stood to the right, like a sentry. On cue, the hands moved to midnight, and it started chiming.

‘The first-aid kit is in the kitchen,' John said, walking down the corridor. Catherine followed him and found herself in a large square room with marble worktops and duck-egg-blue cupboards.

‘This is all very refined,' she said quietly. John pulled out a chair from the table in the corner and she sank down gratefully.

He glanced at her. ‘You sound surprised, were you expecting my underpants to be drying on the hotplate?'

Catherine managed a smile. ‘Not quite that bad, but I am impressed.'

John put a clean flannel under the tap, then came and sat opposite her. ‘Here, let me.' Catherine winced again as he tried to clean the wound.