Naked Truths (31 page)

Catherine stood up. ‘Bye, everyone, have a great Christmas.'

‘You too! Bye Catherine!' they all yelled back. ‘Love you!' someone drunkenly shouted. With their happy cries ringing in her ears, Catherine headed home. She'd only have one or two more glasses. It was a special occasion after all . . .

Saffron watched Catherine walk out the door and then glanced around wickedly.

‘Right, let's get shit-faced!'

As she poured everyone yet more glasses of wine, there was a commotion outside. It sounded like a herd of buffalo were approaching when, suddenly, the front doors burst open. A dozen pink-faced, pink-shirted men piled in. They were braying more loudly than the donkey section at a children's zoo.

Everyone in the restaurant stared. ‘Oh, great,' said Saffron. ‘Invasion of the Hooray Henries.'

‘How unpleasant,' said Alexander. He surveyed the newcomers with distaste. ‘I think I was forced to play rugby against one of those oiks at prep school.'

Harriet thought another of the new arrivals looked familiar. She squinted across the room. Then the man waved a large striped golfing umbrella in the air.

‘Oh no!' Harriet said.

‘What's wrong?' Saffron and Alexander both asked in unison.

Harriet sighed. ‘I went out with that chap over there a few months ago.'

‘Thomas Twat-Bumford or whatever his name was?' said Saffron.

Harriet nodded miserably. The three of them watched as Thomas pretended to roger one of his friends with the umbrella.

Alexander handed Harriet a large glass of wine. ‘You have my deepest sympathies.'

An hour later, the din from Thomas and his friends was so loud everyone was struggling to be heard. Several tables of diners had walked out in disgust, and the party had already drunk the restaurant dry of champagne. Despite being told by the manager to keep the noise down, they had started singing rugby songs. They had just finished a particularly lewd one about sitting on people's faces when the manager rushed over, quivering with fury.

‘Gentlemen! If you do not start behaving in a more respectable manner, I will have to ask you to leave!'

‘Sorry, old boy!' one of them shouted.

The manager glared at them and stalked off, a bread roll narrowly missing the back of his head.

Over the other side of the room, Harriet's bladder was bursting, but she didn't dare leave her seat in case Thomas saw her. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up. To her surprise, it was Adam Freshwater. In the commotion, no one had seen
Soirée
's publisher come in.

Adam looked distinctly out of his comfort zone. ‘Is Catherine here?'

‘No, she left a while ago. I think she had some Christmas shopping to do.'

Adam sat down in the vacant seat. ‘Oh. I see. I just popped in on the off-chance, thought it might be nice to see you all . . .' He trailed off.

Harriet felt rather sorry for him. In his oversized shirt and collar, Adam looked about twelve years old. He'd obviously made an effort to come down.

‘Would you like a drink?' she asked.

Adam's eyes brightened. ‘Yes, I'll have a large glass of whatever you're having.'

Some time later, Harriet realized inviting Adam to sit down had been a mistake. He'd already polished off three large glasses of wine, and was halfway through his fourth. Saffron and Alexander had both got up to talk to other people, and for the last ten minutes Adam had been telling Harriet how unhappily married he was.

‘Thomasina just doesn't understand me,' he slurred. ‘The sex has all but dried up, as well. All she cares about is whether there's the right amount of spirulina in her breakfast algae.'

‘Spiru-what?' asked Harriet in bemusement.

Adam gaped at her. ‘S-s-spriru-what! Exactly! You know where I'm coming from. We're obviously kindred spirits.'

His hand found Harriet's thigh and squeezed it.

‘You know, if you ever fancy getting together for a drink . . .'

Harriet pushed his hand off. ‘Er, thank you, but no,' she said hurriedly.

Adam shrugged drunkenly and turned back to nurse his glass.

In desperation, Harriet looked around for an escape. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of Thomas head-butting a lump of Christmas pudding that had been lobbed at him. As the dessert hit his beautifully-coiffed bulbous head, cake and currants sprayed everywhere. It was the final straw for the manager. Flanked by some beefy looking chefs from the kitchen, he rushed over and ordered the whole party out.

Harriet watched as the last man was ejected through the doors. At least she could escape to the loo now. She turned to make her excuses to Adam, but he had already passed out, face down in the stagnant remains of Catherine's cheese plate.

THE NEXT MORNING
Catherine woke early. She was stiff and cold and realized that, yet again, she had slept fully clothed on the sofa. Wearily, she tried to stand up and knocked over a half-full bottle of wine, which had been left on the floor. Judging by the look of things, it hadn't been the only one. Catherine didn't even bother to pick it up. Instead she headed to the kitchen for a glass of water and two extra-strong Nurofen. Then it was straight to her bedroom and, hopefully, the oblivion of sleep again.

When Catherine opened her eyes a few hours later, she was momentarily disorientated. The curtains were still open and bright winter light mercilessly filled the room, starting her temples throbbing again. She turned over in bed and saw her designer clothes, lying like a heap of rags on the floor.

Catherine groaned and sat up. She looked at her watch. To her surprise it was midday. It was only the second time in her whole life that she'd slept that late. Then again, what did she have to get up for? Work was finished for two weeks.

Gingerly she stood up and walked through to her en suite bathroom. She surveyed herself in the mirror. Passing out in her make-up was getting to be a bad habit. Catherine pulled at the grey circles under her eyes and noticed a breakout of spots on her chin. She wondered briefly about booking in for a facial.

She leaned over the sink and turned the taps. The ice-cold water on her face made her gasp, but at least she felt more awake. She looked in the mirror again. Alexander's words came back to her as she studied her body. Would it ever be touched or enjoyed again? She forced thoughts of John Milton out of her mind.

Half an hour later, Catherine was feeling better. She'd had a steaming hot shower, and was now standing in the kitchen sipping a strong black coffee. As she looked round the spotless kitchen, she felt strangely at a loss. What should she do? She didn't feel like watching a DVD or reading.

Wrapping her hands around the mug, she padded barefoot into the living room. With its sleek, contemporary lines and brilliant whiteness, this was Catherine's favourite room. Today, however, it felt self-consciously bare. She never normally bothered with Christmas decorations, but her eyes wandered to an empty corner of the room. There was a Christmas tree market five minutes' walk away; maybe a little one would look good over there . . .

‘You're going soft in your old age,' Catherine said aloud. She looked at herself in the huge square mirror over the fireplace. ‘And talking to yourself. Oh God!'

Catherine thought for a second, before walking back into the kitchen to deposit her mug in the sink. Then she went to get her coat.

The impromptu trip was proving to be a good idea. Catherine was sitting in a warm, bustling coffee shop with a frothy latte and a cranberry muffin. The window seat was an excellent place to watch the world go by, and the streets were full today with people of all ages. Mums and children walked abreast, their arms full of Waitrose bags and long rolls of wrapping paper. Middle-aged men staggered under the weight of boxes of beer, champagne and wine as they loaded up the backs of their Land Cruisers and estate cars. Across the road outside WH Smith, a steel band had struck up the opening bars to ‘Good King Wenceslas', and a crowd had gathered around.

Catherine had been to the florist and bought a beautiful Christmas bouquet to go on her mantelpiece. She had also bought some ‘winter spice' scented candles to place around the apartment. There was one thing left to do. Draining her cup of coffee, she stood up.

Five minutes later, she arrived at the quaint little church hall. A banner with the words ‘Christmas Tree Fayre' was stretched across the entrance. As she walked in, a cheery-faced man in reindeer ears and a money belt called out.

‘Whatcha looking for, love? Big one, small one? I got all sizes here!'

His comic expression made Catherine laugh.

‘Not sure yet, can I have a look?'

The man waved her through. ‘Be my guest.'

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of pine. Various-sized trees stood lined up against the walls, and Catherine walked around trying to decide. The place was packed, and she kept bumping into people.

‘How about this one, darling?'

‘Looks good to me. Phoebe, Charlie, what do you think?'

A husband and wife were standing to her left, arms wrapped around each other. Two cherub-faced children ran over to look.

‘That's our favourite! That one, Daddy.'

‘A minute ago they wanted that one over there,' the woman laughed to her husband. She made eye-contact with Catherine and smiled, her face full of happiness.

Catherine smiled back awkwardly. As she looked around, she realized she was the only one there by herself. Suddenly the idea of getting a Christmas tree seemed pathetic. She didn't even have anyone to help her carry it home.

Catherine turned abruptly and headed for the door.

‘Don't you want one, love?' the man called out as she rushed past.

‘I might come back later,' Catherine muttered. She was a fraud. This was no place for someone like her. Christmas was not for her. She needed to get away from all this goodwill and cheer.

She was barely through her front door when her phone started ringing in the bottom of her handbag. Dumping her other bags, she scrabbled round to find it.

‘Hello?'

‘You sound out of breath.'

Catherine stood perfectly still in the hallway.

‘Why are you calling me?'

‘I wanted to wish you a happy Christmas,' said John Milton.

‘So now you have.'

‘What are your plans? Are you going away anywhere?'

‘No,' she replied shortly.

‘I'm going to Canada. Heli-skiing. A few of us are going, should be good fun.'

‘Good for you,' said Catherine. What had made him think she was interested, anyway? ‘Look, if you've just rung up to boast . . .'

‘Of course that's not why I called.' For the first time, John sounded exasperated. ‘I just wanted to see how you are.'

‘Well, I'm fine,' she replied. ‘But if you don't mind . . .'

John gave a weary laugh. ‘Don't tell me, you're busy.'

The silence lay heavy between them before John spoke again.

‘I miss you, Catherine.'

She felt sick. ‘You don't miss me,' she said angrily. ‘The Catherine you miss died years ago. I've told you, you don't know me. And you never will.'

When John spoke again, his voice was like a stranger's. ‘Goodbye, Catherine, I wish you all the best.'

Then there was a dialling tone in her ear. This time, he'd been the first to hang up. As she pressed her forehead against the wall in the hallway, Catherine reflected how Christmas was over before it had even started.

HARRIET AND SAFFRON
had made a surprisingly quick exit out of town. Harriet's Golf, packed with suitcases and bags of presents, was speeding out on the M4 towards the countryside.

‘Have you heard from your aunt?' asked Harriet.

‘A few times, she's going to a retreat up in the Atlas mountains somewhere. She didn't think there would be phone reception there, so I doubt I'll hear from her until after Christmas.'

Saffron looked out the window. It was a perfect winter's day, ice-cold and clear. The suburbs were giving way to rolling fields and villages now, and high above them mauve clouds hung heavy on the pale horizon. ‘Tell me about Churchminster, I haven't really asked you much about it.'

‘Well, I'm biased, of course, but I think it's the best place in the world,' Harriet said.

‘Can't be that great . . . you left,' said Saffron teasingly.

Harriet grinned. ‘I still think of it as home. There's such a variety of characters there, and everyone knows everyone else . . .'

Saffron grimaced. ‘That would do my head in, everyone knowing my business.' She dived into her bag and came up with a packet of Haribo.

‘Want one?'

‘Oh, go on, then,' said Harriet.

‘Have you got any other family staying for Christmas?' Saffron mumbled through a mouthful of pure sugar.

‘No, it's just us and Mummy and Daddy. Daddy's sister lives in a castle in Scotland, but she doesn't like the climate down here. Says it's too warm and plays havoc with her digestion. Of course Cook and Mrs Bantry the housekeeper will be there. Oh, and Hawkins. He's our butler.'

Saffron stopped shovelling sweets into her mouth. ‘You've got a butler?'

‘Er, yes,' Harriet said apologetically. ‘He looks a bit stern, but Hawkins is a dear. Been with the family for years.'

Saffron laughed. ‘This is going to be some Christmas!'

An hour later, they were negotiating the winding lanes towards Churchminster. A line of bare trees stood on the horizon, their black boughs drooping like marionette puppets. Suddenly a large reddish bird ran out from the hedgerow into the path of their car. Saffron screamed as Harriet swerved to avoid it.

‘Blasted pheasants!' she said cheerfully. ‘I think they've got a death wish, sometimes.'

Saffron sank back in her seat, heart going like the clappers. She didn't think her nerves could cope with any more incidents like that. They passed a rambling house where several ponies swathed in bright winter rugs methodically chomped at piles of hay in paddocks. Opposite was a five-bar wooden gate, which was propped open. A large square sign stood beside it.