Naked Truths (42 page)

Catherine was mortified. ‘Tolstoy, I can only apologize. I don't know what came over me.'

He looked smug. ‘I do. You're not the first lady who has drunk too much around me because of nerves. I seem to have that effect on women.' Suddenly he threw himself to the floor and started doing vigorous one-armed press-ups.

‘I always like to do one hundred press-ups before sex,' he said, barely out of breath. ‘It makes me last longer.'

‘Before sex?' Catherine gasped.

The one-armed press-ups got even more frantic. ‘I hope you can keep up. My PB is three hours, forty-five minutes. Mind you, we did go out for a ten-mile run in the middle of it.'

SOMEHOW, CATHERINE MADE
her excuses and left Tolstoy to himself, but not before he had made her swallow a disgusting algae drink to flush away the toxins.

The whole, nightmarish experience was the wakeup call Catherine needed. She had been skirting dangerously close to the edge with her drinking for months, and finding herself in Tolstoy Peake's bed with no memory of how she had got there was the final nail in the coffin. She was furious with herself. Even worse, they had apparently bumped into Fiona MacKenzie, and Catherine hadn't even remembered it.

Fi emailed her not long after she had sat down at her desk, to see if she'd got home OK.

Catherine groaned, and quickly replied he'd dropped her off at home. This was one confidence she was never going to share with her friend.

One hour later, her hangover hadn't abated. But worse than that was the gut-wrenching devastation she felt knowing John was dating Isabella. Catherine tried to tell herself she'd had a lucky escape, but it didn't stop the hollow feeling that numbed her insides.

Her desk phone rang. ‘Oh God, what now?' she muttered. She really wasn't in the mood for Adam. Wearily, she picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?'

‘It's me.'

Catherine froze. A fresh wave of nausea swept over her that had nothing to do with the hangover.

‘What do you want?'

‘To try and explain.'

John sounded as tired as her.
Probably been up shagging that stupid bitch all night
, Catherine thought. Her stomach clenched in misery.

‘It didn't look as if it needed any explaining to me,' she said icily. ‘Is Duvall's where you take all your conquests? No wonder you're a regular.'

‘This isn't fair,' he said. ‘And I didn't know you and Isabella knew each other.'

Catherine's paranoia reared its ugly head. ‘Were you talking about me? What did you tell her? Look, I really haven't got time for this.' She tried to sound cool, even though her heart was racing so fast it was painful. Unable to help herself, Catherine couldn't stop. ‘After all, I don't want to keep you from adding any more notches to your bedpost.'

‘Since when do you care who I go out with?' John asked, suddenly angry. ‘After all, you've made it perfectly clear
you
don't want me.' He paused. ‘I noticed you didn't leave alone, either.'

‘Sorry, did I hurt your manly pride? I'm sure Isabella won't mind kissing it better.' She hated the viciousness in her voice, but Catherine was so hurt she wanted him to feel pain, too.

There was a silence. ‘I just don't understand you, Catherine,' he said.

Catherine gripped the receiver with white knuckles. ‘Oh, but I understand you perfectly now. I just thought you'd have more taste than Isabella Montgomery.'

John sighed heavily. ‘I'm sorry things had to turn out like this.'

Not trusting herself to speak any further, Catherine put the phone down.

Caro and Benedict were in bed reading. At six and a half months pregnant, Caro was feeling more whale-like by the day. She sighed loudly, trying to get comfortable for the umpteenth time. She needed the loo again
.

Benedict put down his
Literary Review
and turned to her. ‘Are you all right?'

‘As much as one can be with elephantiasis of the ankles, and boobs like Zeppelins.'

Benedict's gaze swept up and down her body. ‘Oh, I don't know, I find you rather sexy in full bloom.'

Caro smiled at her husband. ‘I feel anything but sexy, but it's very sweet of you to say I am.'

Benedict kissed her swollen belly, and then lay back on his pillow for a few moments. ‘Amelia seems like her old self again. At least we've seen the last of that Kirillov character.'

Despite the warmth of the room, a shiver passed over Caro. ‘I still can't believe you rushed out like that to confront him. I was so worried, darling, please don't do anything like it again.'

‘And I can't believe you didn't tell me about the phone calls, or the fact he'd been hanging around outside,' chided Benedict. ‘I could have sorted it out a lot sooner.'

‘It was stupid of me,' Caro admitted. ‘If I'm honest, I
knew
deep down something was going on, but I guess I was in denial. Family life is so good at the moment, I didn't want to upset the apple cart and ruin everything.' She sighed. ‘Some reasoning.'

‘Why didn't she tell me, Caro? We've always been so close.'

Caro snuggled up to her husband. ‘I think she got herself in such a hole, she didn't know how to get out of it. She was frightened, and didn't want to drag us into her problems.'

Privately, Amelia had told Caro she hadn't wanted to go to her brother because he'd always got her out of sticky situations before. She had wanted to sort this one out on her own.

Benedict sighed. ‘I suppose you're right,' he said. ‘Anyway, it's all over now.' He rolled his head round, releasing tension. ‘Christ, it's hot in here. I think there's something wrong with the central heating. Do you mind if I open the window?'

‘Go ahead.' Caro lay back and closed her eyes.

A few moments later Benedict spoke. ‘Darling, come and look at this.'

Caro heaved herself out of bed and padded over. He was standing at the window with the curtain in his hand, his mouth wide open.

Caro looked out, straight into the consultancy room. Both the doctor and nurse were standing by the desk, completely naked. The nurse was holding what looked like a bright orange space hopper with a black dildo attached to it. With some difficulty she heaved herself on to it and started bouncing round the room.

Caro's eyes goggled. She'd seen one of those recently, when Calypso had used her computer at Christmas and left it open on a sex toys website. ‘That's a Horny Hopper!' she exclaimed.

Benedict winced as the bouncing got faster. ‘How on earth do you
know
that?'

‘They do this quite a lot,' she said apologetically. As if on cue, the nurse hopped past the window, boobs slapping around like giant udders, and looked straight up at them. Caro dived back behind the curtain, pulling Benedict with her.

He was in shock. ‘Christ, now I've seen it all!'

‘I don't remember them making space hoppers like that in my day,' said Caro.

They looked at each other and exploded with laughter.

John Milton, it seemed, had one last fight in him. The next day, a beautiful bouquet of stargazer lilies, peonies and freesias was delivered to Catherine. The message was simple.

Catherine stared at the card for a moment and then gave a short bitter laugh. She picked up the bouquet, opened her door and marched into the middle of the office.

‘Does anyone want these flowers? They were sent to me by mistake.' She swept back into her office and threw herself into the mountain of work piling up on her desk.

But the card's message kept coming back to her.

Catherine couldn't believe the gall of the man. She'd wondered at the time why someone like him was single. Now it was obvious. John Milton was a player. He'd been ready with all those smooth lines and she'd fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

You had a lucky escape, girl
, she told herself.

It had taken a while, but Ash was finally starting to come out of his shell. In the shop he was more animated, constantly asking questions and soaking up everything Angie told him. As well as the antiques side of the business, she had started teaching him accounting, overheads and stocktaking.

Angie was thrilled with his progress, and had been even more astonished when he'd asked if he could start accompanying her, Avon and Barksdale on their walks round the countryside. She had quickly picked up on Ash's fear but it was hard to keep the bouncy border collies away from him – they just wanted to lick everyone to death. Ash had eventually realized the dogs were harmless, and had even taken to patting them tentatively on the head while keeping the rest of his body at a safe distance.

Today they were walking around the trout lake at the back of the Maltings estate. Even though the sun was out it had rained heavily overnight and the ground was wet and muddy underfoot. Angie had lent Ash a pair of Archie's Hunter wellies, and he was now striding on in front, throwing a stick for Avon. Freddie had given him an old flat cap he didn't use any more and Ash had taken to wearing it every day.

‘Look at you,' she laughed. ‘Quite the country gent.'

Ash grinned and looked down at his mud-splattered wellies. ‘My old man would laugh his nut off if he saw me.' Just as quickly his face darkened.

The night before, unable to get Ash on his mobile because of the erratic reception, Mr King had rung the Maltings instead. Unfortunately he had been blind drunk, and Ash had nearly died of mortification when Freddie fetched him into the house to take the call. His father could barely speak, except for a few incoherent sentences about how proud he was of Ash. Luckily, Freddie and Angie had been really nice about it.

‘You could always have your father to come and stay, we'd be delighted to put him up,' Angie had offered.

Ash had refused, Angie was only saying it to be kind, and there was no way he was letting his dad come down here and mess things up. It was funny, really, in a short space of time, he, Freddie and Angie had become like a little family. Ash joined them more often for dinner now, proper food with local meat and fresh vegetables, and not the microwave crap he and his dad were used to living on. Afterwards he'd sometimes watch the football with Freddie, a fellow Liverpool supporter, in the games room, where they sat in companionable silence, exchanging the odd remark about the game. Ash couldn't get his head round ‘rugger' as Freddie called it, though, and had given up after only one match.

It was a delightful day. Daffodils festooned every grassy bank, while an egg-yolk sun shone down from the sky. Angie, Ash and the dogs had just finished circling the trout lake, Ash in full flow about an eighteenth-century bed-pan he'd sold to a wide-eyed customer from Japan earlier that week. Angie had no problems leaving Ash in charge of the shop now while she popped out to run a few errands, or drove over to Bedlington to pay cheques into the bank.

‘The geezer asked me if Queen Victoria had used it! I mean, what?' Ash shook his head and laughed. He liked being with Angie, she was the first person who'd ever really listened to him.

Angie smiled and shot him a sideways glance. ‘Are you enjoying your time in Churchminster? It must have been quite a culture shock.'

‘You're telling me,' he admitted. ‘But yeah, I like it now.'

Angie looked pleased. ‘I was rather worried we'd be too boring for you, what with you being used to London life.'

At that moment, two pheasants ran squawking out of the hedgerow and disappeared across a field. Ash nearly jumped a foot in the air. ‘Fuck!' The two dogs took off in hot pursuit.

‘Avon! Barksdale!' shouted Angie. ‘Heel, boys. I said, HEEL!' Reluctantly the two border collies gave up their chase and starting trotting back, tongues lolling like fat pink ribbons. ‘What was I just saying about it being too quiet round here?' she laughed. Ash grinned back. They walked in an easy silence for a few minutes before he spoke.

‘What do you think to “Ash's Antiques”?' He'd gone rather red and shy again. ‘I know it's quite similar to yours, and stuff, but I thought maybe one day . . .'

Angie smiled at him. ‘I think it has quite a ring to it, darling. And I have complete faith that you'll do it one day.'

A warm feeling spread through Ash. Everything seemed to be going his way for once.

THE MARCH ISSUE
of
Soirée
had gone on sale, the final chance for Catherine and the team to reach that elusive ‘Project 300' mark. Everyone in the office agreed it was a corker, but now the magazine's fate – and theirs – was in the lap of the gods and the British consumer.

After January's fiasco, they'd managed to put 20,000 sales back on for the previous month's February issue, bringing their current sales up to 255,000. It was a long way short of their target. Adam was still holding out desperate hope that this month's sales figures would achieve a miracle, but Catherine didn't share his optimism. There was no way they were going to add on 45,000 sales in one month. She could almost hear the sound of Sir Robin's hands rubbing gleefully together over at Martyr House. This was surely what he'd wanted all along. Some mornings, in her darkest moments, Catherine wondered why she even bothered putting on her suit and going to work.

When Catherine thought about the awful news she would have to give her staff one day soon, or about breaking it to Gail that
Soirée
Sponsors was closing down, she felt sick to her stomach. She kept picturing the kids they had helped over the last few years: like Reece Lawrence, Nikki Jenson and Ashley King, who, from what Harriet had told her, was coming along in leaps and bounds at the antiques shop in Churchminster. They still had so much more to do, but Sir Robin had made it clear he saw the charity as an unnecessary expenditure. Catherine's hatred for him increased; all that man cared about was making money and lining his pockets in the process. She didn't even care about losing her own job any more, although she was sure she'd be given a pay-off and assigned to one of the company's dreaded ‘development projects' that never took off.