Naked Truths (8 page)

‘I didn't get in until 1 a.m. and I was so tired I wasn't in the mood to talk. Anyway, I thought you'd be asleep.'

Saffron could hear the huffy silence. ‘I didn't mean it like that,' she said. ‘Come on, babe, don't give me a hard time.'

Fernando sighed dramatically.

‘I've got two tickets for the launch of this really cool bar tonight,' she said. ‘There'll be loads of celebrities and modelling agency people there.'

A short silence, Saffron looked at the ceiling, counting the seconds. She knew what the answer would be.

‘OK, sexy, you're forgiven,' he said happily, his umbrage forgotten already. ‘What time and where?'

Saffron smiled, a mixture of triumph and exasperation. Sometimes, it was like dealing with a difficult toddler.

When Saffron had met the gorgeous Fernando in an underground club in east London, she'd only been single three days. Her last fling, with a professional skateboarder, had ended after he'd gone to live in California. Saffron hadn't been that bothered, anyway, especially when she'd laid eyes on Fernando's heavenly physique on the dance floor.

When Fernando had found out what she did for a living, he had been just as impressed. He loved going to events with her. Saffron, who had been doing the job long enough to be blasé about it, thought it was funny how much of a groupie Fernando turned into whenever ‘a face' entered the room.

Tonight they were going to the launch night of the Ice Palace, a champagne and vodka bar in Belgravia. It was a three-storey converted church, and the decor alone was reported to have cost two million pounds.

It was a Mediterranean-like summer's evening, and London was making the most of it. By the time Saffron had made her way past all the throngs of people drinking outside various pubs, Fernando was there waiting. He had spent the last few weeks either in the gym or sunbathing on his flat roof, and tonight was wearing a tight V-neck T-shirt that showed off his bronzed, rippling credentials. He was attracting looks of studied indifference from all the Chelsea socialites, and, as Saffron walked up to him, was busy smiling at a pair of blonde girls barely covered by indecently short dresses.

‘Hey, baby!' he exclaimed in his heavy accent. ‘I didn't see you!'

‘Clearly,' said Saffron drily. A goofy smile broke out over Fernando's face.

‘Are you jealous? Aah, you do love me!'

‘Get off,' said Saffron as he pulled her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. ‘Let's go in. I'm dying for a drink.'

Inside, the Ice Palace lived up to its promise. The walls were an exotic gold, and huge art deco chandeliers hung down from the ceilings. A waiter came up with a tray of inviting cocktails. Saffron took two and handed one to Fernando.

‘Thanks, baby.' His dark eyes stared at her chest lasciviously. ‘Your nipples are hard.'

Saffron looked down at her vest top. Fernando was one of the most highly sexed men she had met. She hoped he wasn't going to get all hot and heavy and embarrass her again; she'd only just recovered from him turning up to meet her in one of the most exclusive bars in town and announcing, in a stage whisper loud enough for everyone else to hear, that he'd spent a blissful day on the sofa sniffing a pair of her knickers. She swore he'd done it on purpose: Fernando always loved to be the centre of attention.

An hour later, Saffron had air-kissed her way round half of London when she found Fernando sulking in a corner.

‘Where have you been?' he complained. ‘You said you'd introduce me to Liz Hurley.' Fernando loved the upper-crust model, he even had an old picture of her in the infamous ‘safety pin' dress at the
Four Weddings and a Funeral
premiere stuck on his kitchen wall.

Saffron rolled her eyes. ‘I don't think she's here. Besides, I don't even know her.'

Fernando took a moody gulp of his drink. ‘I've been standing here by myself for ages.'

‘I'm here now,' Saffron looked at her boyfriend. Despite being high maintenance, he really did look fit tonight. She leaned in and kissed him. Fernando's lips were soft and tasted of fruit and mint chewing gum. Saffron felt her stomach do that familiar flip.

‘Mmm, that's better,' he breathed when they finally pulled apart.

Maybe it was the warm evening, or the alcohol pleasantly flowing through Saffron's veins, but she suddenly felt extremely horny.

‘Fancy a fuck?'

Fernando grinned. ‘Does a bear shit in the goods?'

Fernando's command of colloquial English was sketchy at best. ‘I think you mean “woods”,' said Saffron, as she led him through the crowds. She'd seen an empty cloakroom on the second floor, earlier, it would be perfect.

Minutes later she was riding him frantically on a pile of pashminas that had been thrown into the room. Saffron's red miniskirt was up round her waist, one leg still in her tiny G-string. Fernando's naked nut-brown torso, muscles rippling under a minuscule layer of fat, arched upwards so he could grind himself further into her.

‘Yeah, yeah,' he moaned. ‘Give it to me!'

‘Keep your voice down,' Saffron whispered. If there were an Olympics for the loudest vocals in bed, Fernando would win gold.

Her inner thighs were slippery with sweat as she moved back and forth. Below Fernando's eyes were shut as he immersed himself in the rhythmic bliss.

‘Aaah, AAAH,' he moaned. Behind them, the door suddenly opened. Saffron threw herself on top of Fernando. They both lay still, hardly daring to breathe.

‘You hear something?' said a voice. Saffron's heart was beating so loudly she was sure it would give them away.

‘Nah,' said another voice. ‘Chuck 'em in there, then, we've got no room downstairs.'

Several more cashmere pashminas landed on top of them, and the door shut.

Typically, Fernando wasn't put off his stride for long. He ran his hands lightly down over her breasts, and caressed her Brazilian with his thumb, before moving round to hold her small smooth buttocks.

‘Now
cariño
, where were we?'

Saffron grinned. ‘Let me show you.'

THE BELL TINKLED
as the door to Angie's Antiques swung open. It was a quaint, low-roofed building sitting on the Churchminster village green, a stone's throw from the renowned Jolly Boot pub.

Freddie Fox-Titt stepped into the little shop. After the bright sun outside, his eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the gloom. He was a short, portly man with a kind face always ready to break into a smile.

‘Are you in there?' he called out to his wife. No answer. Freddie frowned and, walking over to the counter, put down the bunch of wild flowers he'd hand-picked on the way over. Freddie and Angie Fox-Titt lived in the Maltings, a handsome estate a few minutes' walk from the village green.

‘Darling?' Tentatively Freddie stepped round a watercolour of a hunting scene on the floor and opened the door to the tiny back room that doubled as an office. A short, curvaceous woman with waves of shoulder-length brown hair sat on a stool, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. She turned in surprise as the door opened, fixing Freddie with a pair of big brown eyes. Freddie's heart did a little jump: after twenty-five years of marriage he still fancied the pants off her.

‘Freds!' she exclaimed. ‘I was miles away, I didn't hear the door.'

Freddie retrieved the bunch of flowers and gave them to her. ‘Just popped in to see if I could take my gorgeous wife out for lunch.'

Angie broke into a smile and leaned up to kiss him. ‘Darling, you really are the most romantic man I've ever met.' She sniffed the bouquet. ‘These are beautiful.' Her face dropped.

‘I could do with some cheering up.'

‘Is everything all right?' asked Freddie in concern.

Angie sighed. ‘I'm fine really, I'm being silly. I just really miss Archie, the house has been so dreadfully quiet since he left.'

Archie Fox-Titt was Angie and Freddie's only child. Angie had suffered three miscarriages before finally falling pregnant with him, and had nearly died in childbirth. Much to their grief, they found out afterwards she was unable to have any more children. The pair doted on 19-year-old Archie, a good-natured boy who was away up North at agricultural college studying farm management.

She sniffed dolefully. ‘I never thought I'd miss his smelly socks and the trails of mess he left all over the house, but I find myself pining after him like a lovesick Labrador. It feels strange only cooking for us and not having to go shopping every two days to replenish the fridge. I don't like not having someone to look after; it's what mothers are meant to do!'

Freddie put his arms round his wife and squeezed her reassuringly. ‘I miss Arch, too, darling. But we're going to see him in a few weeks, and then before you know it, he'll be home for Christmas.'

Angie looked cheered. ‘You're right.' She tried to look brave. ‘I just miss having a young person around the house.'

Freddie smiled. ‘Would a glass of champers make you feel better?'

Angie laughed for the first time. ‘I suppose it would go some way.'

Freddie looked pleased: he hated seeing his wife so sad. ‘That's decided, then. I thought we'd pop next door to try out Pierre's latest offering. And then, if you fancy, we can go for a long walk afterwards. It's such a beautiful day.'

Business was quiet, and Angie had been putting off doing her tax returns all morning. She couldn't think of a nicer diversion.

CARO WAS STARTING
to find her feet in London. Milo was settled in nursery, and she really loved their quirky little cottage. Churchminster would always be
home
home, but there was something special about living in Montague Mews. Even when the sky was overcast or it was raining, the place radiated quaintness and tranquillity. Caro had had her reservations about living so close to other people, but Stephen had been right. You could happily live your own life, but there was always someone to talk to or share an early evening drink with. One night Velda had had them all round for a North African banquet in her Moroccan-inspired purple-and-gold dining room. The food had been delicious, the company even better.

At home, Caro and Benedict had fallen into a contented domestic routine. He still worked long hours, but made sure he was home two nights a week to tuck Milo up in bed. Afterwards, he and Caro would curl up on the sofa and watch television, or chat over a late supper.

On a few occasions they had ventured into central London to the theatre. After the last play they'd seen, Caro and Benedict had joined the throng and walked to Soho, stumbling across an energetic Vietnamese restaurant where the staff spoke no English, and the chef came and cooked from a flaming wok next to their table. The place had been packed, and Caro had enjoyed watching the kaleidoscope of life pouring in as they tucked into their fresh, steaming plates of food. Outside she had persuaded a reluctant Benedict to get a rickshaw – ‘This is so cheesy, if anyone I know sees me . . .' – but they'd ended up helpless with laughter, hanging on for dear life as the driver hurtled through the narrow, bustling streets, scattering pedestrians like dominos.

They'd had a rather embarrassing moment a few nights ago, in a dinky little bistro a five-minute cab ride away. They had just sat down when a large shadow fell over them. Caro had looked up to see Minty Scott-Brocket, who Caro had lived next door to in her halls of residence at university. Caro hadn't seen Minty for years, but with her unruly thatch of straw-blonde hair, wide shoulders and sporty wardrobe, Minty hadn't changed a jot.

‘Caro! I thought it was you,' she boomed. ‘Bloody hell, it must be ten years. Young Farmers' ball in Cirencester, wasn't it?'

Minty's eyes settled on Benedict. His chiselled jaw was freshly shaved, and he was wearing a light blue shirt that set off his eyes perfectly. Her eyes goggled like a randy bullfrog's.

‘Hel-lo! I know who you must be!'

‘Minty . . .' Caro tried to say. An awful feeling was growing in the pit of her stomach, as her old school chum charged on, oblivious.

‘Been working abroad for a while, but I still get all the gossip on the grapevine. Heard Caro had landed herself a catch, but golly!'

Minty goggled at Benedict again, and stuck out a large, man-sized hand.

‘Sebastian, isn't it?'

There was a silence. Caro wished for the ground to open and swallow her up.

To her relief, Benedict gave Minty an easy smile and took her hand.

‘Benedict, actually. I'm Caro's second husband.'

Instead of going bright red, Minty laughed raucously.

‘Uh-oh, old Mints has put her size tens in it once again! To be honest, I'd heard Sebastian was a bit of a wanker, anyway.'

She looked at Caro.

‘What was that I heard about shoe lifts? Anyway, Benedict, I'm sure you're much nicer. No offence meant.'

Benedict's lips twitched. ‘None taken.'

Minty looked down at Caro, still cringing in her seat. ‘Well, bloody great to see you! Must get back, got a fifteen-ounce steak waiting. Ciao!'

Benedict sat down. ‘I'm so sorry . . .' Caro started to say again, but he waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don't be. I think it's quite funny.'

‘Are you just saying that?' she asked anxiously. He gazed at her over the table. ‘Of course not, what would you like to drink?'

As Benedict studied the menu, Caro watched him. When Benedict had moved into Churchminster, she had still been very unhappily married to Sebastian. The rivalry between the two men had been instant and intense, even turning physical on one occasion. Caro and Sebastian had thrashed out a maintenance settlement for Milo, but Caro now had very little contact with her ex-husband. She knew he still lived in London, but where – and whether he was in the same banking job – she had no idea. Despite her efforts, Sebastian had showed little interest in seeing his son. Luckily, as Milo had only been one when Sebastian had left, he'd never really asked for him. Besides, Milo had Benedict now. Caro knew he would never try to replace Sebastian as Milo's father, but he loved the little boy as if he were his own flesh and blood.