by Jo Carnegie
She’d looked around her to see who was listening. ‘I hear Valour’s board aren’t happy at all with Soirée’s performance,’ she’d added loudly. ‘Have you spoken to them at all yet, darling?’ She’d taken a sip of mint tea, ice-blue eyes looking innocently at Catherine above the bone china cup.
Luckily Fiona, sensing war was about to break out, had dived in and changed the subject. Ten minutes later, Catherine, not sure she could stop herself pouring the remains of her tea all over Isabella’s head if she stayed, had made her excuses and left.
As much as Catherine hated to admit it, Isabella’s words had touched a nerve. Over the past twelve months, Soirée’s sales figures had been declining. The only consolation for Catherine was that they weren’t alone. The whole monthly market was suffering. Nowadays women were increasingly turning to the internet to get their news, fashion and gossip. Catherine had always wanted to work in glossies because they delivered that once-a-month, quality, luxurious treat. The anticipation was part of the pleasure. Now those times were gone, and the once-hallowed stamping ground was under siege. Especially as the price of Soireé had gone up – one of Sir Robin’s first implementations. Catherine had protested to senior management at the time but it had fallen on deaf ears. It was an added pressure she didn’t need, especially as magazine closures were becoming more frequent.
There was a tentative knock on her office door, rousing Catherine from her thoughts. Harriet’s head popped round. ‘Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, sparkling mineral water?’ she asked brightly.
Catherine flashed a brief smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks, Harriet. But can you get on to that lunch booking at the Ivy? I’m taking the Fashion Council lot there next week.’
‘Already booked!’ answered Harriet, and discreetly disappeared back behind the door.
Alone again, Catherine leaned back in her chair and sighed. It hadn’t been a great week so far. The day before she had found out that Soirée had lost another major advertising campaign, which would leave a big dent in their revenue. Was it an omen? Catherine shook her head. She was getting way too jittery, and Isabella hadn’t helped.
Despite telling herself this, Catherine couldn’t shake off her unease. It would have been nice to have had someone to talk to, and assure her everything was OK, but her own boss, Soirée publisher Adam Freshwater, was away on yet another holiday with his family. To add to her unease, when she’d bumped into the normally friendly chief executive, one of Valour’s board of directors, in a restaurant last week, he’d barely been able to meet her eye before rushing off, mumbling something about his sea bass getting cold. A clammy knot materialized in the pit of Catherine’s stomach. She was getting a very bad feeling about this indeed . . .
With her air of confidence and mantelpiece of ‘Best Editor’ awards, 35-year-old Catherine Connor was the archetypal successful career woman. Getting the Soirée editorship had been her defining moment, a mark of just how far she’d come. First published in 1865, Soirée was Britain’s oldest and most prestigious glossy magazine. In the nineties it had floundered under a directionless editor, but that was before Catherine arrived and revived the title. Tough and demanding, she had nonetheless won her staff’s respect and loyalty with her hard work, vision and dry sense of humour.
Along with the accolades, Catherine Connor looked the part. Tall and leggy, she had shoulder-length chestnut brown hair, cut by the top stylist at Charles Worthington. Her strong, chiselled face was saved from being too masculine by indigo-blue eyes framed by long eyelashes, and a full, cherry-red mouth. For all the labels gracing her wardrobe, Catherine favoured functionality over frippery, and wore minimal jewellery, light make-up and well-cut trouser suits. High heels were a different matter. Some women were born to glide across rooms in them – unfortunately Catherine wasn’t one of them. A tomboy by nature, she still found it hard to walk in anything more than three inches, and often padded round the office in her stockinged feet.
A seemingly good ‘catch’, Catherine was not married, nor was she in any relationship. In fact, apart from an ill-judged fling – with an Italian financier who had erectile problems – two years ago, Catherine couldn’t remember the last time she had been in anything meaningful. Had she ever been? Motherless, fatherless, and an only child, the truth was Catherine Connor was a loner, a driven perfectionist who lived for her job. At work she was reserved, holding herself at arm’s length from her team. She was their boss, not their friend, and everyone who worked for her respected that, imagining that outside the office she led an exciting and glamorous life, full of ‘mover and shaker’ dinner parties and VIP invites.
Little did they know that, away from the work dinners in Michelin restaurants, most evenings Catherine was curled up on the sofa by herself with a plate of beans on toast and a bottle of Jacob’s Creek Sauvignon Blanc. Even her apartment, a fabulously expensive penthouse south-London apartment overlooking the River Thames, set Catherine apart, sitting high above the London skyline, with its floor-to-ceiling views of Battersea Power Station.
Even though Catherine could come across as aloof, underneath she was funny and warm. Originally from Newcastle (her accent had been refined, along with her wardrobe), Catherine had lived in London for nearly twenty years. Despite this, she didn’t have any close friends. Catherine always told herself that was just the way she liked it; she had learned early in life to survive on her own. Friendships meant sharing confidences, and Catherine’s past hid a dark secret she was determined to keep hidden.
If it ever got out, it would be the end of her.
Chapter 3
IN THE PRETTY Cotswold village of Churchminster, another resident was preparing for a move to London. At Mill House on the edge of the village green, Caro Towey, wife of the gorgeous Benedict, was lugging the last of the luggage into the boot of her 4×4.
Caro’s two-year-old son Milo, who had been dozing happily in his car seat, had just woken up and was demanding Pickles, his bedraggled teddy bear. She couldn’t for the life of her remember where she’d packed it, and it didn’t help that her suitcase, which she had been meaning to replace for ages, had finally given up the ghost as she’d heaved it over the front doorstep. Caro’s control-panel knickers, and various other bits of underwear, had flown everywhere.
Caro had quickly shoved them into Waitrose carrier bags and was just depositing the last few in the car when her grandmother appeared.
‘Darling!’ For the warm summer day, Clementine had traded in her usual uniform of Hunter wellies and waxed jacket for a well-cut cotton blouse and tweed skirt. ‘I know we’ve said goodbye already, but I just had to come and see you off.’ Her stiff upper lip gave an uncharacteristic wobble. ‘I’m being such a sentimental old fool, but I’m going to miss you all dreadfully!’
Caro hugged the upright, grey-haired woman fiercely. ‘We’ll miss you, too, Granny Clem. Don’t worry, I’ll come home lots, and you must come and visit us. London’s not that far away. And now Benedict has set your hotmail account up, we can email every day!’
Clementine resolutely wiped a tear away. ‘That’s if I can get into the blasted thing. I keep forgetting the password.’
Caro smiled at her. ‘It’s “Errol Flynn”, remember? We picked it so there was no chance of you forgetting it.’ Errol Flynn was Clementine’s irascible black Labrador, who spent most of his time making noxious smells and snuffling for imaginary rabbits in hedgerows. ‘I’ve written it on the calendar in your study.’
Clementine surveyed her eldest granddaughter, one eyebrow arched in amusement. ‘I’ve never seen you so organized!’
‘I don’t feel it,’ Caro sighed. ‘Benedict keeps saying how much I’m going to love being in London again, but I’m not so sure. I can’t help feeling city life just isn’t me any more.’
When the subject of relocating temporarily to Benedict’s London house had come up three months earlier, Caro had not been enthusiastic. She had just got the house how she wanted, and Milo was happily settled in nurser
y. Caro and Benedict had married in a candlelit ceremony at St Bartholomew’s church the previous Christmas, and she had been revelling in her newfound domestic bliss ever since. She loved being a full-time mum to Milo, walks in the Meadows with her grandmother, and cosy lunches at the Jolly Boot with her dear friend Angie Fox-Titt. Life was happy, fulfilling and uncomplicated. The thought of moving back to London, with its traffic jams, pollution and hectic pace – not to mention the remote chance of running into her bastard of an ex-husband, Sebastian – did not appeal to Caro one bit.
But she’d watched as Benedict had slowly got more exhausted. Five years ago, before they’d met, Benedict had started his own design agency, The Glass Ceiling, located off the salubrious Sloane Square in Chelsea. It had doubled in size since, and for the last six months Benedict had endured a hellish commute, putting brutally long hours in at the office and not returning to Churchminster until gone midnight some evenings, only to get up at 6 a.m. and do it all again. Benedict’s beautiful blond looks, which made Caro’s heart flutter whenever she laid eyes on him, were becoming washed-out, and violet-coloured shadows had settled under his eyes. Caro was increasingly worried about his health, and told him so in the kitchen one Saturday morning.
‘Darling, it’s not for ever,’ he’d said wearily, wrapping his strong arms around her. ‘Once this new partner is on board and we can recruit more staff, things will be a lot easier.’
‘That won’t be for another year or so, you’ve said that yourself,’ Caro had replied. ‘I’m worried you’re going to keel over from a heart attack by then! Isn’t there anything we can do? You can’t go on like this.’
Benedict had gone silent for a moment. It was then that he’d put the idea to her of moving to his mews house in Chelsea. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually. It would just be while I get the business under control. There’s a fantastic Montessori nursery down the road I’m sure we can get Milo into. The headmistress is married to one of my clients.’ He’d looked into her eyes. ‘I know we’re happy here, darling, but it would only be for a year at the most.’
Completely taken aback by the suggestion, Caro had been lost for words, but by then Benedict had been in full flow.
‘We can spend some proper time together again as a family! And as husband and wife – I can’t remember the last time I took you out for a romantic dinner. Isn’t that what newly-weds are meant to do, after all?’ He’d leaned down and kissed her at this point, and Caro had felt herself weaken as she’d breathed in the familiar woody aftershave. After a moment Benedict had pulled away gently. ‘You can catch up with all your old friends. You keep saying you miss female company since your sisters went away.’
‘I’ve got Angie,’ Caro had interjected. ‘Benedict, I really don’t know about this . . .’
‘You’ll still have Angie. She and Fred can come and stay whenever they want. Besides, it’s not even as though we’re moving into a street full of strangers. Stephen and Klaus will be over the moon to have us as neighbours.’ He’d smiled wryly. ‘I’m sure Stephen would be delighted to babysit Milo now and again.’
They’d both laughed at this. Stephen was a flamboyant furniture-maker who lived in Montague Mews with his long-term partner Klaus. The couple’s idea of a good evening involved a claret-imbibing dinner party with their colourful literary friends – and not watching Bob the Builder for the umpteenth time with a sticky-fingered, pyjama-clad Milo. The two men had a weekend cottage in Churchminster, and had been the ones to introduce Benedict to the village – where he’d met Caro – in the first place.
Caro’s face had turned serious again. ‘What about Granny Clem? With Camilla and Calypso not there, and Mummy and Daddy thousands of miles away, I’d feel like I was abandoning her.’ Caro’s two younger sisters were both abroad: Camilla was backpacking with her boyfriend; and the baby of the family, Calypso, had just landed an exciting new job in New York. Meanwhile their parents Johnnie and Tink had emigrated to Barbados several years earlier.
Benedict had brushed a stray eyelash off her cheek. ‘Your grandmother is a tough old stick, she’ll be fine.’ He’d grinned. ‘Besides, she was the one who suggested it in the first place.’
Caro had looked into her husband’s handsome, tired face at this point and known she couldn’t say no. Benedict had been so uncomplaining, and was working so hard to provide for their family. Despite his manic schedule, he still remembered to send her beautiful bouquets of flowers – and rang from the office every evening to say goodnight to Milo. Stop being so bloody selfish, she told herself. Most people would jump at the opportunity Benedict was offering. After all, twelve months living in a beautiful little mews in London wasn’t exactly going to be a nightmare.
Was it?
Not long after she waved goodbye to Granny Clem, Caro’s resolve severely weakened. As she’d driven out under radiant blue skies, Churchminster had never looked so lush and pretty. It was all very well Benedict saying she could catch up with her old friends, but most of them had moved out to various parts of the countryside too, for a better quality of life. The remaining few sounded so materialistic and self-absorbed whenever Caro spoke to them – ‘Hugo isn’t getting his usual bonus this year, God knows how the two of us are going to exist on five hundred thou!’ – she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see them at all. Where once she had felt excited about London and forging her own career, now Caro just felt daunted. Admittedly, it had helped a lot that Harriet had just moved there. Even though she was Camilla’s best friend, Caro had been cheered by the thought of having a familiar face round the corner. But then again, thought Caro gloomily, Harriet was at work all day and probably out chatting up dashing men all night. She wasn’t going to want to hang out at home with her and Milo.
Caro’s trepidation was made worse by the fact that she didn’t have much idea what the new house was like. Benedict had taken her to see Montague Mews late one evening after a night out at the theatre. The house was being rented out at the time to a rich American financier, so they had just pulled up at the gates at the end. Caro had been feeling rather giddy after too much wine at dinner, and now only had a vague recollection of peering out through the car window into a narrow, dimly lit, cobbled street. The idea of living in a little terraced mews was romantic, but Caro had heard some friends moan about how claustrophobic they were. Used to the wide-open spaces of Churchminster, she wasn’t sure she would like being hemmed in.
The house was fully furnished, but Caro was taking a few things of their own to make it feel like home. The American financier had moved out two weeks ago, and Caro had wanted to spend a few days there cleaning, moving their stuff in and making it nice for Milo. Unfortunately, she had been laid up with a nasty virus, and spent most of that time in bed. Instead, a large van from Clayton’s Removal Company had turned up to move the stuff down. Benedict had also got a team of domestic cleaners in, while Caro had lain in bed feeling redundant and helpless. Now Benedict, and her new house and life, was waiting for her expectantly.
Two hours later, she was stuck in her own private hell. She’d forgotten how dreadful London traffic was, and they were now sitting in a gridlocked line of cars, vans and motorbikes. Distracted by Milo shouting he’d done a poo in his shorts, she had missed the junction she wanted. When she finally got back on the Fulham Palace Road, which led to Chelsea, she’d been undercut, sworn at, and even had a ‘Get out, gas guzzlers!’ leaflet stuck under her windscreen wipers by an indignant group of campaigners at Hammersmith roundabout.
Caro’s hands-free phone rang. She glanced at the screen. Benedict. Forcing herself to sound upbeat – he was always teasing her about her having no sense of direction – she answered the phone.
‘Hi!’ she said, her voice unnaturally high.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You sound strange.’
‘I’m fine!’ she replied brightly. ‘We stopped a few times for Milo to go to the loo, but we shouldn’t be long now.’
‘Great. Loo
k, darling, I’m afraid I’m held up at the office, and I might not be able to meet you at the house.’ Caro’s heart sank. ‘I’ve just called Stephen and he’s going to let you in. Just press on the buzzer.’
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Milo was emptying the remainder of his orange carton into one of the Waitrose bags. ‘Shit! I mean, fine. That’s fine, darling. Don’t worry about us.’
‘You’re lost, aren’t you?’ asked Benedict. ‘You keep saying fine, which usually means everything isn’t.’
‘Of course not,’ lied Caro.
Benedict paused. ‘OK, well, give me a call if you need to. I’ve briefed the emergency services, and Central London is on red alert for your arrival.’
‘Very funny,’ said Caro, reaching around to grab the carton off Milo. ‘See you later.’
By now it was four in the afternoon, but London was still melting under the unrelenting heat. Sweat trickled down Caro’s back, making her linen shirt stick unpleasantly to the seat. She glanced at herself in the rear-view mirror. A red, shiny face with shoulder-length wavy blonde hair plastered to the forehead looked back. Caro’s bladder wasn’t feeling much better; she knew it had been a mistake having that mocha frappucino at the last service station. Behind her, Milo was looking similarly hot and bothered, with a large orange stain down his top. Caro’s chocolate-brown eyes caught his big, blue ones in the rear-view mirror again.
‘Not long now, cherub,’ she told him as they pulled up at a set of traffic lights. ‘Mummy will make you a cold drink, and you can play in your nice new bedroom.’
‘Poo!’ shouted Milo again. ‘I need to go, Mummy!’
‘Oh, Milo, you haven’t done it again, have you?’ said Caro, whipping round. She couldn’t tell whether the unpleasant smells wafting from the back seat had got worse, but Milo’s hands and face were sticky, and two lurid green trails of snot trailed out from his nose. Where were the Wet Wipes? Reaching across to the passenger seat, she scrabbled around in her handbag.