by Jo Carnegie
Her breathing quickened. ‘Oh John . . .’ she cried out. The climax exploded inside her, waves of pleasure pulsating through her body like an aftershock. John came seconds later, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe.
At that precise moment, Catherine had never felt so close to anyone. Gripped by an unassailable wave of emotion, she burst into tears. John held her even closer.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘I’ve found you now. I’m here.’
It was early morning when she opened her eyes. They lay as they had fallen asleep, John on his back and Catherine cradled in his arms. For a moment she stayed there, feeling the throb of his heart.
What had happened last night? She had been so carried away in the throes of passion. John Milton had taken her to places she’d never thought possible – and places she’d never wanted to visit again. He’d made her feel vulnerable, and that was not a word Catherine could allow in her vocabulary. The intense emotions she’d experienced now felt confusing and alien – frightening, even. Poor Catherine Connor, who’d had to build a protective armour from a young age, was ill-equipped to deal with them. So she did the only thing she knew.
She got up and quietly dressed, before leaving him again.
Catherine stood under a steaming hot shower, as if it would eradicate all traces of what had just happened. Afterwards she made herself a coffee and went to lie down on her sofa. She stared unseeing at the television screen, but then her eyelids grew heavy and sleep rescued her.
The sound of her mobile ringing woke her some time later. ‘Private number’ was flashing up on the screen. Catherine leant forward and picked it up from the coffee table. No one called her, especially at weekends, unless it was work.
‘Hello,’ she said groggily. The wall clock opposite said 2 p.m. She’d been asleep for hours.
‘Was my snoring that bad?’
Catherine jerked upright. Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to speak.
‘I’m sorry about earlier, I just had things to do,’ she said, aware of the chill in her voice.
John paused. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine!’ she snapped.
‘Look, if now is a bad time . . .’
‘Yes, it is. In fact, it’s always going to be a bad time. John, nothing has changed. I told you, I’m damaged goods. It can never work.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Did you hear me?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied quietly. ‘Catherine, last night was . . .’ He paused. ‘You felt something, too, I know you did.’
Catherine felt sick. ‘Don’t tell me what I feel,’ she said furiously. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘I know enough,’ he said simply. ‘Enough that I want to be with you.’
Catherine felt like it wasn’t her voice speaking. ‘Look, John, it was a bit of fun, but that’s all.’
‘Do you really mean that?’
Catherine’s nerves broke. ‘Yes, I do! And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me again. It was a one-off. That’s it. That’s all.’
With that she hung up.
Then the tears really started.
Chapter 37
THE WHIRL OF Christmas drinks parties was well under way at Soirée. Barely a morning went by without hungover staff members gulping down huge bottles of Evian water at their desks, or sending round sheepish emails asking if anyone had any Nurofen. To her mortification, Saffron had thrown up in the toilets two mornings running.
Harriet was elbow-deep in a pile of invoices when Annabel appeared at her desk. ‘I’m on my way out to an extremely important brunch with Keira Knightley’s agent. If Catherine needs me, I’ll be on my mobile.’ She stopped and looked closely at Harriet’s bowed head.
‘Oh. My. God!’ Annabel paused and looked round, making sure she had everyone’s attention.
‘Do you know you’ve got loads of white hairs? If I were you, I’d do something about that.’
Harriet burned with embarrassment, but Saffron was over there in a flash.
‘Don’t be so rude, Annabel!’
Annabel’s eyes bulged indignantly. ‘Well!’ she huffed. ‘I was only telling Harriet as a friend.’
‘If that’s what you’re like as a friend, I’d hate to be your enemy,’ retorted Saffron acidly. She looked down at Harriet.
‘Don’t pay any attention, H, I can’t see any.’ She glared back at Annabel.
‘Why don’t you go and tell Keira she’s grown a second head, instead?’
Muttering something about lack of respect, Annabel shot an evil look at Saffron and bustled out of the office.
It was nearly midday when Catherine walked into the office from her early breakfast meeting. It had been the last thing she’d needed – like many of her staff Catherine was feeling the effects of too much imbibing. But unlike everyone else, who had racked up their hangovers after one party or another, Catherine had got drunk alone at home. Again. If she actually stopped to think about it – and Catherine didn’t – she had been drunk virtually every night for the last week. Every morning as she woke, head throbbing mercilessly and a nasty taste stagnating at the back of her throat, Catherine vowed not to drink again. In the daytime she was fine, but it was the evenings stretching ahead that scared her. It was simple: Catherine didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, so she blotted them out with alcohol. No matter how hard she tried, though, snapshots of her night with John kept coming back. The scent of his aftershave, his hands running over her body, the way he’d made her feel . . .
Even more disconcerting, Catherine was also dreaming about her mother for the first time in years. It all seemed so real, like it had only been yesterday. Annie’s sweet smile, and the light, flowery perfume Catherine had loved inhaling when she was swept up in her mother’s arms. The way her heels had clacked around the kitchen of their immaculate house while she made Catherine her dinner. Or ‘tea’ as her mum used to call it. ‘Come on Cathy, be a good girl and eat up!’
Once Catherine woke in the middle of the night, her cheeks wet with tears. Although she couldn’t remember the dream, she knew it had been about her mother. As she lay there in the darkness, an almost unbearable sense of loss had overwhelmed her.
‘See what he’s done? You were fine until he came along,’ she whispered to herself. Her throat tightened. It was another sign she was better off without him.
It was the editors’ annual Christmas dinner. Rivalry and egos were put aside for the evening – at least on the surface – because this was a chance for the great and the good of the publishing industry to rub shoulders and congratulate themselves and each other.
Catherine really hadn’t wanted to go. She was exhausted, and the last thing she felt like doing was sitting at a table with Adam Freshwater and the other Valour head honchos making polite small talk. On the plus side, she could go there and hold her head high: they were well on their way to smashing the Christmas target. Not that you’d guess that from Sir Robin’s behaviour.
It had transpired he’d sent one of his henchmen down to the Soirée Sponsors office. They hadn’t counted on coming up against Gail, however, who had given the haughty man in a suit short shrift when he’d asked to look through her financial records and been even curter when he’d told her he would most likely be sending several estate agents around to value the place.
‘Snooty little git he was, turning up out of the blue and snooping through our filing cabinets,’ Gail had told Catherine. ‘When he told me I should be lucky Soirée Sponsors was still going, and then pulled the estate-agent gubbins, I sent him off with a flea in his ear!’ Gail had paused uncertainly. ‘They’re just trying to put the frighteners on us, aren’t they? They’re not really going to sell the office?’
‘They probably just wanted to come down and see how everything was going.’ Catherine had placated her, but inside she had been angry. How dare ‘Hatchet’ Hackford do that behind her back?
In fac
t, Catherine had been close to crying off the evening with a headache, and might have if Teen Style’s Fiona MacKenzie hadn’t been going. Fiona was a straightforward, no-bullshit person and the closest thing to a friend Catherine had. The two women didn’t meet very often, but liked and respected each other, kindred spirits in an industry where style often ruled over substance.
After a three-course dinner, during which she was forced to endure a long conversation about the wonder of spreadsheets with the finance director, Catherine escaped the table and went to find Fiona at the bar. She asked the barman for a large glass of white wine, and drank half of it in one gulp.
‘Steady on there, gal, you’ll be flat on your back!’
‘I need it after the conversation I’ve just had.’
‘Talking shop?’ asked Fiona sympathetically.
‘That and other things. It just feels so fake. There we all are, sitting round and toasting Soirée when we all know we could bloody fold in a few months. It would be the end of Soirée Sponsors, too.’
Fiona’s eyes widened. ‘Are things really that bad?’
Catherine stopped. ‘Look, Fi, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just pissed off . . .’
Her friend nodded perceptively. ‘It gets to us all.’
Catherine stared at the floor.
‘I mean it, Catherine, it’s crap for all of us at the moment. You mustn’t let yourself get down. Soirée is one of the biggest titles out there. When the shit hit the fan it was always going to fly your way first. More to stick to.’
‘Nicely put,’ said Catherine, allowing herself a smile. ‘What if they’re right, though? What if Soirée has had its day?’
‘Somehow, I don’t think the whole magazine industry is going to fall like a pack of cards overnight. I know it must be scary carrying the can, but you can do it. You’ve got bigger balls than any man I know!’
Catherine laughed. ‘I think that’s a compliment, thanks Fi. Another drink?’
‘OK,’ Fiona said. She watched Catherine signal for the barman again before adding, ‘There is something I need to talk to you about . . .’
‘That sounds ominous.’
Fiona glanced round. ‘It’s probably nothing, but I’ve heard on the grapevine that Isabella’s been saying things about you.’
Catherine’s stomach dropped. ‘Like what?’
‘Oh, the usual Isabella stuff. How badly Soirée’s doing, how they should get her to do the job . . .’
Catherine rolled her eyes. ‘Not that old chestnut.’
Fiona wasn’t finished. ‘Apparently she’s been saying personal stuff about you, as well. Like you can’t cope, and the board don’t trust you and want you out.’
‘I knew she was shagging one of them!’ said Catherine furiously. ‘That poisonous dwarf, how dare she cast aspersions about me!’
Fiona put a placating hand on her arm. ‘I don’t want to upset you. In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even have said anything. No one would believe that horse shit anyway, especially when you’re so bloody good at your job.’
She paused. ‘You do need to watch your back with Isabella, though. Tittle-tattle aside, I’ve heard she’s destroyed people’s reputations before. She hates anyone who’s got more than she has. Just keep an eye on her.’
Catherine was on the way to the loo when someone touched her arm.
‘Would you hold it against me if I said how gorgeous you look tonight?’ Tolstoy Peake was looking rather dashing in a beautifully cut dinner jacket. He was also sporting a deep tan, his dark eyes even more alert than usual.
‘My God, look at the colour of you!’ Catherine laughed. ‘Have you been away somewhere?’
‘I’ve just got back from Hawaii, actually, doing another Iron Man race.’
Catherine was impressed, even though it reminded her she had only used her hugely expensive gym membership twice in the last six months. Tolstoy did look well. He was leaner than ever, while his skin had the clearness of someone who had never gone near an additive in their life.
‘You make me feel like such a slob.’
Tolstoy looked her up and down. ‘Oh, I think you’re getting away with it so far, darling. If you ever fancy training with me, though . . .’
Tolstoy had once done two triathlons back-to-back, and then swum the English Channel.
‘I’ll think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind,’ smiled Catherine. ‘Anyway, sorry to love you and leave you, but I must go to the loo.’
Tolstoy bowed and stepped aside. ‘Of course. Don’t forget about that dinner we’re going to have.’
Catherine had only gone a few metres when her heel caught on something on the carpet, making her stumble. She clutched a nearby table, spilling wine glasses everywhere. Everyone turned round and stared. As she raised her head, Catherine literally wanted to die with embarrassment.
‘Oh dear, darling!’ Someone was leaning over her. ‘You really must watch where you’re going.’ It was Isabella Montgomery, eye-blinding in a fuchsia-pink dress.
‘Did you just trip me up?’ shouted Catherine furiously.
Isabella’s eyes widened. ‘Of course not! Take better care next time. She’s probably had too much to drink,’ she whispered loudly to the group of guests who had crowded round.
‘I’ve only had two glasses, how dare you!’ shouted Catherine. By then Tolstoy Peake was upon her, an arm around her waist. Catherine caught a waft of strong aftershave.
‘I say, darling, are you all right?’
Blood boiling, Catherine looked around, but Isabella was nowhere to be seen. Catherine’s eyes pricked with rage and humiliation.
‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to call it an early night,’ she told him, and made a sharp exit. Once outside, Catherine tried to compose herself. Her hands were shaking from what had just happened; was Fiona’s warning about to come true?
Chapter 38
ASH’S HEAD WAS spinning. He’d never actually thought Nikki would go ahead and do what she’d promised, but now he’d had a call from a woman called Gail Barker from Soirée Sponsors, and been asked down to her office for a meeting.
‘So what do you think?’ Gail asked him. ‘I’ve spoken to Angelica Fox-Titt, and she’s more than happy for you to go and do a placement at her shop.’
Ash didn’t know what to say. Apart from a school trip to the Brecon Beacons when he was eleven, he’d never been to the countryside. It felt more alien than exciting.
Gail knew it was a lot for him to take in. Nikki had told her all about Ash and his unhappy home life.
‘Shall I leave you to think about it?’ she asked kindly.
Ash nodded dumbly. The thoughts were coming thick and fast. Could his dad cope without him? Would the temp agency take him back afterwards? And what was he going to do for money?
Gail seemed to read his mind. ‘Mrs Fox-Titt has already said she will pay you an hourly rate, and there is separate accommodation at her house that you can use, free of charge.’ She looked at her notes. ‘The place is called the Maltings.’ Gail grinned at Ash. ‘Sounds very posh.’
‘Dad! Are you here?’ Ash called as he let himself into the flat sometime later. There was a sour smell in the hallway; his dad still hadn’t taken out the rubbish like Ash’d asked him to. Ash stepped over the bin bags and made his way down the corridor to the living room. No decorations had been put up, there was no Christmas tree in the corner. Ash had always thought that his dad had stopped living the moment his mum had walked out. Now his dad just existed, taking no notice of everyday life. Today he was sitting under a blanket watching a daytime telly quiz show. His greying hair and unshaven, sunken face made Ash suddenly realize how old he was.
‘Hi, son,’ Mr King said wearily. For once, he had a cup of tea in his hand instead of a can of lager. That would change later, though. ‘Can I make you a brew?’
Ash shook his head. ‘Don’t get up. I’ve got something to tell you.’
Mr King looked up. ‘This sounds a bit serious. You doing
a runner and leaving me?’ He said it in a jokey manner, but Ash saw the panic in his eyes. Ash sat down on the other end of the sofa.
‘I’ve been offered a new job. Well, kind of, it’s a work-placement at this antiques shop. In this place called Churchminster. Starts next month.’
Mr King eyed him. ‘What about your job?’
Ash shrugged, ‘My contract runs out soon, anyway, I can always get a new one when I come back.’
His dad took a sip of tea. ‘Antiques, eh? You’ve always been interested in them.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Is this stuff legit? I mean, who’s in charge here?’
Ash felt unexpected emotion: his dad never normally cared about that stuff. ‘Yeah, Dad, it’s through this scheme called Soirée Sponsors. They give kids like me the chance to work in really cool places.’
‘Soirée Sponsors.’ Mr King rolled the words around his mouth reflectively. ‘How long’s it for?’
Ash shrugged casually, trying to hide the guilt building up inside. ‘Only a few months. I might even come back early if it’s boring.’
Mr King looked round the tiny room, with the broken armchair and cracked window that was held together with gaffer tape. Despite Ash’s repeated phone calls the council still hadn’t been round to fix it. He turned and studied Ash, his own tired sad eyes on Ash’s pale-blue ones.
‘I want you to make something of your life, son, and not be stuck here looking after me.’
‘Dad . . .’ Ash started to say, but the older man stopped him.
‘You’ve got potential, kid, I can see it. Don’t make a mess of your life like me. I’ll be all right. Just send me the odd postcard.’
The two shared their first smile for what seemed like years.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Ash. He really meant it.
Catherine was parched, another legacy from drinking too much wine last night. She walked out of the office and headed down to reception to get a Diet Coke from the vending machine.
As she turned the corner, she saw a man standing with his back to her at the front desk. Those powerful shoulders looked familiar . . . Catherine felt a sudden jolt of sickness as she realized it was John. Ducking out of sight, she raced back down the corridor and took the stairs two at a time, past a startled person from accounts. She had to get Harriet to stop him coming up . . .