Naked Truths

by Jo Carnegie

  The two women seemed frozen to the ground, Babs’s face beseeching, while Saffron’s was a mask of anger.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’ Saffron’s voice was like steel. ‘This woman . . .’ She could barely get the words out. ‘This woman is my mother.’

  Harriet couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard.

  Babs took another tentative step forward. ‘Saffron, darling . . .’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ said Saffron through clenched teeth. ‘Does Aunt Velda know you live here? Have you been plotting behind my back or something?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to my sister for months!’ Babs laid one bony hand on Saffron’s arm, but she shook it off as if she’d been scalded.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ Eyes filling with tears, Saffron fled for the door.

  Harriet found her outside several minutes later. Even through the dark, she could see Saffron’s face was swollen with tears.

  ‘Saffron, I’m so sorry,’ Harriet gasped. ‘I had no idea.’

  Saffron wiped a hand across her face. ‘I should have known she’d turn up one day. She’s like a fucking locust.’ She sniffed. ‘Aunt Velda must have known she was here, why the fuck didn’t she say anything?’

  ‘Let’s go back to the Hall and talk about things.’

  ‘No,’ Saffron’s tone was final. ‘I don’t want to give her another moment’s thought.’

  A cab pulled up, dropping off some more party-goers. The cabbie stuck his head out of the window. ‘Going anywhere, girls?’

  ‘Can you take me to Clanfield Hall?’ Saffron asked. The cabbie nodded.

  ‘I’ll come back as well,’ said Harriet. ‘Saffron, I’m worried about you.’

  Saffron gave her a strained smile. ‘H, I’m fine. I just want to be alone for a bit. Don’t let that stupid cow spoil your New Year’s Eve as well.’

  With that she briefly hugged Harriet and climbed into the cab.

  Chapter 46

  HARRIET NEEDED A stiff drink. Babs Sax was Saffron’s mother! What were the chances of her turning up in Churchminster, of all places? Harriet felt dreadful, but then again how could she have known? Saffron had never liked talking about her mother and Velda rarely mentioned her, either. Had she known Babs was living in Churchminster? Why on earth hadn’t she said something? Harriet’s mind was whirling with possibilities, not to mention a large amount of Dom Perignon.

  ‘You look like a lady with things on her mind,’ said a deep voice. Harriet turned and her heart jumped: it was the blond man from earlier. She fleetingly thought how red her nose must be after standing outside in the cold.

  Blondie was holding two glasses of champagne. ‘I’m Rupert Huxley. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Harriet took a flute. ‘I’m Harriet Fraser.’

  Rupert smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. ‘Cheer up! It might never happen.’

  Harriet sighed. ‘I think it already has. I’m worried about my friend.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ said Rupert smoothly. He raised his glass. The signet ring on his little finger glinted in the overhead lights. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers!’ said Harriet, some of her good mood returning.

  An hour later Harriet and Rupert were deep in conversation. He really was a most interesting chap. Instead of taking over his father’s thousand-acre farm in Worcestershire, Rupert had devised the prototype for a solar-powered lawnmower. He was just waiting to hear from a large engineering company whether they were willing to take it on.

  ‘My theory is that people only mow their grass when it’s sunny. So with the rise in oil and fuel prices, what better way to run a vehicle than off the energy from the sun?’

  ‘I wish I could think of something as clever as that,’ Harriet told him. ‘It’s a brilliant idea.’

  Rupert looked rather pleased with himself. ‘I think so, too.’

  A squat man with enormous shoulders came over. ‘Another drink, Rupe? It’s almost midnight!’

  ‘Please, old chap,’ said Rupert. ‘This is Harriet . . . Harriet, this is Biff.’

  Biff gave Harriet a perfunctory glance. ‘Delighted,’ he said, and headed for the bar.

  ‘Why’s he called Biff?’

  ‘Nutter on the rugger pitch.’

  Biff returned with more champagne, and Harriet and Rupert clinked glasses. All the alcohol was suddenly going to Harriet’s head. She’d better ease off after this one and besides, she didn’t want to be a dribbling mess when she got home in case Saffron needed a shoulder to cry on.

  The music stopped. They both looked over to the bar, where Jack Turner had climbed up on to a stool.

  ‘All right everyone! It’s nearly New Year. Let’s have a countdown. Ten . . .’

  ‘Nine, eight, seven, six,’ everyone shouted. ‘Five, four, three, two . . .’

  ‘Happy New Year!’ The pub erupted as everyone cheered, grown men threw their arms round each other and kissed, and champagne corks flew through the air like missiles.

  Rupert gazed at Harriet. ‘So, do I get a celebration kiss?’

  Harriet blushed. She went to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head and caught her full on the lips.

  ‘I’ve wanted to do that all night,’ he whispered. ‘Do you fancy getting out of here?’

  This was a bit fast, Harriet thought. ‘Well, er . . .’

  Rupert smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a murderer or anything. Biff will vouch for my credentials.’

  Looking at the hulking Biff, Harriet wasn’t sure if he was capable of vouching for anything, but the vision of her as an old spinster being eaten alive by cats swam into her mind again. She was thirty-two years old, and had slept with only two men. She needed to start living life a little.

  ‘That sounds good . . . Not that I’m easy or anything,’ she added awkwardly.

  The crinkles came out again and Harriet decided she had definitely made the right choice. ‘You’re a lady and I’m the perfect gentleman. Let’s start with coffee, shall we?’

  ‘Coffee,’ agreed Harriet. As she went to get her coat, someone threw a leftover scallop from the buffet straight down Stacey Turner’s still gaping cleavage. A murderous look crossed Jack’s face as he scanned the bar for the perpetrator. Harriet decided it was definitely a good time to leave.

  Outside, Lucinda Reinard was arguing with a cab driver.

  ‘We didn’t book you until 2 a.m.!’ she told him. A bottle and a half of Bollinger had made her voice even louder than normal.

  ‘I was told midnight,’ said the cabbie stubbornly.

  Lucinda rolled her eyes. ‘My dear fellow, as if anyone would book a cab for midnight on New Year’s Eve!’

  Harriet interrupted. ‘Lucinda? Why don’t I take this one and you can have mine. It’s booked for 2 a.m.’

  Lucinda looked at Harriet. She was slightly cross-eyed. ‘Well, if you don’t mind.’ She looked over Harriet’s shoulder at Rupert and laughed horsily. ‘Well, hel-lo handsome! I can see why you want to sneak off early—’

  ‘Happy New Year,’ said Harriet hurriedly and climbed into the cab, pulling Rupert in behind her. They watched Lucinda stagger off into the pub.

  The cabbie turned round. ‘Where to?’

  They looked at each other. ‘I’m staying with a few chums in the Bedlington, we could always go back there,’ said Rupert. ‘Might be a jot crowded, though.’

  Harriet thought for a moment. ‘Come back to mine,’ she said.

  Rupert cocked his head. ‘If you’re sure.’

  Harriet leaned forward. ‘Gate Cottage please, driver. It’s just off Clanfield Road.’

  A few minutes later they pulled up at the entrance to the hall. Rupert whistled at the sight of Clanfield Hall. ‘Nice pile.’

  ‘This is my place, actually. My parents live at the Hall,’ said Harriet. She had already decided there was no way she was taking him back to the main house. It would be just her luck if her father had thrown one of his legendary fits and ins
isted on coming home early.

  ‘So that makes you Lady Harriet?’ asked Rupert as he paid the cab driver.

  Harriet fumbled for her door key. ‘No. It’s just my parents who have the title. I think I’d feel a bit silly anyway, being called a “lady”.’

  Inside the hallway the air was stale and fusty. It was also freezing. ‘I haven’t been here for a while, the heating hasn’t been on,’ apologized Harriet. ‘Come through and I’ll make the coffee.’

  As she flicked on the kitchen light, harsh illumination filled the room. Rupert blinked and Harriet noticed his eyes were rather bloodshot. She switched on the kettle. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

  In the downstairs loo, she looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look that bad actually, the super-strength hair serum Frances had put in her stocking had worked wonders. Confidence buoyed, Harriet applied another coat of lipstick.

  The kettle was whistling by the time she got back. Rupert was leaning against the work surface, hands in pockets. ‘Everything all right?’ he enquired.

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’ Harriet opened one of the cupboards. ‘I’m afraid I’ve only got powdered milk, I haven’t had a chance to stock up.’

  Before she knew it Rupert had bounded across the room and taken her in his arms. ‘I must have you now,’ he murmured into her ear.

  ‘Oh!’ Harriet hadn’t quite been expecting this. His lips found hers, and his tongue moved sloppily into her mouth. Harriet felt rather like she had fallen face first into a washing machine on the rinse cycle.

  Rupert’s hands found a buttock each and squeezed hard. The pair moved out into the hallway, snogging furiously, and Harriet felt her bra ping open. Rupert stopped kissing her for a moment and, putting one arm round her shoulders and the other under her leg, tried to pick Harriet up. To her mortification, she stayed firmly on the ground.

  ‘Christ, you must weigh more than Biff!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve picked him up in a wedgie enough times. Only joking, I like a girl with a bit of meat on her.’ He kissed her again and they started shuffling awkwardly up the stairs.

  By the time they got into Harriet’s bedroom she was topless, having lost her blouse and bra somewhere between the sixth and seventh steps. It was so cold her nipples were sticking out like two thimbles from Cook’s prized sewing box. Breathing heavily, Rupert pushed her on to the bed, jumped on top of her and began furiously dry humping. Harriet really hadn’t been expecting this. She lay underneath with her arms by her sides, feeling rather foolish.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Rupert sat back and pulled his trousers off. He rummaged in one of the pockets and produced a silver packet.

  ‘Are you a horse lover?’ he asked huskily.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Harriet asked in alarm. Horse was, in fact, the name of the braying oik she had lost her virginity to a couple of years earlier.

  ‘I know you country girls, you like something big and strong between your thighs.’ As Rupert pulled her skirt and knickers off with all the romantic flair of someone stripping a bed, Harriet quickly realized he wasn’t a foreplay man. After a couple of seconds grunting and pushing, he was inside her, thrusting back and forth.

  ‘Oh yeah, oh yeah!’ Rupert groaned.

  Harriet felt strangely disassociated, like it was happening to someone else. She hadn’t had much experience at this, but she wasn’t sure if Rupert was very good at it.

  He tweaked one of her nipples and Harriet winced. She half expected him to announce he was trying to tune into Classic FM.

  ‘I can see I’m making you nice and hard. Let’s do it doggy.’ Before Harriet knew it, Rupert had flipped her over on to all fours. Maybe this position would be better.

  As Rupert entered her again, Harriet could feel his balls slapping against her inner thighs. It was kind of tickly. She was concentrating on getting into the rhythm of things when a searing pain shot up her rectum.

  ‘Ow!’ she shrieked.

  Rupert stopped, his hands on her hips. ‘Sorry old girl, I went in the back door by mistake! Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, trying to regain her composure.

  A few thrusts later, it was over. ‘Rupe’s home and dry! Or wet, should I say.’ He chuckled indulgently. ‘Did you come?’

  ‘Er, of course,’ lied Harriet.

  Looking smug, Rupert flopped down next to her. A few seconds later, his phone beeped. He sat up and rifled through his clothes.

  ‘Bugger, my fiancée. I thought she wasn’t back until tomorrow.’

  ‘Your fiancée?’ asked Harriet weakly.

  Rupert gave her a fond slap on the bottom. ‘Yup, the fragrant Cecilia. I’m making an honest woman of her in May. Can you call me a cab, old bean?’

  JANUARY

  Chapter 47

  CATHERINE’S CHRISTMAS DAY had been terrible. She’d watched television virtually non-stop, then in the evening made herself a microwave meal and gone to bed early. On Boxing Day, depressed beyond belief at the thought of another twenty-four hours alone, she’d drunk herself into a blur. When she’d woken on the twenty-seventh, dehydrated, exhausted and wretched, she’d decided to drag herself into the office.

  John Milton still hadn’t called, but then again, she hadn’t expected him to. The one occasion her phone had rung, Catherine’s heart had been in her mouth. But it hadn’t been him. At one particularly low point on New Year’s Eve, she had even considered texting him, before putting the phone down again. She couldn’t contact him after the things she’d said, he’d probably laugh in her face. Catherine made herself face up to the fact that she would never hear from him again.

  The only positive thing that kept her going was the news that the Christmas issue of Soirée had flown off the shelves, selling a very respectable 265,000 copies. They were now only 35,000 copies – and three more issues – off the ‘Project 300’ mark. According to Adam, all they had to do now was keep the momentum going. Hope was growing by the day and even though it was January, the office felt a happier place than it had been for months. If they carried on at this rate, they’d sail past the 300,000 mark.

  Despite this achievement, Catherine still didn’t feel happy. So many people’s futures were riding on her, and she was now under the most incredible pressure to deliver the goods. If the December issue always sold well, the January one didn’t. Adam appeared to think it didn’t matter, saying they were on a roll, but Catherine wasn’t so sure. She felt tired to her bones, and her once indefatigable energy was becoming harder to draw on. Her dream of getting a Savannah Sexton cover was also quashed. Despite Saffron’s best efforts, it hadn’t happened. Savannah was taking an extended holiday in the States to see her boyfriend Casey, and wasn’t doing any press.

  To make matters worse, a supposed exclusive interview with an ex-catwalk model, who had just married the new Italian prime minister, had also ended up in Grace magazine. Catherine hated it when they were screwed over, and had angrily told Annabel to get on to the ex-model’s management to find out what the hell had happened.

  Then, three days after the team returned to work, a national media supplement published an article on Soirée’s ‘Project 300’ campaign, calling it ‘over-ambitious and unrealistic’. The same day, a ‘wicked whisper’ appeared in a column in the Daily Mercy, a salacious paper aimed at the middle classes which was nothing more than a jumped-up gossip column.

  Which glossy magazine editor is struggling to hold on to her position after repeated fallings-out with big bosses? It won’t be a soirée if she gets kicked out!

  ‘Bloody libellous shit!’ Catherine shouted angrily to Adam when he came into her office, thrusting the offending item under his nose. She had no doubt who was behind it. Isabella Montgomery was best friends with the columnist, a fifty-something bitter divorcée called Henrietta Lord-Wyatt.

  Adam shrugged feebly and said it was best not to draw attention to it, but Catherine wondered if he’d have felt the same way if it had been him they had written about. The fact that he hadn’t disagre
ed with the wicked whisper made her feel even worse.

  Saffron had an equally unpleasant start to the year. The day after her run-in with her mother, she and Harriet had driven back to London in virtual silence. Any attempt at conversation by Harriet had been met with short shrift. Saffron knew her friend was worried about her, but she couldn’t help it: she wanted to be by herself and away from anyone or anything who was connected with Churchminster. The place had transformed from a garden of Eden to a chamber of horrors in a matter of hours, and her world had been turned upside down. Things would never be the same again.

  Burning with anger, Saffron felt so deceived by her aunt that when she got back to Montague Mews later that day she packed up her things and moved in with friends across town. She left a furious note for Velda on the kitchen table, telling her exactly what she thought of her and asking her not to make contact.

  The day Velda got back from Morocco she came round to Caro’s in a terrible state, eyes red from crying.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Caro cried when she opened her front door. ‘What on earth’s the matter? Come in.’

  Velda burst into tears again. ‘I’ve done something terrible.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it can’t be that bad,’ said Caro kindly.

  Velda wiped a paint-streaked hand across her face, leaving a little trail of something purple. ‘You know that thing I said I couldn’t talk to you about, the one I had been thinking about since you moved in?’ She paused. ‘Well, I’ve always called my sister by her childhood nickname Belle, but you probably know her as Babs Sax.’

  Caro was stunned for a few seconds. ‘Babs is your sister?’ The penny dropped. ‘But that makes her Saffron’s mother!’

  Velda tried to smile through her tears. ‘Messed up, isn’t it? I honestly thought that I would never persuade her and Saffron to meet again, and they would each grow up without a mother or daughter. I always knew Stephen and Klaus had a cottage in Churchminster, of course, but when you moved here as well – well I started to think it was fate. And when Saffron and Harriet became such good friends, and Harriet invited Saffron back for Christmas, I really thought it was a sign.’