Naked Truths by Jo Carnegie

under the intense heat. The parks were packed with office workers lingering over an alfresco sandwich, before returning to work with pink noses and shoulders. Content-looking people ambled along the hot pavements, or sat outside cafés enjoying a chilled beer or glass of rosé. No one seemed in a rush to get anywhere, and, for once, the city slowed down to enjoy a slower pace of life.
    In the
Soirée
office, the last issue had just been put to bed. The staff were winding down, in preparation for a few precious extra days away from the office. Harriet was telling Saffron her plans for the weekend when Annabel bustled over.
    â€˜Saffron, I want you to go and pick up a preview tape of this new TV show Joely Richardson is in. I’m interviewing her on Tuesday, so I need to watch it over the weekend.’
    â€˜Where from?’ asked Saffron.
    Annabel looked belligerent. ‘Flame TV.’
    Saffron pulled a face. ‘It’s going to take me hours to get there. Why can’t you get it biked over?’
    â€˜Because someone needs to go and meet them in person, and I’m too busy!’ she said grandly.
    â€˜Busy eating your body weight in biscuits,’ Saffron said in an undertone to Harriet.
    â€˜Excuse me, what was that?’ demanded Annabel.
    â€˜Nothing, dear,’ said Saffron sardonically. Annabel turned to walk off, and went slap bang into the new designer. 28-year-old Tom Fellows looked more like a train-spotter than a designer on one of the most famous magazines in Britain. Tall and clumsy, he had bottle-top glasses, bushy black hair, and long gangly limbs he always seemed to be falling over.
    â€˜Watch it, you great clodhopper!’ she cried. Tom went bright red.
    â€˜Sorry,’ he mumbled.
    â€˜He didn’t do it on purpose!’ Saffron exclaimed as Tom shuffled off, eyes on the floor.
    â€˜People should watch where they’re going,’ huffed Annabel. She eyed Harriet sniffily.
    â€˜Where are you going this weekend, anyway?’
    â€˜Norfolk, actually, to see an old school friend,’ Harriet told her. ‘I’m rather looking forward to it, we’re going on lots of nice walks and—’
    â€˜Well, I’m going to Great Winnington Hall. You must have heard of it, yah? My friend Felix’s sister Bella’s best friend is married to the sixth Earl of Haverly, who lives there. He’s got some events company in to put on the most a-may-zing murder mystery dinner party. I’m going as a French maid.’
    The art director, a laid-back Paul Weller lookalike, strolled over at that moment. On overhearing Annabel’s revelation, his eyebrows shot into his artfully tousled hairline.
    â€˜You know, it’s very hard to get an invite to Winnington,’ Annabel said grandly. ‘Only the movers and shakers get a look-in. Everyone I know is green with envy.’
    â€˜Sounds lovely,’ said Harriet dutifully. Behind her, Saffron rolled her eyes. ‘A-may-zing!’ she mouthed.
    Harriet tried not to giggle. Just then Catherine came out of her office.
    â€˜What’s this, a mothers’ meeting?’ She smiled.
    Harriet flushed. ‘Er, just discussing our bank holiday plans. Are you up to anything?’ she added politely.
    As usual, Catherine had no plans. ‘Just seeing a few friends, keeping it low-key,’ she lied. The thought of rambling round her huge penthouse all weekend suddenly made her feel very lonely.
    â€˜Does anyone fancy a drink after work?’ she blurted out. ‘On me, of course.’
    Everyone looked shocked, and then a bit embarrassed. Catherine instantly regretted it.
    â€˜I’ve got plans with the missus,’ said the art director apologetically, while everyone else muttered their excuses about getting away before the Friday-night rush.
    â€˜No problem,’ replied Catherine brightly. ‘Just thought I’d mention it.’ She turned and went back into her