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her life far more than any six-figure salary or designer lifestyle ever could. Although she would never admit it to herself, it was the closest thing Catherine had ever had to a family.

Chapter 7
    A FEW DAYS later Saffron plonked herself down on Harriet’s desk.
    â€˜Do you fancy a drink after work? I haven’t got a press launch to go to for the first time in about a gazillion weeks.’
    Harriet had told herself she was off the booze for a while. Her mother had come down last week and taken her out for lunch at Claridges, where she had been quick to point out Harriet was looking a little puffier in the face. It was true: after losing nearly two stone travelling Harriet had returned to her old bad habits and was piling it back on rather fast.
    â€˜Are you drinking too much wine again, darling? You know how it bloats you.’
    Harriet put Frances’s disapproving face out of her mind; a slimline gin and tonic wouldn’t hurt.
    â€˜Oh, go on then, you’ve twisted my arm,’ she said cheerfully.
    Half an hour later they were ensconced at a cosy table for two in the George, a pub down the road. As usual it was full of office workers enjoying a drink after work before rushing off to Waterloo or Paddington to get the train home.
    â€˜Cheers! Here’s to us!’ said Saffron. They clinked glasses. ‘To us!’ Harriet smiled back at her. It was funny, on paper she and Saffron were polar opposites. Eight years older, Harriet was a home bird, while Saffron was out every night at parties. Harriet hadn’t got a clue about fashion, relying mainly on Laura Ashley – or the Boden catalogue if she was feeling daring – while Saffron bought her clothes from designer boutiques and trendy vintage shops. Harriet had classics like
Emma
and
Wuthering Heights
on her bookshelves; Saffron’s idea of reading was flicking through
POP
magazine and going on Twitter. Yet for some reason, the two gelled, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. In a way, Saffron reminded Harriet of the younger sister she’d always wanted.
    Saffron drank greedily from her glass. ‘God, I needed that.’
    â€˜Bad day?’
    Saffron sighed. ‘Can you believe that stupid cow Annabel took all the credit for the progress I’ve made with Savannah Sexton?’
    â€˜Couldn’t you say something?’ ventured Harriet.
    Saffron sighed again. ‘She’ll just twist it round and make out I’m moaning for no reason. Besides, as she is so bloody fond of reminding me, she’s my line manager and anything she says, goes. Anyway, I don’t want to waste a second longer talking about old Troutbridge.’
    Instead she started telling Harriet about a media party she had been invited to at Downing Street, which soon led on to a highly entertaining story about the time she’d gone out to an all-night rave with the son of a disgraced Tory peer, and ended up trying to break into the Houses of Parliament.
    â€˜I’ve grown out of that sort of thing, now. At least I hope I have!’
    Harriet giggled. ‘Have you always lived in London?’ she asked.
    â€˜I moved here about eight years ago to live with my aunt. Before that I lived all over the place.’
    â€˜Oh, right,’ said Harriet. She didn’t know whether to ask about Saffron’s family; her parents could have been killed in an awful road accident or something.
    She didn’t have to. ‘My dad’s dead,’ said Saffron. ‘He died in a yachting accident when I was little. He was a really cool guy.’
    â€˜I’m really sorry to hear that,’ Harriet told her. ‘What about your mother?’
    Saffron made a derisive noise. ‘She might as well be dead. We never really got on: she was always too wrapped up in herself and her stupid life. It got really bad when I was a teenager, so Aunt Velda said I could go and live with her. I’ve been there ever since.’ She