Katy Carter Wants a Hero

by Ruth Saberton

  ‘He’s a merchant bloody banker!’ hollers Ollie. ‘He earns more cash in a week than we do in six months. Why would he need to borrow more?’

  I can’t answer, but put it this way, my credit-card bills aren’t the only ones stashed under the kitchen sink.

  ‘James sees you as the perfect opportunity,’ ploughs on Ollie with all the tact of a charging rhinoceros with extra-thick skin. ‘It’s bloody obvious. He thinks you’re going to inherit her estate. He can’t wait to get his greasy mitts on that house in Hampstead.’

  ‘That’s bollocks! Besides, it’s a bit of a long-term game plan.’

  ‘Is it?’ Ollie shrugs. ‘It seems to me that his cash-flow problems would be solved a bit too easily by good old Auntie Jewell.’

  I glare at him, wishing I’d had my tongue removed at birth. Why did I ever tell Ollie about James’s cash-flow problems? Ol’s an English teacher — what does he know about futures and options and gilt-edged stocks?

  Well, about the same as me probably, but that’s not the point, is it? Like James says, financial markets are uncertain and at times he has to take risks. Jewell’s always been happy to help out. She even buys shares from him sometimes.

  ‘Sorry if it’s harsh,’ says Ollie, mistaking my silence for agreement, ‘but it’s time you woke up and smelled the coffee. They call this tough love.’

  Bloody Ollie and his addiction to ‘let it all hang out’ talk shows. When Jerry Springer came to the UK I was in a state of terror for weeks. I wouldn’t put it past Ollie to drag me on to some show entitled ‘Hey, girlfriend! You’re in love with a wanker!’ just for the sheer and bloody hell of it.

  ‘James thinks he’s engaged to his own personal cash-point. He must have been jumping for joy that day he met you again and you took him to Jewell’s party. No wonder he proposed.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ I say.

  ‘It had to be said.’

  ‘No it didn’t!’ To my dismay, hot tears are prickling against my eyelids and I’ve got a nasty golf ball of a lump in my throat. ‘You didn’t have to tell me a man would only want me because I’ve got a generous godmother and might inherit some money one day.’

  I swallow back the tears and concentrate instead on pulling on my boots. The laces writhe in my fingers so I give up and just tuck them in. Hopefully I’ll trip as I walk out and break my neck. Then he’ll be sorry.

  ‘That wasn’t what I said!’

  ‘Yes it was.’ I’m making a break for the door, sprinting away so quickly that I must surely be a likely contender for the 2012 athletics squad. ‘That’s exactly what you said. I’m so crap and useless and ugly and fat that no man would ever want me. I’d have to bribe them with an inheritance, that’s exactly what you said.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Ollie looks confused. ‘I never said you’re fat or ugly or crap. I think you’re confusing me with your charming fiancé.’

  ‘Shut up, Ollie!’ Bugger, I’m crying now. How very annoying. I wish I was one of those feisty types who do a mean line in cold and dignified anger, culminating in some dastardly revenge. It’s just my luck that when I get mad I end up looking like a tree frog. ‘At least now I know exactly what you think of me.’

  The door swings open and then I’m running down the path, shoving open the rotten gate and hotfooting it along the pavement. It’s not easy to run in my unlaced boots but I’m giving it my best shot.

  Ollie makes to follow but is minutes behind because he’s desperately trying to locate any shoes Sasha hasn’t destroyed and ensure that his flapping dressing gown is secured. Mrs Sandhu next door is peeking out from behind her net curtain at this high drama and is more than ready to be outraged. In any case, I’ve got precious minutes on him, which I need because, let’s face it, I’m about as athletic as an arthritic slug. If I have to run much further I’ll probably have a severe heart attack, but it’ll be a happy release. My breath comes in short, painful gasps and there’s not so much a stitch as an entire seam in my left side.

  Next new year I really will honour that resolution to get fit and join the gym. I’ll go with James and faithfully compare myself to the Caramac-tanned clones pounding the machines like well-toned zombies. I’ll soon be one myself.

  Then let’s watch Ollie eat his words.

  And, obviously, James will be pleased too.

  Coming towards me is the 207 bus, my ticket out of here, and I fling myself towards it with a speed and energy that would really impress the PE staff at Sir Bob’s. The only time I normally move this fast is to beat the kids to the canteen. Many a Year 11 has been taken aback to see a fogey teacher run so fast in platform boots.

  ‘Katy!’ Ollie whips around the corner of Milford Road like the Road Runner. ‘Wait! I didn’t mean it the way you think. What I meant was—’

  But his words are lost in the rumble of the bus’s wheels and the chug of its engine. For a split second I’m torn between hurling myself on board and listening to what he has to say. Ol isn’t known for being cruel, although Pinchy might beg to differ, and rowing with him feels wrong. On the other hand, the ease with which he’s assumed James can’t find any other reason to be with me apart from the vague notion that I might inherit some money is really hurtful.

  Besides, I’m in the right here. Time to occupy the moral high ground.

  I leap on board and the doors hiss shut behind me. I pant and puff for a second or two, take a blast on an inhaler offered by an old lady, hurl myself on to a seat and wait for the bus to whisk me away to Ealing.

  Ollie reaches it just as it pulls away from the kerb.

  His mouth is opening and shutting like a telly on mute and I just about decipher my name. His chestnut hair is blowing in the wind, his feet are bare and he’s even forgotten to put his glasses on. God only knows how he’s made it this far.

  ‘Go away!’ I mouth and my breath steams up the glass.

  But Ollie is jogging alongside the bus now, his dressing gown flapping dangerously.

  ‘Oh my!’ gasps the old lady next to me, eyes like saucers firmly fixed on his lower regions, and takes a series of puffs on the inhaler. I daren’t look.

  ‘I don’t think you’re crap!’ yells Ollie, dropping back as the bus gathers pace down the Uxbridge Road. ‘I’ve never thought that! I think you’re—’

  But now we’re too far ahead and all I can see as I crane my neck to keep a glimpse of him, tanned and strong and quite frankly ridiculous in his blue and white striped dressing gown, is a rapidly diminishing figure whose mouth is still shouting words that fall heavy like stones in the crisp morning air.

  I sink into the seat and close my eyes. The headache starts to beat at my left temple and I am ridiculously close to tears again. My fiancé hates me and my friend thinks I’m a loser.

  The moral high ground feels like a very lonely place.

  Chapter Six

  ‘And take that with you too!’

  Thud! A black dustbin sack lands by my feet and joins the other twelve that I’ve already discovered sitting by the steps to my flat. James has had a very busy and cathartic evening chucking out everything I own.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I shout up to the kitchen window where every now and again James’s head bobs past, en route to find more of my belongings. ‘Just let me in so that we can talk about it.’

  ‘What’s to talk about?’ James appears at the window and glowers down at me. ‘Julius has given Ed the promotion. I’ll be lucky if I even have a fucking job after your marvellous little performance last night, so no, Katy, we have nothing to talk about. I’m even more in the shit now, thanks to you.’

  Whoosh! Another bag takes flight and whizzes past my ear. As it lands there’s a horrible crunching sound. I jump back hastily. James is still very pissed off with me then.

  ‘But I didn’t mean it!’ I wail. ‘I’d never do anything to hurt you on purpose. Last night was an accident.’

  ‘Accident?’ James laughs; a horrible, mirthless sound. ‘That’s a first. Your idiot frien
d’s dog ruins my report, you have a lobster roaming the flat, you invite some random queer, you make a pass at Julius, you puke on the seagrass…’

  I knew the sodding seagrass was going to come into it somewhere.

  ‘…you tell Helena she’s an old bag—’

  ‘I didn’t! I was trying to tell her Pinchy was in her bag.’

  ‘Don’t discuss semantics with me!’ shrieks James. ‘You’re a teacher in a shitty sink school, remember? Not a barrister. I heard what you said. And then there’s this!’

  He vanishes for a second before lobbing another object at me. I step back hastily and thank God I do because I practically have my eye put out by James the Cactus. As I recover from nearly becoming a kebab, I feel relieved that Ollie and Frankie had the foresight to rescue Pinchy. I don’t fancy the thought of the Arnold Schwarzenegger of the lobster world being hurled at me.

  ‘That nearly hit me!’

  ‘Shame it didn’t,’ spits James, chucking my platform boots over the window ledge. ‘Let’s see if my aim is getting better.’

  Ten bums in a row, I think as I duck behind our green wheelie bin; he really means it. There’s no way I’m going to be able to grovel and beg forgiveness while he’s set on using me for target practice. My second cunning plan was to offer him a placatory blow job, but since this is now physically impossible, things are looking pretty grim. As I cower in the kerb with all my worldly goods raining down around me, it suddenly occurs to me that I am well and truly in trouble.

  Maybe Ollie had a point. Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea.

  I started to have my doubts as the bus wound its way along the Uxbridge Road and away from Ollie. By Hanwell I’d started to chew my nails; by West Ealing I was longing for a cigarette; and once the bus stopped at Allington Crescent I was trembling. Already traumatised because I had no change for the fare and had to resort to delving into the lining of my jacket to scrape out the few coins that had made their way inside, and still smarting from Ollie’s pearls of wisdom, I’d begun to lose my conviction that James would welcome me back with open arms. I was the veteran of many sad and snivelly nights on the sofa and fully prepared for being yelled at/coldshouldered /made to grovel, but being pelted by my own belongings?

  This never happens in Mills and Boon. I know exactly how it should go. I knock on the door, cry prettily, James melts and takes me into his manly hero’s arms. Right?

  Er, no. Wrong, apparently.

  ‘Forgive me, Jake,’ gasped Millandra, tears like perfect diamonds slipping down her peachy cheeks. ‘Forgive me for giving away your hiding place to the evil Sir Oliver. I swear that I am no spy.’

  Jake folded his arms against his strong chest.

  ‘How can I ever trust you again?’ he grated. ‘Because of you a good man had his neck stretched at Tyburn today. How do I know you haven’t been sent to lead me to my doom?’

  ‘Because I love you!’ she sobbed, sinking in grief to the tips of his riding boots.

  Above her tightly laced corset, Millandra’s pert breasts heaved with passion. In spite of his anger, Jake felt his desire stir. Reaching down, he took her small hand and pulled her against him,

  ‘Oh God,’ he groaned into her soft hair. ‘You drive me wild.’

  That’s what’s supposed to happen between a romantic hero and heroine after their major falling-out. I should know because I’ve read just about every bloody romantic novel there is, from the Brontës right through to Jilly Cooper, and I think I can be forgiven for feeling cheated. I don’t remember the bit where Mr Darcy threw a cactus at Elizabeth Bennet, and I’ve never taught the scene where Romeo chucks Juliet out of the Montagues’ pad.

  This isn’t supposed to happen! James is supposed to be my romantic hero.

  James is slowing down, presumably running out of things to launch into orbit, so I peek out from behind the wheelie bin. An impressive collection of my belongings clutters up the pavement and my handbag has burst open, the contents spewing out like tatty entrails. Thank goodness my phone’s survived its fall from grace. The pink casing is cracked but the screen’s still working and tells me I have six missed calls. I can never resist my phone, and even though I’m in the middle of a relationship meltdown, I simply have to check. Ollie has called me five times and left five messages, which I delete without listening, and Maddy, my best friend from uni, has called me once. I feel a twinge of guilt. I haven’t called her for weeks. Not because I haven’t wanted to, but I’ve just been so busy. I love Mads. Totally and utterly adore her. She’s zany and impulsive and a law unto herself, and from the moment we both arrived as terrified freshers to settle into our small rooms in a truly gruesome 1960s’ tower block, I knew that I’d found a kindred spirit.

  I won’t call her right now because Maddy can talk for England and I’ll need a lovely gossipy rant a bit later on. Failing that, I may have to hotfoot it over to Lewisham and plead for a bed for the night, because it doesn’t look like James is about to change his mind.

  There’s only one problem with this option, though. I get the feeling Maddy’s husband, Richard, isn’t desperately keen on me.

  OK. I’ll be honest. I don’t get Richard and Richard certainly doesn’t get me. We trust each other about as much as Tom and Jerry. Richard thinks I’m a bad influence on Mads and I just don’t know how to deal with him. At uni Maddy was wild. She snogged our lecturers, stayed up all night to produce a term’s worth of essays and even kidnapped the Dean for rag week. She drank like a fish, baked exquisite space cakes and dated a string of totally unsuitable but wildly exciting men. For three years life was a crazy whirl of parties, snogging, sobbing over useless men and attending the occasional lecture when we managed to tear ourselves away from This Morning. Whereas I just scuttled in her wake, Mads was the original party animal, always up for a laugh and always thinking of crazy things to do.

  Which is why I was gobsmacked when she married a vicar.

  Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a problem with religion or church particularly. Mads loves Richard to bits so I don’t have a problem with that either. It’s just that the vicar’s wife thing was never what I thought she’d do. Richard is ten years older than us and really committed to his job, which means Mads has to be too. She has to cook dinners, teach Sunday school and be nice to the bizarre parishioners who knock on the rectory door at all hours. Richard doesn’t party, doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t swear and has the unfortunate habit of asking me how I stand with God, a question that’s pretty hard to answer for a girl who doesn’t even know how she stands with her bank manager. Although Mads has never said much, I get the feeling that the Reverend Richard Lomax doesn’t approve of me, so if I turn up with my umpteen plastic bin bags, pet lobster and tales of dinner-party woe, I strongly suspect his sympathy will be with James. Maddy, bless her, hasn’t changed at all (apart from the bonking of random men, I hope!) and is still lovely, fun and totally scatty. Maybe Richard has taken that exhausting manic edge off her and perhaps she’s loosened him up a bit? It seems to work for them anyway.

  So their rectory in Lewisham is my last resort. Not only is it so brimming with visiting troubled souls that it makes the M25 look a peaceful option, but I don’t really want to discuss my failings in front of Richard. He already thinks I don’t tell the truth to James. ‘You’re not big on honesty in relationships, are you, Katy?’ he once commented when I was frantically trying to get James’s Audi fixed so that he had no idea I’d a) borrowed it and b) pranged it, and raised a cool eyebrow when I pointed out that I wasn’t lying, just not telling James the whole truth.

  Hmm. Something tells me that if I step over the threshold of the rectory today I’m in serious danger of spontaneously combusting.

  I’ll just give James one more try. He can’t seriously want to throw away all those years just because of one rubbish dinner party. I know he loves me really. Why else would he have stayed with me so long?

  Going forward more boldly than Captain Kirk, I make my way towa
rds the front door and press the buzzer hard.

  ‘What?’ snaps James from three storeys above.

  ‘Let me in,’ I plead. ‘I’m really sorry. Let me explain.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain,’ James replies in a tone so icy that my lips are all but frozen to the speakerphone. ‘Julius Millward made it perfectly clear. It’s you or my position at the bank.’

  What?

  WHAT?

  I can hardly believe my ears. ‘You’ve chosen that lechy old bastard over the woman you love?’

  ‘Sorry, Chubs,’ shrugs my (ex)-fiancé. ‘But I didn’t really have much choice, did I? I can’t afford to lose my job.’

  ‘But you can afford to lose me?’

  The following silence speaks volumes and my eyes fill with tears. He’s made his choice then.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, my throat tight with tears. ‘I understand.’ But I don’t. How could he switch from loving me to throwing me out? Even the wind changes less rapidly than that. Jake would never abandon Millandra so carelessly. He’d tell Julius to shove his job up his backside or challenge him to a duel.

  ‘By the way,’ adds James, ‘could you post the ring through the door? Since you’ve screwed up my promotion, I’ll have to settle some of our bills another way.’

  I glance down at my engagement finger. Sure enough there is my whopper of a ring, a mass of glittery diamonds that all but screams ‘Mug me!’ when I stroll along Ealing Broadway. I can’t say that I ever really liked it, but James insisted that we went to Asprey’s and he loved the ring, so to tell him that I really wanted the little emerald one I’d seen in the antique shop seemed a bit ungrateful. And he loved showing it off and boasting that he’d spent more than two months’ salary on it, so at least he was happy. To be honest, I’ve just lived in terror of losing the bloody thing.

  I pull it off and weigh it in the palm of my hand. Then a thought occurs.

  ‘Where’s my notebook?’ I ask.