Katy Carter Wants a Hero

by Ruth Saberton

  Besides, I can’t keep pinching kiddies’ exercise books.

  I’m just contemplating hauling myself out of bed in search of the laptop when the tinny tone of my mobile pipes up. It must be James, I think as I delve under the detritus on the bed, ringing to say that he’s sorry and please come home. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’ll apologise for tearing up my notebook. Will I forgive him? Of course I will. I love him, after all. We’ll be laughing about this by breakfast time. It won’t take long to scoop all my bin bags into the BMW. He’ll kiss me, put the ring back on my finger and life will be back to normal. I’ll say sorry for ruining the dinner party. I’ll apologise to Julius. I’ll sleep in my own bed. I’ll no longer be nearly thirty and homeless.

  What a relief!

  After a few frantic seconds trying to locate the phone, I eventually find it buried beneath my chocolate. I glance at the glowing fluorescent screen and am crushed to see the word ‘Mads’ flashing. I was so certain that it was James. He’s never gone this long without calling me before.

  Bollocks.

  I think he really means it this time.

  ‘Hi, Mads,’ I say despondently.

  ‘And hello to you too!’ chirrups Mads. ‘You needn’t sound so thrilled to hear from me. Why haven’t you called?’

  I smile in spite of my disappointment. I can just picture Mads in her crazy cluttered kitchen, perched on the worktop, a pencil pinning up her wild tar-coloured curls and a big glass of wine in her hand. Richard will be closeted in his study with some earnest soul, which means she’s free for a good gossip.

  ‘Sorry.’ I curl back up under the duvet. ‘Bit of a crappy time.’

  ‘James again?’ she sighs. We’ve spent many hours analysing James lately. I’m actually starting to bore myself, so goodness only knows how my friends must feel. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘He’s dumped me,’ I tell her, and proceed to spew forth all the gory details. As I talk, I get the distinct impression that although she’s totally outraged on my behalf, Mads isn’t really surprised.

  ‘So here I am,’ I conclude, nudging Sasha with my toe because my leg is going dead thanks to having several stone of dog snoozing across it. ‘I’m nearly thirty, single and homeless.’

  ‘Bugger,’ says Mads, queen of the understatement. ‘You must be gutted. Glad it’s not me.’

  Let me just explain that much as I adore Mads, tact and sympathy aren’t quite her forte. In fact I seem to recall that she got sacked from the university nightline for once telling a suicidal student to stop wittering on about it and just make his mind up. Mads is a great one for getting on with life. She doesn’t sit about and brood, which is why it will be so good for me to move in with her right now. She’s exactly what I need to turn my life around.

  ‘There’s one major problem with that idea.’ Mads sounds a little worried when I tell her that me and my bin bags will soon be arriving at the rectory. ‘There’s one huge reason why it isn’t going to work, unless you want to change your life in a big way.’

  I hope this isn’t leading up to one of those do-you-know-Jesus conversations, because right now I don’t make a very convincing sunbeam, more of a rain cloud really. Maddy isn’t usually given to such discussions, but four years of marriage to a vicar is bound to have some effect on a girl.

  ‘Richard?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course not,’ Maddy laughs. ‘He adores you.’

  ‘And I adore him,’ I fib. I adore Richard like I adore Brussels sprouts.

  ‘No,’ continues Mads, ‘the problem is that we don’t live in Lewisham any more. We moved to Cornwall last week, remember?’

  ‘Duh!’ I slap my hand against my forehead. Of course! I knew the big move was on the cards. What sort of crap friend am I that a major event in my best friend’s life gets forgotten? ‘Sorry. How is the new church?’

  ‘Katy, you’d love it. It’s amazing.’

  An amazing church? I try to picture it. What are the criteria? Opposite Pizza Hut? On-site shoe shop?

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ gushes Maddy. ‘Really ancient, twelfth century at least, Richard says, and it’s got the most stunning view over the sea. I can hardly get anything done because I’m just gaping out the window all day long. You wouldn’t believe the sea, Katy! It’s never the same from one second to the next. And guess what? We’ve got an Aga. An ancient cream Aga. I can warm up baby lambs.’

  ‘Baby lambs?’ I echo. ‘Have you gone totally mad? Since when have you used an oven for anything other than heating up a takeaway?’

  ‘I could if I wanted. I think I could do anything!’ Maddy’s excitement fizzes down the phone. ‘Tregowan’s fantastic!’

  ‘It’s miles away,’ I wail. ‘I can’t move in with you now you live in Cornwall!’

  ‘It would make commuting to Sir Bob’s a bit tricky,’ she agrees. ‘But come and stay by all means. In fact why don’t you move down? You’d love it here. You could stride along the cliffs and write that novel you’re always talking about. All that wind and surf is very inspirational.’

  ‘James tore the novel up,’ I say sadly.

  ‘Bastard! Well, sod him, babes, you’re well shot. Move here and chill out for a bit.’

  I sigh. ‘I wish. I’ve got my job to think about it.’

  ‘Quit,’ says Mads, for whom life really is that simple. ‘You need a change; now’s your chance to escape from teaching.’

  Escape from teaching? People have escaped more easily from Alcatraz.

  ‘Besides,’ she adds slyly, ‘you should see the men down here. They are bloody amazing. Real men, if you know what I mean. Action men!’

  For a split second I have the weirdest mental picture of a little fishing village populated by plastic dolls with grippy rubber hands and swivelly eyes. I don’t think Action Man had a willy either…

  ‘Surfers! Farmers! Hunky fishermen,’ carries on Maddy. ‘Muscles! Tans! Fit bodies, none of these city wimps. Oh Katy! You lucky, lucky cow being single. Get your arse down here now. You’re always on about finding the perfect romantic hero.’

  ‘I thought that was James,’ I say, and my throat tightens with grief.

  Mads snorts. ‘Hardly. Babes, he’s spent so long grinding you down that you don’t think you deserve better, but believe me, you really do. I bet I can find you a dozen guys who are a million times better than him. Come on, get your arse down to Cornwall, you’ll love it.’

  ‘It sounds amazing,’ I laugh, through my tears. ‘But I don’t think I can right now.’

  ‘Why not? Because you’re moving in with Ollie?’

  ‘I am not moving in with Ollie.’ I’m nipping this rumour in the bud. ‘Well, not like that anyway.’

  ‘More fool you,’ says Mads. ‘Ollie’s lush.’

  ‘He’s just a good mate.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ scoffs Maddy. ‘Men always have a motive. You mark my words.’

  ‘Not Ollie,’ I say firmly.

  There’s a glugging sound in the background as Mads tops up her drink. ‘If you don’t want to jump his bones you’re blind, girlfriend! But it’s up to you. Anyway, at least think about coming down to us for a bit. Life isn’t a dress rehearsal, you know.’

  I take another sip of my wine and think about this. ‘Where did our twenties go, Mads? Whatever happened to all that time? Why is it that I don’t recognise anyone on MTV any more? How did I manage get to thirty and still be agonising over everything?’

  ‘We spent our twenties agonising,’ Maddy reminds me. ‘Hours analysing and dissecting every word and gesture. Remember? Will he call? Does he like me? Does he really mean what he says? Does my bum look big? Blimey. What a waste of energy!’

  I sigh. ‘I hope I don’t have this same hideous sense of déjà vu when I’m forty.’

  ‘Well, you know what to do about it,’ Mads says sternly. ‘Quit that miserable job, get your butt down here and write that flipping book. It’ll be such a laugh.’

  ‘And I’ll find my own Mr Rochester, ri
ght?’

  ‘Course you will,’ she says. ‘Easy peasy.’

  If only life were that simple. I swirl my wine thoughtfully. Is it really as easy as sticking two fingers up to it all, packing my bags and jumping on the train? Surely not? I’ve got credit cards to pay for, and responsibilities. And what about the kids at school? I can’t just vanish off into the sunset and leave them to it. Without me to teach them, my Year 11s are more likely to get ASBOs than GCSEs. There’s no way I can just abscond.

  I try to explain this to Mads, but she won’t have it. ‘It’s as hard or as simple as you want it to be,’ she says firmly. ‘Just remember that. Oh! Hello, darling! Evensong over already?’

  I take it she isn’t talking to me. From the kitchen, which in my mind’s eye has morphed into some cavernous space complete with mammoth Aga and frolicking baby lambs, comes the low murmur of conversation.

  ‘Oh, just the one,’ I hear Mads say. ‘I’ve only just opened it. Yes! It’s Katy! She sends her best love.’

  I do?

  I mean, I do!

  ‘Better go,’ she says. ‘Rich has brought a whole load of waifs and strays back with him.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Don’t forget what I said, will you? About all the gorgeous men here?’

  ‘I’ll think about nothing else,’ I assure her. ‘And I’ll definitely come and check it out soon.’

  ‘Well make sure that you do,’ Mads whispers. ‘I’ve got loads more to tell you but I can’t talk right now. Call me soon, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I promise. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too!’ she carols and then the phone goes dead. I’m left alone in the bedroom and it seems almost rudely quiet. For a moment I’m disorientated. In my mind’s eye I’m in a Cornish kitchen, listening to Mads chat and hearing the endless roar of the sea. But in reality the roaring I hear is traffic on the Uxbridge Road, not the waves churning against snaggle-tooth rocks, and the only voices are those of the Sandhus next door, who are having a row right next to the party wall.

  ‘Could I really do it?’ I ask Sasha. ‘Could I just give it all up and start again? Could I really pick up that dream of just writing for a while? And is there a Mr Right just waiting for me?’

  Sasha doesn’t know, but she gives a positive thump of her tail.

  I sigh. ‘It’s a nice idea, but life isn’t really like that, is it?’

  Still, talking to Mads has perked me up a lot, and even though my life is still empty and lonely and generally pretty pants, right this minute I at least have a little spark of hope.

  Leaving the phone switched on, just in case James should decide in the next five minutes that actually he can’t live without me after all, I heave myself out of bed and pad downstairs.

  Where did Ollie leave that sodding laptop?

  If I can’t get to Cornwall and bag one of Maddy’s romantic heroes, then the least I can do is create my own…

  Chapter Seven

  I spend the best part of the following two weeks surgically attached to my duvet and existing on a diet of Dairy Milk and Blossom Hill, neither of which do much for my complexion or my master plan of losing shedloads of weight in order to win James back. Ollie rings in sick for me and delivers cups of tea and sympathy in regular doses, and while he battles with the teenage hordes I cry myself sick, develop a worrying addiction to Jeremy Kyle and bash away on the laptop. But it’s hard to imagine being the fragrant Millandra when I feel so grotty and I end up deleting great chunks of my writing, which makes me even more fed up.

  As for Cordelia, it’s almost indecent just how keen she is to unravel the wedding arrangements. I have one short phone call in which her relief is palpable, and ironically it’s the most civilised conversation we’ve ever had. But from James I hear absolutely nothing, and that hurts. A lot. I know that things weren’t always perfect but I thought he loved me and that it was stress at work that was making him so grumpy. I never thought for a moment I was the problem. So I’m a bit spontaneous (read disorganised in James’s book) and I suppose I do have a tendency to have my head in the clouds, but those are hardly hanging offences. And James did choose me, so it stands to reason that there are many things about me that he does like.

  All these thoughts are inconsiderate enough to go whizzing round in my mind at about four a.m. Night after night I pummel my pillow, snivel a bit and have to literally sit on my hands to stop myself sending desperate little text messages into the ether. Ollie and Mads are fantastic and I bang on at them non-stop but I’m going to have to change the record soon. Ollie’s eyes are starting to glaze over and yesterday Maddy asked whether I had Tourette’s.

  In the two weeks since James literally threw me out of his life, Ollie’s been working very hard on his tough-love theory. In the kitchen we have a ‘James’ box into which I have to put a pound every time I mention his name, while the dartboard in the hall has James’s photo Pritt-Sticked to it and as a regular part of my therapy I hurl darts at my beloved’s face. I’m too darn busy to slip into a decline because I’m being dragged all over west London to parties and pubs, and Maddy is constantly on the phone telling me about all the gorgeous men she’s lining up for me in Cornwall. Everybody is so busy trying to cheer me up and chivvy me along that I feel totally exhausted. All I want to do is curl up and howl for a bit in peace. Surely that’s par for the course when an engagement breaks up?

  Apparently not. In fact it’s rather insulting that my friends think I should be celebrating rather than snivelling.

  I keep trying to explain that I can’t give up on James without a fight. Ollie makes puking noises to such comments, but he’s hardly one to talk, is he, seeing as he still has Vile Nina phoning and turning up at all hours? And obviously Nina is really thrilled that I’ve moved in. Not.

  Ol says he’s told her that it’s over between them, but Nina’s having none of it. She’s going to cling to him and Ollie, as usual, is too soft to tell her to get lost. Maybe he should take lessons from James? He didn’t take long to boot me out. Perhaps I should have put up more of a fight.

  The problem is I’m not much of a fighter. As much as I’d love to be one of those feisty types who command admiration wherever they go, the sad truth of the matter is that I’m more inclined to keep quiet and live in hope that I go unnoticed. I spent years at school trying to keep my head down, hoping the teachers didn’t spot me, ditto university, and even now I’m still doing it, which is probably why instead of driving a JCB into James’s car and planting cress in the seagrass, I’ve been snivelling into a pillow and pickling my liver for the last two weeks.

  I’m even starting to bore myself.

  Well, I decide on the third Monday that I bunk work (thank God any doctor I see clocks ‘teacher’ on my notes and instantly signs me off with stress), no more Mrs Sappy Person. It’s time to take matters into my own hands and stop being so dependent on Ollie and Maddy. Millandra would fight for Jake. So it’s about time I did the same for James. You have to work at relationships, right?

  Once Ollie has left for Sir Bob’s, muttering darkly about covering skivers’ lessons, I tear into the bathroom, lob Pinchy into a bucket and scrub, pluck and exfoliate as though my life depends upon it. Not an inch of me is left untended. I even put a scarlet colour through my hair. So what if the bathroom looks like Dracula has paid a flying visit and my fake tan has dyed the edges of Ollie’s bath robe nicotine yellow? The end result is totally worth it. I twirl in front of the hall mirror and admire the glowing reflection. My skirt hangs looser on my waist and even my face looks slimmer. The wine and misery diet has worked wonders.

  I could practically fancy myself.

  My master plan can’t fail.

  It’s a lovely sunny morning. The sky above the London rooftops is taking a break from its usual leaden hue and is all duck-egg blue streaked with pink-edged clouds. I take this to be a good omen — you don’t teach English for this long without learning something about pathetic fallacy — and as a celebration I buy myself a latte and a blueberry
muffin from the little Italian café by the station. I even treat myself to Heat. Once on the tube, I sweep a sheaf of Metro pages on to the floor and settle down on my seat. The fabric prickles against my bare legs and for a moment I wonder if I should have stuck to jeans. But then James wouldn’t have the benefit of my newly thinner and fake-tanned legs. I catch a glimpse of myself in the tube window and give my reflection the thumbs-up. When James sees how fab I look, I know he’ll want me back. He’s surely missing me by now?

  The journey passes pleasantly and I wonder why people moan about the tube. Soon leafy Ealing is replaced by rows and rows of terraced houses, their narrow gardens stretching down to the railway lines, lawns dotted with assortments of plastic toys, washing dancing in the breeze and bare earth just waiting for planting. When the train plunges beneath London, I amuse myself by reading about the latest celebrity break-up, which cheers me up a lot. I mean, if Jennifer Aniston and Kylie can’t hang on to a man, then of course it’s harder for us mere mortals. I just need to put some more effort in, that’s all, which is exactly what I’m doing now. By the time I reach my stop and emerge into the sunshine, I feel much more positive. Everything’s going to be OK. I just know it.

  All I have to do is find James’s office and I’ll be sorted, but this might be easier said than done. Now where was Millward Saville again?

  Dredging up the directions from my Swiss-cheese memory, I cross the square and head towards the imposing glass and marble building opposite. It glitters in the sunlight and practically blocks out the dome of St Paul’s that cowers behind. Kind of fitting really, since Millwards is probably one of the biggest cathedrals to Mammon that you will find anywhere. Judging from the lack of people entering, it appears that most are already hard at worship.

  I square my shoulders and inhale. Exhale stress out. Inhale calmness in. See! I knew that yoga video wasn’t a waste of money. So what if Ollie was right and I never got to any of the actual workout? I think I’ve pretty much sussed the basics.

  Up the marble steps I tip-tap in my heels like one of the Billy Goats Gruff. Come on, Katy! Don’t be intimidated! In my little power suit (bought for school but only worn once because the kids pissed themselves laughing and asked if I was on interview), I’m as good as any of these city types. I’m just like Ally McBeal.