‘Mr Worthington’s team have met today to discuss your results,’ she continues, and I hear her rustling through papers. My heart rate increases. It hasn’t raced like this since my one and only step aerobic class. I can’t tell from her tone of voice if she’s about to give me the news I’m dreading.
‘Oh?’ I squeak.
‘And I’m really pleased to tell you that the tumour is benign.’
For a moment I’m stunned. Then I think, benign and malign, which is which? I know I’m an English teacher, but my brain feels like it’s turned to cream cheese.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Could you say that again?’
She laughs. ‘It’s good news, Katy. You have a fibroadenoma, which is a benign tumour.’
‘I haven’t got cancer?’ I need to hear this in plain English. Sod the medic speak.
‘No, you haven’t got cancer,’ Dr Morris says patiently. ‘A fibroadenoma is totally benign. We’ll be in touch regarding whether or not you wish to have it removed. Have a good weekend.’
Have a good weekend? No kidding! Dr Morris rings off and I’m left standing in the middle of the lounge with the phone clamped to my ear. I’m stunned. I was so convinced it was going to be bad news that this unexpected reprieve has totally thrown me. I’m not prepared for celebrations.
‘It’s OK,’ I say slowly to Sasha, who thumps her tail in doggy delight. ‘It’s OK! It’s blooming well OK!’
It’s like I’ve had ten tons of concrete sitting on my head for days and suddenly it’s been lifted off. I could float away like a hot-air balloon, drifting above the rooftops of west London and rising into a sky of endless possibilities. Days, months and years spread in front of me, millions and millions of minutes that I can grab with both hands and use any way I want. No more moaning about James. No more whingeing about my job. No more thinking about writing a novel one day. I’m not going to waste a second.
‘It’s OK! It’s OK! It’s OK!’ I shriek, over and over again, as I run around the house, thundering up the stairs with a joyfully barking Sasha at my heels. ‘It’s OK!’ I tell Pinchy, who I swear gives me a beady wink from his bath. ‘It’s OK!’
I would have kept this up for longer but Mrs Sandhu starts to bang on the wall and shout at me in Hindi. Her baby begins to wail.
Whoops.
I bound back downstairs again. I’m so full of energy, I could keep the National Grid going for a month. My lethargy has vanished quicker than Gabriel Winters’ trousers in a love scene and I have no desire to nibble my nails. Life is back to normal.
Except that it isn’t.
My life is so going to change.
Chapter Ten
By the time Ollie gets home from school, I’m halfway through a bottle of Moët and slightly hoarse from a long and intense conversation with Maddy.
‘That man’s an angel!’ she squealed when I told her how Ollie had supported me for days. ‘Snap him up now!’
‘It isn’t like that,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I don’t fancy him.’
‘Are you off your trolley?’ asked Maddy, and in the background seagulls caw-cawed in agreement. ‘He’s gorgeous, and he’s got a nice arse.’
‘I agree, from a purely aesthetic point of view, but you’ve no idea what he’s really like: overflowing bins, loo seats left up, a trail of dirty socks all round the house; he’s not my romantic hero, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Welcome to the real world,’ she said. ‘It isn’t all Mills and Boon, you know. They fart and snore and hog the duvet.’
‘I know that. But he’s…’ I paused, ‘he’s just Ollie, a tall, dog-loving comfort blanket of a mate.’
‘Bollocks!’ snorted Mads. ‘He’s sex on a stick. I’d shag him. Nice fit body, cute face and sexy arms. Don’t you even fancy him a little bit?’
Mads has a thing about arms.
‘He is attractive if you like that kind of thing, I suppose,’ I conceded.
‘So you do fancy him!’ shrieked Maddy, drowning out the seagulls.
I could have cut my tongue out. Why Bond villains bother with tanks of sharks and laser beams I’ll never know. All they need to do is ply 007 with Moët and he’d sing like a canary.
‘No! I was just agreeing that he isn’t ugly. And even if I did fancy him — which I don’t — it would never work. Ol goes for Twiglet girls like Nina.’
‘He’s not sharing a house with Nina,’ said Mads. ‘And it’s not Nina he’s spent the last two weeks with 24/7, is it?’
‘Can’t men and women be friends? Haven’t you seen When Harry met Sally?’
‘Yes,’ said Maddy. ‘They got it together.’
They did? I never did get round to seeing that movie, but I made a mental note to watch it soon. It’s one of Ollie’s favourites; I’m sure I can dig it out from somewhere. Just out of idle curiosity, though, not because I fancy Ollie.
I don’t, but I can admire him in a purely platonic way, can’t I? Mads was on the verge of agreeing when Richard came into the kitchen, wittering on about bring-and-share suppers. Vicars’ wives aren’t really supposed to discuss the merits of Oliver Burrows’s bum and whether or not he’s shaggable, so Mads rang off, but not before she’d advised me in a whisper to ‘bonk his brains out’.
Next I called Jewell to share the good news and to thank her for the private treatment. She was still AWOL so I left her a message, albeit a rather rambling, incoherent one, and sent a text message to my sister. It’s a strange thought that my good news is whizzing through the ether. I even texted Mum and Dad, which was probably a waste of time since they haven’t figured out how to switch their mobile on yet, but the new improved me is going to be a lot nicer to her parents. In fact I’m going to be more positive in all areas of my life. I’m going to drink lots of water, eat five portions of vegetables a day, cut out alcohol — after my celebratory bottle of champagne, obviously — and rub skin food in the right way. I’m going to stop nagging Ollie about the state of the house, I’ll make more time for my friends and I’ll even be nice to Nina the next time she calls.
That’s a tall order, but I’ve been reprieved! Positive karma and all that. Time for me to put something back into the cosmos.
Blimey. I must be pissed already. I’m starting to sound like my mother.
‘Did you get my text?’ I ask, dashing into the hall as Ollie slams the door and throws his rucksack on to the floor. I fight Sasha to get to him first and fling my arms round his neck. ‘It’s a fibrothingummy!’
Ollie’s face splits into a massive crinkly grin.
‘That’s fantastic news,’ he says, pulling me close with one arm. ‘I texted you back but I ran out of credit else I’d have called. Anyway, I got you these.’ His left arm has been tucked behind his back and now extends in my direction to offer the most enormous bunch of flowers I have ever seen in my life. Dozens of fat pink and cream roses nestle inside endless folds of pink tissue paper, fronds of fern and baby’s breath framing them tenderly. The entire bouquet is swathed in silky pink and peach ribbons and bows.
Garage forecourt it is not.
It’s the sort of bouquet that Jake would give Millandra.
‘Ollie!’ I gasp, stepping back to clutch the flowers in my arms. ‘They’re amazing. You shouldn’t have. You’ve done too much already.’ And I bury my face in the softest petals imaginable and inhale their delicate scent.
‘I did it all because I wanted to,’ Ollie replies.
‘You’ve been really kind.’
‘Oh, bollocks to kind,’ says Ollie. His hand moves up to my face and brushes the hair back from my flushed cheeks. ‘Katy, I—’
‘Hey,’ shrieks Frankie’s high voice through the letter box, followed by hammering fists. ‘Let me in!’
Ollie and I spring apart. Sasha bounces up and down, barking in time with every one of Frankie’s blows on the front door.
‘Open up, you meanies!’ he wails, mouth pressed against the letter box. ‘I can see you! Come on, I’ve brought alcohol
.’
‘In that case, come in.’ Ollie opens the front door and Frankie falls in, clutching his Oddbins bag.
‘Hello! Congratulations! Celebrations!’ he cries, twirling madly round the hall. Today he’s wearing a puke-green catsuit, huge furry boots and a long knitted scarf. ‘I got your text, darling!’ He loops the scarf round my neck and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Fab news!’
‘Put Frankie down and get your best clobber on,’ Ollie says to me as he leaps up the stairs. ‘We’re going out to celebrate. I booked a table at Antonio’s. Didn’t you get my text?’
‘Oooh! Lovely,’ Frankie says, clapping his hands in excitement. ‘I love Antonio’s. The waiters are to die for.’
Ollie pauses halfway up. ‘No offence, Frankie, but you’re not invited.’
‘Oh come on! Don’t leave me out.’
‘Frankie,’ Ollie says in a warning voice. ‘I said you’re not invited.’
‘Fine! Be like that, you meanie!’ Frankie tosses his hair, dyed deep purple today. ‘Fancy a game of James darts, Katy?’
I decline, so we go back into the lounge to watch television. As I sip my champagne and while Ollie showers, Frankie channel-hops, settling at last on Richard and Judy.
‘I love Richard and Judy!’ cries Frankie. ‘When the Screaming Queens are famous, I’m going to be on their show all the time.’
I feel I can be forgiven for not holding my breath.
‘And now,’ says Judy, leaning forward and beaming at the camera, ‘a guest I know you’ll all be as excited to meet as I am.’
‘He’s had us all glued to our screens for weeks now,’ Richard chips in. ‘English Literature has never been so sexy. He is, of course, the gorgeous Gabriel Winters!’
‘I love him!’ squeaks Frankie, practically diving into the television as video footage of the infamous wet-trousers scene is played. ‘When I’m famous, he’ll be begging to be my sex slave.’
‘I thought that was Robbie Williams’s job,’ I say.
Frankie is all but licking the screen. ‘No, Gabriel’s the one for me. I met him once at a record company do. He’s gorge! I’m sure he was interested. He offered me a canapé.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t read too much into the canapé. He’s famous for bonking most of the starlets in Britain, Frankie.’
But Frankie ignores me. ‘I just know!’ he breathes. ‘I felt the vibes.’
Gabriel sits on the studio sofa, one elegant ankle resting on his denim-clad knee. He’s wearing a billowing open-necked white shirt and his long honey-coloured hair cascades in ringlets over his wicked sapphire eyes.
‘It’s been a very exciting year,’ Richard is saying. ‘Are there equally exciting plans for the future?’
‘Well,’ smiles Gabriel, revealing teeth so perfect that dentists throughout Britain probably weep with joy, ‘I intend to start work in the summer on my new film role as a pirate captain.’
‘You’re filming that in Cornwall, aren’t you?’ asks Richard. ‘We’ve spent many lovely holidays there.’
I think of Mads and her wild claims that Cornwall is teeming with sexy men. Mmm. Gabriel Winters dressed like Jack Sparrow. I wonder if she’s watching.
‘I’m filming in Charlestown.’ Gabriel’s voice is smooth and rich, like Bournville chocolate. ‘I’ve just bought a place in Cornwall actually, a little retreat where I can just relax and be myself.’
‘Darling!’ Frankie turns to me, his eyes bright with the zeal of the religious fanatic. ‘Your friend might know him!’
‘Cornwall’s a big place,’ I say. ‘Perhaps you should just join his fan club?’
But Frankie isn’t listening. He’s muttering, ‘One day you will be mine, oh yes, you will be mine!’ at the screen, so I abandon him and wander upstairs to get changed for dinner.
It’s not a date, I tell myself sternly, it’s just two friends having dinner together. Still, I do wish I’d unpacked my bin bags. Ollie’s spare room looks like a squat; all my worldly goods, which actually make a pretty sad collection, are strewn randomly all over the place.
I rummage through the sacks, discarding clothing like a crazy snowstorm. What does a girl wear on a date that isn’t a date? Anything low-cut is out anyway; one decision less, I suppose.
Eventually I settle on a green gypsy top, black wide-legged trousers and my favourite wedge heels. I scrunch some gel through my tangled curls and pin my hair loosely on the top of my head. A few tendrils round my face, a slick of lip gloss and several coats of mascara and I’m good to go. I don’t want to look like I’ve tried too hard, do I?
I sit on the bed and catch my breath. This has got to be one of the strangest days of my life. How can everything have changed so much in such a short time? I look around the cluttered room, at all my things displaced and out of context, but it no longer matters like it used to. I touch my padded breast and breathe out slowly.
I haven’t got cancer.
Perhaps my luck has changed.
I’m just applying a third layer of mascara — it’s a curse having ginger eyelashes — when the doorbell rings.
There’s no reply from downstairs. Frankie is still watching the television and Ollie’s in the shower, so it’s down to me to answer the door. Negotiating the stairs in my four-inch wedge heels is tricky, but I make it in one piece. Just. Perhaps I’ll practise walking up and down for a while. I don’t want Ollie to spend tonight in A&E; he’s endured enough time in hospital with me lately.
The doorbell rings again.
‘Hang on!’ I say, fiddling with the lock.
‘Hurry up, for God’s sake, I’ve lost my bloody key,’ snaps a voice as the door swings inwards. ‘Oh. It’s you.’
Standing on the doorstep is Nina. She peers rudely over my shoulder.
‘Where’s Ollie?’
What am I, the butler?
‘Hello, Nina,’ I say sweetly, even though she’s about as welcome a sight to me as cranberry sauce is to a turkey. I will be the new and improved Katy Carter, even if it kills me. ‘He’s in the shower, I’m afraid.’ I place my arm on the door frame, preventing her from entering.
‘That’s fine,’ Nina says. ‘I’ll wait.’
I find myself stepping aside and letting her into the hall. I even take her coat and hang it up. I’m not sure why I do all this, only that there’s something about Nina that makes me feel totally useless. It’s not only that she’s well groomed and flat-stomached; it’s also that she’s frighteningly successful, which makes her the exact opposite of me. While I’ve been battling to teach English to bored teenagers, Nina has been ruthlessly establishing her catering company as the company to hire for any occasion. Being the laissez-faire type when it comes to structuring my career (which is probably why it grinds to a halt more often than the British train network), I always feel more than a little inadequate in her presence.
Nina looks me up and down, and her top lip curls.
‘You’re a bit dressed up, aren’t you?’
‘Ollie’s taking me out to dinner,’ I say. ‘We’re going to Antonio’s.’
‘He’s taking us,’ Nina corrects me, checking her gore-red lipstick in the hall mirror. ‘He texted earlier and invited me. I won’t pretend I’d rather it was just me, but I’ll let you tag along this once. Ollie’s felt so sorry for you with all this lump business. This must be his way of cheering you up.’
‘You know about my breast lump?’
‘He’s told me all about it,’ says Nina, peering beyond me into the smeary mirror and smoothing her hair. ‘It’s been a real pressure for him, Katy; I don’t think it was fair of you to make him carry the burden. After all, he isn’t your partner, is he? You’ve taken up time when he could have been doing other things with other people. It’s been pretty selfish of you actually. But you know Ollie, he won’t complain.’
I’m seething. How could Ollie discuss me with Nina, of all people? Why couldn’t he just be honest and tell me to my face that I was imposing on him? When I think about h
ow I asked for him to come and hold my hand while I had the biopsy, I feel dizzy with mortification.
‘In that case you’ll be pleased to know I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘I got the all-clear this afternoon.’
‘Good!’ Nina claps her hand together. How she doesn’t do herself a serious injury with her Footballers’ Wives-style nails is one of life’s great enigmas. ‘Then you won’t mind giving Ollie back.’
‘Are you and Ollie on again?’ I ask. Keeping up with their relationship makes me dizzy.
‘Of course!’ Nina’s eyes widen. ‘Why do you think I’ve been popping round?’
‘Because you’re a psycho stalker bitch from hell,’ I say.
Actually, I don’t say that but I’d like to.
‘Where do you think Ollie goes after school?’
‘To the gym? The pub?’
‘He’s been coming to mine, of course.’ Nina leans forward. ‘And I tell you something, Katy, breaking up and making up is so much fun!’
‘Too much information already,’ I say, but Nina isn’t listening.
‘I know how fond Ollie is of you,’ she continues. ‘That’s why I’m happy for him to bring you along to Antonio’s with us. I’ll order us a cab while he gets ready.’
She stalks into the sitting room and I sink on to the bottom stair. No way am I going to Antonio’s now to shovel in carbs while Nina nibbles on a lettuce leaf or whatever it is that thin people nibble on. I’d rather walk barefoot over drawing pins. Besides, my appetite’s vanished. I want Ollie’s friendship, not his pity.
I climb the stairs wearily and once in my room pull off my going-out clothes and shrug on my ancient dressing gown. Let Ollie concentrate on Nina. I’ve no desire to spend all evening doing a gooseberry impression.
I almost jump out of my dressing gown when there’s a sharp rap on the door. Ollie sticks his head around it. ‘Still getting dressed? Get your arse in gear. I’m starving.’
‘I’m not going out for dinner.’
Ollie shoves his way into the room, kicking through mounds of discarded clothes. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘I’m fine. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to go out for dinner.’
Katy Carter Wants a Hero Page 14
