‘So why do you need that?’ Mads jabs her finger at the ghetto blaster in Richard’s arms. It’s made from a hideous yellow plastic and looks like the remainder of the Beatles’ submarine after decommissioning. Until I came to the rectory I’d never seen anything like it. It’d probably fetch a fortune on some 1980s’ Antiques Roadshow special.
‘The Bishop and I thought we’d play some hymns while we pray.’ Rich grabs his jacket from the chair and shrugs himself into it. ‘If that’s OK with you?’
Mads says nothing, but her mouth is pursed tighter than a crab’s bottom.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t wait up. I’ll be late. Enjoy whatever you’re up to.’ Spinning on his heel, Richard almost knocks me flying. I flatten myself against the wall as he charges past like a human tornado.
All is not well in the house of love.
‘Bastard!’ shrieks Maddy when Richard slams the door. ‘Cheating bastard!’
‘Calm down!’ I beg, not liking the way her knuckles glow chalky white through the flesh or the way her eyes are fever bright. ‘You can’t carry on like this.’
‘Too right I bloody can’t,’ snarls Mads. ‘What kind of idiot does he take me for? I swear to God, Katy, I’m going to leave him. I’ve got nearly five grand saved, that will be a start.’
‘You can’t! What about loving him? What about Sandals?’
‘Forget Sandals. I’m not going there with a lying, cheating bastard.’
‘You don’t know he’s cheating.’ Goodness knows why I’m sticking up for Richard. The man drives me round the twist. But I have the strongest conviction that he isn’t cheating on Maddy.
‘Yes I do.’ Mads holds out a box. ‘There’s the proof.’
‘ “Grecian 2000, Real Natural Black”,’ I read aloud. ‘ “Shampoos in in just five minutes.” ’ I raise my eyes. ‘I thought you’d found condoms or something. How is this proof that Richard’s cheating?’
‘Because,’ explains Maddy in the tone of voice normally used with idiots or very small children, ‘he’s dying his hair. He wants to look good. For another woman, obviously, because I know he’s going grey. He’s even starting to get grey pubes.’
Too much information!
‘I dye my hair,’ I point out. ‘So do you.’
‘But we’re girls! It’s our job to be vain. This is Richard we’re talking about, Katy, not your Gabriel.’
‘He isn’t my Gabriel,’ I mutter. Mads know that anyway; she’s the only person I have been allowed to tell apart from Jewell. Not that Jewell counts. The last I heard she was in booked into Champneys for a month’s detox before getting ready for her birthday bash. Typical Jewell. Most people detox after hammering their livers but she likes to get hers prepared to take some serious abuse.
‘Whatever.’ Maddy flaps her hand dismissively. ‘But Richard, of all people! Did you ever meet a man who was less bothered about worldly things than Richard?’
No, probably not. I think Rich was born middle-aged and wearing a cassock.
‘And now,’ wails Mads, ‘he’s got a mobile, and he’s never in, or when he is he’s in the bathroom washing away the evidence of whatever tart it is he’s seeing!’ Her voice rises and wobbles dangerously. ‘And what about the money and the note I found on the wardrobe? It doesn’t look innocent from where I am.’
‘But sometimes you have to look a little more deeply to see what’s beneath the surface,’ I say, thinking about how my life appears lately.
Mads stares at me. ‘Who do you think you are? Yoda? He’s a cheating git and I’m going to prove it.’
‘And how do you intend to do that?’
She shrugs. ‘When I’ve thought of a way you’ll be the first to know.’
From the way Maddy then proceeds to stomp around the rectory, grumbling under her breath and thumping the boxes of merchandise down the stairs, I sincerely hope I’m nowhere near if she does discover Richard is cheating, not that I believe he is for one minute. Granted, his behaviour is certainly fishier than Guy’s boat, but I just can’t believe he’d commit adultery. Apart from the fact that he’s a vicar, I know he totally adores Maddy.
As I follow her down the cliff path, my arms full of brochures and boxes, I’m wrestling with this dilemma. None of it makes any sense.
Maddy rants and raves about Richard all the way to Bodmin. For twenty-three miles I listen to ‘Bastard!’ this and ‘Wanker!’ that, saying ‘Mmm’ or ‘Tosser’ when appropriate.
I look out of the window and try to enjoy the view; not easy when the human equivalent of Mount Etna is behind the wheel. It’s a perfect summer’s evening and I wind down the minibus window to breathe in the heady scent of warm earth and cut grass. Our route takes us through some woods, and I marvel at the emerald green of the trees and the white candles that nestle against the plump pillow leaves of the horse chestnut trees while rays of light trickle through the leafy canopy above us and break-dance across the tarmac. Even the hedges are foaming with cow parsley and splattered with pink campion, and the verges are starred with buttercups.
‘Isn’t it pretty?’ I say, hoping to drag Mads out of her evil temper, but she is too busy grinding her teeth and trying to think of the most painful way to disembowel her husband to wax lyrical about nature.
‘Bastard,’ she mutters. ‘Just you wait.’
Something tells me I’m in for a long night.
Bodmin is a small town that seems to pop suddenly out of nowhere. One minute we’re driving through the country, with sheep bleating and the birds singing their heads off, and the next we’re coming up to a massive roundabout and heading through an industrial estate.
‘Is this right?’ I wonder, glancing nervously at the concrete wasteland outside. It looks like the set of A Clockwork Orange.
‘Trust me.’ Mads turns right and we pass under a railway bridge. There’s a school on my left; the grey walls and blinded windows remind me of Sir Bob’s. Or maybe that’s because all schools look like prisons. Not that it was all bad. Looking back, I feel quite nostalgic. I can’t believe I actually miss school! Usually at this stage in the summer I’m frantically buying lottery tickets and sending random chapters of my novel off to agents in the desperate hope that on the first of September somebody will rescue me. And now here I am, saved from a life of chalk dust and leaky red biro, being paid to hang out with celebrities, and I find I’m longing to strut my stuff in front of a bunch of surly adolescents.
Life is so weird.
And, of course, I’d love to see Ollie. I’m sure that if we sneaked down to the boiler room for a fag or two we could sort out all our misunderstandings. Failing that, I could always force-feed Nina some school pasta, a strange gloopy concoction that has more in common with wallpaper paste than nutrition and should finish her off pretty quickly.
‘Right!’ Mads yanks up the handbrake so abruptly that I’m amazed it doesn’t fly off. ‘We’re here.’
Here is a small estate composed of little doll’s house-type dwellings in an assortment of sugared-almond shades. Baby-pink townhouses and butter-yellow terraces are gathered around a pretty green, complete with a duck pond in which they practically dip their toes.
‘Number eleven.’ Mads flings the minibus door open and leaps out. ‘Grab some stuff and I’ll go and let them know we’re here.’
I open up the back doors of the minibus and start to lug boxes to the house. As I do so I have to squeeze between parked cars. Not that that’s unusual, but my eye is caught by a small blue Fiesta that is parked neatly in front of number eleven. That’s not unusual either, and neither is the fish sticker that decorates the rear window. It’s just that Richard has a car exactly like that, right down to the dent in the wing where somebody allegedly got too close with the minibus.
Not that I know anything about that, though!
It’s got to be a strange coincidence, because there’s no way Richard’s going to be at a hen party in Bodmin, and this car is full of paint pots and brushes rather than Bibles
and vicary stuff. Chuckling to myself at the thought of Richard at a hen night, I put it from my mind and concentrate instead on setting the party up. While Mads guzzles wine and nibbles with the already plastered hens, I set up the rack of lingerie and sort out the cards for rude-word bingo, tutting at how Mads thinks you spell cunnilingus.
Once an English teacher, always an English teacher.
It’s a good party. The hens are desperate to play the games and even more desperate to part with their cash, and pretty soon the orders are flooding in. The decorators are in apparently but have been moved to the dining room so the girls have total privacy to shriek over Throbbing Theo and pals, and Mads and I can hardly keep up with the paperwork. I’m keeping my fingers so tightly crossed that Mads will meet her target tonight that I’m in danger of cutting off the circulation. I know I’m boring, but I really can’t handle the strain. All I want is a quiet life.
And Ollie.
Mads and I are sitting in the kitchen so that we can concentrate on our sums. I’m frantically trying not to pursue my cul-de-sac train of thought about Ol again and focus instead on scribbling down requests. Mads has her glasses on and is tapping away on a calculator, pink tongue poking out in concentration. We’re almost through adding up the bills when there’s a flurry of activity from the lounge and much excited squeaking.
‘It’s the stripper!’ shrieks a hen. ‘Get your kit off!’
Mads and I take no notice, totally absorbed by our sums. Strippers at hen nights are a perk — sorry, I mean a distraction — we can do without. Besides, I don’t think Gabriel will be chuffed if his girlfriend’s spotted joining in the general leering. As the music begins, predictably Tom Jones crooning about keeping hats on, I finish off my notes and steal a sneaky glance.
And nearly pass out.
The music is booming out from a daffodil-yellow ghetto blaster. Surely the odds are stacked against two of those existing in the UK, never mind this weeny corner of south-east Cornwall?
Oh. My. God. Surely not?
While the hens whoop and cheer, the stripper, fetchingly dressed as a policeman, is down to his G-string and whirling his handcuffs around his head. I can’t see his face through the crowd of excited hens, but suddenly that revolting ghetto blaster, the Fiesta parked outside, the odd absences, the hair dye all start to make perfect sense.
Surely Richard isn’t…
Wouldn’t…
Couldn’t…
I crane my neck, but as usual I’m too short to see over the taller folk. The evidence is pretty conclusive, though, and like a short ginger version of Hercule Poirot I’m sure I’ve solved the mystery.
I pluck at Maddy’s sleeve. ‘Come and look at this stripper.’
She frowns, resenting being distracted from her sums. ‘I’m still a vicar’s wife you know. Anyway,’ she returns her attention to the account book, ‘once you’ve seen one stripper you’ve seen them all.’
‘Believe me, you’ve never seen a stripper like this one.’
‘I’m trying to do my orders.’
‘Seriously, Mads. You really need to see this stripper.’
‘Fine.’ Maddy slams her notepad on to the table. ‘If it keeps you quiet, it’s worth it.’ And she puts down the calculator before pushing her way through right to the front of the crowd of cheering hens.
I close my eyes and begin to count. One, two, three…
‘Very nice,’ says Mads. ‘Although I can’t see what all the fuss was about. You need to get out more if you’re so easily excited. Mmm, now he’s not bad!’ she adds, peering into the kitchen where a man is bending over the sink rinsing paint brushes. ‘Their decorator has a nice bum.’
‘Never mind the flipping decorator! Can’t you see who the stripper is?’ I shriek, up on tiptoes as I try my hardest to see for myself. ‘Mads! The stripper is Richard! Reverend Rich is a stripper!’
Right on cue the music stops and my comment shrills through the place. The hens turn round and stare at me. Then someone moves aside and I finally see the stripper, smeared in baby oil and lipstick kisses, standing in the midst of the hens with his handcuffs swinging limply from his hands.
And it isn’t Richard.
Oops.
But the decorator, whose backside Mads was just admiring, turns round, and even though his face and hair are streaked with paint, there’s no mistaking that disapproving gimlet glare or his horror at seeing his wife and lodger catching him in overalls.
‘Richard?’ gasps Maddy, looking totally confused. ‘What’s going on? Why on earth are you here? Please tell me you’re not stripping?’
‘Of course I’m not stripping!’ he snaps. ‘Katy, what do you think you’re doing casting aspersions like that? How dare you say I’m a stripper? Have you finally lost your mind?’
‘But the ghetto blaster!’ I squeak. ‘The showers! The constant washing! The hair dye!’
‘I’m decorating to earn extra money and I like listening to music while I work. This young man borrowed my ghetto blaster because his was broken,’ Richard explains, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘I need to shower to get the paint off when I get home. The only stripping I do is wallpaper. For heavens’ sake, Katy! I’m a vicar.’
‘You’re decorating?’ Mads echoes.
‘But what about the hair dye?’ I pipe up, because this is really bugging me.
Richard rolls his eyes. ‘I’m going grey, Katy! I’d rather you didn’t broadcast that fact to your friends in the tabloid press, though.’ He blushes. ‘It’s bad enough that my wife now knows how vain I am.’
‘I knew already,’ says Maddy. ‘But what do you need extra money for?’
‘Grey hair! That explains everything,’ I interrupt. Can I run now before Richard rips my head off and wallops me with the soggy end?
‘Not quite,’ says Richard. ‘What have you two been up to? Are you at the party?’
‘Er, not exactly.’ Mads pulls a face. ‘Let’s just say you’re not the only one who wants to earn some extra cash.’
Richard looks across the room to the rails of frilly lingerie, merrily gyrating rabbits and edible G-strings and blanches. ‘Oh dear Lord! Surely not?’
‘I think we have some serious explaining to do, darling, seeing as both of us have been less than truthful,’ says Mads hastily as Rich clocks Throbbing Theo and a vein starts to pulse in his temple. ‘Maybe we should discuss everything somewhere a little more private.’
‘Good idea,’ I say quickly. Anywhere I’m not in the firing line sounds great to me. How about the moon?
While Mads and Richard beat a hasty retreat to the minibus, I pack away in record time, leaving the hens to go clubbing. To say I’m confused is the biggest understatement of all time. Richard Lomax, a secret decorator? I can’t say I ever saw that one coming.
But thank God he wasn’t stripping. I’d need therapy to get over that sight.
The hens conga out of the front door, squeals of girlish glee splitting the air, as I lug my final box of ‘Bibles’ back to the minibus. There’s no more putting it off. I’m going to have to bang on the window and start loading the boxes in. The Lomaxes have had about twenty minutes to either kill each other or sort it out. At least I can’t see any splats of blood on the windows.
Fingers crossed.
‘Katy!’ cries Mads, all pink flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes as she opens the door. ‘Sorry I didn’t help with clearing up, but…’ Her voice tails off and her glance slides towards Richard in his paint-spattered clothes, ‘I had a few things to clear up with Richard.’
‘So I see!’ I say brightly, jumping inside and trying to ignore the fizzing atmosphere. ‘What’s going on? Or maybe I shouldn’t ask.’
‘Oh, Katy!’ gushes Mads, beaming more widely than a Halloween pumpkin. ‘It’s just so sweet. Richard found my Sandals brochures and he wanted to be able to earn some extra money to whisk me away for a romantic break. We both had the same idea! Doesn’t that tell you how much we love each other?’
/>
‘I knew Maddy wasn’t happy,’ continues Richard, ‘but I didn’t know what to do about it. Then I saw an advert for a painting job and figured if I worked really hard I could earn enough cash to whiz her away to St Lucia and make up for being such a useless husband. I was only doing it for a few months until I’d saved enough. I wanted it to be a surprise, that’s why I didn’t tell anyone.’
‘You’re not useless,’ cries Mads, taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek. ‘I love you, you idiot! I thought you didn’t want me any more and that you were having an affair. I only wanted to go on holiday to try and get you to fancy me again.’
‘But I do fancy you!’ protests Richard. ‘I fancy you like crazy! I just didn’t think I was good enough for you any more, and the longer I said nothing the worse it became. You seemed so unhappy and there were so many secrets that I didn’t know where to start.’
‘Like the money on the wardrobe,’ I recall. ‘And the steamy note from Isabelle.’
‘You’ve been looking on top of the wardrobe?’ Rich groans. ‘Is nowhere safe? And that note wasn’t steamy except in your vivid imagination. It was given to me after the first job I ever did. Isabelle’s sixty and her daughters paid me to paint her bedroom for her birthday. She gave me a fifty-pound tip and got me a couple of jobs working for her friends. I owe her a lot.’
Mads kisses the tip of his nose. ‘I’m so relieved you’re not having an affair. And I don’t know why you thought you weren’t good enough for me. Your body’s great!’
‘I think all the extra physical work has got me fitter,’ explains Richard, pulling his wife on to his lap. ‘I must admit I actually feel quite good about myself lately. But it’s time for me to stop. Seeing you two tonight was quite a shock. Imagine if it had been the Bishop?’ He goes a bit grey at the thought. ‘I’d probably be excommunicated if he knew I was moonlighting and my wife and her friend were selling sex aids. I know the money’s good doing the parties but it’s far too risqué for a vicar’s wife.’
Katy Carter Wants a Hero Page 28
