Katy Carter Keeps a Secret

by Ruth Saberton

  My mouth swings open. Is that what I think it is? Seriously?

  “Guy’s asked me to marry him!” my sister says happily. “On Valentine’s Day too! Isn’t it romantic! I’m engaged, Katy! Guy and I are going to get married! How exciting is that?”

  Chapter 5

  “Get this down your neck and tell me all about it.”

  Mads hands me a glass of wine, tucks her legs underneath her and curls up on the sofa. The twins are both in bed, the Rev’s safely out of the way and Ollie has after-school training, so here I am at the vicarage armed with my brief from Throb Publishing, a notebook and about ten million woes. It’s just as well my best friend’s sitting comfortably, because I’m about to begin and it could take some time.

  “There’s Pringles too,” Maddy adds, “but I think the rug rats may have been at them. One of Richard’s really interfering parishioners knocked earlier, so I hid behind the sofa with the twins and the only way I could keep them quiet was to fill their faces with crisps.”

  “You hid from your flock? That’s wasn’t very charitable. Where would Christianity be today if Jesus had done the same?” I tease.

  “Believe me, even the good Lord would want to hide from this one,” my friend sighs. “She picks holes in everything we do, and you know how hard Richard works here. I sometimes think she’s just looking for an excuse for the diocese to find a new vicar she and her cronies can control.”

  Richard isn’t one of my favourite people, and I’m sure he would say the same about me, but he’s certainly dedicated to his work – and Mads, for all her flippant comments, is one hundred percent behind him.

  “She’s the one who’s dumped all this crap on me to sort out for the next jumble sale,” Mads continues, waving her hand at the towering pile of bric-a-brac dominating the back half of the tiny sitting room. “It’s going to take hours to sort through and goodness knows what kinds of awful things I’ll find. I’ll have to bathe in Dettol afterwards and fumigate the place.”

  “You’re really expected to organise all of that?” I gaze up at the jumble mountain, half expecting to see a couple of Sherpas waving from the summit.

  “Of course. It’s all part of the fun life I lead as a vicar’s wife. Don’t even get me started on the flower arranging and coffee mornings. Anyway, enough of all that! Time for some comfort eating.” Mads pops the Pringles lid, fishes out a couple and crams them into her mouth. “Mmmph mmm mumph ooo!”

  After sharing a student house together and spending many evenings drinking wine and eating junk food, Mads and I are fluent in Pringle. This mumbling is her asking what’s going on with me.

  It’s a good question. I only wish I knew myself.

  I take a big gulp of wine. “You already know about the lack of ring.”

  She swallows and nods.

  “Yeah, that’s a shame – but we did think it was a bit of a long shot that Ollie might have hidden one, didn’t we?”

  Did we? That’s news to me; I’d been pretty convinced myself, and I seem to remember Mads making me swear she’d be the first of our friends to see the ring. But since I’m now starting to doubt my grasp on reality, I stare sadly down at my Chardonnay.

  “It’s not just that. He’d totally forgotten it was Valentine’s Day and he’s never done that before. Ollie’s always been brilliant at remembering birthdays and special occasions.” I begin to gnaw at the skin around my thumbnail. “What do you think it means?”

  “That he’s busy? You said yourself he’s been really stressed at work and is up all hours planning lessons and marking books.”

  “But Ollie never forgets anything!”

  “Great as Ollie is, Katy, he’s still a bloke and they’re not like us. They do that kind of stuff. It’s in their genetic code to be a bit crap at times.”

  “Does Richard forget special occasions?” I ask, curious.

  “He wouldn’t bloody dare! His life wouldn’t be worth living and he’d certainly never get sex again,” Maddy says. “Anyway, I’ve got a giant calendar on the fridge door with all the important dates highlighted in fluorescent colours, and another identical one in his study. Richard couldn’t miss a special occasion even if he wanted to – which he doesn’t because he knows what’s good for him. Honestly, it’s a brilliant system. Why don’t you try it?”

  To be honest this a) sounds more like the sort of thing I should be doing for myself and b) surely defeats the object? If Ollie only remembers Valentine’s Day or an anniversary because I nag him via a huge visual aid rather than because these things are actually important to him, then what’s the point?

  “The point is, this way Ollie can’t forget,” Mads explains when I voice my concerns. “Which means you’re happy and he’s off the hook. Everyone’s a winner. Ta-da!”

  I’m still unconvinced, but since she’s the one who’s happily married and has a big bunch of red roses taking pride of place on the mantelpiece I guess Mads must know what she’s talking about. I suppose I could give it a try – although Ollie will probably think I’ve flipped, given that I’m possibly one of the most disorganised people on the planet. He’s usually the one who gives me a list or makes sure I’m going to the right school on my supply days. Besides, I still can’t shake the feeling that all this is missing the point. It isn’t so much that Ollie forgot Valentine’s but why.

  “It isn’t very me,” I say doubtfully. “It sounds more like the sort of thing Holly would do.”

  “My point exactly. And who just got engaged? Holly! Not you!”

  Ouch. This certainly hits me where it hurts. As much as I’m thrilled for my sister and Guy, there’s a little part of me that’s bright green with envy and can’t quite believe it’s true. Holly and Guy getting married? I never ever saw that one coming.

  “I’m sorry if that was a bit tactless,” says Mads, leaning over and sloshing more wine into my glass.

  “If?” I take a big gulp of my topped-up drink.

  “OK, so it was totally tactless, but don’t you think it’s a fair point? Men need a bit of help sometimes with these things. Holly probably gave Guy a few hints.”

  My sister’s hinting would be as subtle as a wrecking ball swinging around with Miley Cyrus gyrating on it, but I don’t actually think she did have to hint. Holly seemed genuinely surprised and Guy couldn’t have been any prouder if he’d just caught the world’s biggest fish, which in a way I suppose he has. No, it looks to me as though this was very much his idea. Guy wants to marry my sister.

  He’s not forgotten…

  “But I don’t want to hint, Mads. Ollie and I aren’t like that. We don’t play games and there’s no way I’d ever want him to feel pressured, so I really don’t think a cork board with highlighted dates is the way forward. I want him to still want to get married, not feel he has to because I’ve written it on a to-do list. That’s not very romantic.”

  “Who said anything about romance? I thought it was marriage we were discussing?” Mads says. “Still, up to you. Stick to leaving the wedding magazines around the house and rummaging through cupboards if you want, but take it from me, sometimes a girl has to take matters into her own hands. If you sit in the passenger seat too long you forget how to drive.”

  “I hope that’s just a metaphor,” I say gloomily. “Since Ollie takes the car to school and drops me off on the way, I haven’t driven anywhere for ages. We keep meaning to buy a second car, but it’s just more expense – and until our roof’s fixed there’s no way we can do it. Not unless I win the lottery.”

  My best friend looks alarmed. “You’re not pinning all your hopes on winning the jackpot are you?”

  Truth is I’m Camelot’s bitch, but it’s probably better to keep my lucky-dip habit to myself. Twice a week I have a little glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, my numbers will come in and I’ll be able to rescue Ollie from dripping ceilings and marking hell without having to resort to writing for Throb. Besides, what’s a few quid in return for several days of optimistic daydreaming? It
’s a bargain if you think about it, and certainly cheaper than therapy. They should have the lottery on the NHS.

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “Fibber,” laughs Mads, topping up her own glass. “I bet you’re spending a fortune on tickets. Just don’t forget your friends when the millions come in. I want my cut or I’m telling Ollie he’s shacked up with a gambler.”

  “I’m hardly a gambler! Anyway, I thought Richard didn’t believe in the lottery? How could you possibly justify getting your hands dirty with my ill-gotten gains from Mammon? Won’t you go straight to hell?”

  “Lobbing a load into the collection will help me get to heaven. And somebody has to keep Louis Vuitton in business, so buying a few bags is practically charity,” she says airily. “But never mind me. Your lottery-ticket addiction and lack of engagement ring aside, how are things with you and Ollie? Seriously, I mean. Is everything all right?”

  I stare past her and into the leaping flames of the wood burner. I tell Mads pretty much everything and she knows me inside out, but there’s one thing I haven’t said to her, because I’m scared that voicing it aloud will make it real. It’s a little worry that’s been worming its way gradually into my subconscious thanks to comments from Steph or the odd throwaway remark from Ollie, and it’s probably paranoia on my part…

  What do I mean, probably? Of course it is.

  “He’s fine,” I say firmly. “We’re fine, I think.”

  Mads, who’s been carefully extracting Pringle crumbs from the bottom of the tube, looks up in alarm.

  “You only think you’re fine?”

  I gulp. I did think we were fine until Steph mentioned Carolyn “Miles High Club” and Ollie let slip that he’d been working late on a presentation with her. He collaborates very closely with Carolyn, but she’s his line manager so this is hardly surprising. I know he loves me and I trust him, of course I do, but he’s been so obsessed with work lately and all he talks about is school…

  And she’s gorgeous. Tall and blonde and so ambitious she makes Donald Trump look half-hearted. I bet Carolyn Miles can analyse data in her sleep and has never burned a risotto in her life. She looks organised and thorough and is totally career driven.

  In other words, she’s the complete opposite of me.

  Mads sets down the tube, brushes sour-cream-and-chive dust from her fingertips and gives me her best tell all look.

  “He’s working really long hours,” I say, reluctant to mention Carolyn. “Honestly, Mads, I’m not exaggerating. He’s hardly ever home before seven and we never have any time together because if he’s not marking he’s planning or at some St Jude’s function.”

  “Sounds like he’s just working super hard, babes.”

  I nod, because there’s no denying it. “Tonight he says he’s got after-school training until eight.”

  Mads knows me well enough to pick up the subtext. “He says? And you don’t think that’s true?”

  I shrug. “It probably is true. Schools always have twilight training.”

  “What the fuck is twilight training? Something to do with werewolves and vampires?”

  If only. I’m sure I’d have listened far more attentively in the past if we’d been gazing at R-Patz in the school hall rather than at the head teacher and a mind-numbing selection of PowerPoint slides telling us things we already knew (and at a time in the day when all any teacher wants to do is collapse in a heap and sob).

  “Nothing so exciting. It’s evening teacher training,” I tell her. “Ollie has to deliver a session on data analysis and exam-grade predictions. It’s all really complicated stuff.”

  “Blimey,” says Mads. “And there was me thinking it was all about chalk, leather elbow patches and confiscating fags.”

  “Where on earth do you get your ideas about school? Grange Hill? It’s all interactive white boards and suits these days, and the kids are way too busy sexting to worry about cigarettes. Just you wait until the twins are teenagers.”

  She grimaces. “I’m dreading it already; believe me, nursery school’s bad enough. But, listen, if Ollie’s got all this extra responsibility with data, surely that explains why he’s working so hard and staying late at school? If it’s as complex as it sounds then he’s got to be right on top of it all, hasn’t he? Especially if he wants to be promoted in the future or something.”

  “But that’s the thing, Mads! This is Ollie we’re talking about here. Ollie! The man who likes surfing and rock climbing and playing on his Xbox. Since when was he worried about being promoted? It’s not like him at all. He’s totally changed since he moved to St Jude’s! He’s become so ambitious.”

  And what if Carolyn Miles is the reason? I add silently. I’m not going to say anything about my fears to Mads yet. I know that if I do she’ll be like a dog with a bone and there won’t be a minute’s peace until we’ve done something hare-brained like staking out St Jude’s so that Maddy can have a good gander at the opposition. But the worry is still there and, like a pair of too-tight leggings, is making me very uncomfortable. I trust Ollie, I do, but Carolyn’s so groomed, so driven, so grown up – and I’m just none of those things, am I? What if somebody like her is actually what he needs, rather than daydreaming me with my trail of toast crumbs and ink-stained fingers?

  I love Ollie with all my heart and soul. He’s my special best friend, my other half and the person whose very existence makes me smile every day – but what if I’m no longer what he needs?

  This thought makes my stomach swoop with horror.

  “More wine,” Mads says, catching sight of my face. Jumping up, she heads for the fridge. Returning with another bottle and twisting off the screw cap, she refills our glasses and settles back onto the sofa. “I think you’re worrying too much about Ollie, babes. None of us are twenty-five anymore and it’s not unusual for a guy to want promotion at our age. Richard was just the same: he wanted his own parish and the chance to prove himself. That’s why we came to Tregowan.”

  I nod but I’m not convinced. Richard and Ollie are nothing alike. The Rev probably won’t be happy until he’s Archbishop of Canterbury or something, but Ollie’s never been the kind of person who wanted to follow the management route. Something’s changed but I’ve no idea what.

  “My guess is he wants to prove himself in his new school,” Mads concludes. “From what you tell me that’s going to be really hard work, so he’ll have to put in a lot of time and effort. I wouldn’t read too much into any of it if I was you.”

  She’s right. Of course she is. I know how hard heads of departments in secondary schools have to work, and this certainly accounts for Ollie being exhausted and stressed. I’m shattered after just a day of supply teaching, so it’s no wonder he’s worn out. But what this doesn’t explain is why he felt the urge to take the job in the first place. If it’s because we need the money, then I’d feel dreadful. I have to find a way of taking the pressure off him and pulling my weight financially, which could start with winning the contract to write for Throb…

  Writer’s block is not an option. It’s time for that brainstorming session.

  I’m just reaching into my bag to dig out the brief when a pyjama-clad Rafferty pads into the sitting room demanding a drink. With ruffled dark curls, pink chubby cheeks and a teddy bear clutched to his chest he looks so cute that even my hard teenager-teaching heart melts. I have the cutest godchildren! OK, so as a godmother I’m a bit lacking in the moral and religious parts of my duties, but with Richard at the helm I’m sure they’re more than well provided for on that score. I’m very good at other bits such as the buying of McDonald’s and accidentally teaching them swear words. I’m also an excellent teller of bedtime stories and, as soon as he clocks me, Rafferty demands one.

  “No way,” his mother says sternly. “It’s way past bedtime. You need to get straight back up those stairs.”

  Rafferty’s bottom lip juts out. Then he sees the two wine bottles on the table and his eyes widen.

  “Grown-up dr
ink! Daddy says no grown-up drink! Naughty Mummy!”

  Ah yes. Just to complicate life Richard and Maddy have given up alcohol for Lent, or rather Richard has and his wife is humouring him. Personally, I’d have given up being bossed about by the Rev, and for a bit longer than Lent too – but Mads says give and take is all part of a marriage and, anyway, what Richard doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  “But isn’t that lying?” I’d asked, a bit confused by the moral quicksand I’d found myself immersed in. But Mads just grinned and said she’d crossed her fingers when they’d agreed. I’m still not convinced this would stand up in a court of law or with Jesus either if he were to pop in and enquire, but since I’m not a vicar’s wife, or anyone’s wife actually, what do I know?

  “That’s Katy’s drink,” Mads says swiftly, shooting me a look that says part of being a godmother is very definitely letting Mummy off the hook while I look like a complete booze hound. “Mummy’s going to have a nice cup of tea.”

  “One bottle. Two bottles.” Rafferty counts. “Is Katy always very thirsty, Mummy? Is that why Daddy says she drinks too much?”

  “Daddy doesn’t say that!” Mads is bright red. And so she should be. I’m losing count of how many times I take the blame for whatever madcap scheme she’s dreamt up. Thinking I’m a lush is probably one of the nicer opinions he holds of yours truly.

  “He does! And he said—”

  “Bed! Now!” With a face hotter than the wood burner, Mads leaps up from the sofa and scoops her son into her arms, presumably before he can drop his parents in it any further.

  “I’ll pop the kettle on shall I?” I say sweetly, and Mads flushes an even deeper crimson.

  “Back in a minute,” she promises and heads upstairs. With every step I hear Rafferty demanding a story and, suspecting that stories operate in a similar fashion to forgetful sweets, I distract myself by having a rummage through the jumble. Several avalanches later I’ve unearthed a couple of dog-eared Jilly Coopers and a funky lava lamp that wouldn’t look out of place in Austin Power’s shag pit.