“Have it,” Mads insists when she eventually rejoins me. “I’ll pop a donation into the funds on your behalf.”
“Feeling guilty about letting your son believe his godmother is Tregowan’s answer to George Best?” I ask, and Mads sighs.
“You know how seriously Richard takes these things. If he thought I’d cheated he’d feel utterly betrayed. I can’t let him down. Not when he’s trying so hard and hasn’t cracked at all. I really appreciate you covering for me when I slip up.”
“Slip up? Mads, you’ve had the best part of a bottle!”
“So would you if you had to sort out all that jumble! Besides, I can’t help it if I’m not as strong-minded as Richard, can I?”
Strong-minded is a nice way of putting it. The Rev’s about as flexible as a steel girder and Mads has the self-control of… of… well, of something with zero self-control. Every year she cheats at Lent and every year I end up covering for her. It wasn’t so bad when it was chocolate or shopping she’d given up; I could take the blame for those and just look like a greedy spendthrift. But appearing to be a raging alcoholic is hardly conducive to my reputation – or Ollie’s, for that matter. The last thing Ollie needs now that he’s so career-minded is anyone at St Jude’s hearing that about me.
“Let me make it up to you by coming up with some amazing ideas for your sample chapter,” says Mads, who knows exactly how to get around me. “Let’s have another cup of tea and get brainstorming. Just you wait! In a couple of hours’ time your notebook will be so hot it’ll burst into flames!”
So, fortified by more wine, we work our way through the guidelines from Throb and Mads puts her thinking cap on. Before long I’m making notes on things I haven’t even imagined and she’s right! It’s so hot I’m having to fan my cheeks with the A4 sheets. By the time Richard arrives home (the wine glasses having been safely washed up and put away, and two mugs of very non-alcoholic coffee having been placed innocently in front of us), I have so many ideas that my head’s spinning. I kiss my best friend goodnight, wave to Richard and head back home, filled with optimism.
I can do this. I know I can. The Throb contract is as good as in the bag. Alexi and Lucinda had better be ready – they’re in for a very busy time!
Chapter 6
I love Saturdays! There’s nothing better than waking up with the blissful knowledge that the whole weekend is still ahead, brimful of possibilities and acres of free time. It’s impossible to lie in when there are seagulls tap-dancing on the rooftop and a boisterous red setter leaping onto the bed demanding walks and attention, so usually Ollie and I get up early and have breakfast together before taking Sasha for a long walk.
OK, maybe I’m using a little bit of artistic licence here. What I should say is that we have breakfast together and then Ollie and Sasha go for a long walk while I potter around the house and think about writing my book, which can take ages. Sometimes they’re back before I’ve even typed a word. This is because thinking about writing a book is a very serious thing indeed, and although Ollie reckons I’m just wasting time checking Facebook and Instagram, what he doesn’t realise is that this is all a major part of the creative process. All the famous writers are on the Internet – and very busy they are too, tweeting and Facebooking and pinning things on virtual pinboards. Reading what they put there is like attending a digital masterclass, and there are loads of funny video clips of cats too (although I only look at those as a break from research, of course). But honestly, I can spend hours just getting into the writing zone.
Anyway, Saturday’s usually a relaxed day of writing and chilling out and generally just enjoying some spare time together, although recently Ollie hasn’t had much of this. He’s been spending Saturday afternoons planning lessons or grading coursework while I pop over to see Mads or to visit Holly. I hadn’t realised quite how much his job had been eating into our time together until I started to really think about it, but now that I have noticed I’m worried.
Ollie is working far too hard.
Take this Saturday, for example. It’s one of those beautiful crisp and sunshiny days, without the usual rain and sea mists that tend to be wrapped around Tregowan like a scarf for most of the winter. Even I woke up feeling eager to go for a walk. I didn’t bark or jump around on the bed like Sasha but I did share her enthusiasm for going out along the cliffs and letting the cold air blast the cobwebs away. I’ve been working pretty hard on my sample chapter too, and unless I want to contract a bad case of writer’s bum, going for a walk is a great idea – especially if we make it as far as the next town and can buy pasties. A pasty always motivates me to do some exercise.
“I can’t,” Ollie says. Even though it’s not yet nine o’clock he’s already settling down at the kitchen table and spreading out folders and books. “I need to get this A-level coursework ready for moderation on Monday.”
“But it’s Saturday!” I exclaim. “Ol, you need a day off.”
He laughs bleakly. “I can’t have a day off; there’s far too much to do. Anyway, I didn’t work last night, did I?”
“Only because you fell asleep in front of the telly!”
“That’s because I was exhausted after three hours spent trying to fix the electrics in this place,” he reminds me with a wry smile. “Don’t blame St Jude’s for that one, Katy Carter! Blame your lava lamp.”
Ah. Yes. My lava lamp. It seemed like such a good idea at the time…
“There was a very good reason why somebody donated it to a jumble sale,” my boyfriend continues, fishing out a red pen and flipping open his mark book. “They probably weren’t huge fans of having all their wiring blown up either.”
“I didn’t know that at the time! I just thought it looked like fun and would cheer up the kitchen,” I protest. “And in fairness to me I was right; it looked brilliant.”
Ollie nods. “It certainly did until it shorted out the entire house and melted the circuit boards. Then we couldn’t see anything. Not even our hands in front of our faces. And I’d hardly describe the bill from the emergency electrician as fun, although he’s certainly laughing all the way to the bank!”
He’s got a point. I never knew an electrician could put so many noughts onto a bill. He said he’d put together a quote for having the whole cottage rewired too, which apparently is what we need to do if we don’t want the place to go up in flames. All this makes the advance from Throb look even more attractive. I must give Mads the final draft of my first chapter, for the bonk queen’s seal of approval before I email it across to them – because, thanks to me and my jumble-sale find, Ollie and I need some extra cash. And fast.
Ollie’s rubbing his eyes and replacing his glasses, which always heralds a bout of serious concentration. So, feeling dreadful for being the cause of yet more financial woe, I fetch Sasha’s lead and allow her to drag me out into the stinging cold. We walk down the beach and play stick for an hour and then do a loop around the harbour, and by the time I’m heading back through the village I feel slightly better. I’m just crossing the little bridge at the foot of the quay when my phone rings and Tansy Topham’s beaming face flashes across the screen.
“Katy!” she squeals as I answer. “How are you? It’s been too long!”
It’s been about three weeks but a lot can happen in three weeks if you’re Tansy. I’ve been reading in Hiya! all about her romantic Caribbean getaway with Tommy, Closer’s just published an interview about her latest fashion fail and yesterday she popped up on Loose Women. Not that I was watching telly when I was meant to be writing; I only had it on in the background.
“I’ve got a window in my diary for today,” Tansy carries on, not pausing for me to say “hi” back or tell her how I’ve been. “Do you fancy meeting up for some shopping and some lunch? Tommy’s training and the nanny’s got the kids and I am so bored it’s untrue! We so need a girly catch-up. There’s a really cool new wine bar on The Barbican and you’ll love it. What do you think? Have you got time?”
I think
I really should be working on my chapter, but the idea of a little bit of time out with Tansy is very appealing – as is being able to enjoy a glass of wine without constantly looking over my shoulder in case the Reverend Richard Lomax appears. For a few seconds I’m torn, before reminding myself that getting out and about and seeing the world is all part of being a writer. Visiting a new wine bar with Tansy’s practically research, isn’t it? I might find something to inspire me to write the definitive great British novel which would never happen if I just stayed at home. I’m actually doing my creativity a favour by meeting her.
“I’d love to,” I say, and we arrange to meet in an hour. Plymouth is only forty minutes away so I should make it with acres of time to spare and, anyway, Tansy’s always late everywhere she goes.
Back in the kitchen Ollie’s almost through his pile of marking and looking far more cheerful. Three coffee cups are lined up on the table and his hair’s all messed up where he’s been running his fingers through it, something he always does when he’s concentrating very hard. Last night it was practically standing on end as he did his best to figure out how to get our electricity back – and mine was certainly standing on end when I saw the electrician’s bill.
His face lights up as he sees me, and my heart melts. I love him so much. There has to be a way I can make his life easier.
“Tansy’s invited me for lunch,” I tell him, winding my arms around his neck and dropping a kiss onto his head.
Ollie pulls me onto his lap and kisses me back. “Since when did Tansy eat?”
It’s a good point. Tansy thinks champagne is a food group. I guess that’s why she’s a size zero and I’m… not.
“She said she wants a girly catch-up,” I tell him.
Ollie grimaces. “You mean she wants to moan about Tommy. Poor man. I wonder what he’s done now? Not bought her this season’s LV bag in the right colour?”
Tansy famously rules her footballer husband with a rod of iron. She might only be a size-zero slip of a thing, but Tommy’s absolutely terrified of her. And yes, she has an amazing handbag collection in all kinds of colours and fabrics. The only person with a selection that comes anything close is Frankie.
“I’ll come into town with you,” Ol says, tipping me off his lap and starting to gather up his work, “but I’ll give the girl talk a miss. You can drop me into school and I’ll pop this data onto the system. I may as well get ahead.”
“On a Saturday?” I can hardly keep the horror from my voice. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Ollie Burrows?”
He laughs. “I know; I would never have believed it either, but I might as well play catch-up while you’re busy with Tansy. That way we can have some time together later.”
Well, I’m not going to argue with this. Three days sitting at my laptop dreaming up steamy scenarios for Alexi and Lucinda have left me very hot under the collar and some time together is exactly what I need! He can input data all afternoon if it means we get some quality time later on.
Maddy’s comment about my being a passenger is in the back of my mind and Ollie is nervously relegated to co-driver while I take the wheel and steer us to Plymouth. Our car is a rather featureless Focus and I do miss the quirky little Beetle he owned for years. Still, there’s a lot to be said for not breaking down every five miles or being gassed by carbon-monoxide fumes. We sail along the A30 and over the Tamar Bridge, except for Ollie yelling “Stop!” when I’m so busy looking at the view I almost forget to brake at the toll barrier. Then we head into town. The car has more acceleration than I remember, and I have a lot of fun seeing how fast I can pull away at the traffic lights. Nowhere near as fast as Tansy in her Lotus but pretty good for me, I think – and everyone knows that speed cameras don’t really have film in them, do they?
I hope not, anyway…
“I feel like kissing the ground,” Ollie remarks when I pull up outside St Jude’s and he opens the door. “You’ve missed your vocation in Formula One, that’s for sure.”
“Stop exaggerating and go and do some work,” I say, leaning across and kissing him goodbye.
Leaving Ollie and his giant wheelie bag of work outside the side entrance, I pull away from St Jude’s. Unlike Tregowan Comp, which is situated slap bang in the middle of the local council estate, my boyfriend’s school is in a very smart residential area and at the end of a neat tree-lined drive. Not a scrap of litter or a scavenging seagull is to be seen and nobody’s graffitied the St Jude’s sign either. What kind of school is this? It’s so posh it’s making me nervous.
I’m trying to recall how Ollie said to reach the Barbican from here (although it doesn’t help that I struggle with remembering my left and right), when a red car turns off the main road and into the school drive. It’s a very sexy convertible with the hood down on such a gorgeous day, and as it bowls past I can’t help but look – which I guess is the point of cars like this. Nobody does a double take at me in the Ford Focus. Well, not unless I cut them up at the roundabout. (That wasn’t strictly my fault, by the way; the road markings were very faint.) No, this is a sleek little number with a curvy bonnet and cheeky pop-up headlights, which is practically yelling look at me! So of course I look and, surprise surprise, it’s being driven by a glamorous blonde in giant sunglasses and wearing a black leather jacket.
Wait a minute. I recognise that driver. I know I do! I last saw her at the St Jude’s staff Christmas dinner when she was poured into black velvet and wearing lipstick the exact colour of that car.
It’s Carolyn Miles. What on earth is she doing here on a Saturday?
Unless… unless…
Unless she’s meeting Ollie?
My brain has taken a few seconds to click into gear but now it’s made the connection it’s whizzing away. Has Ollie arranged to meet Carolyn at St Jude’s while I’m out of the way with Tansy?
I go cold all over and a horrible churning sensation grips my stomach. I crane my neck to see over my shoulder and, sure enough, the car is pulling up outside the school and a pair of long, denim-clad legs are stretching out as Carolyn uncoils herself from the low-slung seat.
Bugger. I haven’t imagined it. She really is here, on a Saturday, in an empty school where my boyfriend is supposed to be working.
Supposed to be working? Is that what I really think? I’m horrified with myself. I trust Ollie one hundred percent! Of course I do. Over the past few days I’ve managed to convince myself I’m being ridiculous and paranoid about Carolyn, but seeing her now and in the well-toned flesh makes me wobble.
Come on, Katy, you’re being ridiculous!
Ollie loves me and we’re happy together, I’m sure we are, and there’s no way he’d cheat. No way at all. Yet how come Carolyn’s here too and Ollie didn’t think to mention it to me? Is she the real reason he’s so keen to come in to work on a Saturday?
It’s a coincidence. Of course it is! I’m sure I’m jumping to all kinds of conclusions here, but as I head off to meet Tansy there’s one thing I do know for certain: if I don’t find out soon what’s going on I’ll drive myself round the bend.
And given today’s success with roundabouts, that won’t be a pretty sight.
Chapter 7
Pop! The champagne cork explodes out of the bottle and flies across the wine bar, narrowly missing a couple of lunchtime diners.
“Oops!” giggles Tansy, waving at them apologetically. “I must stop doing that. I almost took Tommy out the other day, and that could have cost us a place in the Premier League.”
We’re balancing precariously on the most uncomfortable bar stools imaginable at a tiny weeny table slap bang in the window of Plymouth’s newest and most achingly trendy wine bar. I’m suffering from a severe case of bum overhang while Tansy, who as usual is wearing a very short skirt, flashes her gusset to all the passers-by and the somewhat jaded photographer from the local rag. Everyone who passes the window cranes their neck to have a good look in and does a double a take when they realise who I’m sitting with.
It’s a bit like being a goldfish in a very posh bowl.
“To us!” Tansy declares, raising her glass and tossing her glossy blonde extensions. “The bestselling authors! And to my new business, BBs!”
We chink glasses, although I’m not really sure I have quite as much to celebrate. Writing for Tansy might have been a small income stream but it was better than nothing, and without it my literary career is looking very precarious indeed.
Almost as precarious as my relationship’s beginning to feel…
I still can’t believe Ollie’s arranged to meet Carolyn Miles at school and hasn’t told me. Every time I think about this my insides turn into tangled knitting. It must mean something, but what?
“What’s wrong?” Tansy’s brow is fighting Botox in an attempt to furrow. “You look really down. I know what will cheer you up – let’s go to Waterstones after lunch and face out all my books. That’s always fun!”
I laugh. “Maybe not. You caused havoc last time when all those people wanting autographs blocked the shop.”
“Can’t help being popular, hon,” Tansy says, passing me a menu and casting a critical eye over it. “Bollocks. There’s hardly anything low fat on this.”
She’s right – and usually I’d say that was a good thing, especially since what is on the menu is the most delicious selection, all moules-frites this and baked-brie that – but my appetite’s totally vanished. I don’t even think I could manage one of the sea-salt-crusted artisan breadsticks.
What a waste.
“I’ll have the chicken and radicchio salad, no dressing and no chicken,” Tansy tells the waiter. “Katy? Choose whatever you like. It’s on me.”
“I’ll have the same,” I say, snapping my menu shut and passing it over. Yes, I know I’ve just ordered a bowl of leaves but at least I’ll be skinny and miserable.
Katy Carter Keeps a Secret Page 6
