Tansy stares at me. “Is that it? Don’t you want the fries with truffle shavings? Or the blue cheese and wild boar burger?”
I shake my head. “Salad’s fine.”
“Salad’s fine?” Tansy echoes. She couldn’t look more shocked. “What’s going on? Are you leaving Ollie and becoming a footballer’s wife? Should I sign you up for my gym and take you on a trolley dash round Louis Vuitton?”
Louis Vuitton? After we’ve paid for the damage caused by my lava-lamp disaster I’ll be lucky to afford a trolley dash around Lidl.
Tansy crosses her arms – quite a feat with E-cup fake boobs – and narrows her blue eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so down. What’s wrong?”
Where do I start?
“And don’t say nothing, either,” she adds, mind reading clearly being another of her skills, alongside her talents as author/chef/fashion designer. “You should tell me because Hiya! magazine have just given me an agony aunt column and I need to practise.”
“So I’m your problem-page guinea pig?”
“What an unkind way to put it. No, you can be my dry run and I might be able to help, you never know. I’m good at solving problems. Everyone always says so.”
Since Tansy’s usual idea of solving problems is getting someone else to do things for her (I need to write a book! Hire Katy! I need to look after my children! Hire a nanny!), I don’t hold out much hope, not unless she can reroof and rewire cottages and make Carolyn Miles vanish. But she means well, and as our salads arrive I find myself telling her all my woes.
“Shit,” Tansy says once I draw to a close. “No wonder you’re off your food with all that lot going on.”
I gaze down at my bowl of glossy leaves. Yum.
“Yes,” she continues, steepling her fingers beneath her pointed chin, tilting her head and adopting a caring agony aunt expression, “I can see it’s upsetting when your long-term partner doesn’t love you enough to want to commit, forgets Valentine’s Day and sneaks around with another woman. You’re bound to feel awful. It’s a rejection in every possible way. I’d be devastated. Broken-hearted. Suicidal even.”
I blink. “Err, Tansy, do you really think a career as an agony aunt is for you?”
“Of course! Tell it like it is Tansy is what they’re going to call me. It’s tough love. None of your pussyfooting around nonsense with me!”
“Pussyfooting? That was more like stomping all over my feelings in Tommy’s football boots! Ollie isn’t sneaking around with another woman anyway! It could be a perfectly innocent meeting with a work colleague for all I know. And anyone could forget Valentine’s Day if they’re as busy as he is! It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me! You’re talking utter rubbish. Everything is absolutely fine.”
“Ta-da! Problem solved!” Tansy cries triumphantly. “God, I’m bloody good, even if I do say so myself! Bet you’re feeling better already, aren’t you?”
She’s right! I am! I was so stung by what she said that I leapt to Ollie’s defence and, do you know what? I was totally able to justify his actions. She’s a genius!
“I’m so going to get my agent to make Hiya! pay me an extra twenty percent,” Tansy decides, attacking her salad with gusto. “Oh, sod it! Thirty percent, why not? I’m saving lives here.”
I hardly hear her. What on earth have I been stressing about? This is Ollie! My lovely dog-loving, nacho-eating, comfort blanket, gorgeous Ollie! Not the Casanova of Cornwall.
Everything’s OK!
And I’m starving!
“Can I have a side of truffle-shaved fries?” I ask a passing waiter. “And a portion of baked brie too?”
“Phew,” says Tansy. “That’s more like it. You had me worried for a minute there.”
I had myself worried too. Thank goodness I’ve seen the light! Maybe I should have some garlic bread too in celebration?
“Still,” she continues, spearing a leaf thoughtfully, “if this Carolyn is as good-looking as you say she is then I can see why there might be a problem.”
There is? She can?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Tansy puts her fork down and, reaching across the table, places her well-manicured hand on my ink-stained and gnawed paw.
“Now, Katy, you know I love you and think the world of you, don’t you?”
I’m a bit alarmed. This sounds dangerously like one of those it’s not you, it’s me speeches.
“But,” she continues, turning my hand over and tutting at the state of my nails, “you really could do with a bit of a makeover. You’ve let yourself go a little, haven’t you? It’s understandable. People do that when they’re happy and comfortable in a relationship. And why bother making an effort with clothes and make-up when you’ve already got your man?”
“Err, I hate to break it to you, Tans, but I have made an effort. I’ve dressed up today.”
Her eyes widen. “In that case, girlfriend, it’s even worse than I thought. We really do have a problem.”
We do? I didn’t think I looked too bad. My hair’s probably a bit wild and curly at the moment, but it’s held back with a glittery clip – and I’ve even put some make-up on today in honour of having lunch out. I’d thought my outfit of flared jeans, floaty green top and New Rock boots was cool and funky too, especially teamed with a battered biker jacket that I salvaged a while back from Maddy’s jumble-sale stash. Put it this way, no small children have run away screaming yet. Granted, I’m not dolled up to the nines like Tansy, but if I dressed like that in Tregowan I’d a) freeze to death and b) break my ankle just trying to walk to the car.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask, stung.
“Nothing! Nothing! Forget I said anything!”
There’s nothing worse than people starting to tell you something and then stopping halfway through, is there? Now I’m totally paranoid and even the arrival of golden fries and gooey brie can’t distract me. Any minute now I’ll be trying to catch sight of my reflection in the window or the back of a teaspoon or something just like Frankie’s husband, Gabriel.
“What? What is it?” I really am behaving like Gabriel now; I grab a spoon and peer into it, as if it might yield some answers. “Come on! You’ve obviously got a problem with my outfit!”
“Sweetie, I adore your outfit. It’s very… very…” She pauses to search for the right word and, even though as Tansy’s ghostwriter I know her vocabulary is limited, I’m still alarmed.
“Very?”
“Very studenty! Yes, babes, you really rock that nineties student vibe.”
“That’s probably because I was a nineties student – years and years ago! I’m not still dressing like a student!”
“I’m afraid you are though, hon, but I’m not criticising. Clompy boots, baggy tops and shaggy perms suit some people.”
“That’s not a perm! It’s my real hair!”
She claps her hand over her mouth. “Oops!”
“So my hair’s wrong, my clothes are wrong and I’m several decades out of date? Anything else you’d like to add?”
Tansy can’t quite look me in the eye. Even she knows this sounds bad, and she’s not the most subtle girl in the world. Of course she isn’t. Some of the outfits she’s worn out and about make Katie Price’s look demure. And at least Liz Hurley bothered to safety-pin her dress.
“It’s all great, hon, but from what you’re telling me about this Carolyn she sounds like a woman who works on her image. A more mature look. Sophisticated.”
“Mature and sophisticated? Sounds like a smelly cheese.”
And talking of cheese, I dip some crusty bread into my baked brie and munch contentedly while Tansy winces. There are probably more calories in that mouthful than she sees in a week.
“Is she groomed? Is she gorgeous? Is she successful? Is she alone with your man right now?” she presses.
The bread’s suddenly claggy in my mouth and my stomach lurches because the answer to all these questions is a resounding yes.
“So you need to give her a run for her money, babes. You need to make a little more effort.” Sensing weakness, Tansy goes in for the kill. “You need to remind your man just what he’s got at home! Dress up! Make an effort for him! Don’t just sit around in your onesie eating Wotsits and watching Jeremy Kyle.”
“I don’t own a onesie!” I protest.
I do love a good packet of Wotsits though. Who doesn’t? And I’ve always found Jeremy Kyle very entertaining.
“It’s a simile. Or a metaphor. Or something like that anyway,” Tansy says airily, the finer points of figurative language being something for lesser mortals like me to worry about. “You know what I mean. Anyway, like I said, sweetie, we need to give you a makeover.”
“We do?”
She claps her hands. “It’ll be fun. Who better to give you a hand with your image and fashion than me? I’m an expert after all.”
“Because you do a lot of shopping?” I ask, feeling doubtful about taking fashion advice from someone who once went to a Bond premier dressed in nothing more than black shoelaces. She did. Seriously. Google it.
“Duh!” laughs Tansy. “No, because I had my show, SOS Makeover, silly! It was on the Style Channel, remember?”
Ollie and I don’t have satellite TV (we can only just scrape together enough to afford the BBC) but I don’t have the heart to tell Tansy this, because she’s looking so proud.
“So why don’t I give you a makeover this afternoon?” she continues, pushing her salad aside in excitement. “No protests, sweetie! It’s my treat as a thank you for the books! It’ll be so much fun.”
I’m not convinced. I might not have seen Tansy’s show but I can only imagine what the end result will be. I’ll look like the love child of an Oompa-Loompa and a drag queen.
“We can go into town and find everything we need,” Tansy declares, a fanatical gleam in her eyes now. “My salon will squeeze you in if I ask them to, and so will the beauticians. How do you feel about Botox?”
I can’t say I’ve ever had any feelings either way. Botox is for the likes of Simon Cowell and TOWIE stars, not mere mortals like me. But now that I think about it, I’m not overly thrilled by the idea of needles and a shiny forehead.
“You really could do with sorting out those wrinkles before they get any worse,” Tansy adds. “And maybe a bit of filler?”
I don’t have any wrinkles! I don’t!
Do I?
I can’t help it; I pick up the spoon and peer into it again. My face, bulbous and distorted, looms back at me. With my ginger person’s pale skin, I might well look like the undead – but I can’t see any wrinkles.
“Where are these wrinkles?” As if I don’t have enough to worry about already with our leaky roof, the rewiring, the Throb sample and Carolyn Miles, now I have to fret about wrinkles too?
Someone dunk me in a vat of Oil of Olay.
Fast.
“Did I say wrinkles? Duh! I meant laughter lines,” Tansy amends swiftly, but I’m not laughing. “All the girls have a touch of Botox on their laughter lines, hon. It’s just another treatment to us.”
By “girls” she means her fellow WAGs. They also all have rather startled expressions and gleaming foreheads. I want to improve my appearance, but I’m not sure looking like a surprised boiled egg is the way to go.
“I’ll pass on the needles, thanks,” I say.
“How about a facial then?” Tansy suggests. “A blow-dry, a treatment and some shopping. That’s just what you need. Trust me, hon. By the time I’ve finished Ollie won’t be able to take his eyes off you. This Carolyn ho will be toast.”
“She’s hardly a ho, Tansy! She’s the Deputy Head of one of Britain’s highest-performing secondary schools.”
“If she messing with your man, then she a ho, girlfriend.”
Going all “from the hood” suddenly and with her voice far too loud for the small wine bar, Tansy’s attracting a lot of attention – and I know from experience that she’s only going to get worse. Once she has an idea lodged in her head nothing stops her. I won’t have a minute’s peace until I cave in.
Besides, what if she’s right? What if I have let myself go and a groomed Carolyn type is what Ollie really needs these days? If he’s as career ambitious as he now seems to be, then Carolyn in her smart suits and tailored chic fits the bill far more neatly than me.
I feel a bit sick at this idea. Perhaps I do need Tansy’s help. Anyway, how bad can it be? She’s had a TV show, after all. They wouldn’t give her one of those if she wasn’t any good, would they? Perhaps a shopping trip with Tansy is exactly what I need?
“Well?” Tansy says. “Ready to give this Carolyn a run for her money?”
I nod slowly. After all, what have I got to lose?
Project makeover it is.
Four hours later and en route to pick up Ollie, I’m starting to think that maybe I had a little more to lose than I’d realised. Like my dignity, for instance? Believe me, what small tatters I did have remaining after over a decade of teaching are well and truly shredded now. Until you’ve stood in the middle of a changing room with the stark lighting making your backside look like a bowl of porridge (at least, I hope that was just a nasty trick of the light) and with a size-zero WAG helping to shoehorn your squidgy bits into a pair of control pants, you haven’t known what total humiliation is. The pants were so tight and required such contortions for me to even haul them over my knees that after just a few moments I was gasping and sweating like Alexi and Lucinda in my first chapter. Not that Lucinda would be seen dead in these putty-coloured monstrosities.
And neither, just for the record, would Alexi.
“Are you sure about this?” I’d puffed once the pants were in position and I’d surveyed my bulging backside from several very unflattering angles. “I think Ollie’s more of a black lace and red ribbon kind of man.”
“Aren’t they all?” Tansy had laughed. “No, hon, Ollie isn’t going to see these. As if! They exist just to give you a sleek silhouette under your clothes. They hide all those flabby bits you don’t want anyone to see. Trust me. All the celebs wear them, and sometimes on special occasions we even double up. Or triple. Maybe you could too?”
As I try to change gear and almost rupture my intestines in the process, I really regret agreeing to give the double-shapewear thing a go. I can hardly breathe and it feels a bit like I’m being cut in half by cheese wire, but Tansy’s the expert here and she insists that good underwear is the key.
Ironic really, since she’s famous for not wearing any herself…
Still, the very tight green wrap dress she’d picked up for me would have shown every lump and bump, so I guess not being able to breathe is a small price to pay for not looking like Jabba the Hutt. I’m not one hundred percent convinced about the plunging neckline, but since this frock is from Tansy’s own range I didn’t dare protest in case it sounded ungrateful. Just as I didn’t like to point out that false nails would play havoc with trying to type novels and that I quite like my hair curly rather than straightened and backcombed into a huge high ponytail. And as for make-up? A slick of mascara and some lip gloss is usually enough for me, so to be wearing a full face feels weird, like I’m about to step onto the stage or juggle custard pies.
I pull down the sun visor to sneak a look at myself in the vanity mirror, and almost swerve into the central reservation when I catch sight of my reflection.
Yikes!
What the heck did they do to my eyebrows? Apart from having a black humpbacked bridge above each eye, I’ve got bright pink stripes too. I knew that wax was too hot. It was all very well for Tansy to tell me to stop making such a fuss. She wasn’t the one being boiled alive, was she? And why on earth am I orange? I look like a baked bean!
What was Tansy thinking? And what was I thinking to listen to her in the first place? Looking like this isn’t elegant or sophisticated. Far from it. Oh Lord! I have to do something before Ollie sees me, because Tansy’s spot on: he’ll
be gobsmacked, all right. I look utterly ridiculous and nothing like myself at all. And unless he’s suddenly started fancying drag queens, this scary new me isn’t going to win him away from Carolyn Miles.
As soon as I pull into the school car park I yank the sun visor down again, spit on my forefinger and start to scrub my face frantically. Unfortunately, the neon-orange foundation Tansy’s chosen would survive a nuclear bomb and my saliva’s no match for it. No matter how hard I grind my finger against my cheek, nothing shifts.
I’m trying to figure out how on earth I can tear back into town to give myself an anti-makeover, when the school door swings open and Ollie steps out into the sunshine with none other than Carolyn Miles. They’re deep in conversation and something he says makes her laugh so much that she tips back her head, tosses her golden mane and pokes him in the arm. They look so chummy and in tune with each other that I freeze.
This turns out to be a big mistake. What I should have done is throw the tartan car blanket over my head, put the Focus in reverse and screech out of there like Vin Diesel. Instead, I sit as motionless as my sprayed hair, before recovering myself sufficiently to dive into the passenger footwell. I don’t even care that the gearstick’s stabbing me in the tummy or that my control pants are cutting off my circulation. All I care about is that Ollie doesn’t see me looking like this, especially not while he has the gorgeous Carolyn Miles in tow. Better he thinks I’ve been beamed up by aliens rather than beaten by the WAG stick.
“Katy? What are you doing down there? Are you ill?”
Darn! Too late! Ollie opens the car door and peers at me in alarm.
“I dropped an earring,” I mumble. Luckily the passenger footwell is full of old magazines and sweet wrappers, so finding anything in there could take a while – certainly long enough for him to get shot of Carolyn and for me to try making myself look a little more normal.
But unfortunately Ollie isn’t prepared to let me rummage in peace.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find it in a minute,” he says. “Come and say hi to Carolyn. She’s been helping me with the Key Stage 3 data analysis. Come on, Katy! Forget the earring for a minute.”
Katy Carter Keeps a Secret Page 7
