“Fucking hell,” says Guy, and I couldn’t put it better myself.
“Guy, honey,” says Helen, “if you play your cards right you and your little lobster buddy could be real famous! What do you say to that?”
Guy looks shell-shocked and for once he’s totally silent. And as for Pinchy, well, being a lobster he doesn’t care for shallow things like fame and fortune. Instead he cleans his antennae and regards me thoughtfully, as though asking quite what I’ve got him into now. To be honest, I haven’t a clue – but whatever it is, it looks as though it’s going to be fun. And best of all? I haven’t stressed about Throb or Carolyn Miles or my finances for hours.
Coming to New York was a very good idea.
Chapter 17
I can’t believe I’m in Saks Fifth Avenue! I’m really, really here wandering through the perfume and make-up departments, and tiptoeing past the Louis Vuitton concession (I’m rocking my hand-me-down bag from Tansy, but nonetheless I imagine I’m probably attracting scorn from some of the customers there because it’s so last season). And now I’m riding the elegant elevator to the champagne bar where I’m meeting Frankie. This is nothing like my usual life of telling off teenagers and dodging spit balls or paper aeroplanes, that’s for sure. I feel as though I’ve landed on a TV set. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Sarah Jessica Parker and Kim Cattrall breezed in at any minute and ordered cosmopolitans.
Maybe I should have one too? After all, I’m a writer in New York City so it’s practically the law! And I’m Isara Lovett too, aren’t I? So I’ll channel my inner Carrie Bradshaw. Perhaps I’ll even get my own column and a walk-in shoe wardrobe. Then Ollie and I can get a fashionable loft apartment and spend our days drinking coffee like in Friends or walking hand in hand around Central Park. How amazing would that be? I’ll be so successful that he’ll never have to go to St Jude’s again, and I’ll wear a tutu dress even if I look ridiculous.
As I perch on a tiny stool to order my drink I feel my mobile buzz in my (so last-season) bag. Maybe it’s Ollie wanting to Skype? I do hope so because then I could add the Saks champagne bar to the list of places we’ve chatted in the days since I arrived in the USA. So far he’s joined me at the top of the Rockefeller Center, chatted to me during a boat trip to Liberty Island, watched as I’ve scoffed pizza under the Brooklyn Bridge, and shared several jaunts through Times Square. I’m missing him hugely and seeing New York on my own isn’t nearly as much fun. It’s a big city when you’re by yourself, and sharing it with Ollie would have been wonderful. I’m determined that one day we’ll be here together.
Rooting around in Tansy’s bag for my phone I can’t help reflecting that this trip’s totally wasted on Guy. He’s not done any sightseeing at all. In fact, I’ve hardly seen him because he’s been flat out with marine biologists and film crews. And since he went out on prime-time television everything’s gone a bit crazy: it seems the Americans can’t get enough of him.
I know. It’s mad. Five minutes of Guy Tregarten is usually quite enough for most of us.
“He could have a whole new career out here if he wanted it,” Frankie had told me as we sat in my hotel room and watched Guy on The Late Late Show, stunned that he’d flown to LA without a fuss. “They absolutely love him! They think he could be the next Chef Ramsay.”
“But he doesn’t do anything except swear and voice outrageous opinions!” I’d said.
“That never did Gordon any harm, angel,” Frankie had pointed out. “And you must admit, Guy’s easy on the eye and very entertaining.”
I’d shrugged. I guess my prospective brother-in-law is good-looking in a testosterony loud way. All that hauling of nets and lifting of fish boxes has certainly given him a good body, and his skin is tanned and healthy from the outdoors life. So yes, he is attractive – until he opens his mouth. Holly obviously loves him to bits and I know he adores her, but TV stardom? I can’t say I saw that coming. Guy wouldn’t want that surely? He lives for fishing and his life with Holly. And there’s the baby too now.
Anyway, whether he’s entertaining by accident or by design, Guy is certainly grabbing attention. No doubt all this is helping to publicise the state of the UK fishing industry, and it’s probably even better news for lobster conservation, but it means I’ve been left at a bit of a loose end. I’ve visited Pinchy several times for a chat but he’s not the greatest conversationalist, and Frankie’s been busy. So I’ve spent the past few days exploring New York on my own. Like I said, it’s an amazing city but I miss Ollie desperately. As soon as I get home I’ll have to tell him the truth about Throb. We can’t have secrets between us anymore and I will never, ever keep anything from Ollie again. Buying new clothes and finishing the chocolate biscuits in one sitting don’t count as secrets anyway. Those things are more like just forgetting a few details. But everything else I’ll definitely tell him.
I finally locate my phone, and then frown because I don’t recognise this caller’s number. 020 is a London number, isn’t it? Who do I know in London? And why would they be calling me first thing in the morning, UK time?
I have a sudden feeling of foreboding.
“Katy! Angel! Loving the bag! Is it a fake? From off the Fifth Avenue stalls? They have the best fakes ever there! I swear it’s where the B-listers really find their Birkins!”
“Frankie!” I spin around, and there he is, those Burrows family toffee-brown eyes twinkling at me from behind his trendy clear glasses. “Oh! You look very… different!”
Usually Frankie rocks heavy eyeliner, long flowing dark hair, swirling coats and dandy highwayman-style boots. A kind of New-Romantic-meets-Ross-Poldark look that would be familiar to any Screaming Queens fan worth their salt. But today I hardly recognise him! His hair is gelled back into a neat ponytail and mostly hidden beneath a jaunty pork-pie hat, the trademark eyeliner has been replaced by sophisticated specs, and he’s wearing a pinstriped suit and scarlet snakeskin boots so bright they make me want to head for the sunglasses department.
“I’m trialling my new look, darling,” Frankie says, giving me a twirl. “I’m a Serious Artist now, you know. I’m recording.”
“Wow! I’m impressed. One of my oldest friends is recording music in New York. How cool is that?”
He nods complacently. “It is, isn’t it? I just need to come up with some new tunes and I’ll be sorted.”
“I thought you said you’re recording?”
“I am. I just haven’t written any songs yet,” Frankie declares airily, hopping up onto the stool next to me. “Ooo! Champagne. Yes, please! I’ll have a glass of bubbly too.”
“So if you haven’t written any new music what were you recording?” Call me stupid but I would have thought recording actual music was key to the entire process.
“I don’t need music to start recording!” Frankie laughs, reaching across and patting my hand. “How little you know of the musical world, young Katy! No, before I even think about laying down some tracks I have to make sure my image is right and that I have some wonderful publicity shots. I’ve been very busy with my stylist. The music is immaterial. Seb says all I have to do is find my niche and then the music will come. It’s all about the image here.”
I glance around and realise that he’s not wrong. Everyone in New York is just so glamorous and so groomed. The women are reed slim and have beautiful waterfalls of blonde hair, while the guys are achingly hip with their funky beards and patent winkle-picker boots. In my ancient jeans, trainers and hoody I stand out a mile, and not in a good way.
“Do you like?” Frankie asks, pouting at me Zoolander style. “Dimitri – my stylist – thought I should go for a fresher, younger look. A bit Harry Styles crossed with Bieber, is how he put it.” He leans forward and squints into the mirror at the far side of the counter. “He even suggested Botox. What do you think? Am I wrinkly? Should I indulge?”
Frankie hasn’t aged a day since I first met him. Ironic really, as he’s certainly been the cause of a fair few of my grey hairs.
“You look great, but won’t your fans be disappointed if they expect to get heavy metal but end up with One Direction?”
“You could be right,” Frankie agrees, winking at his reflection and batting his lashes. “But in the meantime I shall enjoy! Those cloaks and cravats aren’t easy to wear, you know, and the thigh boots really chafed. But never mind me! What about you? Are you ready to shop?”
I nod. “I am, but I’m not sure my bank account is.”
Frankie sighs. “I’d offer to pay but I know you won’t let me. I know! Why don’t you just check your balance and see if you can treat yourself to just a teeny tiny little something? I know this store where they make the most divine little pendants that have special spiritual powers. I’m told Katie Holmes has one, and Madonna.”
I laugh because one of these pendants will probably cost about the same as my entire cottage, but it makes sense to check my pennies anyway. I’ve bought quite a few souvenirs since I’ve been here, including the ubiquitous Statue of Liberty T-shirt and a couple of Empire State Building mugs, but I haven’t gone crazy. Hey! Maybe I can find something really lovely for Ollie? Of all the people in the world, he most deserves a treat.
While Frankie orders some drinks I log into an online savings account. It’s not one we use often – in fact I’m under strict instructions not to touch it unless there’s a dire emergency – but surely Ol won’t mind if I use some for a little weeny splurge?
I type in my password and wait, and when I’m into the account it’s lucky I’ve already had a drink because a huge chunk of money’s gone. My heart goes into free fall.
Over a thousand pounds is missing.
One thousand pounds! That’s almost everything that was in there!
Have we been robbed?
With a racing pulse I scroll through the online statement. Maybe it’s a mistake? Or perhaps online fraudsters have struck? Any minute now I’ll discover that I supposedly have a porn addiction or a new-found liking for Internet bingo… You read about this kind of thing all the time, don’t you?
My shaking finger clicks on the transaction. Oh! It’s a transfer to Ollie’s credit card. He must be paying something off. But for a thousand pounds? What on earth could he have spent a thousand pounds on.
Oh God. Has the roof finally caved in? But if it had then I’d know about it. Maddy would have called me instantly.
Frankie glances at me. “Are you all right?”
“I... I…” I falter because my speech has suddenly dried up. Am I all right? To be honest I’m not sure, because the answer’s obvious, isn’t it? This is no mistake.
Ollie must have bought something for somebody else.
And he waited until I was out of the country to do it.
Have I been wrong about Carolyn? Has something been going on all this time?
“Katy?” Frankie says again.
“I’m fine,” I answer, but my voice sounds all wobbly and weird. “Just not in the mood for shopping.”
Frankie looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads – which is fair enough, because here I am in one of the world’s retail-therapy hotspots, with designer stores everywhere I turn, and I’m saying that I don’t feel like shopping. But I know that even if I bought twenty handbags and a hundred trinkets from Tiffany’s, none of this would make me feel any better. What does shopping matter if I’ve lost Ollie?
My heart’s slamming against my ribcage. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for why my boyfriend’s been secretly splashing the cash while I’m away, but even my active imagination’s struggling to come up with an explanation of what this could be. Ann Burrow’s sixtieth birthday is coming up soon. Has he bought her a present? But one thousand pounds? I know Ollie loves his mum, but that amount of money on a gift for her is verging on Oedipal.
“There’s not as much money in there as I’d hoped,” is all I manage to say. “Maybe we could just window-shop?”
Frankie looks horrified. “Darling girl, you can’t window-shop in New York. It’s practically against the law. What I think we should do is—”
But at this point my phone rings again and I snatch it up just in case it’s Ollie.
“Hello?” says a clipped voice. “Is that Katy?”
Oh. Not Ollie then. The surge of disappointment I feel is almost unbearable.
“It is,” I say.
“Thank God! We’ve been trying to get hold of you for days,” says the voice, sounding exasperated. “We had no idea you were in New York. You really should tell us if you’re out of the country – paragraph four, second clause, just in case you were wondering – but as it turns out this couldn’t be better!”
“Who?” mouths Frankie.
“No idea!” I mouth back.
“Sorry, who is this?” I ask when the unknown speaker pauses.
“Lisa Armstrong,” she says and, when I don’t reply, adds, “Senior Commissioning Editor at Throb Publishing?”
Great. Just great. Can this day get any worse?
“Hi, Lisa,” I say, trying to sound thrilled. “What can I do for you?”
So Lisa tells me and by the time the call ends I need the second glass of champagne that Frankie lined up for me, and the third too. There’s a huge cloud of doom hovering above my head and I’m finding it hard to find the silver lining.
Probably because there isn’t one.
“Spill,” says Frankie.
I gulp. “Remember that contract I signed without reading?”
“I certainly do. Don’t tell me – it’s come back to bite you on the bum?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say. “Throb want me to publicise the book for them. There’s a launch planned and I need to be there in role as Isara Lovett.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? I thought writers loved publicity for their books.”
“Usually. The trouble is that this book’s a bit on the saucy side.”
Frankie’s plucked brows shoot under his pork-pie hat.
“I take it by ‘saucy’ what you actually mean is mind-blowingly blue?”
I blush. “I swear to God I only wrote it to pay some bills. I never thought things would get this out of control.”
“Darling, you’re very sweet but there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” says Frankie kindly. “Bondage. BDSM. Whips. It’s all mainstream now, you know. In fact, I’d be far more ashamed if I was partaking in what folks used to call ‘normal’, if I were you. How dull would that be? Kinky is cool now, you know.”
I shake my head. “Not if your boyfriend’s the Assistant Head of a strict Catholic school, it isn’t.”
“Ah yes,” says Frankie, who gets it at once. “Oh dear. And you haven’t told him.”
It isn’t a question. He knows me far too well by now to need to ask.
“How could I?” I say despairingly. “It would have put Ollie in an impossible position. Besides, we needed the money.”
Frankie nods. “I get it. And now they want you to plug the book and your secret could be about to unravel.”
It feels a bit like my whole life is unravelling, although that could be down to three alcoholic drinks in quick succession.
“I can’t refuse, because it’s written into my contract,” I say, starting to gnaw on my thumbnail. “They could sue me, couldn’t they?”
“I’m afraid so,” he agrees. “Darling, I hate to say ‘I told you so’ but—”
I give him a grim smile. “I told you so?”
We both stare thoughtfully into our drinks. How on earth can I put things right with Ollie, tell the truth and get things sorted, if I’m about to do something that I know will compromise his career? There might be a very good explanation for the jewellery thing (although I’m yet to come up with one), but I won’t be able to explain things to him very easily if I come out as the appallingly named I Lovett. Ollie will be mortified and I’ll never forgive myself if I ruin his career. He loves that job.
Come on, Katy, there has to be a way out of th
is mess. A way that you can keep Throb happy and not embarrass Ollie. It’s all going to be fine. There must be a solution, short of heading for the International Space Station or hiding down in the sewers with the Ninja Turtles. Maybe I could even rock a disguise like Spiderman? Mild-mannered Katy Carter is Throb Woman!
Actually, that sounds a bit dodgy and I’d hate to see the costume.
Costumes. Disguise. Alter egos. Secret identities…
Hang on. I’m onto something…
And then, just like the perfect plot of one of I Lovett’s books, it all falls into place in my head. Of course! Secret identities are the key. It’s so obvious I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it already.
“Frankie,” I say slowly. “I think I’ve changed my mind about going shopping…”
Chapter 18
BOOKS AND THE CITY
Exclusive event!
Kitchen of Correction
by
I. Lovett
If you can’t stand the heat…
Meet and greet book signing with
Isara Lovett
Saturday 12 noon
Free book for the first thirty!
Well, so far so good. This book-signing lark is actually far less stressful than I thought. I’ve no idea what all those celebrities make such a song and dance about. All I’ve had to do is drink several coffees, sit behind a table, scribble my pretend signature onto some books and chat to a few folks about their own writing. It’s a bit awkward because some people want to just scuttle past like I’m collecting for charity or something, but others have been very kind. The nun who said she’d pray for me was lovely, and she did seem to really appreciate her free copy. I think it was quite sweet of her to take a few more for her sisters at the convent. The Hell’s Angel who insisted on having his photo taken with me was friendly too, and I think it only goes to show that just because someone’s got a tattoo of the grim reaper on their face doesn’t necessarily mean they’re a bad person. And like he said, the murder wasn’t really his fault and he’s served his time for helping hide the body.
Katy Carter Keeps a Secret Page 17
