Yes, book signing is fascinating. I’m not sure what I was making such a fuss about. Books and the City is a small independent bookstore in Manhattan and it’s fairly quiet. I’m safe enough here. It’s not as though CNN are about to burst in and interview me.
So, here I am. It’s just gone two p.m. and things seem to be going well. Isara Lovett has made an appearance, the contractual obligations have been met and honour is satisfied. Now I only have to survive for another hour and I can escape back on the subway and into obscurity. Nobody will ever be any the wiser. The book’s only been out a couple of days and hopefully it’s going to sink without a trace. There are piles of it on the table in front of me and posters in the window and even a massive cardboard cut-out of it by the door, but no one seems very interested. Although I’m sitting here at the table, my pen clutched in my hand and poised for action, my powers of invisibility are strong. Besides, why should people be remotely bothered about an author they’ve never heard of? On a sunny Saturday New Yorkers have got far more exciting things to do than come and see a nobody called Isara Lovett. They’ll all be jogging around Central Park or sipping wheatgrass juice in trendy juice bars.
Luckily for me.
Still, when Lisa called and demanded that I did this signing I had no idea that Books and the City would be so quiet. The customers are certainly giving me quite a wide berth, which I suppose could be something to do with the way I’m dressed, or maybe the cardboard cut-out of Alexi wielding a whisk? It’s hard to say. In any case, my shopping trip with Frankie has worked a treat. It was definitely worth maxing out what little credit was left on my Barclaycard: I hardly recognise myself now, thank goodness.
I look like I should be heading for the Playboy Mansion, not flogging books. Frankie’s gone totally over the top styling Isara Lovett but the end result looks nothing like me. Even Tansy Topham would be impressed. I think we’ve got the outfit exactly right in the end, even if it wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind initially.
“Are you sure it’s not too much?” I’d asked Frankie as I’d stepped out of the Saks fitting room and done a little twirl. “Wouldn’t a trouser suit be better? This is a bit revealing.”
“You’re a purveyor of passion, not a librarian,” he’d said, stepping forward and adjusting the lapel of the tight jacket to reveal my new scarlet bra. “Darling, it’s perfect. You look very sexy and totally like the writer of erotic romance. Even I think you’re hot! Nobody will ever know it’s you.”
I think that was a double-edged compliment but he’s right, thank God: when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shop window there’s Isara Lovett – writer of steamy books and absolutely nothing to do with Katy Carter.
A bit like Clark Kent to Superman, Isara favours dark colours and glasses, but there the resemblance ends. We might be able to glimpse her pants, but that’s because she’s wearing a ridiculously short skirt rather than because she’s put them on over her tights. As if! Isara Lovett doesn’t wear tights. No, she’s a stockings girl through and through.
Unfortunately for me.
I shift a bit in my seat because actually stockings are flipping uncomfortable and the suspender belt’s cutting into my middle. That could be down to my newly discovered passion for pastrami on rye, or merely because these garments are more torturous than anything good old Alexi could dream up in his kitchen. But if it’s good enough for Lucinda then I guess it’s good enough for me, even if I feel as though I’m being sliced in half. Add a blonde wig and a full face of make-up into the mix as well as Frankie’s cool fashion specs, and ta-da! Isara Lovett has arrived.
It’s a good disguise. Even Guy walked straight past me earlier in the hotel lobby. I had to run after him and the expression on his face was priceless.
“It’s me!” I’d said, when he’d failed to recognise me. “Katy! I’m off to a book signing.”
“Bloody hell! I thought you were a hooker!” Guy had exclaimed. “What kind of a book signing is it?”
“One I’d rather not go to,” I’d said darkly, and then the film crew had arrived to collect him and I’d been left to make my own way to Books and the City by subway.
I got some very strange looks.
Anyhow, I think I’ve got away with it.
As the customers browse the bookshelves and pretend not to see me, I lean back in my seat and watch some tumbleweed blow by. Then I flick through a copy of the book, wincing a little at the scene with the cabbages and the washing line. I’m just about to send Ollie a text when the phone rings. It’s Mads.
“Hi!” I say, pleased to hear from her. “You’ll never guess what.”
“Guy’s famous?” says Maddy.
I sit up. “No way! At home too?”
“Absolutely. Holly’s just popped in. Apparently Question Time want him as a panellist as soon as he’s back, and UKIP have called too.”
“Crikey,” I say. “That’s just insane. All he’s done is stomp about, make crazy comments and shoot his mouth off.”
“Sounds like he has a great career in politics ahead of him,” Mads muses. “Get him home fast or he’ll probably be running for president by tonight.”
“Poor old Pinchy’s hardly getting a look-in – and the docudrama was supposed to be about his epic journey, not Guy goes to the city,” I sigh.
My best friend laughs. “I bet he’s amusing to watch but I’m sure the novelty will wear off.”
“Maybe,” I say doubtfully. It hasn’t on Holly though, so why should the media be any different?
“There’s lots of talk about the lobster here, so don’t worry,” Mads reassures me. “Maybe you could write a book about it? Pinchy’s Journey? That could be fun, although it does sound a bit like a scene from Alexi’s kinky kitchen!”
“Don’t even joke about it,” I say grimly. “I’m never writing a novel again. The stress of this book has well and truly strangled the muse. In fact, if she ever dares come near me again, shoot me.”
“Ah yes, the book signing. That was why I called. How’s it going? I loved the picture Frankie sent me, by the way. You look like Tansy in her lads’-mags heyday. You should take that outfit home and give Ollie a treat.”
“Ha ha,” I say. Until I find out where that thousand pounds went, treats of any kind are off the table. Not that they’ve been on it for a while, but you get my point. It’s the principle of the thing that counts.
Sensing my mood, Mads changes the subject swiftly. “Have you signed lots of books?”
“Only six,” I admit, “and I think they were out of pity. With any luck Kitchen of Correction will be a huge flop and never be seen or heard of again, and I’ll be left in peace. There are lots of people shopping but I don’t think Alexi and Lucinda are their cup of tea.”
“Since when did Alexi and Lucinda bother with tea?” Maddy giggles. “Although, saying that, there was the bit where they got the tin of Earl Grey and—”
“Stop right there,” I say, wincing. “You need help, coming up with ideas like that.”
“That was Nicky’s input. I can’t take credit. Honestly, that boy is a writing dynamo. And talking of needing help and the Burrows family, do you still want me to ring Tansy’s company incognito and book them to do the food for Ollie’s mum’s birthday bash?” Maddy asks.
“Yes please,” I reply. “She’ll try and do it for free if she knows it’s me.”
“OK. Consider it done. Now, I know you booked the hotel but is there anything else you want me to sort out?”
I’m throwing a surprise birthday party for Ann Burrows. Nothing huge, just a some of her closest friends and family at the Tregowan Country Hotel. I posted the invitations just before I left for the airport and already several friends and relatives have emailed to say they’ll be there, including Ann’s pastor. I just hope Ann never finds out that I’m paying for this with the rest of my advance for Kitchen. She’s very nice but terribly strait-laced and I think she’d pop. Geoff would love it though – especially after a few glasses o
f red.
“It’s a really nice thing for you to do,” Maddy says warmly. “And Ollie has no idea?”
“No, I just told him that I’d take care of his mum’s birthday. I’ve booked a restaurant the day before and he thinks that’s it. He’s got no idea about the rest of it. I wanted to take as much pressure off him as possible,” I tell her.
This seemed like a good plan at the time, but since discovering that Ollie goes on thousand-pound spending sprees as soon as I’m out of sight, I’m wondering if the gesture is quite as deserved as I’d thought. What on earth has he been buying?
“Katy?” Maddy says. “Are you still there?”
“Yes. Still here.” In body if not in mind. “Keep everything quiet, Maddy, OK? It’s going to be a surprise. Take care when you book that nobody knows it’s to do with me. Or you.”
“No probs. I’ll pretend to be somebody else. Maybe I’ll even do an Irish accent? Top of the morning to you!”
“No! Don’t do that! They’ll think you’re a prank caller!”
Maddy rings off laughing and I turn my attention back to the task in hand, namely being Isara and promoting the books. A couple of spotty teenagers sidle up and try to sneak a read of the juicy bits, so I give them my best teacher glare and they soon skulk away. Then all is very still. It’s as though my signing table has a force field around it that repels all the customers. I’m contemplating buying an adult colouring book to pass the time, when the shop door bursts open and Guy strides in.
Oh God. Please strike me dead now.
He’s brought the film crew with him – and please tell me that isn’t Pinchy in that tank?
“Katy! There you are!” Guy booms, waving at me delightedly, while I wonder where to hide. “I’ve been in nearly every bloody bookshop in this twatting city trying to find you, and nobody’s even heard of you! I kept saying, ‘Katy Carter, you harrises! She’s my girlfriend’s sister and she’s promoting her book.’ We’re practically family and I’m here on Holly’s behalf! We won’t let you down. You need our support and you’ll bloody well have it!”
“Err, actually I don’t,” I begin, but Guy isn’t listening; he’s far too busy berating the bookshop manager while his entourage clap and cheer.
Oh holy crap. They’re filming.
“See!” he hollers, jabbing a giant finger in my direction. “I told you that was her! Katy Carter, my girlfriend’s sister. She’s written a book. No idea what it’s about though, because I don’t read books. You said she wasn’t here, you fibbers!”
“That’s not Katy Carter. That’s Isara Lovett,” says the bookstore’s manager faintly, looking on in shock while cameras whir and a huge microphone hovers over her head.
“Isaac who?” Guy bellows. “Never heard of him! That’s Katy Carter! She’s wearing a daft wig but it’s definitely our Katy! Give her credit for her own bloody book! Right, Katy?”
Err no, wrong actually – although it’s sweet of Guy to be incensed on my behalf. Sweet if misplaced and pretty flipping annoying.
“Who’s this Isaac anyway?” he adds, scanning the shop like the Terminator looking for Sarah Connor. “If he’s stealing your work he needs sorting.”
“I’m Isara,” I hiss. “It’s me!”
Guy stares at me. “Eh?”
“I’m Isara!”
“Don’t be stupid! You’re Katy!”
“Isara’s my pen name.”
“A what name?”
“A made-up name to keep my identity secret,” I tell him in a whisper. “So nobody at home knows it was me who wrote it. Look at the book! Then you’ll see!”
Guy picks up a copy, clocks the cover and does a double take. His jaw drops. “Fucking hell. You wrote that?”
“No, Pinchy did!” I say, before lowering my voice again. “Of course I wrote it, Guy. But look, you can’t tell a soul this is me. I mean it! This has to be a secret.”
But Guy’s too preoccupied with flicking through a copy of Kitchen to listen to me. Moments later most of the documentary team have also picked up copies and are engrossed. Cries of “ooo!” and “Read this bit!” ripple through the group, and a crowd of shoppers gather around my table to see what all the fuss is about. Before long all the piles of books have been grabbed by curious hands and the tills are ringing. The crowd’s getting bigger and bigger and the film crew are interviewing a couple of excited customers. It even looks as though CNN are here, although I might be mistaken.
I certainly hope so.
Guy’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with a paperback in his hand and his mouth hanging open.
“I’ll never see that filthy bugger Ollie Burrows the same way again,” he says, shaking his head incredulously. “I can’t believe what he does with wet tea towels!”
“It’s a work of fiction!” I cry. “It’s totally made up!”
But of course nobody’s listening to me. No, they’re all far too busy either reading or speculating about the true identity of Alexi. They don’t care if it’s all fiction. The story has taken on a monstrous life of its own.
Oh God. All those years spent teaching media studies at A-level and it’s only now that I really understand what Roland Barthes was on about. What does it matter what the truth is when there’s a good story to spin? And who cares what the author really meant?
This is a disaster! Things couldn’t be worse. Now everyone will think that I’ve based this book on my own love life. Ollie will be mortified and St Jude’s will freak. What have I done?
“Katy Carter? NYC News! Would you like to tell us about the book? And what input your own life had in the writing of it?”
“City Tonight! Do you research all the episodes yourself?”
“New York Enquirer! What was the inspiration for the book? And how long have you known Guy?”
“Congratulations,” the store manager says, turning to me. Her smile couldn’t be wider. “We’ve sold every single copy and had orders for over a hundred more. You’re going to have a bestseller on your hands, no doubt about it. This book is going to be huge!”
I put my head in my hands.
This was not what I had in mind. Not at all.
Ollie is going to kill me.
And I don’t blame him one bit.
Chapter 19
Throb
Fiction that’s red hot and ready!
Eros Towers * Sherrington Boulevard * W14 6BY
Dear Katy,
Many thanks on the behalf of Throb for such a successful international launch for Kitchen of Correction. Everyone on the team is delighted and the book is already on its fifth print run. It is now one of our most downloaded products – in both eBook and audio format.
Thanks also for the delivery of the New York pizzas. Yes, you were correct in fearing that they ‘might not travel that well’. Again we donated your kind gift to the builders working next door. The foreman sends his thanks and says his wife is a huge fan of your work. He is currently signed off following a mishap involving a cabbage and a washing line, but hopes to make a full recovery.
Unfortunately, we cannot forget about the ‘small clause’ which says the author must be available to write the next two novels. If you look carefully at the sixth paragraph in your contract you will see it is clearly stated that once signed the document is legally binding.
We look forward to reading the first draft of Sitting Room of Sin!
Best wishes,
Lisa Armstrong (Senior Commissioning Editor)
PS. Would it be possible to have some signed pictures of Guy Tregarten? We are all huge fans here!
It’s two weeks later. Two very long weeks later. Two weeks in which I’ve alternated between apologising to Ollie over and over again and feeling so crippled by guilt that even if the St Jude’s priest gave me a million Hail Marys to recite it wouldn’t make any difference. Not that St Jude’s will let me anywhere near the place after the fiasco of the last fourteen days; they’re more likely to ward me off with flaming torches and crucifixes
Hammer House of Horror style – if lightning doesn’t sizzle me first, of course.
Since Guy outed me as the author of Kitchen of Correction everything’s gone quite crazy. This isn’t because of me or even because the book’s anything special (believe me, it really isn’t). No, it’s all down to the American public’s weird obsession with Guy. Suddenly everything he’s associated with is of huge interest, which is good news for lobster conservation and Throb but very bad news for me.
And even worse news for Ollie.
My cover’s well and truly blown and I feel terrible. Not only have I caused Ollie huge embarrassment at school but he’s incredibly hurt that I kept the book a secret for so long. I’ve only been home for a few days and the atmosphere between us is so glacial that Sasha’s paws are in danger of getting frostbite. And as for Nicky, when he isn’t out working he’s taken to hiding in his room, muttering that this is just like being back with his parents. I don’t know what I can do to make things right again.
Talking of Mr and Mrs Burrows, as if things weren’t strained enough already, Ollie and Nicky’s parents arrive this afternoon for Ann’s birthday celebrations. That means Ollie and I will need to be on our very best behaviour – any indication that something’s up and Ann will be straight in there like Sasha after a rabbit. Tonight we’re all going to a local seafood restaurant for a smart family meal, which will probably be about as much fun as sleeping naked on a bed of nails. Thank goodness Mads booked Tansy’s caterers for tomorrow’s surprise party. With the Tregowan Country Hotel as the venue it should be really classy and can’t fail to impress Ann. Maybe when Ollie sees all the trouble I’ve gone to on his mother’s behalf he’ll forgive me for the whole Throb fiasco.
I can only hope…
“I wouldn’t count on it,” is my sister’s cheerful response when, over tea and cake at her house, I voice this optimistic opinion.
Katy Carter Keeps a Secret Page 18
