“As if. If it’s a boy I’m calling him George,” she tells him. “A nice middle-class, sensible name.”
“Seriously?” Dad looks devastated. “With a name like that the poor little bugger will end up a bank manager.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” Holly says with feeling. “Anything but a fisherman or a hippy will be just fine by me.”
“What did I do to end up with two such bourgeois daughters?” grumbles my father, sitting down on his younger daughter’s bourgeois sofa and making himself very much at home.
“Drag us from pillar to post while you got stoned, but you won’t remember that,” my sister reminds him tartly. “Now stop complaining and tell us all about Spain. It’s been bloody cold here and I’m very jealous of your tan.”
While Holly makes tea Dad regales us with tales of their travels. He’s a brilliant storyteller, which always made him a firm favourite with all my friends, and I find myself laughing as he describes how he accidentally asked a barman in Castile for two toilets rather than two beers.
“His face! He said ‘Qué? Qué?’” Dad guffaws. “I think he thought I had some lavatory fetish because I asked him over and over again and mimed drinking! Then your mother arrived from her rebirthing class and was able to explain what I meant. How we laughed! We had a great night in the bar after that, drinking Spanish beer and smoking until the sun came up, and then José joined us for the next hundred miles.”
Mum and Dad always end up collecting waifs and strays. When I was a kid the house was full of them. The one who was convinced he was Tutankhamun was quite hard work, especially as he had an annoying habit of stealing my eyeliner.
I glance at my watch. Crikey. It’s almost six. Where’s the time gone? I should be at home getting ready for tonight’s meal. Ollie’s getting back early and I’m going to do my best to make sure it’s a lovely evening. He’s had an awful week and I really want him to relax. This is going to be a great weekend.
Even if it kills me.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, putting down my mug.
Dad looks disappointed. “You haven’t seen Mum yet.”
“She’s probably still trying to park,” says Holly. “Or else she’s met somebody interesting and wandered off. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
We all fall silent. When I was thirteen Mum went out to do some shopping and didn’t come back for two months. Turned out she’d met a toy boy called Rain and her guides had told her she needed to travel with him. Dad was fine about it – my parents have a very peculiar relationship – but Holly and I were horrified. I think it was at this point Holly buried herself in textbooks and I discovered Mills and Boon novels, hoarding them and reading them from cover to cover until they all but disintegrated in my hands. One day I just knew I would find a romantic hero of my very own who would sweep me off my feet and rescue me from these utter lunatics who just so happened to share my DNA. We’d live happily ever after in his castle/Bedouin tent/New York town house (delete as appropriate) and the past would be forgotten.
Or at least as forgotten as it can be when it insists on driving a psychedelic camper van back into the pile-up of my life.
Anyway, I never did hook up with a duke/sheikh/billionaire, but I am lucky enough to have found Ollie Burrows – the only romantic hero I’ll ever want in my life. I really want to make everything up to him, which is why I cannot let my parents ruin Ann’s special dinner.
But quite how I’m going to prevent them doing that is anyone’s guess.
“Don’t let them out of your sight,” I hiss at my sister as I head to the door. “Keep them with you!”
“Err, they’re adults,” Holly says.
We both glance across at Dad, who’s beeping away happily on Guy’s Xbox.
“Or maybe not,” she grins. “Look, I’ll do my best but be prepared for the worst. If he says they’ve come here especially for Ann’s birthday, then there’s not much I can do to stop them. Besides, it would be cruel. They don’t mean any harm.”
“You’ve changed your tune!” I’m a bit taken aback because usually Holly’s the first to moan about our parents while I have to defend them. When Mum took up with Rain, Holly didn’t speak to her for months. It didn’t matter that Dad was fine with it all (he’s generally happy if left to garden and experiment with home-made wine). My sister was incensed.
But no longer, it seems. Instead, she rests a hand on her stomach and a beatific expression settles across her face.
“Now I’m a parent myself I see it all quite differently.”
Holly’s baby is probably the size of a kidney bean but as usual I’m trumped by the you’re not a mother card.
“They were only doing their best,” she adds sagely.
They were? This is news to me. To be honest, if my parents were students in my class I’d be scrawling could try harder and see me all over their books, and sod PC green biro; I’d be using blood-red ink.
“Err, Holl, don’t you always say that Philip Larkin must have based his famous poem on them?”
But Holly refuses to rise to my bait and I make my way back home feeling disgruntled and hard done by, in other words exactly like I did when I was a teenager. What is it about parents that just minutes in their company whizzes you back in time like something from Dr Who?
“What’s up with you?” asks Ollie when, ten minutes later, I stomp into our sitting room.
“Mum and Dad have just rocked up.”
“Ah,” says Ollie. “Now I know why there’s a VW wedged between two cottages. Nobody knew where the driver had gone until Betty from the shop traced them to the pub. It’s caused chaos.”
This sounds about right. I hurl myself onto the sofa and start to gnaw the skin around my thumbnail. If I end up at my elbows it will be all Quentin and Drusilla’s fault.
“They’ve come down to celebrate your mum’s birthday,” I tell him. “They’re threatening to join us for dinner.”
Ollie takes his glasses off and grinds his knuckles into his eyes. “Oh Lord, are they? Well, I guess I’d better call the restaurant and see if they can squeeze in another couple of places.”
I have a sense of doom, like the one I tend to get when I open my bank statements.
“I can put them off.” I cross my fingers behind my back. At least I flipping hope I can. The trouble is, once my mother gets an idea into her head there’s usually no stopping her. She also has a habit of saying her spirit guides have told her to do something, which is pretty hard to argue with and jolly convenient too. Maybe I should get a couple of my own?
But Ollie just sighs and shakes his head. “They’re your parents and they’d be so hurt if we excluded them. Besides, you haven’t seen your folks for ages.”
And this is why I love Ollie so much. He knows my parents, has seen first-hand the chaos they can create, but he’s still thinking of them and of me. If I didn’t already feel bad enough for the havoc I’ve caused him lately I feel ten times worse now. He’s so generous and so kind. If we could only get to the bottom of the savings account thing. Maybe I should ask him?
Never mind what Maddy says; everyone knows relationships should be all about honesty.
“Ol,” I say slowly. “Did you go shopping while I was in New York?”
“What kind of a question is that? Of course. I’d have starved otherwise!” He’s scrolling through the phonebook of his mobile now, looking for the restaurant number.
“Not food shopping!” Oh sod it, I may as well just ask him outright. “Buying presents for someone? Expensive presents?”
Ollie’s finger hovers over the keypad. Time seems to stand still and all I can hear is the ticking of the sitting-room clock and Sasha’s gentle snoring from her basket. Even the dust motes seem to pause in mid-air. It feels as though my whole world is holding its breath and that everything depends on what he says next.
Ollie’s looking intently at the phone. “No, definitely not. Why on earth would you think that?”
My heart tightens in my chest. He’
s lying to me. Ollie never lies to me – or at least, I never thought he did. He’s honest and true and straightforward, while I’m a bit scatty and forgetful and get into scrapes. That’s how it is. How we are. I’ve always trusted him totally. Why would he lie now, unless there really is something he needs to hide?
“I saw the bank statement on our savings account. You transferred a thousand pounds to your credit card,” I say quietly.
There’s a pause, just a millisecond too long, before he nods.
“Oh yeah. I’d totally forgotten that with everything else that’s been going on. I bought Mum a necklace for her birthday. It was a hundred quid, not a thousand, but some numpty must have charged my credit card wrong. I love my mum but not that much! Anyway, hopefully it’s all sorted now. The account should be back to normal and the money back.”
“It was a necklace? For Ann?”
“Yep. Why, what did you think it was? Me buying gifts for another woman?”
Err yes, that’s exactly what I thought, not that I dare say so.
“I’m not the one who’s been leading a double life,” he adds. “Am I Katy? Or should I say Isara?”
And what can I say to this? He’s right.
“I only took that ghostwriting job to pay the bills and to try and make things easier!” I protest. “I wish I hadn’t!”
“Believe me, you’re not the only one,” says my boyfriend darkly. “But my point is, Katy, I thought we trusted each other. We’re best friends, aren’t we?”
I nod. Ollie was my best friend in the world way before he was my boyfriend.
“So what’s gone wrong?” he asks me, looking so sad that my heart breaks. “Is life here in Tregowan not enough for you anymore? Do you want to be in New York? Live the celeb lifestyle like Frankie and Gabriel?”
I shudder. I tried that before when Gabriel paid me to be his girlfriend. It’s a long story but it didn’t end well and, believe me, he’s far better off with Frankie –who has a greater appreciation of hair and make-up than I ever will.
“I know I’m just a teacher and I’ll never be a wealthy guy,” Ollie continues, “but I’m working as hard as I can for us, Katy, and I love you. Yes, you’re crazy and annoying and even after all these years I still have absolutely no idea quite what goes on in your head, but I do love you. I always have.”
There’s a lump in my throat like a beach ball and I leap up from the sofa to hug him, but Ollie holds up his hands, warding me off.
“I love you,” he repeats, “but, Katy, I can’t cope with all these dramas anymore. Maybe I’m getting old, maybe I’m a boring old git, but I just want life to be straightforward. Please can we have no more secrets and no more scrapes? And no more Throb novels? I can still hardly get to my desk for cabbages and students keep leaving clothes pegs on my chair. I thought maybe they’d get bored of it all after a week or so, but there’s been no let-up. My backside’s black and blue, and not from washing lines either!”
My eyes are so full of tears I can hardly see.
“No more dramas,” I agree. I mean it too. From henceforth I will avoid dramas like the plague!
Ollie opens his arms and I step into them. His embrace is familiar and safe and warm, and I know I love him as much now as I ever have. There’s nothing, nothing I wouldn’t do for him. Somehow I’ll get out of that Throb contract. There has to be a way.
Ollie kisses me and wipes my tears away with his thumbs.
“Now, I know I said no more dramas,” he smiles ruefully, “but I’d still better get hold of the restaurant and sort out some extra places for your parents!”
To be honest, my parents are the least of my problems. Love Ollie as I do, at the back of my mind there’s still a lurking shadow and no matter how hard I try, it won’t go away but insists on creeping forward. I don’t dare mention it.
The problem is I’ve not seen a refund for that necklace land in the account – and I’ve been checking it non-stop.
Ollie isn’t telling me the whole truth.
And I’ve no idea why.
Chapter 21
Normally I love eating at Joe’s. It’s a small seafood restaurant tucked down one of Tregowan’s narrow backstreets – all low ceilings strung with fishing nets, and crammed with an eclectic mixture of tables and chairs that look as though they’ve been borrowed from the neighbours (and probably have, since the chef originally opened his restaurant in his front room). The place still has a homely feeling about it and eating there is cosy for sure, as you’re usually squashed right up against your neighbour or else balancing on a stool. Nobody ever complains though, because the food’s so good.
Getting a seat in Joe’s always means a wonderful meal, so Ollie and I go there whenever we have enough spare change in our pot. There’s no choice on the menu; Joe serves whatever he’s bought from the boats that day and the fish is so fresh it’s practically swimming across the plate. Mussels, crabs and, I hate to say it, lobsters backstroke in garlic butter, which you can mop up with wads of freshly baked bread.
There’s always a good atmosphere there, too. In the evenings it’s dimly lit with candles rammed into wine bottles, the necks of which are stalactited with congealed wax. Conversation flows as readily as the Chianti and the air’s so thick with the scent of garlic and fresh bread that you can more or less taste it.
So, as I say, usually I love eating in this place – but tonight is definitely not one of those times. Quite the opposite in fact. I’m so on edge I don’t think I’ll manage a mouthful.
Ollie’s somehow wangled an extra two places, which makes the seating arrangements interesting to say the least. Ann and Geoff Burrows are on one side of the makeshift table, opposite Ollie and Nicky, with me perched at one end and my father at the other. As always the restaurant’s packed and we’re crammed together like proverbial sardines. Of my mother there’s been absolutely no sign whatsoever, so I’m assuming that she’s still in the pub – and I’m crossing everything that she stays there. So far all has gone smoothly enough, give or take a couple of dodgy moments (like when Dad and Nicky sneaked outside for a smoke), and now we’re tucking into our moules starters while wine expert Geoff takes care of the booze.
“Ah, Châteauneuf-du-Pape 1996,” he says, his eyes lighting up when the waiter proffers a dusty bottle. “That’s a fine vintage, wouldn’t you agree, Quentin?”
My father, utterly clueless, beams at him. “As long as it gets us all pissed it’s good by me!”
Nicky snorts with laughter. He’s been giggling a lot since he came back inside and his eyes keep crossing. I don’t think Ann has noticed but Ollie and I, both well trained in Personal and Social Education, are on full alert. Honestly, I could throttle my father. Will he ever grow up?
Geoff pours the wine now and swirls it thoughtfully. Then, in practised style, he lowers his nose just above the rim of the glass and inhales deeply.
“Drink it, mate, don’t snort it,” Dad advises. “It’s not cocaine! That’s for later!”
Ann winces and Geoff splutters. I guess this isn’t how their wine-tasting evenings usually go.
“Joke!” Dad says swiftly when he sees my expression. “That was a joke! I can’t afford coke! That’s a joke too by the way! Ha ha!”
But Nicky’s the only person laughing. Ollie raises his eyes to the ceiling, Ann is grimacing and Geoff is back to the serious business of wine tasting.
“Hmm, a bouquet of marzipan and blackcurrant, topped with overtones of citrus and woodsmoke,” he pronounces with a serious expression. “And maybe a note of seafood?”
Now, after five years with Ollie, I’m pretty used to Geoff and his wine snobbery; wine for Geoff is Very Serious Indeed. He can be a bit pompous but he means well and, as Ollie always says, at least whenever we spend Christmas in Surrey we’re always guaranteed some good wine. My father, however, is more used to his lethal home-made nettle wine and finds this whole performance absolutely hilarious.
“Marzipan and woodsmoke!” he guffaws. “What
on earth are you going on about, Geoff? It’s just booze! Now let’s get stuck in!”
And before Geoff can even draw breath, Dad reaches across and busies himself sloshing sixty-quid claret into everyone’s glasses before raising his own.
“To the beautiful Ann!” he says, winking at her. “Sixty and still sexy! Woof woof!”
Oh God. He’s hammered. I glance nervously across the table at Ann but luckily she seems thrilled with this toast; she’s even blushing a little. I guess the people at her church don’t generally call her sexy. It’s also true to say that when Dad turns up the smooth talk and goes all twinkly-eyed he still has that magic which makes women of all ages go daft and giggly.
“Quentin, you’re such a charmer,” Ann says coyly, peeping up at him from under her lashes, Princess Diana style.
Charmer is not the word I’d use to describe my father. Liability would come closer. On the other hand, Dad’s a great raconteur and people always enjoy his company – easy to do if you’re not related to him – and as we eat he regales us with stories of his travels around Europe. I can hardly swallow a mouthful though. I’m way too terrified he’s going to launch into tales of the naked goddess workshops. Pillar of the church Ann will have a pink fit, although Geoff will probably be off to Spain to join up before the main courses have even arrived! When Dad goes to show Ann his newest tattoo I nearly faint with fright. Thank goodness this one is on his arm…
Whatever I did in a past life to deserve this must have been really bad. I was probably Mussolini or something.
Ollie, who knows me so well and can interpret the I’m having a great time rigor mortis smile on my face, squeezes my hand under the table. “Relax, Katy. Mum and Dad are having fun, the food’s great and even Nicky’s taken the night off work for once. Your Dad’s on form and they’re having a really nice evening. Mum can have a sedate time tomorrow when we take her out for afternoon tea.”
I nod, although I know full well that tomorrow afternoon will be far from sedate. Tomorrow’s Ann’s birthday and I’ve got my surprise gathering planned at the Tregowan Country Hotel, where Ollie thinks we’re taking her for a cream tea. I’ll make some excuse to join them later on, when really I’ll be hiding with the guests, ready to wow Ann with the bespoke catering Tansy’s so proud of. I can’t say I ever imagined that cooking was Tansy’s thing, but Nicky’s been inundated with work so BBs must be pretty good. I can’t help smiling to myself a little because Nicky’s actually working tomorrow night and hasn’t a clue he’s booked for his own mother’s do. I really do think this is utter genius on my part, even if I say so myself! I can’t wait to see Ann’s face when she sees him. She’s going to be so proud.
Katy Carter Keeps a Secret Page 20
