“Do you like it?” she asks when she spots me in the doorway. “I thought the usual lilies and roses were a bit dull so I’ve decided to mix things up a bit. Cool, huh?”
I glance around. The church certainly looks vibrant with its new lurid colour scheme of clashing lilac and orange, but the congregation will probably need their sunglasses on. Still, I don’t mention this. It’s more than my life’s worth. It’s probably best not to mention either that Rafferty and Bluebell are busy pulling the pages out of hymn books and poking them through the heating grills in the floor. Hopefully it won’t cause a fire before I’ve managed to bend my best friend’s ear.
“Bloody flowers,” grumbles Mads, cramming a few more blooms into a vase before pushing it onto a dusty windowsill. “Bane of my life. Honestly, I don’t know why the old dears won’t let me just order a load of plastic ones from Trago instead. Nobody would notice and it would save hours of time.”
“You’d have to dust them,” I remark, and she grimaces.
“Fair point. It’s bad enough cleaning the sodding brass. I’ve told Rich we should swap duties for a week. I’ll write the sermons and he can do the flowers, deal with the old biddies at the coffee mornings and look after the twins.”
“He’d be sobbing behind the lectern by Tuesday,” I say and Mads nods, mollified.
“Of course he would. There are some jobs only women can do properly.” She brushes pollen off her hands and glances around the church with satisfaction. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Things so bad you’ve popped in to pray?”
Actually, I haven’t ruled it out, although thanks to Throb I’m waiting to be struck down by a bolt of lightning. The way I’m feeling today, that would be a happy relief.
“You know they are,” I say, following her down the aisle as she tweaks stems and adjusts vases. “Ollie’s going to Paris with Carolyn and he doesn’t want me to come. Remember?”
To be honest, I’m quite put out that Maddy isn’t more offended on my behalf by this. When I called her last night while Ollie was walking Sasha, she didn’t seem that interested or outraged, which isn’t very best-friendly of her. I mean, if Richard said he was off to Vegas with one of the old biddies from the WI I’d be straight round to the vicarage to sort him out. Not that I can imagine Richard in Vegas or running off with anyone when he has gorgeous Maddy, but you get my point. I’d be furious and ready to do battle for my friend. I wouldn’t be arranging flowers!
Maddy sighs. “He isn’t strictly going to Paris with Carolyn, is he? There’s the small matter of fifty thirteen-year-olds and a load of other teachers as well. It’s hardly a romantic tryst.”
“But he doesn’t want me to come! What does that mean?” I cry.
“That the Throb business makes it awkward? That there isn’t room?” Maddy suggests, walking serenely through the nave and repositioning blooms while I scuttle behind her in a stew of fear and resentment. “Honestly, babes, I don’t think it means anything. It’s just a school trip.”
“A school trip with Carolyn,” I say bleakly. Gorgeous Carolyn with her blonde hair, long legs and lack of embarrassing novel-writing career. That Carolyn.
“She’s the Head of Modern Foreign Languages as well as the Deputy Head,” Maddy reminds me. “Of course she’s going. Honestly, Katy, I think you should relax. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
I stare at her. Has being in the church all morning done something to her brain? Maybe she’s absorbed all the peace and love and forgiveness by osmosis or something, because this response isn’t Maddy’s style at all. Usually she’d believe me straight away and do whatever she could to help.
“Whatever happened to her being a floozy?” I ask, taken aback. “Or me kicking her ass?”
“Ssh,” says Maddy, glancing upwards and folding her hands. “We’re in the church. Anyway, you said yourself that there was no evidence of anything going on.”
“That was before he said he was going to Paris with her!”
“He isn’t going to Paris with her. It’s a school trip. Katy, get a grip. Ollie isn’t having an affair with Carolyn. It’s all in your head!”
I feel as though I’ve been slapped. In all the years we’ve been friends Maddy has never, ever told me that I’m imagining things or doubted me.
“Don’t hold back,” I say, feeling horribly hurt. “Feel free to tell me I’m mad if that’s what you think. Would you like it if Richard was off for a week with another woman?”
“I’d love it,” Mads says with feeling. “No washing, and I could eat toast in bed, buy plastic flowers and binge-watch Game of Thrones. If he took the kids as well then it would be perfect. I’m joking!” she says when she sees my face. “No. I’d hate it. But, Katy, I really don’t think Ollie’s going to Paris because of Carolyn. Why don’t you just trust him?”
“And why don’t you believe me?” I shoot back. “You usually do.”
I don’t want to sound resentful but I can’t help it. Maddy’s my best friend and she ought to be on my side, not sticking up for Ollie. I would have thought she’d have been the first in the queue to march round to the cottage and tell him he’s out of order.
“Katy, we’ve been through this a thousand times.” Maddy reaches for her bag and pulls out the church keys. “I’ve told you what I think. What’s the point of asking my opinion if you don’t listen to it? Babes, I’d love to chat more but I’ve got to open the hall up for the Mums and Toddlers group. Rafferty! Bluebell! Put those hymn books down!” She marches up to the twins and grabs them before they can do a runner, leaving me staring after her in shock. What on earth is going on?
I leave the church feeling as though I’m the one being unreasonable and unfair. Maddy couldn’t have been less interested in my worries – which is weird considering she was the one encouraging me to go into St Jude’s and backing me up one hundred percent at the time. What’s changed?
Mads hurries down the path, dragging the twins behind her.
“Try not to stress about it,” she calls over her shoulder. “It’ll be all right! Just have faith, yeah? You gotta have faith.”
Who am I, George Michael? I watch Maddy stride away and feel completely lost. What’s going on here? My life feels as though it’s spinning out of control. Ollie and Maddy are my best friends in the world, the two people I really feel I can count on, and suddenly they’re both behaving oddly. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that they’re both hiding something from me.
Oh great. Now I’m getting paranoid.
Feeling very hard done by, I set off down the narrow lane that drops down from the church behind the fish market and onto the quay. The village tumbles away and the sea is sparkling in the sunshine but I’m in no mood to appreciate beauty. No, I’m far too cheesed off.
“Cheer up, it might never happen,” calls Guy, who’s mending a net on the quayside and doing his best to ignore the crowd of day trippers pointing at him and taking sly pictures on their phones.
“It already has,” I say grimly.
He tucks his mending needle into the trawl. “I take it Ollie’s told you he’s off to Paris?”
I goggle at him. “How on earth do you know that?”
Guy’s suddenly absolutely fascinated by a boat steaming through the harbour gates.
“Oh look! The netters are in. I’d better given them a hand,” he says, looking as though he’s about to bolt.
I grab the arm of his smock. “Guy? Who told you about Ollie going to Paris?”
I know gossip travels fast in Tregowan but this has to be a record surely? I’ve only just told Maddy.
Guy looks a bit shifty. “I think it was Holly.”
“Holly? How on earth did she know?”
“I think Ollie might have mentioned it?” He’s hopping from rigger-booted foot to rigger-booted foot in agitation now.
“Ollie? When did Ollie tell my sister?” I ask, totally thrown. “He only told me last night. Why didn’t Holly think to mention it?”
My head’s spinning and I’m utterly confused. Has Ollie been talking about me to my sister? But why would he do that? I’d go and speak to Holly right now except she’s at work. I guess I’ll have to wait until Ollie comes home from school and ask him what’s going on – not that he’ll tell me. So much for trust. And how come nobody other than me thinks it’s a major deal that Ollie’s off to Paris with a gorgeous blonde colleague?
Oh Lord. I think I’m going mad. If I don’t get some answers soon I’m going to go completely doolally.
I know, I’ll distract myself with a giant pasty. If ever a girl needed comfort food, it’s me. Everything always feels better on a full stomach and then I can worry about being fat rather than stressing about Ollie, which is a result of sorts I suppose.
I’m just sitting on a bench and tucking in to a giant steak pasty when my phone rings. Swallowing pastry and brushing crumbs from my mouth, I answer.
“Frankie! Hello!”
“Darling! What on earth are you eating?” Frankie’s kohl-rimmed eye is pressed so close to the screen that I can count his lashes. “Tell me it isn’t a pasty? Oh God! It is, isn’t it? Are you deliberately trying to torture me? I’d kill for a pasty! And anyway, aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?”
Don’t you just love Skype? There’s no hiding in the twenty-first century. There’s Frankie, beautifully made up with blue eyeliner and looking achingly trendy in his spotless white apartment, and here I am on a weathered bench, windswept and scruffy and with a guilty gob full of pastry.
“I thought carbs were the devil?” I say, taking a big bite just to taunt him. Having had this mantra drummed into me while in New York, I’m certain pastry shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near Frankie’s well-glossed lips.
“Will you stop teasing me?” he wails. “Have you any idea what wheatgrass tastes like? Have you?”
“Not really,” I admit. “We don’t have a lot of wheatgrass in Cornwall, Frankie, remember?”
But Frankie isn’t listening. He’s far too busy drooling over my lunch. “Or macrobiotic mung beans?” he continues. “Or tofu flakes with soya shavings? Disgusting. I’m practically fading away here! I can’t remember when I last ate something solid. And as for all the colonics—”
“Stop right there. Too much information.”
“Am I over-sharing?” he asks. “Sorry, angel. You keep on eating. Don’t worry about the fact that meat stays rotting in your colon for years. If you never have an enema you won’t have to see it. Or smell it. Oh my God, darling! The stench!”
Do you know, I’m not so excited about my lunch anymore.
“Anyway, never mind my diet,” he continues, while I stuff my pasty back into the bag and try very hard not to think about what may or may not be clogging up my colon. “There’s far more exciting things to talk about! Congrats on your big book success for a start! Everyone’s talking about Kitchen over here.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Like duh! Of course it is! Sweetie! You are made!”
“Great,” I say, doing my best to sound thrilled. “Brilliant.”
“I’m never wrong either. And is Ollie all right with it all now?”
I pause, because is he? I know he said he’s proud of me but really? And if he’s so proud of me then why’s he off to Paris without me? I’ve done enough school trips in my time to know it’s possible to wangle an extra place for a partner.
If you want to, that is.
“He’s fine,” I say eventually. “Actually he’s off to France next week on a school trip.”
“Ooh la la!” giggles Frankie.
“He’s going without me. I don’t think he wants me to come.”
“You are silly! Of course he does, but if you go too then Ollie would have—” He stops mid-sentence. “Ooo look! A seagull!”
There are millions of seagulls in Tregowan. You can’t move without one trying to nick ice cream or mug you for a pasty crust, and my senses are instantly on red alert. Any teacher worth her salt knows when distraction tactics are being employed.
“Don’t change the subject when it’s just getting interesting,” I say. “What would Ollie have done?”
“Lots of paperwork,” Frankie replies quickly. “Anyway, never mind all that. I’m inviting you both to a party next week.”
“Here? You’re coming back to Cornwall?”
“Afraid not, angel. No, the party’s in New York. It’s our anniversary and Gabe’s going to throw a huge bash. We wanted you both to come but since Ollie’s off eating snails it’ll have to be just you.”
“You’re asking me to fly to New York for a party?” I laugh at the very idea. “What next? Shall I ask for your M&M’s to be sorted into colours?”
“I never eat chocolate,” Frankie shudders. “And anyway, it was Gabe who asked for colour-sorted sweets and they were jelly beans, not M&M’s. But yes! We want you there. Of course we do. You were with us practically from the beginning. You’re family, Katy. How could we celebrate without you? I insist you come.”
In spite of feeling low I can’t help but experience a little tingle of excitement. Another trip to New York. Really?
“We’ll pay for your flights of course,” Frankie continues, sensing me weakening. “And your hotel too. It’s the least we can do for throwing a party on another continent.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he nods. “Come on, Katy. Ollie’s in Paris and you’re home alone. Why not come out? It’ll be fun.”
Hang on. Did I mention Paris specifically? I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I said France.
“How do you know Ollie’s in Paris?”
“Lucky guess,” Frankie says quickly. “Anyway, where else in France would you go for a school trip? Oh look! Here’s Mufty! Say hello to Katy, Mufty!”
Another distraction, this time in the guise of a fluffy poodle held aloft and having its paw waved at me. Our eyes meet in mutual resignation as I wave back. Just give in, Mufty’s gaze says, it’s easier.
“So what do you say? Are you up for a little visit? You know you want to,” Frankie urges.
“I’ll need to run it by Ollie,” I begin, but he flaps his hand dismissively.
“He’ll be cool with it. Yay! Amazeballs! I’ll get my people to book your ticket and sort a hotel right now. It’s going to be wonderful! You’ll thank me for this!”
As he rings off, my head’s reeling. Conversations with Frankie tend to leave me feeling like I’ve been inside a washing machine on spin cycle. Have I just agreed to fly to New York for a party? And am I getting super paranoid here, or is Frankie acting just as strangely as Maddy and Guy?
I close my eyes. Of course he isn’t. My friends can’t all be having an off day. It must be me. Everything’s feeling weird and wrong, a bit like a familiar tune played in the wrong key or one of those episodes of Doctor Who when the Doctor and his companion rock up in a parallel universe. Of course it’s me, not them. It has to be. Maybe the stress of the past few months has got to me and I need a break?
I stay on my bench, watching the waves roll towards the beach and the white clouds scud by. My thoughts are racing too and for a while I just let them whirl. Carolyn. Ollie. Mads. Books. Holly. Naked butlers. Tansy. So much has been going on. No wonder I’m feeling a bit dazed. I think I need everything to just stop so that I can let life settle again. Ollie and I were so happy before when things were simple. I just need to figure out a way to get that back.
Perhaps a break’s exactly what I need. Ollie certainly seems pleased to be having one.
I throw the remains of my pasty to the wheeling seagulls, my mind made up. No more sitting around letting things happen
to me, and no more agonising over Carolyn and Ollie and what may or may not be going on. It’s time to stop and take stock, make a few decisions and get my life back under control.
A tear slips down my cheek because this isn’t the way I want it to be, but right now it feels as though there isn’t any choice. Ollie might only be going to Paris but he couldn’t feel further away from me if it were Mars.
I’m going to go back to New York. Alone.
And I’m missing Ollie before I’ve even left.
Chapter 27
Frankie’s waiting for me in JFK’s Arrivals, holding a placard bearing my name on it and waving frantically, just in case I should miss him – which I think would be impossible seeing as he’s wearing a bright orange jumpsuit and a Stetson and is flanked by two minders who make The Rock look vertically challenged. Never mind sticking out like a sore thumb; he’s as conspicuous as an entire gangrenous hand.
“Darling! Over here!” he cries, hopping from one foot to another (although this could just be the way he has to move in his very pointy cowboy boots). “Howdy!”
I wave back, pleased to see him, if a little taken aback. I’d thought he’d be far too busy arranging his anniversary party to take time out to collect me. I’m honoured.
“Frankie!” I trundle my luggage behind me as fast as I can, so that I can throw my arms around him – but then I recoil instantly. “Ouch! That jumpsuit’s really scratchy!”“
“Rhinestones,” declares Frankie proudly. “All the country and western singers wear them, FYI. This is made by Dolly Parton’s own designer actually.”
It’s only been a couple of months since I last saw Frankie, but I seem to remember that he was reinventing himself as A Serious Artist and was wearing smart suits and Italian shoes. I know this is a lifetime in rock ’n’ roll years but I can’t say I ever foresaw Frankie’s new passion for country and western.
Katy Carter Keeps a Secret Page 25
