Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (21 page)

Oh my goodness! Pinchy’s looking straight at me!

It’s him! It really is! I’d know that black beady gaze anywhere!

I’m truly choked. The last time I thought I saw Pinchy was when Ollie took me in his arms and kissed me on the quayside (the same time he sort of proposed, but the less said about that the better). I’d even thought I’d glimpsed a claw waving at me above the sea. This was purely my imagination, of course, but it had made me happy all the same. As had Ollie’s kisses…

“Bloody hell! That bugger must weigh nearly nine pounds!” Guy says, stepping forward. I can practically hear him working out the market value.

“Eight pounds one ounce,” Adam tells us. “Not quite the biggest recorded lobster but a beauty nonetheless.”

I press my hand to the glass. “Hello, Pinchy. How are you?”

“
How are you
?” Guy mimics. “What’s this?
Downton
fucking
Abbey
? It’s a bloody lobster, Katy. It’s not going to reply,
I’m marvellous, thanks, old sport!
”

“Shut up, Guy,” I say mildly. “Or I’ll dump you at the subway and leave you to find your own way home.”

Guy holds up his hands. “Jesus! I was only teasing. You carry on, Dr Dolittle! Have a little chat with your old lobster pal. Don’t mind the rest of us.”

Pinchy regards me with his familiar disapproving stare.
Take this numpty away
, he’s saying, and I couldn’t agree more. But unfortunately for Pinchy and for me, the numpty is the star of the show and also something of an expert, so we’re both stuck with him. While I stroke the glass next to my lobster and wonder how on earth my old friend managed to end up here, Guy talks to Adam about sustainable fisheries and the work of the National Lobster Hatchery in Padstow. The cameras whir, especially when he starts telling a tall story about one drunken night in Rock with Prince Harry and a load of his friends…

“Why’s Pinchy all on his own? Shouldn’t he have a friend?” I interrupt hastily. The last thing we need now is Guy getting us all sent to the Tower of London.

“Not a great idea, since lobsters are cannibalistic,” the marine biologist smiles.

“That’s why we rubber-band their claws up,” Guy adds, neatly distracted from committing treason. “Stops them attacking each other and us. Those claws bloody well hurt.”

Lobsters are cannibals. All of a sudden I’m seeing Pinchy in a whole new light. Any minute now he’ll be requesting fava beans and a nice Chianti! And where’s the mask?

“So what will happen to him now?” I ask Adam. “He won’t go to the market will he? Not when he’s done so well to get here.”

“He’d be worth a mint,” says Guy thoughtfully. “Imagine all the canapés you could make from that bugger!”

Adam laughs. “We’ve had several enquiries already. I’m told one even came from Donald Trump’s people, although that could have just been a joke, of course.”

Pinchy holds my gaze. He certainly doesn’t find it funny.

I run my finger down the glass. It seems very unfair to eat Pinchy now and after all his hard work to get this far. Ungrateful even. Instantly my mind is figuring out how I can rescue him if he’s set to become a billionaire’s brunch. Breaking him out of here could be tricky, and even if I did manage it could I afford to upgrade my hotel room to one with a bath? And where on earth do you buy sea salt and fish food in Manhattan?

“Don’t look so worried. That won’t happen, I promise,” Adam reassures me. “This lobster is of special scientific interest now. We’ve still no idea how it managed to travel this far, but the fact that it has and its last known location was logged by Mr Tregarten means we have a wealth of important data to explore. Your friend Pinchy could tell us all sorts about the breeding and migratory patterns of this species.”

“That’s good to know,” I say, relieved. To think that my starter course is now providing scientists with data! It makes my writing career with Tansy and Throb look a bit tame. I’ve been intellectually bested by a lobster, which says it all.

“We’ll liaise with the hatchery in England too,” Adam adds. “Your lobster is safe because he’s far more interesting and useful to us alive. There are lots of marine biologists very excited about what this could mean for sustainable fisheries projects and breeding patterns. He’ll have a lot of visitors here and feature in scientific journals too. This is his tank for life. Your chap’s about to become famous in the lobster world.”

Pinchy’s going to be a celebrity lobster. How cool is that? And all because I rescued him from Ollie’s pot!

“Did you hear that? You’re about to gain stardom, Pinchy,” I tell him.

“And so are you,” Helen Wales says to Guy. She’s clutching her mobile phone in her hand and beaming from ear to ear. “The
New York at Night Show
has just called. They love this story because it’s—” she pauses and makes inverted commas with her free hand, “‘quirky and British’
and they want Guy to go on! Tonight!”

“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.