Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (4 page)

My best friend sighs. “Fine. You win. Go and choose some forgetful sweets.”

Olympic runners off the block don’t move as fast as the Lomax twins tear over to the pick ’n’ mix. This is obviously a very familiar activity, although that’s hardly surprising: before she was married to a vicar, Maddy’s vocabulary made Gordon Ramsay sound like Mary Poppins. If Bluebell and Rafferty have any teeth left by the time they’re ten it will be a miracle.

“
Forgetful sweets
?”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Mads grabs the first card she sees and stuffs it into her basket. I don’t really think
with deepest sympathy
is the most appropriate choice for a five-year-old’s birthday party, but the expression on her face is one I know from experience not to mess with, so I keep quiet. “Seriously, Katy. If Richard so much as thinks I’ve said ‘bum’ in front of the twins he’ll go mental. You know what he’s like.”

I certainly do. He’s only just about forgiven me for the twins chirping
bollocks
merrily to themselves. Apparently it was my fault because it happened to coincide with the time I fetched them from nursery and wrote my car off driving through a deep puddle. This was over two years ago – and since Richard, being a vicar, is pretty much obliged to forgive people, it gives you an idea of just how seriously he takes these things.

“You’d better start finding different words to use before all their teeth fall out,” I suggest, and Mads nods.

“Yep, you’re right, or otherwise when they hit their teens and start demanding iPads, I’m screwed.” She claps her hand over her mouth. “Oops. I mean, I’m
in trouble.”

“I heard that. Can I have some sweets too?” I ask, and Mads wallops me with her basket.

“Don’t you start. Anyway, what are you doing in here? Are you food shopping?” My best friend’s brow crinkles as she peers into my basket and clocks the lone onion and packet of bacon I’ve chucked in. “I thought Ollie did the food shopping? And the cooking?”

I ignore this comment. I do food shopping too. Of course I do. I often phone the Indian and sometimes the pizza place too.

Joking aside, Ol likes to cruise the aisles of Waitrose. He says after a day at school the supermarket relaxes him. I love my boyfriend very much but even I find this a bit weird and I have a sneaking suspicion he only says this to keep me from going myself and filling the trolley with scented candles and paperbacks.

“I’m cooking risotto,” I tell her proudly. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“So you thought you’d poison Ol? I thought you liked the guy? Can’t you just jump his bones? He’ll probably survive that.”

I doubt it. He’d probably die of shock.

“Very funny,” I say and then, because I can’t keep it to myself any longer, I whisper, “I want to do something special that he knows will have taken an effort. I think he’s bought me an engagement ring at last!”

Maddy’s dark eyebrows shoot into her curly hair. “No way! Seriously? What makes you think that?”

Actually, I’m not sure I can remember now, but I haven’t thought about much else for hours and now it seems totally possible.

“Just a feeling. He left early and didn’t leave me anything. I think he’s hidden a ring in the house.”

Maddy looks worried. “Did he mention doing that?”

“Not exactly,” I admit.
I
might have mentioned it a few times though, and Ollie’s bound to have got the hint. This tactic worked a treat with getting him to start putting the loo seat down and to stop eating pickled onions before bedtime, so why not for engagement rings too? “He did text
ring later
though.”

“As in
ring
?” She mimes a phone with her hand. “Or
ring
as in finger?”

I’m not sure to be honest. Put like this it does seem a rather tenuous link.

“I don’t know,” I confess.

“So he might
not
have done it?”

Talk about raining on my parade. Maddy Lomax is more like a monsoon.

“I’m pretty sure he has,” I say firmly. “Come on, Mads! Isn’t it romantic? Ollie wouldn’t have just gone to work without wishing me happy Valentine’s Day, would he?”

“He might if he’d forgotten.”

As if Ollie would ever forget Valentine’s Day! He knows how much it means to me. Every year since we’ve been together he’s always come up with something thoughtful. From midnight picnics on the beach with thermoses of tea to a little treasure hunt in the cottage, he’s always made it special.

“There’s no way he’d forget,” I reassure her. “This year is just going to be the best Valentine’s of all and I know exactly why. I really think he’s going to propose!”

“In that case all those wedding magazines you keep leaving around the house will have been worth every penny,” she says.

“I don’t keep leaving them around the house!”

“Of course you do.” Maddy grins at me. “It’s not the subtlest hint but fingers crossed it’s worked.”

“It’s not hinting. It’s… subliminal!”

“Don’t get all huffy. I’m not criticising you,” my best friend says, selecting a packet of Arborio rice and dropping it into my basket. “I definitely think it’s time you and Ollie got married and were as miserable as the rest of us. Joke!” she adds when she catches my expression. “You’ve been together for ages and you’re perfect together, we can all see that. Sometimes guys just need a bit of a prod.”

“Did Richard?” I’m curious about this. The way the Rev goes on I half suspect God nipped down from heaven and told him to pop the question.

“Duh! Of course. You know how long it takes him to make his mind up about anything,” Mads says. “Remember how I had to persuade him to have the kids?”

Actually I’m trying very hard to forget. Mads was a woman on a mission and got me embroiled in all kinds of mad schemes in her
raise money for a second honeymoon
plan. In a weird twist of fate Richard’s plans turned out to be even more hare-brained, and traumatic enough to send me screaming to the educational psychologist’s office.

On cue, Spiderman and Donatello come charging by on a circuit of the village shop, cheeks bulging hamster fashion with sweets, and buzzing with sugar. Those two should come into school for the sex ed lessons. Ten minutes with the Lomax twins would put any horny teenager off the concept of unprotected sex, and I’d never have to teach the dreaded condom-on-the-banana lesson again.

“I have to be the first to officially congratulate you. Don’t you dare show Frankie first or even your sister,” she orders, making a swipe for Rafferty and missing. “Come here, you little bu— buttercup!”

“You’re my oldest friend, so of course I’ll tell you first.”

“I’ll hold you to that. And how’s the porn book going?” she says, so loudly that lost tribes in the Amazon look up.

“Shh!” I glance around the shop in terror that the head of Tregowan Comp has popped in to do some shopping and my supply work will vanish faster than sweets into my godchildren’s mouths. Once I’m sure nobody’s looking my way or listening, I lower my voice. “It’s not. In fact, I’m really struggling to write a paragraph, let alone a chapter. I don’t think I can do this, Mads. My mind isn’t filthy enough.”

She looks at me thoughtfully. “Too much of a romantic to write about the nuts and bolts of the whole process?”

Hmm. She’s onto something there. I do think that might be the problem.

“Maybe,” I agree. “But the trouble is I really need the money, so not being able to write about the nuts and bolts is a luxury I can’t afford. Tansy’s had enough of books and I’ve just had a quote for the roof which makes me feel sick. If I get the Throb job the royalties look good and it would pay for the roof and take the pressure off Ollie.”

“And pay for a wedding too?”

Crap. I hadn’t even thought about the cost of the wedding. From the state of our bank balance I’ll be wrapping myself in a net curtain and using Hula Hoops for rings at this rate. Traditionally I know the bride’s parents help, but the last time I spoke to mine they were heading off to Spain in their camper van – and besides, they tend to have even less money than me. Maybe Frankie and Gabriel could adopt me? I bet they’d love to plan another wedding. Their own was totally flamboyant (twenty peacocks, anyone?) and even Elton John looked impressed. They’ll probably have me dressed up like something out of
Big Fat Gypsy Weddings
but it’ll be worth it. I might even get featured in
OK!
magazine…

“I can see from your face how dire this is, my pure and innocent friend,” says Mads. “Fear not. I have a mind like an open sewer and I’m sure I can help. Let’s have a girls’ night and a brainstorm. I’m sure we’ll come up with something. I’ll give Frankie a call too. He’s bound to have some ideas. By the time we’ve finished your new hero will make Christian Grey look like a well-adjusted human being!”

I’m rather alarmed. Much as I love Ollie’s cousin, rock star Frankie Burrows, he’s far too over the top at times and possibly the most indiscreet person on the planet.

“Don’t tell Frankie. You know how hopeless he is at keeping a secret. If I get the contract with Throb it has to be hush-hush, remember? And if Tregowan Comp isn’t keen on having a bodice-ripping novel writer on the books, just imagine what Ollie’s school will be like if they so much as
think
he’s linked to me. They’ll freak.”

Maddy’s nose crinkles. “St Jude’s sounds like a right barrel of laughs. Not.”

I nod. St Jude’s is dead strict. The kids actually wear their ties around their necks rather than knotted around their heads like Rambo, and they have blazers too. Ol did tell me lots about their place in the league table and the latest Ofsted report but I’d had half an eye on
TOWIE
at the time and, besides, there’s a magic switch in my brain which flicks off from school stuff after three-thirty. Apart from the terrifying Carolyn Miles, she of the long legs and blonde hair, all I know about St Jude’s is that as an establishment it takes itself extremely seriously. Ollie was thrilled to get a job there. He did say it was never his kind of place (Tregowan Comp being more his style), but he reckoned St Jude’s offered him an excellent opportunity for career development. At this point I nearly fell off our sofa. Career development? Since when had Ol been interested in career development? In fact, I was sure I could remember him telling me he’d only gone into teaching so he could spend the six-week summer holidays surfing.

But no. It appears that something has changed and Ollie now takes his career Very Seriously Indeed. I even caught him reading
The Guardian
the other day, and a few nights ago he shouted
“
attainment targets” in his sleep. I’m a bit worried to be honest, but he seems keen and I’ll do anything I can to support him.

I. Must. Not. Let. Ollie. Down.

Mads and I make plans for a brainstorming session in the vicarage when the Rev is busy with the parish council and safely out of the way. Then she rounds up the twins, both on major sugar highs, and heads off to their party. Feeling far more optimistic now about the chances of Lucinda and Alexi actually getting down to basics, I practically skip round the shop. Even the astronomical price of what looks like a pretty puny selection of goods can’t dent my excitement. What cost an engagement dinner and feeding the man I love? I even throw in a bottle of fizzy wine for good measure. This is going to be a wonderful evening; I just know it!

Now all I have to do is get home and find that ring.

Chapter 4

Whoever knew that a tiny two-bedroomed cottage could have so many possible hiding places? I’ve must have been searching for at least two hours and I can’t find any trace of an engagement ring or even a card. I’ve tried everywhere too, from the bottom of Sasha’s basket to the ironing pile (somewhere I never venture – after all, what are tumble driers for?) to the top of the kitchen units, and still no joy. I’ve searched drawers, cupboards, under the sink, the garden shed – but there’s still no ring. Ollie’s found an amazingly safe location for it, that’s for sure. I’ve searched so hard I feel like Frodo.

At least
my
Valentine’s gift is well under way. The kitchen might look a bit like an explosion’s gone off and I
may
have helped myself to a glass or two of the cooking wine, but the lump of goo bubbling away on the hob certainly looks like it has potential and it doesn’t smell too bad either.

I really do hate cooking. It’s like I have cookery dyslexia or something. I always
think
I’m following the recipe, measuring carefully, blending religiously and, unlike Nigella, resisting the temptation to dip my fingers into anything nice, but this domestic-goddess lark is way harder than it looks. As I survey the war zone that is my kitchen I promise I will never again look down on the Food Technology teachers. So they might have sod all marking to do, but just imagine the washing up! And as for kids near hobs and blenders? I shudder at the thought. If today’s art class was anything to judge by, then the Food Tech crew are lucky to make it out alive.

Anyway, my dinner’s looking really good, if I do say so myself, and if Ollie makes it home soon then it should be just perfect. The pretendy champagne is cooling, Nora Jones is crooning in the background and I’ve lit a few candles too. Ol reckons my candle habit is a fire hazard, and he’s always paranoid at bedtime just in case I’ve left one alight to burn us all to a crisp, but I always think they make the atmosphere very romantic. I bet Alexi and Lucinda would find plenty of interesting uses for candles and hot wax—

Quick! Write that down! Maybe they can do something naughty with risotto too? Nibble grains of rice from all kinds of exciting places? Dust themselves with Parmesan cheese? I’ll ask Mads what she thinks. It could work; everyone’s
MasterChef
and
Bake Off
mad these days, so some food-themed cheekiness might be the very thing to hit the spot.

I’m just hunting for a notebook (which is something of a challenge, seeing as I’ve turned the desk inside out and everything’s now in a bit of a muddle), when I hear the front door open. Moments later Sasha, our Irish setter, hurls herself at me as though she’s been away for twenty years rather than just with the dog sitter since eight a.m. Shortly afterwards Ollie walks into the kitchen, staring about the place in disbelief.