Katy Carter Wants a Hero (12 page)

‘I haven’t forgiven you,’ I tell her sternly. ‘This is all your fault. And yours!’ I call out to Pinchy, who’s floating in the bath and feasting on some very expensive fish food. ‘Both of you are to blame.’

So this is what my life has come to. Talking to lobsters and drinking wine from the bottle.

‘No way,’ I say to Sasha. ‘It’s time to sort out my life. Things can only get better, right?’

Sasha opens one bleary eye and then closes it again.

‘Well, I bloody hope so,’ I mutter. ‘Think I’ll top myself now otherwise.’

Ollie has installed me in his spare room while I ‘sort my shit out’. This might take a few millennia, as there’s a sewage farm’s worth of shit to sort.

I haven’t unpacked yet, so all my junk is still strewn around the room. It looks as though I’m about to have a jumble sale. My bags are on the floor, my clothes thrown across the bed and I’m wearing Ollie’s tracksuit bottoms and thick walking socks; just as well really because this place is freezing. It might be early spring but the temperature is unseasonably low, and in Ollie’s house central heating is a fanciful concept rather than a reality. I pull the duvet up to my chin and sigh.

James might be a pain sometimes, but there’s a lot to be said for under-floor heating.

On my lap is a spiral notepad. I’m going to make a list and sort my life out. Lists are cool! I’m really good at them. I make hundreds of them at work, detailing all the books that I have to mark, kids I need to see and things I need to buy from Sainsbury’s.

Yes! I’m fab at making lists of things to do.

Sadly, though, I’m not so fab at crossing off the things I’ve done or, if I’m honest, actually doing them.

But today I must knuckle down and take things seriously. I’m nearly thirty and it’s time I took control of my life. No more James, no more Cordelia and no more waiting for things to happen. I’m going to be proactive.

Now, just how shall I go about this? I chew the pen thoughtfully. It’s all very exciting really. If I don’t think about the gap on my ring finger and the sad sense that all my dreams have evaporated, of course.

My new life starts today. This could be my chance to be the new improved Katy Carter Independent! Single! Slim!

Once I’ve polished off this Dairy Milk, obviously.

I click my pen, put Jake and Millandra to the back of my mind, and start to write.

1.
Find somewhere to live
2.
Find fabulous new boyfriend
3.
Lose two stone
4.
Write bestseller

There! I have a life plan. Number one is easy. Ollie has said I can crash here for a while, and now that we’ve put the strange events of this morning behind us, things are pretty much back to normal.

It’s a bit weird living in a boy house — you know, all stereo gubbins and vast telly and DVDs but bugger all in the way of cushions and lamps and homely stuff. Not that this matters because I’m not going to stay for long. Once I’ve finished this list I’m calling Mads and inviting myself over to Lewisham. Richard can hardly turn away a soul in need, can he? That’s got to be against his vicarly duty.

Number two is a bit harder; maybe that would be more logical after step number three. And two stone? I frown and put a line through that. Ol practically lives on Indian takeaways and it would be rude not to join him. Maybe I’ll make that one stone. I’ll cut out the lunchtime chips or something.

Don’t be ridiculous, Katy! I cross out one and write half. I need my strength at lunchtime. Who could battle Year 11 on an empty stomach? Just you try, Jamie Oliver. Salads, my bum! Only a massive plate of stodge gets me through until three thirty. I’ll just run up the stairs a bit more often. That should do it.

Number four. I pause. Slightly more tricky. What I really need is some time out and some inspiration. I can just picture myself striding across the moors like Emily Brontë, and writing purple prose. Or maybe I’ll just write a book all about James’s evil mother.

On second thoughts nobody would believe it. Cordelia makes Lady Macbeth look like Little Bo Peep. Perhaps I’ll ask Ollie if I can borrow the English Department laptop and resurrect Jake and Millandra. I know that the laptop is
supposed
to work the funky interactive whiteboard, but nobody at Sir Bob’s has managed to suss that out yet. Ollie just shows videos (‘Media studies!’ he protests when questioned) while the laptop collects dust or plays endless games of
Tomb Raider
. I’ll be doing Lara Croft a favour. The poor girl must be getting RSI from all those suggestive poses that Ollie loves to put her in.

Besides, I can’t keep pinching kiddies’ exercise books.

I’m just contemplating hauling myself out of bed in search of the laptop when the tinny tone of my mobile pipes up. It must be James, I think as I delve under the detritus on the bed, ringing to say that he’s sorry and please come home. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’ll apologise for tearing up my notebook. Will I forgive him? Of course I will. I love him, after all. We’ll be laughing about this by breakfast time. It won’t take long to scoop all my bin bags into the BMW. He’ll kiss me, put the ring back on my finger and life will be back to normal. I’ll say sorry for ruining the dinner party. I’ll apologise to Julius. I’ll sleep in my own bed. I’ll no longer be nearly thirty and homeless.

What a relief!

After a few frantic seconds trying to locate the phone, I eventually find it buried beneath my chocolate. I glance at the glowing fluorescent screen and am crushed to see the word ‘Mads’ flashing. I was so certain that it was James. He’s never gone this long without calling me before.

Bollocks.

I think he really means it this time.

‘Hi, Mads,’ I say despondently.

‘And hello to you too!’ chirrups Mads. ‘You needn’t sound so thrilled to hear from me. Why haven’t you called?’

I smile in spite of my disappointment. I can just picture Mads in her crazy cluttered kitchen, perched on the worktop, a pencil pinning up her wild tar-coloured curls and a big glass of wine in her hand. Richard will be closeted in his study with some earnest soul, which means she’s free for a good gossip.

‘Sorry.’ I curl back up under the duvet. ‘Bit of a crappy time.’

‘James again?’ she sighs. We’ve spent many hours analysing James lately. I’m actually starting to bore myself, so goodness only knows how my friends must feel. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘He’s dumped me,’ I tell her, and proceed to spew forth all the gory details. As I talk, I get the distinct impression that although she’s totally outraged on my behalf, Mads isn’t really surprised.

‘So here I am,’ I conclude, nudging Sasha with my toe because my leg is going dead thanks to having several stone of dog snoozing across it. ‘I’m nearly thirty, single and homeless.’

‘Bugger,’ says Mads, queen of the understatement. ‘You must be gutted. Glad it’s not me.’

Let me just explain that much as I adore Mads, tact and sympathy aren’t quite her forte. In fact I seem to recall that she got sacked from the university nightline for once telling a suicidal student to stop wittering on about it and just make his mind up. Mads is a great one for getting on with life. She doesn’t sit about and brood, which is why it will be so good for me to move in with her right now. She’s exactly what I need to turn my life around.

‘There’s one major problem with that idea.’ Mads sounds a little worried when I tell her that me and my bin bags will soon be arriving at the rectory. ‘There’s one huge reason why it isn’t going to work, unless you want to change your life in a big way.’

I hope this isn’t leading up to one of those do-you-know-Jesus conversations, because right now I don’t make a very convincing sunbeam, more of a rain cloud really. Maddy isn’t usually given to such discussions, but four years of marriage to a vicar is bound to have some effect on a girl.

‘Richard?’ I ask.

‘Of course not,’ Maddy laughs. ‘He adores you.’

‘And I adore him,’ I fib. I adore Richard like I adore Brussels sprouts.

‘No,’ continues Mads, ‘the problem is that we don’t live in Lewisham any more. We moved to Cornwall last week, remember?’

‘Duh!’ I slap my hand against my forehead. Of course! I knew the big move was on the cards. What sort of crap friend am I that a major event in my best friend’s life gets forgotten? ‘Sorry. How is the new church?’

‘Katy, you’d love it. It’s amazing.’

An amazing church? I try to picture it. What are the criteria? Opposite Pizza Hut? On-site shoe shop?

‘It’s beautiful,’ gushes Maddy. ‘Really ancient, twelfth century at least, Richard says, and it’s got the most stunning view over the sea. I can hardly get anything done because I’m just gaping out the window all day long. You wouldn’t believe the sea, Katy! It’s never the same from one second to the next. And guess what? We’ve got an Aga. An ancient cream Aga. I can warm up baby lambs.’

‘Baby lambs?’ I echo. ‘Have you gone totally mad? Since when have you used an oven for anything other than heating up a takeaway?’

‘I could if I wanted. I think I could do anything!’ Maddy’s excitement fizzes down the phone. ‘Tregowan’s fantastic!’

‘It’s miles away,’ I wail. ‘I can’t move in with you now you live in Cornwall!’

‘It would make commuting to Sir Bob’s a bit tricky,’ she agrees. ‘But come and stay by all means. In fact why don’t you move down? You’d love it here. You could stride along the cliffs and write that novel you’re always talking about. All that wind and surf is very inspirational.’

‘James tore the novel up,’ I say sadly.

‘Bastard! Well, sod him, babes, you’re well shot. Move here and chill out for a bit.’

I sigh. ‘I wish. I’ve got my job to think about it.’

‘Quit,’ says Mads, for whom life really is that simple. ‘You need a change; now’s your chance to escape from teaching.’

Escape from teaching? People have escaped more easily from Alcatraz.

‘Besides,’ she adds slyly, ‘you should see the men down here. They are bloody amazing. Real men, if you know what I mean. Action men!’

For a split second I have the weirdest mental picture of a little fishing village populated by plastic dolls with grippy rubber hands and swivelly eyes. I don’t think Action Man had a willy either…

‘Surfers! Farmers! Hunky fishermen,’ carries on Maddy. ‘Muscles! Tans! Fit bodies, none of these city wimps. Oh Katy! You lucky, lucky cow being single. Get your arse down here now. You’re always on about finding the perfect romantic hero.’

‘I thought that was James,’ I say, and my throat tightens with grief.

Mads snorts. ‘Hardly. Babes, he’s spent so long grinding you down that you don’t think you deserve better, but believe me, you really do. I bet I can find you a dozen guys who are a million times better than him. Come on, get your arse down to Cornwall, you’ll love it.’

‘It sounds amazing,’ I laugh, through my tears. ‘But I don’t think I can right now.’

‘Why not? Because you’re moving in with Ollie?’

‘I am not moving in with Ollie.’ I’m nipping this rumour in the bud. ‘Well, not like that anyway.’

‘More fool you,’ says Mads. ‘Ollie’s lush.’

‘He’s just a good mate.’

‘Yeah, right!’ scoffs Maddy. ‘Men always have a motive. You mark my words.’

‘Not Ollie,’ I say firmly.

There’s a glugging sound in the background as Mads tops up her drink. ‘If you don’t want to jump his bones you’re blind, girlfriend! But it’s up to you. Anyway, at least think about coming down to us for a bit. Life isn’t a dress rehearsal, you know.’

I take another sip of my wine and think about this. ‘Where did our twenties go, Mads? Whatever happened to all that time? Why is it that I don’t recognise anyone on MTV any more? How did I manage get to thirty and still be agonising over everything?’

‘We spent our twenties agonising,’ Maddy reminds me. ‘Hours analysing and dissecting every word and gesture. Remember? Will he call? Does he like me? Does he really mean what he says? Does my bum look big? Blimey. What a waste of energy!’

I sigh. ‘I hope I don’t have this same hideous sense of déjà vu when I’m forty.’

‘Well, you know what to do about it,’ Mads says sternly. ‘Quit that miserable job, get your butt down here and write that flipping book. It’ll be such a laugh.’

‘And I’ll find my own Mr Rochester, right?’

‘Course you will,’ she says. ‘Easy peasy.’

If only life were that simple. I swirl my wine thoughtfully. Is it really as easy as sticking two fingers up to it all, packing my bags and jumping on the train? Surely not? I’ve got credit cards to pay for, and responsibilities. And what about the kids at school? I can’t just vanish off into the sunset and leave them to it. Without me to teach them, my Year 11s are more likely to get ASBOs than GCSEs. There’s no way I can just abscond.

I try to explain this to Mads, but she won’t have it. ‘It’s as hard or as simple as you want it to be,’ she says firmly. ‘Just remember that. Oh! Hello, darling! Evensong over already?’

I take it she isn’t talking to me. From the kitchen, which in my mind’s eye has morphed into some cavernous space complete with mammoth Aga and frolicking baby lambs, comes the low murmur of conversation.

‘Oh, just the one,’ I hear Mads say. ‘I’ve only just opened it. Yes! It’s Katy! She sends her best love.’

I do?

I mean, I do!

‘Better go,’ she says. ‘Rich has brought a whole load of waifs and strays back with him.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Don’t forget what I said, will you? About all the gorgeous men here?’

‘I’ll think about nothing else,’ I assure her. ‘And I’ll definitely come and check it out soon.’

‘Well make sure that you do,’ Mads whispers. ‘I’ve got loads more to tell you but I can’t talk right now. Call me soon, OK?’

‘OK,’ I promise. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you too!’ she carols and then the phone goes dead. I’m left alone in the bedroom and it seems almost rudely quiet. For a moment I’m disorientated. In my mind’s eye I’m in a Cornish kitchen, listening to Mads chat and hearing the endless roar of the sea. But in reality the roaring I hear is traffic on the Uxbridge Road, not the waves churning against snaggle-tooth rocks, and the only voices are those of the Sandhus next door, who are having a row right next to the party wall.