Katy Carter Wants a Hero (17 page)

In fact, forget scared.

More like fucking terrified.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I squeaked. ‘Would it be OK if my friend came in after all?’

Suddenly it seemed like a very good idea indeed to have Ollie by my side. Ol’s pretty tough from all his outdoor pursuits, so I could dig my nails into his hand if things got really painful, whereas the nurse might object. And besides, it’s not as if he hasn’t seen a naked boob before, is it? He’s had more girlfriends than Hugh Hefner; surely the sight of my poor breast wouldn’t shock him? We were friends after all. The fact that he’d got a willy ought to be irrelevant. What’s the difference really between being friends with Ollie and being friends with Mads?

Only that I’ve never snogged Mads.

But I didn’t really mean to snog Ollie. It was years ago anyway and just a drunken mistake.

‘Here he is!’ said the nurse brightly as she ushered Ollie into the room.

He stood awkwardly by the door, beanie hat in one hand and copy of
Hello
! in the other. He wasn’t sure where to look.

‘Sit this side,’ said Dr Morris, moving the ultrasound screen so that Ollie could perch next to me. ‘Now then, everything’s super!’

Super? I caught Ollie’s eye and couldn’t help laughing. Surely this was the antithesis of super?

‘Katy’s a bit nervous,’ continued the doctor, needle poised. ‘Just hold her hand. Sharp scratch coming.’

Sharp scratch? Why lie? She should just say ‘Massive needle stabbing you now.’

‘Ow!’ yelped Ollie, clutching his fingers. ‘Jesus! Katy!’

‘I have a low pain threshold.’

‘You don’t have a pain threshold at all,’ gasped Ol, rubbing his fingers. ‘Could I have some of that anaesthetic for my hand?’

But Dr Morris was too busy delving inside my skin to answer. Looking down, I felt faint.

‘Don’t be nosy,’ said Ollie sternly. ‘Look at the screen instead. You’ve always wanted to be on telly.’

So I looked away and concentrated on breaking Ollie’s fingers.

To be fair to the doctor, she was thorough and she did her best to keep me as comfortable as possible. Ollie was probably in more pain than me and it took a good couple of hours for the marks from my nails to fade. While Dr Morris beavered away, he tried to distract me by reading snippets from
Hello
! and repeating all the latest gossip from school. Once I’d escaped from the consulting room, feeling very sore and dizzy, he marched me straight to the canteen and bought the biggest wad of carrot cake I’d ever seen. Then we went to the pub and got hammered. Ollie wouldn’t let me buy any drinks or even thank him.

‘What are friends for?’ he said.

Yes, I think, carrying my tea back into the lounge, Ollie’s a good friend. Whoever ends up with him will be a lucky girl. I just hope it isn’t Nina. He could do so much better than her.

Hurling myself on to the sofa, I flick through
Heat
magazine and try to concentrate on a double-page interview with Gabriel Winters, the gorgeous actor who’s starring in the BBC’s latest modern reworking of a Brontë novel. It’s quite scary to think that an entire generation of viewers now believe that Jane Eyre actually shagged Mr Rochester in a rainstorm before being called a slag by Bertha Mason, presumably out of the attic courtesy of care in the community.
EastEnders
meets literature is how the Beeb is selling the drama. Charlotte Brontë must be spinning in her grave. In any case, it’s hard to escape Gabriel Winters at the moment; his dissolute, handsome chiselled face, lazy downturned blue eyes and sexy lop-sided smile stare down from billboards, grin cheekily from magazine covers and are frequently splashed across the tabloids. He gets through models/soap stars/members of girl bands like I’m currently getting through Kleenex. I read for a bit about how he’s enjoying his role as Mr Rochester, why he thinks the new and notorious wet-trouser scene enhances the novel and what he looks for in a woman.

Thin and blonde. What a surprise.

Why are men so predictable? It must be biological.

I shove the magazine aside in disgust. I’ll pass it on to Frankie, who has a major crush on Gabriel Winters, but personally I feel like using it as loo roll. I return to nibbling my nails.

And then the phone rings.

I spring to my feet and grab the receiver, feeling as if my heart is about to burst cartoon-style through my chest. This really is it.

‘Hello?’ says a calm, professional voice. ‘May I speak with Katy Carter?’

‘Speaking.’ I sound like I’ve been inhaling helium. The phone trembles in my hand.

‘Hi, Katy, this is Dr Morris. How are you?’

How am I? Is she insane?

‘Fine,’ I fib, because ‘Going out of my mind’ probably isn’t what she wants to hear.

‘Mr Worthington’s team have met today to discuss your results,’ she continues, and I hear her rustling through papers. My heart rate increases. It hasn’t raced like this since my one and only step aerobic class. I can’t tell from her tone of voice if she’s about to give me the news I’m dreading.

‘Oh?’ I squeak.

‘And I’m really pleased to tell you that the tumour is benign.’

For a moment I’m stunned. Then I think, benign and malign, which is which? I know I’m an English teacher, but my brain feels like it’s turned to cream cheese.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Could you say that again?’

She laughs. ‘It’s good news, Katy. You have a fibroadenoma, which is a benign tumour.’

‘I haven’t got cancer?’ I need to hear this in plain English. Sod the medic speak.

‘No, you haven’t got cancer,’ Dr Morris says patiently. ‘A fibroadenoma is totally benign. We’ll be in touch regarding whether or not you wish to have it removed. Have a good weekend.’

Have a good weekend? No kidding! Dr Morris rings off and I’m left standing in the middle of the lounge with the phone clamped to my ear. I’m stunned. I was so convinced it was going to be bad news that this unexpected reprieve has totally thrown me. I’m not prepared for celebrations.

‘It’s OK,’ I say slowly to Sasha, who thumps her tail in doggy delight. ‘It’s OK! It’s blooming well OK!’

It’s like I’ve had ten tons of concrete sitting on my head for days and suddenly it’s been lifted off. I could float away like a hot-air balloon, drifting above the rooftops of west London and rising into a sky of endless possibilities. Days, months and years spread in front of me, millions and millions of minutes that I can grab with both hands and use any way I want. No more moaning about James. No more whingeing about my job. No more thinking about writing a novel one day. I’m not going to waste a second.

‘It’s OK! It’s OK! It’s OK!’ I shriek, over and over again, as I run around the house, thundering up the stairs with a joyfully barking Sasha at my heels. ‘It’s OK!’ I tell Pinchy, who I swear gives me a beady wink from his bath. ‘It’s OK!’

I would have kept this up for longer but Mrs Sandhu starts to bang on the wall and shout at me in Hindi. Her baby begins to wail.

Whoops.

I bound back downstairs again. I’m so full of energy, I could keep the National Grid going for a month. My lethargy has vanished quicker than Gabriel Winters’ trousers in a love scene and I have no desire to nibble my nails. Life is back to normal.

Except that it isn’t.

My life is so going to change.

By the time Ollie gets home from school, I’m halfway through a bottle of Moët and slightly hoarse from a long and intense conversation with Maddy.

‘That man’s an angel!’ she squealed when I told her how Ollie had supported me for days. ‘Snap him up now!’

‘It isn’t like that,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I don’t fancy him.’

‘Are you off your trolley?’ asked Maddy, and in the background seagulls caw-cawed in agreement. ‘He’s gorgeous, and he’s got a nice arse.’

‘I agree, from a purely aesthetic point of view, but you’ve no idea what he’s really like: overflowing bins, loo seats left up, a trail of dirty socks all round the house; he’s not my romantic hero, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Welcome to the real world,’ she said. ‘It isn’t all Mills and Boon, you know. They fart and snore and hog the duvet.’

‘I know that. But he’s…’ I paused, ‘he’s just Ollie, a tall, dog-loving comfort blanket of a mate.’

‘Bollocks!’ snorted Mads. ‘He’s sex on a stick. I’d shag him. Nice fit body, cute face and sexy arms. Don’t you even fancy him a little bit?’

Mads has a thing about arms.

‘He is attractive if you like that kind of thing, I suppose,’ I conceded.

‘So you do fancy him!’ shrieked Maddy, drowning out the seagulls.

I could have cut my tongue out. Why Bond villains bother with tanks of sharks and laser beams I’ll never know. All they need to do is ply 007 with Moët and he’d sing like a canary.

‘No! I was just agreeing that he isn’t ugly. And even if I did fancy him — which I don’t — it would never work. Ol goes for Twiglet girls like Nina.’

‘He’s not sharing a house with Nina,’ said Mads. ‘And it’s not Nina he’s spent the last two weeks with 24/7, is it?’

‘Can’t men and women be friends? Haven’t you seen
When Harry met Sally
?’

‘Yes,’ said Maddy. ‘They got it together.’

They did? I never did get round to seeing that movie, but I made a mental note to watch it soon. It’s one of Ollie’s favourites; I’m sure I can dig it out from somewhere. Just out of idle curiosity, though, not because I fancy Ollie.

I
don’t
, but I can admire him in a purely platonic way, can’t I? Mads was on the verge of agreeing when Richard came into the kitchen, wittering on about bring-and-share suppers. Vicars’ wives aren’t really supposed to discuss the merits of Oliver Burrows’s bum and whether or not he’s shaggable, so Mads rang off, but not before she’d advised me in a whisper to ‘bonk his brains out’.

Next I called Jewell to share the good news and to thank her for the private treatment. She was still AWOL so I left her a message, albeit a rather rambling, incoherent one, and sent a text message to my sister. It’s a strange thought that my good news is whizzing through the ether. I even texted Mum and Dad, which was probably a waste of time since they haven’t figured out how to switch their mobile on yet, but the new improved me is going to be a lot nicer to her parents. In fact I’m going to be more positive in all areas of my life. I’m going to drink lots of water, eat five portions of vegetables a day, cut out alcohol — after my celebratory bottle of champagne, obviously — and rub skin food in the right way. I’m going to stop nagging Ollie about the state of the house, I’ll make more time for my friends and I’ll even be nice to Nina the next time she calls.

That’s a tall order, but I’ve been reprieved! Positive karma and all that. Time for me to put something back into the cosmos.

Blimey. I must be pissed already. I’m starting to sound like my mother.

‘Did you get my text?’ I ask, dashing into the hall as Ollie slams the door and throws his rucksack on to the floor. I fight Sasha to get to him first and fling my arms round his neck. ‘It’s a fibrothingummy!’

Ollie’s face splits into a massive crinkly grin.

‘That’s fantastic news,’ he says, pulling me close with one arm. ‘I texted you back but I ran out of credit else I’d have called. Anyway, I got you these.’ His left arm has been tucked behind his back and now extends in my direction to offer the most enormous bunch of flowers I have ever seen in my life. Dozens of fat pink and cream roses nestle inside endless folds of pink tissue paper, fronds of fern and baby’s breath framing them tenderly. The entire bouquet is swathed in silky pink and peach ribbons and bows.

Garage forecourt it is not.

It’s the sort of bouquet that Jake would give Millandra.

‘Ollie!’ I gasp, stepping back to clutch the flowers in my arms. ‘They’re amazing. You shouldn’t have. You’ve done too much already.’ And I bury my face in the softest petals imaginable and inhale their delicate scent.

‘I did it all because I wanted to,’ Ollie replies.

‘You’ve been really kind.’

‘Oh, bollocks to kind,’ says Ollie. His hand moves up to my face and brushes the hair back from my flushed cheeks. ‘Katy, I—’

‘Hey,’ shrieks Frankie’s high voice through the letter box, followed by hammering fists. ‘Let me in!’

Ollie and I spring apart. Sasha bounces up and down, barking in time with every one of Frankie’s blows on the front door.

‘Open up, you meanies!’ he wails, mouth pressed against the letter box. ‘I can see you! Come on, I’ve brought alcohol.’

‘In that case, come in.’ Ollie opens the front door and Frankie falls in, clutching his Oddbins bag.

‘Hello! Congratulations! Celebrations!’ he cries, twirling madly round the hall. Today he’s wearing a puke-green catsuit, huge furry boots and a long knitted scarf. ‘I got your text, darling!’ He loops the scarf round my neck and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Fab news!’

‘Put Frankie down and get your best clobber on,’ Ollie says to me as he leaps up the stairs. ‘We’re going out to celebrate. I booked a table at Antonio’s. Didn’t you get my text?’

‘Oooh! Lovely,’ Frankie says, clapping his hands in excitement. ‘I
love
Antonio’s. The waiters are to die for.’

Ollie pauses halfway up. ‘No offence, Frankie, but you’re not invited.’

‘Oh come on! Don’t leave me out.’

‘Frankie,’ Ollie says in a warning voice. ‘I said you’re not invited.’

‘Fine! Be like that, you meanie!’ Frankie tosses his hair, dyed deep purple today. ‘Fancy a game of James darts, Katy?’

I decline, so we go back into the lounge to watch television. As I sip my champagne and while Ollie showers, Frankie channel-hops, settling at last on
Richard and Judy
.

‘I
love
Richard and Judy!’ cries Frankie. ‘When the Screaming Queens are famous, I’m going to be on their show all the time.’

I feel I can be forgiven for not holding my breath.

‘And now,’ says Judy, leaning forward and beaming at the camera, ‘a guest I know you’ll all be as excited to meet as I am.’

‘He’s had us all glued to our screens for weeks now,’ Richard chips in. ‘English Literature has never been so sexy. He is, of course, the gorgeous Gabriel Winters!’