Katy Carter Wants a Hero (21 page)

There’s not much I can say to this because I’m starting to wonder myself. I feel really ashamed of James and even more ashamed of myself for not seeing through him. Love wasn’t so much blind in my case as deaf and dumb to boot.

‘But James earns tons of money,’ I point out. ‘Why would he need to borrow from you?’

Jewell shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea, darling, but Cordelia always did have expensive tastes. Maybe that rubbed off on James.’

I think of the bespoke shoes and Turnbull and Asser shirts that graced his half of the wardrobe, whereas I was practically best mates with George at Asda.

Yes, I think we can safely say James likes the finer things in life. Paying for them, though, seems to be another matter entirely.

‘Never mind him, anyway, he’s history,’ says Jewell firmly. ‘It’s time you moved on, darling. Fetch some Moët out of the fridge and let’s toast your new start as a romantic novelist!’

Experience has taught me that once Jewell’s got a bee in her bonnet, there’s no point trying to stop her. Canute probably found it easier to turn back the tide.

Jewell pops the cork, fills the glasses and then holds up her champagne flute. ‘To Katy Carter, her new career and a new romantic hero!’

As we clink glasses, I try to look all independent and empowered, but actually I don’t feel like that at all.

I feel really lonely.

And very, very scared.

‘We’re approaching Liskeard! Liskeard is the next station stop!’

This nasal announcement takes me by surprise, and it’s almost a shock to find myself in a railway carriage so crowded that it makes a tin of sardines look roomy. My pen hovers over the page of my new writing book and for a second I wonder where the castle and Millandra have gone.

I’ve never known time to pass as slowly as it has on this train journey from Paddington down to Cornwall. I used to think that double maths dragged when I was at school but it’s nothing compared to being crammed on to this train. I’m sitting next to someone who has a major body-odour problem so have been forced to breathe through my mouth since Reading. I sound like Darth bloody Vader. And why am I so tired just from sitting on my bum? I ought to be really good at that by now. If there was a Sitting on your Arse Olympics, I’m very confident that I’d be up for the gold.

At one point I ambled to the buffet car, swaying drunkenly with the motion of the train and cannoning off other passengers with each lurch of the carriage. One coffee, a Snickers and second-degree burns later I was back in my seat, having first to squeeze past BO Man and contort my body to fit around his bags. I munched away and hoped I’d made the right decision. My usual manner of coping with feeling this miserable is to go on a mega shopping spree and burn the plastic to melting point, but oddly this no longer holds any appeal, probably because I’m going to really need to watch the pennies from now on. I’ve also had a couple of really peculiar letters from James in which he asks me to contribute to various bills and even the mortgage.

Well, he can stick that up his bottom. Why should I? I don’t even live with him any more, and besides, he earns quadruple what I do. Let Alice bloody Saville sort it out.

I look out of the window. Acres of gently rolling countryside whiz past in a green blur. It’s really very pretty. Odd as it may sound, I’ve never ventured further west than Devon before, so the train journey is something of an adventure. I’m boldly going where I’ve never been before and I’m amazed by the stunning scenery that is unfurling before my eyes like something from
Wish You Were Here
. The rippling ploughed earth is the most amazing brick red, bright against dark woods and the duck-egg-blue sky. Crumpled cottages huddle next to thick copses like little islands floating in an ocean of corn and pasture. Hailing from Ealing, where no one feels safe unless they’re a five-minute drive away from Sainsbury’s, it is all refreshingly alien. Perhaps I will be able to gain solace from the natural world around me like some great romantic heroine in literature? It’s a pity Wordsworth cornered the market in romantic poetry about three hundred years ago, because I feel certain that some great lyrical ballad could spring forth from my present tormented state.

The best bit of the journey is when the train winds its way along a section of track that is so close to the sea I can practically dip my toes in. I feel like I’m on a trip to another land; the sparkling sea is nothing like the sluggish brown waters of the Thames, and neither do the slow, rich accents of the passengers who board and disembark have anything in common with the guttural tones of the kids I teach. The bobbing fishing boats and windsurfers with bright sails make me think of Ollie. If he was here he’d have his face pressed against the glass and would be busy explaining how they float and all the manoeuvres they can do. Ollie will talk about windsurfing all day, given half a chance.

Not that he’s really talking to me at the moment. He could hardly drag himself to my leaving do and just about managed to grunt good luck.

Nina’s charm and grace are rubbing off on him, it seems.

Just like I promised Jewell, I’ve taken a sabbatical from my job and am moving in with Maddy for a while to begin my new life as a romantic novelist. Maddy’s desperate to show me the local talent, and of course I’m going to rewrite my novel in the new writing book Frankie bought me in Paperchase at Paddington.

‘Now, darling,’ he said as we located my platform, ‘are you sure about this?’

Frankie has misgivings about my running away to stay with Mads. Exciting as he thinks a man in a frock is, he isn’t keen on the sound of Richard. I daren’t tell him that Mads hasn’t even told Richard yet. We thought a fait accompli would be better. And after all, what can he possibly do to us when we do tell him? He’s a vicar.

‘I’m totally sure,’ I replied. ‘I can’t bear to be around for a moment longer. James is driving me mental, and anyway, it’s best I leave Ollie and Nina in peace.’

Frankie’s smooth brow crinkled. ‘I just can’t get my head around the whole Nina thing. She’s totally wrong for him, you know. Can’t you stay here and convince him to dump her? I’m sure they’d let you have your job back if you asked the head really nicely.’

‘I don’t want my job back. That cancer scare was a real wake-up call. No matter how hard it is, I am moving on even if it bloody well kills me.’

‘I guess you’re doing the right thing,’ Frankie said, helping me on to the train. ‘Jewell’s right, you’ll feel so much better by taking positive action to get over James instead of sitting on your arse feeling sorry for yourself. That wouldn’t have got Hamlet very far, would it?’

‘Hamlet went mad and died,’ I pointed out.

‘Really?’ Frankie was amazed. ‘I never did see it to the end; far too tantalising for me having to look at all those beautiful boys in tights for four hours and not being allowed anywhere near. I just had to go for a drink to calm myself down.’ He pulled himself out of this most absorbing memory with some effort and turned his attention back to the far less exciting me. ‘You do remember what I said about Gabriel Winters?’

‘If I see him I’m to ring you straight away,’ I chanted dutifully.

‘Exactly!’ Frankie clapped his hands. ‘Now I have your number and I’ll be down to visit very soon.’

And off he went to check Pinchy in with the guard, leaving me dangerously close to tears. In spite of his affectations, I’m really fond of Frankie. Carrie from
Sex and the City
is so right — every girl should have a gay best friend.

Heterosexual ones, though, are another matter entirely…

‘You said Liskeard,’ says the lady sitting opposite me. ‘Better get a move on, my lover! You’ve got a lot to carry.’

She’s not wrong. I’ve got more luggage than Louis Vuitton, not to mention Pinchy, who is stowed in the guard’s van, floating lazily in a plastic tub. Once more I’ve picked up my life and moved it on.

As the train pulls into the station, I gather up my bags and dangle out of the window in a feeble attempt to open the door. I end up falling out of the train and scattering my belongings everywhere.

Bloody marvellous.

So here I am on the station platform with all my things at my feet while disembarking passengers flow past me. Everything is really different. The light seems brighter somehow and the air is sharp and fresh. I draw great greedy gulps of it into my poor polluted city lungs.

‘This yours, m’bird?’ the portly stationmaster asks, wheeling a blue plastic tub containing Pinchy towards me.

I nod. Pinchy shoots me a knowing look from his boot-button eyes.

‘I had that Rick Stein on my platform once,’ says the stationmaster. ‘He didn’t bring a lobster with him, though. Dinner, is it?’

Pinchy looks most offended. ‘It’s a long story. He’s more of a pet really. I’m taking him to the sea to release him.’

The stationmaster rolls his eyes.

‘Blooming emmets! A pet lobster? Whatever next? It’d be ’andsome with a drop of that Mary Rose sauce. Still, up to you. Do you want a hand carrying your things?’

‘Please.’ My arms feel so stretched from lugging my cases I’m amazed they’re not dragging along the floor gorilla-style.

I follow him along the platform through the throng of weary commuters and jaunty holidaymakers, up a steep flight of steps, over a footbridge and up another set of steps to the road. By the time I put my bags down I’m puffing more than Dot Cotton on a Bensons and Hedges. I really must get fit, yet another addition to my rapidly growing list of things to do.

‘Shall I call you a taxi, maid?’ asks the stationmaster. ‘Only I lock the station up at six and the call box is out of order.’

‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m getting a lift.’ I peer up and down the road for Maddy, but as yet there’s no sign of her. I’m not perturbed by this, though, because Mads is habitually late wherever she goes. She was even an hour late to her own wedding. ‘I’m staying with my friend in Tregowan.’

‘Pretty place, Tregowan,’ he says, putting Pinchy’s box down. ‘I wouldn’t live there, though. Me and the missus like to park outside our house, see.’

As he returns to the platform I’m left mystified. What sort of place is Tregowan if you can’t park cars there? In my mind’s eye I picture narrow cobbled streets and smugglers rolling barrels of brandy into caves.

‘Isn’t it exciting?’ I say to Pinchy, but he turns his back on me and starts to clean his antennae. Ungrateful creature. Next time I’ll let Ollie cook him.

Only there won’t be a next time, will there? My eyes sting and I blink furiously. This is my fresh start, the beginning of my exciting new life. I’m not going to cry. It’s time to move on.

‘Onwards and upwards,’ I tell myself sternly.

The trouble is, there’s a bit of a problem with the onwards part because Mads still hasn’t arrived to pick me up. At first I’m pretty relaxed with this. The setting sun is warm on my face and the soft breeze is heavy with the tang of wild garlic. Apart from the distant rumble of a tractor and the trembling baa of sheep, everything is still. Only a couple of cars have driven past, which I take to be the Cornish equivalent of rush hour. I settle down with my belongings and wait.

Forty minutes later I’m still waiting and starting to panic. The setting sun’s dipping behind the hill, and although it casts the most amazing pink blush over the countryside, the warmth is slipping away. It’s still only April and in my gypsy top and floaty skirt I start to feel chilly.

I fish my mobile out of my bag but the screen tells me that there’s limited service. Fan-bloody-tastic. I shove it back in and wait for a bit longer. By the time the sun is little more than a golden fingernail against a scarlet sky, I’m contemplating abandoning my post and walking to town. Wherever that might be. I look down at my legs, which are stretched out in front of me, and mourn the fact that I will surely ruin my lovely suede Shelley’s boots. It might be spring in Cornwall but the road looks like a mud pit.

I am going to kill Maddy Lomax when I see her.

I’m at the point of despair when the most enormous black BMW 4x4 drives by, its sidelights sweeping over me as it passes. I hear a crunch of gears, then it reverses rapidly and comes to a halt right next to me. The driver kills the engine and one tinted window lowers.

Maddy? Surely not in a BMW unless the Church of England’s just given vicars a significant pay rise I don’t know about?

I crane my neck in an attempt to see who the driver is, but the setting sun glances off the shiny paintwork and dazzles me so all I can make out is one toned arm resting at the bottom of the window. One toned male arm.

Definitely not Maddy then.

Just my luck. The only kerb-crawler in Cornwall and he has to find me. I prepare myself for a slimy git and rack my brains for a stinging put-down.

Then the driver peeks his head out of the window, smiles at me and I almost pass out with shock.

Oh God. The stress of the last few weeks must have taken more of a toll on me than I realised.

‘Pinch me, Pinchy,’ I say to the lobster. ‘I’m hallucinating. ’

I must be, because otherwise I would swear that the driver, who’s smiling at me, his teeth so white that I need shades, is none other than Gabriel Winters himself. I look away, count to five and look back.

Christ on a bike! It is! It really is!

‘Hey there!’ says Gabriel Winters, in the gravelly, sexy voice that the nation has so recently heard persuading Jane Eyre into bed. ‘You look a bit lost.’

‘I’m waiting for a lift.’ I’m aiming for a sexy purr but sound instead like Orville the duck. ‘My friend hasn’t turned up. I’m meant to be going to Tregowan.’

He pulls off his shades and bright sapphire eyes twinkle at me. ‘Well, by happy coincidence I’m going there too. Why don’t we put your things in the boot and I’ll drive you? I can’t leave a beautiful woman stranded by the side of the road.’

I look around just in case Angelina Jolie is also stuck here.

No, just one small ginger Katy Carter.

Oh. My. God. Mr Rochester thinks I’m beautiful!

Mind you, he was blinded in the final episode.