Katy Carter Wants a Hero (27 page)

Shame he has the manners of George’s dead pet pig.

‘OK,’ I agree. ‘I can see where you’re coming from, but he is no way a romantic hero.’

‘Only trying to help,’ says Mads sulkily. ‘Take your mind off James and help you finish the book, you said. That’s what I’m trying to do.’

‘I know, but could you be a little less full on.’

‘What the fuck is this?’ interrupts Guy, thrusting Pinchy under my nose.

‘It’s a lobster,’ I say calmly. ‘They live in the sea.’

‘I know it’s a bloody lobster,’ says Guy. ‘What I want to know is why I’m taking it out to sea. Let me explain how fishing works. I get stuff out of the sea and sell it. Fucking simple, I’d have thought.’

Gordon Ramsay’s monopoly on the F word is under serious threat.

‘We’re going to release him back into the wild,’ I tell Guy. Pinchy looks a little nervous, which is understandable, since Guy’s probably massacred scores of his relatives and must feature regularly on
Lobster Crimewatch
. ‘He’s a rescue lobster.’

‘You want to tip that into the sea?’ Guy’s incredulous. ‘It’s a beauty. I’ll save us all the hassle and give you a tenner for it. I could sell it on the fish stall ten times over.’

‘You will not!’ I cry. ‘I’m not giving up now. If you had any idea of how much hassle this lobster has caused, you’d never dream of suggesting that. Take us out to sea, buster!’

‘Bloody emmets,’ Guy says, but his eyes are twinkling, no doubt at the thought of the fat fee he’ll charge and the mileage he’ll get out of retelling this story in the pub. ‘Still, you’re paying.’

‘Certainly am,’ I mutter under my breath. Don’t know quite what I’m paying for exactly, but it must have been something pretty awful. I don’t think I’ll be going for past life regression any time soon. The thought of what I could discover is too horrific. Besides, I’m not doing a fantastic job of running this one, am I?

The Kwells must be working because once we’ve cast off from the quay and rounded the headland I find that I’m actually enjoying the gentle rolling motion of the boat as she bounces over the waves. The water glistens and sparkles in the sunshine and I tip my face back and enjoy its warmth on my cheeks. The wash spreads out behind us like white lace and Tregowan diminishes beyond, more like a model village than ever. Up on the cliff path tiny matchstick figures are strolling along or sitting admiring the view. One waves to us and I wave back, before we round a headland and leave them far behind.

Suddenly I feel a bit more hopeful.

Mads is sitting at the stern, one hand tightly clutching the gantry, the other holding her tangled hair back from her face. Guy is nowhere near as idle as his passengers. Setting the boat on autopilot (and alarming me terribly before I check), he scoots about the deck coiling the ropes that trail serpent-like around our feet, stacking bright yellow boxes and heaving debris into the ocean. Now that he’s in his element and his mouth is firmly closed, I can appreciate what Mads was trying to point out. There’s something earthy and essentially masculine about him. Whether it’s the knowledge that he risks his life on a daily basis or simply because his work is so physically demanding, he has a confidence that borders on arrogance. Add that to a well-muscled body, a large kissable mouth and a set of cheekbones that most women would pay a fortune for, and the combination is pretty devastating.

He’s attractive, I can see that. But I don’t fancy him at all. First Gabriel and now Guy. What’s wrong with me? Frankie would think he’d died and gone to heaven with all these gorgeous men on tap.

I feel a bit miffed. It’s like going to Cadbury World and suddenly developing an aversion to chocolate.

I watch Guy move around the boat, admiring the way his body adjusts to the motion of the sea. In my mind’s eye I have him dressed in tight white breeches and a billowing linen shirt, with a cutlass at his waist and a diamond glittering dangerously in his ear. The rusting metal skeleton of the trawler vanishes too and instead she becomes a stately galleon with acres of white sails and rigging that stretches high above my head.

Hey! Maybe Mads is right about this crazy action-hero idea. I wish I had my writing book with me.

Millandra’s hands were bound tightly and the harsh rope chafed against the soft skin of her wrists. The ship heaved and thrust beneath her feet, leaping over the brine with a power that would have felled her were she not tied to the mast
.

The mast? Maybe that’s overdoing it a tad. I look up and am surprised to see Guy dressed in cat-sick yellow oilskins rather than his pirate gear. He’s doing some daredevil stuff up on the roof of the wheelhouse, and I notice, purely from the point of view of research for my novel, that he’s shed the T-shirt and is working barechested. All that lugging nets about in the sun must pay off, because his torso is bronzed, taut with muscle and corded with sinew.

Peter Andre would die of jealousy.

‘All right?’ Guy catches me looking at his body and gives me a wink.

Shit! He thinks I’m checking him out! Face flaming, I look hastily away. How absolutely excruciatingly embarrassing.

‘Absolutely fine, thank you,’ I say primly.

‘Absolutely!’ mimics Guy, grinning. ‘Get you! Sounds like I’ve got the bloody Queen on board.’ And he jumps lithely down on to the deck and vanishes into the wheelhouse. Seconds later the engine is cut and all is blissfully quiet, except for the slap of the waves against the boat and the screech of the gulls which appear from thin air and circle above us.

‘Right,’ Guy says. ‘Chuck it in then and we can go back.’

I look out to sea. Tregowan is little more than a cluster of dots amongst a smudge of green. All else is acres and acres of deep blue water. I feel like the Ancient Mariner, only in funkier shoes.

‘What are all those little flags?’ I ask.

‘Markers for lobster pots, that’s what,’ Maddy says. ‘Nice try, Guy.’

Grumbling about quotas and federal Europe and struggling to survive, Guy manoeuvres the boat another hundred yards or so.

‘And that’s it,’ he says, fixing me and Mads with a steely gaze. ‘I’m not wasting any more fuel on a fucking lobster. Throw it in, for Christ’s sake.’

I look at Pinchy and Pinchy looks at me, and I know it’s ridiculous but I feel quite emotional.

‘Hurry up.’ Guy crosses his arms. ‘You don’t need to kiss it.’

‘Bye, Pinchy,’ I whisper, lifting his box on to the side of the boat. ‘Thanks for seeing off James. Guess I owe you one.’

Pinchy looks alarmed, probably wondering where his jacuzzi bath and expensive koi carp food have gone. He doesn’t seem overly keen to be liberated from captivity. It must be like returning to shopping in Asda when you’re more used to the Harrods Food Hall.

‘Watch out for lobster pots,’ advises Mads.

‘Unless they’re mine,’ Guy grins.

I close my eyes, tip the box and splosh! Pinchy has gone.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ says Guy, returning to the wheelhouse and starting the engine. Moments later we’re steaming back towards the harbour, with only a few ripples marking the spot where Pinchy dived down to his freedom.

Mads puts her arm around me. ‘Don’t be sad. We can always get you a hamster or something.’

I press my fingers into the corners of my eyes. I’m not going to cry over Pinchy. It’s just that in some ridiculous way that lobster was the only link to my old life, the life where even if I wasn’t always happy, at least we all knew where we stood. I was engaged, James was an arse and Ollie was my friend. Now it’s all changed and I don’t know how to make it right. I don’t belong anywhere and I don’t know where my life is going. It feels like I haven’t just dropped Pinchy into the sea but also everything I used to know and hope for.

So much for embracing change and being grateful for my second chance. I seem to lurch from excited to terrified on an hourly basis.

Jewell would be ashamed. I really must try harder.

As the trawler rolls her way back to harbour, I stare out to the horizon and try to feel optimistic about new beginnings.

‘Look!’ exclaims Mads. ‘What’s happening on the quay?’

Dancing Girl
has rounded the headland and Guy slows her down for the final approach through the narrow harbour entrance. The high stone wall of the quay looms above and a large crowd has gathered to watch our approach.

‘They’re waving!’ Mads waves back excitedly. ‘Hello! Hello!’ She turns back to me, her cheeks pink with excitement. ‘Isn’t this romantic? Coming into an ancient fishing village by boat? The tourists love it. Look at them all waving.’

I shield my eyes against the bright sunshine. Sure enough there’s a throng of bodies crowded on the harbour, jostling for pole position, cameras flashing and camcorders held out to capture the trawler’s arrival. Even above the throb of the engine I can hear the rise and fall of excited voices.

You know, crazy as this is, I would swear they’re calling my name, but that’s impossible, surely?

‘Katy! Katy! Is it true you’re seeing Gabriel Winters? Has he really dumped Stacey Dean for you?’

I have a hideous sinking feeling, comparable to the time I taught my GCSE group the wrong book and only realised when they trooped into the exam hall, that something is very, very wrong. This bunch doesn’t look anything like tourists. There’s not a pasty or ice cream in sight, which in my limited experience tends to give it away. In fact the crowd, who now all but dangle from the quay, cameras extended at arm’s length, look horribly like journalists.

‘Maddy!’ I gasp. ‘I think the press have found me.’

There’s an explosion of light as umpteen cameras flash. I throw my hands over my face.

‘I haven’t got any make-up on!’

‘Never mind the make-up!’ Mads drags me across the deck and shoves me into the wheelhouse. ‘How are we going to get away from them?’

‘Sod that! They’re in my way.’ Guy sounds the boat horn loudly. ‘Fuck off! Out the way!’

‘They’re not going to listen,’ I say as a camera is lowered towards the window, ingeniously strapped to a plank.

‘Oh really? You think?’ Guy shakes his head. ‘Jesus! I should have just gone netting.’ He storms on to the deck and starts hurling slimy ropes up at the journalists. ‘I can’t moor with you twats there!’

‘How can I get off?’ I’m starting to panic. Not only does it look as if I’ll have to scale a ladder to reach the quay, but I’m also going to have to fight my way through the paparazzi. They look like they’re ready to rip my limbs off and squabble over the soggy bits.

I glance at the water in the harbour and wonder if my swimming is up to me making a break for the other side. Surely all Ollie’s training must pay off sometime? But the turgid water is oily and a fish head bobs past, fixing me with a disapproving glare. I don’t really fancy a dip. I’ll probably catch typhoid.

Guy rams a sou’wester on to my head and hands me an oilskin jacket. ‘Put that on. They’ll never see you underneath it.’

I screw up my nose and shove my arms into the cold plastic. To say that the jacket reeks of fish is an understatement. It’s probably capable of walking by itself. Still, it’s a disguise of some sort, I suppose.

‘How did they know you were out at sea?’ wonders Mads. ‘I thought at least we’d be safe out there. I swore Guy to secrecy.’

Guy looks sheepish. ‘I may have forgotten about that when I was talking to the old lady in the pub.’

‘You total moron,’ says Mads, giving him a look that in a fair world should have laid him out on the floor. ‘I said to tell no one you were meeting us, and anyway, what old lady?’

‘Just an old dear I met in the Mermaid who said she was looking for Katy. She had some poof with her too,’ says Guy. ‘Barking mad she was. Drank gin like it was water and played cards like a pro. Fucking round cleaned me out. There she is now!’ He points to the end of the quay, where a small figure dressed in green and sporting what looks like a turban with a feather in it is elbowing her way through the crowd and jabbing at anyone who gets too close with a purple parasol.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ she warbles. ‘Katy darling! Is that you? Take off that ghastly hat. Yellow is so not your colour. Terrible with red hair. Come and say hello. Look! I’ve found all these darling people who can’t wait to meet you. Everyone is so friendly here. Nothing like beastly London.’

I bury my face in my hands. I think we can safely say that the mystery of how the press has managed to find me has been solved.

‘That’s my godmother,’ I say.

Jewell teeters on the edge of the quay. ‘What are you doing hiding away, darling? Come up at once! There’re lots of people simply dying to talk to you. It’s too thrilling for words.’

Jewell couldn’t have attracted more attention if she’d painted her body purple and danced naked on the fish-market roof. Being slightly deaf, she also assumes that the rest of the world is hard of hearing too and her speech volume is on a par with Concorde taking off. Consequently the few journalists who are still enjoying the real ale in the pub now stagger out, clutching cameras and notepads in their sticky paws.

‘Come on.’ The feathers on her hat bob furiously. ‘There’s a lovely man here from the
Sun
who can’t wait to speak to you about that divine Gabriel. Although,’ she leans dangerously far forward and sways a little before being snatched back from the brink by one of the hacks, ‘I’m very hurt that you didn’t tell me first.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I say, or at least I try to, but the minute I stick my head out of the wheelhouse door, cameras flash and my name is called by about twenty different people. I duck back inside quickly.

‘Fuck,’ breathes Maddy.

‘Fuck indeed.’ My heart feels like it’s having a go on a pogo stick. Why would anyone want to be famous? This is hideous. I will never, ever apply to go on
The X Factor
. No matter how crappy teaching can be, at least I can normally make the little sods do what I tell them.

‘I can’t hear you, darling!’ hollers Jewell. ‘Come up here! We’ve travelled all this way to see you, don’t hide.’

We? The pogo stick accelerates. Has she got Ollie with her? If Ollie’s in Tregowan then somehow everything will be sorted. Ol practically has a PhD in sorting out my mess. What a relief.