Katy Carter Wants a Hero (29 page)

I pick up pace and scurry along the path. I seem to be suddenly possessed with ears on elastic. My hearing is superhuman. I can hear every twig that snaps and every bush that rustles for miles around. Someone is in these woods with me. I just know it. I can hear their breathing. In fact it’s getting heavier by the second.

OK, Katy. Don’t panic.

Crack! A twig snaps right behind me and that’s it. I’m panicking. Stumbling in the huge boots, tripping over the roots of gnarled trees and ripping through bracken, I hurtle along the path.

Why didn’t I get fit sooner? Why have I left it too late to become the new me? And it is too late, I know it is. I’ve seen this movie, I know what will happen. The small ginger girl gets caught by the psycho in the mask. I’ll be wearing my entrails as a necklace and hanging from a tree quicker than you can say
slasher movie
.

I’m nearly at the house. Just a little way to go. I’m nearly there. I burst out of the woods like a cork from a bottle and hammer on the door with my fists.

‘Gabriel!’ I holler. ‘Let me in!’

But there’s no answer. The lights are on but no one’s in, which would be funny in a metaphorical kind of way if I wasn’t convinced that Freddy Krueger is after me. I bang on the door again, so hard this time that it swings open and I stumble in at exactly the same time that my mystery attacker hurls himself on top of me.

And starts to lick my face.

Wait a minute, that’s not right. Shouldn’t that be ‘and pulls out a knife and guts me like a fish’? Have I got my genres mixed?

Peeling open an eye, I bravely face my assailant.

It’s a toy poodle.

I know I’ve been drinking, but even I couldn’t imagine this. I really am lying in the hallway of Gabriel Winters’ country retreat being licked to death by a fluffy white poodle.

‘Hello, Katy.’ Gabriel descends the stairs, dressed in a bathrobe. Golden ringlets still wet from the shower bounce around his cheeks like springs. ‘I see you’ve met Mufty.’

‘Mufty?’

‘My dog,’ explains Gabriel. ‘He was outside and wouldn’t come in. Would you like a drink?’

Have I banged my head and am lying unconscious in the woods?

‘Katy?’ Gabriel says. ‘A drink?’

‘Oh! Me?’

‘Of course you. How many dogs do you know that drink champagne?’

None, although I do know one that loves Guinness, not that I’m thinking about Ollie and Sasha. I’m alone with Gabriel Winters and he’s stark naked under his skimpy bathrobe. Surely this is the stuff dreams are made of? Come on, Katy! Look at those golden legs and muscular calves. Think about the wet-trousers scene. Peel off that robe and run your hands over his rippling torso. Where’s your libido gone?

Off on its holidays indefinitely, by the look of things.

Typical.

I follow Gabriel into his kitchen. Although he claims to be renovating the house, everything looks shiny and new. The scrubbed pine table is neatly set and candles flicker romantically.

‘You’re a bit early.’ Gabriel puts Mufty down and rummages around in a cupboard. ‘I’m not quite ready.’

‘I’m not early,’ I say in surprise. ‘You said seven. Besides, it’s been a crazy day.’ And I tell him all about the journalists and my hasty retreat from Tregowan. As I gabble away, Gabriel pours me a glass of wine and stirs a bubbling pan of stew. He doesn’t look very concerned, but I guess it’s all in a day’s work when you’re famous. It’s only when I mention Prada Bomber Jacket that he seems perturbed.

‘Angela Andrews?’ He raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. How long is it since mine had some TLC? I touch one. Gross! They must look like ginger caterpillars.

‘She writes for the
Daily Dagger
?’

‘I know who she is.’ Gabriel looks worried. ‘She’s a really nasty piece of work. They call her the Fleet Street Rottweiler. Once she gets a whiff of a story there’s no way she’ll let go.’

‘Well, it’s just as well there’s no story, then.’ I can’t really see a problem. I mean, I’ve only gone to these lengths because I don’t need to upset Richard any more than is necessary. ‘We’ll just tell them it’s a misunderstanding. When she finds there’s no scandal to be had, she’ll get bored.’

‘She may already be on to something. The lovely Miss Andrews has been trailing me for weeks. I was hoping you might be able to do me a favour, something that would be mutually beneficial.’

‘Oh?’

‘We could make it a job,’ Gabriel says. ‘I’d pay you really well.’

‘I do need a job,’ I say, thinking about the fifteen hundred pounds I owe Ollie, never mind the hideous amount Jewell loaned me. ‘What is it? Cleaning? Dog-walking? ’ I reckon I can even bear walking a dog called Mufty if it saves me from Mads, the sex aids and her alarmingly long list of eligible men.

‘Not exactly.’ Gabriel lights a cigarette, inhales and then blows the smoke out of his nose. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to be my official girlfriend.’

‘What?’ I
am
unconscious in the woods. A white rabbit will run past in a minute and ask me the time.

‘Not for real, obviously,’ says Gabriel, a bit too hastily. ‘I’d like to hire you to play the part of my girlfriend, just to pretend to the press and keep them off my back. You have no idea what a pain in the butt it is always being quizzed about my love life, always having to have some brainless bimbo on my arm just to keep my manager happy. If we could say you were my long-term girlfriend living in Cornwall, it would be perfect.’

I stare at him.

‘You could even live here!’ cries Gabriel, warming to his theme. ‘Rent free! Just name your price, Katy. You could write your novel in peace and not have to worry about doing some shitty job. All you’d need to do is be seen out with me now and again, maybe give a few interviews from time to time, but that would be it. You said you don’t have a boyfriend, so nobody would care about you pretending to be with me.’

‘But why do you need someone to pretend?’ I’m confused and not half as flattered as he thinks I should be. ‘You could date anyone.
Heat
magazine had you as Torso of the Week in the last edition.’

Gabriel sighs heavily.

‘Can I trust you to keep a secret?’

‘Of course,’ I say.

His blue eyes narrow. ‘It’s a major secret and one that can’t go any further than us. Ever.’

I’m all agog. ‘What is it?’

Gabriel pets Mufty’s fluffy head. ‘Can’t you guess?’

‘You’ve got a secret lover? She’s married? Famous
and
married?’

‘Not even close.’

I rack my brains. I haven’t a clue why a man as beautiful and successful as Gabriel Winters would need to pretend he has a girlfriend. From my weekly secret perusal of celebrity magazines — secret because English teachers are
supposed
to read edifying material like the
Times Literary Supplement
— I’ve been under the impression there’s a queue of stunning women desperate for the job.

Why would he need to pretend?

I gaze around the kitchen in case a clue whizzes past and wallops me on the nose. There’s a dirty plate and glass by the Belfast sink and a pair of pink cowboy boots by the door, but otherwise nothing. I smile. Frankie drove us mad until he managed to find himself a pair just like those. Perhaps I won’t mention to Gabriel that he has the same taste in shoes as the lead singer of a gay rock band. That wouldn’t do his image any good.

Hold on a moment. I think I’m on to something.

There’s no way a man so gorgeous he makes Brad Pitt look ugly needs to
pretend
he has a girlfriend unless he really doesn’t want one for real.

Unless… unless…

Unless he really doesn’t want a
girlfriend
.

I point at the boots. ‘I’ve seen those before.’

Gabriel says nothing.

‘There’s someone here, isn’t there?’ I ask slowly. ‘Someone you don’t want anyone to find out about? That’s why you weren’t expecting me, that’s why the dog got out and you didn’t notice.’ I look around the kitchen wildly, as though a random member of Girls Aloud might be hiding under the sink. ‘Is that why you need me? To take the heat off?’

‘Not exactly, although there may be somebody.’ Gabriel looks cagey. ‘It’s early days and very complicated. Do I need to spell it out?’

I look from the crazy boots back to the pink-faced actor. ‘No, I don’t think you do. I know whose boots those are.’

Those boots belong to Frankie, the very same Frankie who’s creeping guiltily into the kitchen and has just made my life about a million times more complicated.

And I am going to kill him.

I wrap my hands around a thick ceramic mug and stare across the oak table at the two sheepish men opposite. ‘Is somebody going to explain exactly what’s been going on?’

Frankie and Gabriel exchange a look.

‘You guys haven’t just met, have you?’

‘We met a couple of months ago at a backstage party,’ admits Frankie. ‘Gabe had a pass to the VIP suite and I managed to blag my way in because Nicky, my bass player, knew a member of the band. Gabe was there and he—’

‘Offered you a canapé,’ I recall. ‘You’ve told that story a few hundred times actually.’

Gabriel blushes. ‘Has he really?’

I nod. ‘It’s been told so often it’s getting worn out.’

‘We chatted for a bit and then I gave Gabriel my phone number,’ Frankie recalls. ‘I slipped it into his pocket and he promised he’d call.’

‘But how did you know he’d be interested?’ I ask. ‘Seeing as Gabriel’s kept this a secret?’

Frankie grins. ‘My gaydar works better than yours, darling!’

‘I lost his number,’ says Gabriel. ‘So I’d no way of getting in touch, otherwise I would have been seriously tempted.’

‘Gabriel’s manager wouldn’t put any of my calls through or give me contact details so I was getting desperate. I thought I’d blown it. Then I opened the papers this morning and bingo! You’d found him for me.’ Frankie grins. ‘I was frantic. I had no idea where you were staying, Ollie had pushed off so I whizzed over to Hampstead to ask Jewell. She was up for a jaunt and the rest is history.’

‘But why didn’t you say?’ I ask. ‘Instead of pretending it was just a crush? I wouldn’t have said anything.’

‘I couldn’t tell you.’ Frankie swirls the tea around his mug and gives me a rueful smile. ‘I couldn’t tell anyone. Don’t take it personally.’

‘I don’t get it,’ I say to Gabriel. ‘Surely no one’s bothered about people being gay these days? I thought showbiz types were really open-minded?’

Gabriel laughs. ‘Yeah, right. How many Hollywood leading men can you name who are gay, or maybe I should say openly gay?’

I think hard. ‘Rupert Everett?’

‘Rupert Everett and?’ presses Gabriel, lifting Mufty on to his lap and caressing the poodle thoughtfully. ‘Anyone else?’

Do you know, it’s the weirdest thing but I can’t think of one. How bizarre is that?

‘Exactly,’ says Gabriel. ‘There aren’t any, are there? Can you imagine Bruce Willis or Arnie being cast as action heroes or Brad Pitt being a pin-up if everyone knew they were gay?’

My jaw drops. ‘Brad Pitt’s gay?’

‘No! Well I don’t think so anyway, but that isn’t the point. Do you think they’d have the careers they do if they were openly gay? Or do you think they’d be sidelined and eventually forgotten? Think about it, Katy. How many successful gay men do you see on television?’

I think hard. ‘Paul O’Grady?’ I venture. ‘Graham Norton? The fat one in
Little Britain
?’

‘Any actors?’ presses Gabriel, his blue eyes burning with passion. ‘Anyone in the same league as Sean Bean or David Tennant?’

‘I can’t think of anyone,’ I say, totally amazed. If anyone had asked me before, I would have sworn blind there were hundreds of famous gay actors out there, but Gabriel’s right. It’s impossible to name more than a handful.

‘And that’s my problem,’ he sighs. ‘I’m an actor and a successful one too, and I want to have the pick of the roles on offer. I want to play action heroes and leading men; I want to fire guns and have sword fights. I even want to play James Bond and Hamlet!’

‘Good for you,’ I say. Makes my ambition to write romantic novels look a bit tame. Perhaps I should be aiming higher. Be the new Shakespeare or something.

‘It’s not going to happen if anyone finds out I’m gay. I’ll be sidelined, typecast as the bitchy gay friend or something. No agent will touch me because I suddenly won’t be half as lucrative, and before I know it my career will be over. I’ll be washed up. A nobody.’ He fixes me with an imploring gaze. One golden ringlet tumbles boyishly over his eyes and I can’t help but think how attractive he is.

What a waste. No wonder I didn’t get any vibes.

‘Anyway,’ he continues, a brave tremor in his voice, ‘I tried dating lots of beautiful actresses to keep the press off the scent. I didn’t want to be having my sexuality questioned at every turn.’

‘The trouble is,’ Frankie butts in, ‘these girls that Gabe dates always expect more.’

‘And that becomes an issue in itself.’ Gabriel looks worried. ‘It’s only a matter of time before one of them goes to Max Clifford with a kiss-and-tell about what we
didn’t
do. Clifford’s no fool; he’ll soon put a story together. And if he doesn’t there’s that Angela Andrews sniffing around; she’s on to something.’

Frankie looks down at the table and pretends to be fascinated by the smears of tomato ketchup. ‘If that’s the woman I think you mean then we could have a problem.’

‘Prada bomber jacket?’ I say.

‘Yes! Divine thing!’ Frankie’s eyes light up. ‘That’s her. She called here earlier while Gabe was in the shower so I answered the door. She was ever so friendly. We had a super chat. Sorry,’ he adds to Gabriel, who has buried his head in his hands. ‘I thought she was a friend of yours. She knew so much about you.’

‘Well that’s it then,’ Gabriel says. ‘She knows.’

‘She does not,’ Frankie squeals in outrage. ‘I never told her I was gay.’

Gabriel and I both look at him. Dressed in a flamboyant green silk shirt and his favourite purple leather trousers and sporting a generous coating of Yves Saint Laurent False Lash mascara, Frankie couldn’t be more of a stereotype if he dressed in PVC shorts and declared that he’s the only gay in the village.