Katy Carter Wants a Hero (30 page)

‘She might have guessed,’ says Gabriel gently. ‘She’s a clever woman.’

Frankie bit his lip. ‘We’ll just have to think of a reason why I was here. Shall I talk to her again? Say I’m the cleaner boy or something?’

‘No!’ Gabriel and I both say at once.

‘See why I need you to consider my offer?’ Gabriel turns to me. It’s hard to tell who has bigger puppy-dog eyes, him or Mufty. ‘It’s perfect, Katy. You pose as my girlfriend, and because you’re Frankie’s friend he gets to come and go as he pleases. The press will soon get bored and push off and everyone’s happy.’

‘But it’s lying,’ I say.

Where did that come from? I’ve only been living in the rectory for twenty-four hours but somehow Richard has got right inside my head. And why is everyone asking me to lie lately?

‘That’s only a slight technicality.’ Gabriel waves my concerns away with his beautifully manicured hand. ‘You are a girl, and you are my friend.’

‘I am?’

‘Course you are!’ cries Frankie. ‘He adores you! Don’t you, Gabe?’

Gabriel’s nodding like that dog in the ads for Churchill Insurance. ‘Absolutely!’ he agrees.

I chew my lip. It’s a tempting offer. Money for old rope, basically. All the perks of a relationship without the hassle of sex. I get to live in this fabulous house, write my novel in peace and everyone thinks that a gorgeous sexy actor is mad about me. One in the eye for all those men who’ve treated me like dirt over the years.

Not that there are that many.

Of course not.

But there are a few. James for one, and there’s the added satisfaction of irritating Cordelia. Maybe part of the deal can be an account at Vera Wang and an agreement that Vera starts to make stuff in a size twelve.

Or maybe even a fourteen.

And bans Cordelia…

‘What about Ollie?’ I ask Frankie, who has leapt up from the table and taken a bottle of Cristal out of the fridge. ‘What will he think?’

Frankie shakes the bottle like Lewis Hamilton after a Grand Prix. ‘What’s this got to do with Ollie?’

Gabriel’s eyes narrow. ‘You said you didn’t have a boyfriend. ’

‘Ollie’s not her boyfriend.’ The cork pops and whizzes across the kitchen. Champagne fizzes from the bottle and the kitchen is filled with a delicious biscuity smell. Frankie has gone up in the world. We normally struggle to afford cava on payday.

‘He’s my cousin. He’s going out with some hideous harridan with the worst boob job you’ve ever seen.’

‘It’s a boob job?’ I ask. ‘And it’s still on with Nina?’

‘As far as I know.’ Champagne sloshes into three glasses. ‘He was out a lot before I came down here and she’s always ringing him. To be honest, I haven’t seen as much of him since you moved in with Jewell. He’s become a right miserable bastard. And yes, that’s got to be a boob job. No one that thin has norks that big. Not even Victoria Beckham.’

‘Never mind this Ollie,’ says Gabriel impatiently, peering at me over the rim of his champagne flute. ‘Will you take the job?’

‘What have you got to lose?’ adds Frankie. ‘You’re always on about finding a romantic hero; now you can have the real deal.’

‘Name your price,’ urges Gabriel.

I have a feeling I’m going to regret this. ‘I’ll think about it, OK? Give me a bit of time to get used to the idea. Besides, I don’t look anything like an A-list actor’s girlfriend.’

‘We can change the way you look,’ says Gabriel quickly. ‘I’ll get your hair done, buy you some clothes and teach you how to deal with the press. It’ll be fun. Just like
My Fair Lady
.’

A new wardrobe! I’m seriously tempted. Get behind me Satan!

‘And I’ll get your teeth fixed.’

‘My teeth? What’s wrong with my teeth? I’m not exactly Austin Powers.’

‘They could do with a whitening treatment or even veneers. And we’ll find a gym so that you can shift a few pounds and tone up.’ Gabriel strokes his golden-stubbled chin thoughtfully, enjoying his role as Professor Higgins to my Eliza Doolittle. ‘We’ll soon have you looking the part.’

‘Get lost!’ I say, insulted. It’s all hideously close to Cordelia and her food fascism. I’m miserable as it is; being condemned to an indefinite period of eating rabbit food and doing sit-ups makes me want to cut my wrists, quite frankly.

‘Not that I don’t think you’re great as you are,’ says Gabriel quickly. ‘It’s just in case people get suspicious. I could have anyone, remember? People need to believe that I am really with you.’

I stare at him in amazement. He really is this conceited and tactless. He ought to get a prize.

‘Go on,’ says Frankie. ‘You’re supposed to be all for romance.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I say firmly. ‘And that’s my final word on the matter. I’ll let you know tomorrow.’

And in the meantime I’ll do my best to get another job, preferably one that doesn’t involve Throbbing Theo and crotchless knickers.

But from the way Gabriel and Frankie are clinking glasses and beaming at me, you’d think I’d just agreed to their crazy idea.

I have a very bad feeling about this.

When I let myself into the rectory I’m totally sober, in stark contrast to Frankie and Gabriel, who have worked their way through another bottle of champagne. I’m also absolutely exhausted. Stumbling down the dark woodland path with the Cornish drizzle beading my hair and the smell of damp sheep rising from the thick ethnic sweater that Jewell insisted on buying me in Fowey, I am very tempted to pack my bags and hotfoot it back to London. I came to Cornwall for some peace and quiet, time out to write and to recover from my cancer scare, and what happens? I’m embroiled in more deceptions than MI5.

The kitchen is dark apart from the soft glow of a table lamp and the red blush of heart-shaped fairy lights that Mads has strung above the window. I pick up the kettle, and as I fill it I look down over the village and the dark rolling waves. The window is ajar and I can hear the music from the Mermaid as it carries on the night breeze. The mist is thicker now, more like fog, and it billows in from the sea all quiet and ghostly.

I’m just planning a scene where Millandra runs away from the evil Lady Cordelia and gets lost in the mist when I hear a loud sniff from the corner of the room, then another. Turning my head, I see Mads curled up on the armchair in the corner, clutching half the Kleenex factory and sobbing her eyes out.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I ask, flinging my arms around my friend and letting her sob for a good few minutes until my shoulder starts to feel decidedly soggy. Mads sniffs again and raises her head, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand and drawing a shuddering breath. Her eyes are so swollen she looks as though she’s gone five rounds with Mike Tyson. She must have been crying for hours.

‘Sorry,’ she gasps, pushing damp fronds of hair back from her hot face.

I squeeze on to the seat next to her. ‘What’s happened?’

She takes a shuddering breath. ‘Where do I start?’

‘You were fine when I left you.’ I remember her stumbling into the mist, ready to cut off Richard’s bollocks. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Guy went to the pub and took Jewell with him, so I came back to look for Richard. But he wasn’t here!’ More tears well up and trickle down her wet cheeks. ‘He’s out and I don’t know where he’s gone.’

‘Church stuff?’ I guess wildly. ‘Prayer meeting? Um… hymn practice?’

‘There’s nothing on tonight.’ Mads dabs at her eyes with a disintegrating tissue, which is falling to pieces almost as fast as she is. ‘And he’s not in any of the pubs. I’ve checked.’

I’m stumped. ‘Maybe he’s at a friend’s house? Or visiting a parishioner? It’s bound to be innocent, Mads; this is Richard we’re talking about.’

‘I would have agreed with you once, but not any more.’ She reaches into her pocket and pulls out an envelope. ‘I found this when I was cleaning on top of the wardrobe.’

‘You were cleaning the top of the wardrobe?’ I’m alarmed. This isn’t healthy. Things must be bad.

Mads looks guilty. ‘I was looking for some cash. Rich keeps it there secretly sometimes.’

‘Whatever happened to thou shalt not steal?’

‘What about thou shalt not commit adultery?’ She thrusts the envelope at me. ‘Go on, have a look in there and then tell me you think it’s all innocent.’

I open the envelope cautiously, feeling as though I’ve got an unexploded bomb in my hands. Inside are five crisp ten-pound notes and a folded piece of paper. With trembling fingers I unfurl it and read:

Richard! You were fantastic! Thank you! Isabelle! xxx

‘Who’s Isabelle?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’ Mads starts to cry again. ‘Some slag he’s screwing, I suppose.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ I say, which is pretty ironic coming from me, the Queen of Conclusion Jumping. ‘Perhaps she’s just a grateful parishioner.’

‘Why’s she giving him money?’

‘Maybe it’s his?’

‘Richard hasn’t got fifty pence, never mind fifty quid. He’s having an affair, I just know it. That’s why he’s never in, why he’s gone mad on running and why he’s pouring gallons of aftershave over himself every time he sets foot out the door.’

‘We don’t know that for sure,’ I say soothingly. One thing I’ve learned from working with hysterical teenagers is speak with authority and they generally end up agreeing with you. That and show no fear; like animals, teenagers can sniff out any weakness at one hundred paces.

‘Don’t give me that teacher-tone-of-voice bollocks,’ snaps Mads.

Oops. Forgot she’s thirty not thirteen.

‘No, he’s having an affair with someone and we are going to find out who it is.’ Mads heaves herself out of the chair and pads towards a cupboard, from which she plucks a bottle of brandy.

What’s all this we stuff?

‘I’m so glad you’re here, Katy.’ Sloshing Courvoisier into mugs, Mads gives me a watery smile. ‘I don’t know how I’d get through this without you.’

Maybe I should tell her I’m considering going back to London.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I start.

‘Oh God.’ Mads starts to cry again, tears plopping into the brandy. ‘You’re going to go home, aren’t you? You’re leaving? How can I bear it? First Richard and now you. I’m all alone. And if Richard leaves me I’ll never have a baby!’

‘A baby?’

‘Richard and I always said we’d try for a baby once we had a church. And now we’ve got that, he never comes near me. We haven’t had sex for months! How can I have a baby if my husband never wants to touch me? If he’s shagging some slag called Isabelle? That’s why I have to get him away from here, why we have to go to Sandals.’

I’m alarmed. I’ve known Mads for more than ten years and I’ve never seen her so distraught. When she mentions the word ‘baby’, her eyes takes on the gleam of the religious fanatic. It’s a look that I’ve seen in the expressions of countless colleagues and friends shortly before they get pregnant and shuffle off, never to be seen again, into a wilderness of Pampers and cracked nipples.

‘Children are overrated,’ I say, thinking about Wayne Lobb and Co. ‘Trust me, I’m a teacher.’

‘You don’t understand. When you want a baby, you want a baby. I can’t explain it, Katy, it’s a powerful urge.’

‘So I see.’

‘And,’ she continues, ‘when you find the right man it’s the most natural feeling in the world. You’ll find that too, Katy, when you find The One.’

I think I can be forgiven for not holding my breath. I’m more likely to win
Britain’s Next Top Model
than I am to find The One.

‘You still love Richard?’ I ask. ‘Even though you think he’s cheating?’

‘Of course I do.’ Maddy looks at me as though
I’m
the crazy one. ‘When you love someone, you work at it. I haven’t always been perfect either.’

So much for cutting off his bollocks with blunt scissors. Chaucer was right: love really is blind.

‘We need to follow Richard and find out what he’s up to,’ Mads decides. ‘You’ll help me, won’t you?’

‘Of course I’ll help,’ I hear myself say.

What! Where did that come from?

Mads throws her arms around me and gives me such a bear hug that my ribs are in terror for their lives. ‘I love you! You’re the best friend anyone could have! I don’t deserve you!’

I hug her back. Escaping back home will have to wait. Or at least until I can find out what Richard is up to. And I swear to God, if he really is cheating on Maddy, he’s going to be sorry.

Bollock-chopping will be a walk in the park in comparison to what I’ll want to do to him.

The most annoying thing about the country is that everywhere looks exactly like everywhere else. All the lanes are approximately one car wide and edged by hedges of such height and width that it’s possible Sleeping Beauty’s castle lies somewhere behind, and as for signposts, I don’t think they’ve been put back since they were removed during the war.

Basically, I’m lost and I haven’t got a clue where I am.

I check my watch. It’s eleven twenty-five. I’m due to meet Tristan Mitchell at half past and I haven’t got a flipping clue where I am. I could actually be anywhere in south-east Cornwall. Someone may well find me in fifty years’ time, a skeleton behind the wheel of the church minibus, wearing an ancient pair of jodhpurs and with dozens of sex aids in Bible boxes.

‘Bollocks squared,’ I mutter to myself, turning Maddy’s scribbled map upside down just in case it makes more sense that way. It doesn’t. ‘Where am I?’

Today hasn’t got off to a flying start, not least because I have a thudding headache thanks to all the late-night brandy drinking and endless discussion of whether or not Richard is having an affair. We talked it round in ever-decreasing circles until we convinced ourselves that Isabelle was probably an old granny in the Eventide Home who’d given Richard money for the collection. Then Mads wondered what exactly had been
fantastic
and we were off again, until we’d devised so many scenarios that Richard made Casanova look like the Virgin Mary. I didn’t feel I could slope off to bed and hide under the duvet because in the past Mads has spent hours listening to me bang on about James, so helping her dissect Richard’s behaviour was the least I could do.