Katy Carter Wants a Hero (33 page)

‘Great,’ I say faintly because I’m rather nervous around Seb. He’s so razor sharp it’s a miracle he doesn’t cut himself and the rest of us too. Terrified I’ll give the game away, I force myself to relax against Gabriel’s muscular chest and paste a smile across my face. To be honest I’d be more at ease strolling across hot coals. Gabe’s playing the part of devoted lover to perfection, but I’m more wooden than Guy’s boat.

Gabriel squeezes my shoulder. ‘You’ll be giving Victoria Beckham a run for her money in no time.’

‘Katy looks great as she is,’ says Maddy loyally.

‘Of course she does,’ he agrees. ‘I can’t wait to go out for lunch and show off my beautiful girlfriend.’

‘The restaurant’s booked for twelve thirty.’ Seb consults the itinerary. ‘Maybe you ought to make your way there now. I’ve briefed the press that you’ll let them take some shots as you walk into the village.’

‘Let me just check your outfits.’ Lisa, Gabriel’s stylist and make-up artist, bounds forward to tweak his blond curls carefully and adjust the collar of the faded denim shirt chosen to set off his periwinkle eyes. Then she powders his perfect nose and adds a sweep of mascara to his thick lashes.

‘Perfect,’ she declares.

I glance at Gabriel, who does indeed look perfect. With his golden curls caught back with a simple strip of leather, he could have walked straight out of an Armani ad. I can hardly believe that here I am, plain old Katy Carter, about to be photographed with one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain.

What a shame it’s all a farce.

‘Never mind about Gabriel,’ Mads says. ‘It’s Katy they want to see.’

I swallow nervously. This is my first official outing as Gabriel’s consort, and the whole thing’s been planned meticulously. We’re having lunch in Trawlers, a sweet little seafood restaurant on the quayside, and the short walk downhill from the rectory should be just long enough for the photographers to bag some good shots. After that, Seb assures me, they’ll lose interest and move on to another victim… I mean celebrity.

‘Do I look all right?’ I’m not convinced that teaming sky-high heels with skinny jeans is a good idea for me, and don’t the big sunglasses make me look a bit like an insect?

‘You look great,’ smiles Lisa, giving me a squirt of Coco. ‘Go out and enjoy it.’

‘And leave us in peace,’ mutters Richard from behind the
Church Times
.

Somehow I resist socking him in the teeth and follow Gabriel along the hallway. My stomach feels as though someone’s doing macramé with my guts. No wonder celebrities are so skinny if they feel like this all the time.

The door swings open and instantly cameras flash and people call my name. Thank goodness I wore the shades. Blinking like a mole in the sunshine and smiling manically I clutch Gabriel’s manicured hand for all I’m worth and trot down the garden path after him.

‘Look happy,’ he whispers, pulling me close and almost asphyxiating me with Paco Rabanne. ‘Put your hand in my back trouser pocket and lean your head against my shoulder.’

I do what he says and my neck clicks. Ouch! Still, at least I look loved up even if it hurts like hell. Gabriel can always add a chiropractor to his entourage, can’t he?

‘How did you guys meet?’ shouts a reporter.

‘Is it true you do it six times a night?’ cries another.

‘Ignore them and just look happy,’ Gabriel advises. ‘Give them a good picture and then they’ll leave us alone. It’s only when they can’t get a shot that they go crazy.’

‘Right,’ I say, as though it’s every day I get doorstepped by the paps. ‘Look happy. Got it.’

We pause outside Trawlers. It’s a mild spring day and the eggshell-blue sky is stitched with white cloud. The fishing boats are long gone and the tide’s followed them, leaving a slice of beach glistening in the sun. A dog races across the wet sand like a flame, plumy tail held aloft as it barks at the gulls.

A red setter, all fluid grace and sawdust brains, just like Sasha.

‘Look at the cameras,’ hisses Gabriel. ‘Or at me.’

I rip my gaze away from the dog and back to the handsome man at my side. There must be millions of red setters in Britain and of course they all look and behave exactly like Sasha, but even so…

As Gabriel chats with the press I smile vacantly and let my gaze slide back to the beach. The dog’s owner throws a stick, and something about the way he moves makes me take a third look. I’m being ridiculous. There must be hundreds of thirty-something guys who wear Timberlands and faded jeans. It isn’t Ollie. It can’t be. He’s hundreds of miles away, being tormented by bottom-set Year 9.

‘Stop staring at that guy on the beach,’ Gabriel orders, holding the restaurant door for me. ‘We’re supposed to be together, remember?’

‘I was looking at the dog,’ I start to say, but Gabriel’s too busy admiring his reflection in the glass door to listen. All he needs is a millet spray and a bell and we could add him to Jewell’s menagerie.

As the proprietor shows us to our table, almost prostrate with delight at the thought of all the free publicity, I start to wonder whether I’ve made a mistake agreeing to this job. If Gabriel’s driving me crackers after three days, how will I stand a whole summer? I’d be better off taking my chances with Luke and Leia.

‘What do you think of the restaurant?’ Gabriel asks, as we’re seated at a table set in the bay window and so close to the sea we could almost paddle. ‘Isn’t it the most beautiful setting?’

‘It’s lovely,’ I agree, and if I was writing a novel it would be the perfect scene for a romantic meal. Anyone who reads the gossip columns or celebrity magazines will be overcome with envy when they see the pictures of us looking all romantic and in love.

Who ever said the camera doesn’t lie never dated Gabriel Winters.

Gabriel scans the menu while a waiter pours champagne. ‘How do you like your fish?’

I open my mouth to say smothered in batter and hanging out with a huge pile of chips but think better of it. Where’s Captain Birdseye when I need him?

‘Rare tuna for us both,’ Gabriel tells the waiter before I’ve even drawn breath, ‘with the dill salad and go easy on the dressing. No bread either.’

‘No bread?’ I stare at him aghast. The crusty rolls are the only things I feel brave enough to eat.

‘Carbs are a no-no, Katy. You’re watching your figure.’

I’m just on the brink of telling Gabriel exactly where he can stick the bread rolls when he clutches my hand so hard I squeak.

‘Don’t make it obvious you’ve noticed, but Angela Andrews is at the table in the corner,’ he whispers.

I turn my head slowly, and sure enough there’s Bomber Jacket dissecting an unfortunate fish with the precision of a brain surgeon. Ouch. I don’t fancy my chances if she decides to exact her revenge for that ruined Prada number.

Gabriel’s grasp on my fingers tightens. ‘How did she manage to sneak in here? I knew she was on to something. ’

‘Can’t you ask the owners to throw her out?’

‘What for? She’s only eating.’ His eyes are blue circles of dismay. ‘She knows there’s a story and she’ll never let it go unless…’

Gabriel leaps to his feet, and before I can protest I’m swept into a sink-plunger kiss, while his arms tighten like a vice and his tongue does an impression of a washing machine on spin cycle. If he carries on much longer he’ll dislocate my mouth.

‘Sorry,’ he murmurs when he eventually comes up for air. ‘I had to give her something to think about.’

‘You’ve done that all right. I thought you said you were g—’

‘It’s called acting.’ He tosses his golden curls. ‘I’m pretty good at it.’

‘I’d rather you left your
acting
for the film set,’ I say, resisting the urge to wipe my lips on the back of my hand.

‘It worked though. She’s looking.’ His eyes light up like gas flames. ‘I knew this was a good idea. Let’s give her something to
really
write about!’

And before I have a second to argue he’s clamped his mouth over mine again, staring intensely into my eyes and winding his hands through my hair. Bloody hell, that designer stubble is agony, I wish he’d stop. I’m as up for a good snog as the next girl but this is ridiculous and not half as good as he evidently thinks it is.

I’m going to have to lay down some very firm ground rules with Gabriel.

Kissing over, we eat our meal slowly, feeding each other slivers of fish and chinking our champagne flutes together. Angela Andrews’ eyes are out on stalks and if she taps away on her BlackBerry for much longer she’ll have RSI in her thumb. By the time we finish, all heads in the restaurant have turned, and probably quite a few stomachs too.

‘Did you enjoy your meal?’ asks the proprietor when Gabriel calls for the bill.

‘Wonderful.’ Gabriel fixes him with a dazzling smile. ‘We’ve had a fantastic time, haven’t we, Katy?’

‘Fantastic,’ I parrot, although the tuna looked to me like something out of
Casualty
. Still, what do I know?

The proprietor beams at us. ‘I’m delighted to hear that. And can I say what a joy it is to see a couple so much in love?’

I feel my dinner, or what little I ate of it, come bouncing back up.

‘That’s why I didn’t want to disturb you when that man insisted on seeing you,’ he continues. ‘It must be difficult enough getting privacy without people trying to hound you over lunch.’

‘My fans are certainly persistent, but they put me where I am today,’ shrugs Gabriel. ‘Did he leave something for me to sign?’

‘He was looking for Miss Carter, actually,’ says the proprietor, looking embarrassed.

‘Someone was looking for me?’ I’m surprised. ‘Who?’

‘A young man in his early thirties. He had a big dog with him so there was no way we’d let him come inside — we’ve got public health to think about. Whoever he was, he was pretty insistent on coming in for a chat, until you two lovebirds started kissing. I’m not surprised you didn’t see him; you only had eyes for each other.’

‘Too right,’ says Gabriel. ‘We adore one another.’

‘Katy’s friend could see that, and he said he’d leave you guys to be alone, that it was obvious how you felt.’

That tuna is starting to swim laps in my stomach. I can’t believe I’ve missed Ollie. Why didn’t I trust my instincts and go down to the beach? I knew it was him.

‘Don’t look so worried, Katy,’ says Gabriel as we walk back to the rectory. The press have melted away, just as he predicted, which is just as well because the expression on my face is hardly that of someone who’s blissfully loved up. ‘If he’s the good mate you say he is then he’ll be back.’

But I’m not so sure. Seeing me with Gabriel has really upset Ollie for some reason and he’s obviously stormed off in a rage. The question is, of course, why he’s so annoyed that I’ve moved on from James. It’s not as though they were ever friends, and I never said I’d be a nun.

Although that is starting to seem quite an attractive proposition.

But the bigger question, the question I’m too scared to even start trying to answer, is why am I so totally and utterly devastated to have missed Ollie and why it bothers me so much that he thinks I’m with someone else.

What on earth is going on here?

I used to love reading
Hello
! and
OK
!. Sitting on the 207 bus I’d flick through the glossy pages and look at the toothy celebrities lounging around their impossibly glamorous houses in designer gear with ‘envy me’ smiles pasted to their tanned faces, and imagine how perfect their lives must be. I’d look like that too, I used to tell myself, if I had hot and cold running personal trainers at my beck and call and nothing more pressing to worry about than my latest beauty treatment. I was perfectly justified looking scruffy and having split ends because I was just so darn busy working! Not like the ladies of leisure on the shiny pages. Then I’d shove the magazines into my bag and get on with the daily grind of being an English teacher, with not a Juicy Couture tracksuit or a telephoto lens in sight.

Oh God! Those were the days.

Jordan and Posh, I take it all back. It
isn’t
easy at all looking that good.

In fact it’s blooming hard work.

‘That’s lovely, darlin’,’ a photographer says, measuring the light around me with a piece of equipment that looks like it belongs on the
Starship Enterprise
. ‘Just lie back a little! Yeah! Like that!’

I’m in the newly renovated drawing room in Gabriel’s house, reclining like some twenty-first-century Caesar on a plush white sofa and, to my shame, wearing a lime-green velour tracksuit. Not that I actually have much say in what I wear lately — Gabriel Winters’ girlfriend has to look the part — but I seriously object to the tracksuits. Hideously expensive, they’re like romper suits for the rich and famous to wear in their playpens.

Did I say playpens? What I meant to say was houses.

‘Head to the left a little, Katy.’ The photographer prods me and I oblige.

‘So tell me, Katy,’ begins a horsy-looking blonde at his side, twiddling a pencil in her beautifully manicured hands, although I have to admit that my hands are also pretty well manicured these days, ‘the readers of
Hiya
! are dying to know how you and Gabriel spend your time in your beautiful Cornish retreat.’

Can you believe these people? They even speak like glossy magazines.

‘Well,’ I say, sinking back into the plump cushions, ‘I sell sex toys and write while Gabriel spends all his time draped over my gay friend.’

Actually, I don’t say that at all, but I’d really like to. I take my hat off to all these serial adulterers. Full-time fibbing is really complicated, a bit like holding all the plot lines from
EastEnders, Corrie
and
Emmerdale
in your head without getting them confused.

‘We entertain.’ I’m practically word-perfect by now; two months into my job as Gabriel’s consort, I’m an old hand at interviews. I’ve spoken to the Mail about being in love with a famous man, had my cellulite unflatteringly displayed in Heat, and now Gabriel and I are going to feature in the autumn edition of
Hiya
!.