Katy Carter Wants a Hero (9 page)

‘Oh God,’ I moan, grinding my knuckles into my eyes. ‘Take me now.’

‘I’m not sure that anyone would want to take you now, darling,’ drawls an amused voice. ‘You look a fright.’

I’m not alone?

Cautiously I stretch out my arm and sure enough my fingers encounter warm flesh. Warm, breathing
male
flesh.

What have I done?

‘Oooh!’ squeaks the random male lying next to me. ‘Hands off, you naughty girl!’

The penny doesn’t so much drop as plummet to earth and blast my death fantasy into a million pieces. Scenes from last night’s dinner party replay themselves through my mind like a horrible trailer for a disaster movie — the disaster movie that tells the story of me wrecking my relationship, James’s promotion and, let’s be honest, my entire world in general.

Oh God. I’d
rather
be dying. Please, let the earth
swallow
me right now. Let my bed go up in flames, anything rather than waking up and facing the fact that I’ve ruined my life.

I screw my eyes up tightly and wait for a thunderbolt to strike me, but sadly there’s bugger all response to my desperate prayers. Peeling back concrete-heavy eyelids, I prepare myself to face a day that’s surely number one in the top ten of Katy Carter’s crappiest days.

‘Morning!’ chirrups Frankie. ‘You look fucking awful.’ I’m not surprised because, quite honestly, fucking awful is
exactly
how I feel. I can’t reply either because somebody’s superglued my tongue to the roof of my mouth. But Frankie looks great. His skin was cleansed, toned and moisturised before sleeping and his eyes are puppy bright. Even if I lived in a vat of Crème de la Mer for a year I could never look that good, especially not after drinking as much as he did.

It’s official. God is a gay bloke.

I close my eyes and groan. I pray that this is all a hideous dream and in a minute I’ll wake up with James nagging me about going to the gym rather than cooking a lardy bacon sandwich.

I open my eyes again, but life is not that kind. I am indeed in Ollie’s spare room and sharing a bed with a gay singing sensation. Last night really did happen then.

Shit.

Katy Carter hits rock bottom and is starting to dig.

‘Morning!’ The bedroom door bursts open and in bounds Ollie with Sasha bouncing at his heels. The smell of bacon wafts in too, and in spite of my monster headache my mouth starts to water. Ollie knows just how much I love my bacon sandwiches and many a drinking session has ended with us making an Everest-sized pile of them. He’ll make some girl a great husband, even though the fact that he too is all shiny and lively after a night of constant drinking makes me want to throttle him. Nobody deserves to be that effervescent after practically swimming in alcohol.

‘How are you feeling?’ asks Ollie.

‘Duh!’ says Frankie, sitting up and clutching the duvet to his (waxed) chest. ‘Just look at the poor girl. I’ve seen healthier corpses.’

‘Oh dear, that bad?’ commiserates Ollie, depositing the sandwiches on the windowsill and cruelly ripping the curtains open. Even the British weather decides to flick a V at me and the room is instantly flooded with beams of golden sunshine. Dracula confronted with daytime couldn’t be in more haste to hide from the light than me burrowing under the duvet, my brain swivelling most unpleasantly inside my skull in perfect time with my churning stomach. If my Year 11s could see me now, they’d be put off drinking for life. I am a whole new course in Personal and Social Education.

Ollie plucks the duvet from the bed and waves a bacon sandwich under my nose. ‘No use hiding away in here. It’s time to get up and face the music.’

‘Leave me alone, you bastard.’

‘Eat me! Eat me!’ squeaks Ollie as the sandwich is shoved under my nose again. I wish I could resist it. Bet Millandra would. But sadly I’m not a delicate romantic heroine but a chunky flesh-and-blood Katy Carter with a raging hangover and a ruined life to boot. In spite of my broken heart and churning stomach, I start to laugh.

‘Can’t I even die in peace?’ I complain. ‘Oh, go on then. Give me a sandwich. Or two.’

‘Not for me,’ shudders Frankie as though confronted with boiled brains rather than Denmark’s finest. ‘No carbs.’

‘All the more for us then,’ says Ollie cheerfully, tossing some bacon at Sasha, and we chomp contentedly for a while. ‘Better?’ he asks eventually.

I nod, and thankfully my brain stays in one place. Ollie always knows how to cure my hangovers. No one looks after me like Ol, although he’s not quite off the hook yet for last night’s debacle.

Once the sandwiches are finished and I’ve drained several mugs of tea, I start to feel vaguely human. I’ll be mainlining Alka-Seltzer all day but at least I’m recovering my speech and vision. All I have to do now is trundle over to Ealing, grovel to James and everything will be fine. He’ll be pissed off for a bit but eventually he’ll come round. Everyone makes mistakes, right?

‘Er, nice idea,’ says Ollie doubtfully when I reveal this cunning plan. ‘But maybe you should give him some time. He was a bit angry last night.’

‘A bit angry?’ cries Frankie. ‘He was breathing fire. Thank goodness I managed to save the lobster.’

‘That lobster was to eat,’ Ollie points out, ‘and wouldn’t life have been easier if we’d cooked it? The bloody thing’s in my bath now; it must have had more long soaks than Cleopatra.’

‘That ghastly woman practically fainted when she found it in her bag. I honestly thought her husband was going to hit James,’ recalls Frankie. ‘But we can’t blame Pinchy. He was only exploring.’

‘It’s not
Pinchy
I blame,’ I say darkly.

‘So it’s my fault James is a knob?’ Ollie runs his hands through his hair until it stands on end. ‘How do you figure that out?’

‘You know exactly what I mean.’ I haul myself out of bed and catch a glimpse of my grim reflection in the mirror. My velvet flares are creased and my make-up wouldn’t look out of place on Alice Cooper. Although my legs feel like boiled string and I will possibly scare small children, I’m determined to go back home and pour an enormous tankerload of oil on to the troubled waters of my relationship. James loves me, right? We’ll probably laugh about this when we’re old and grey. If I can eat humble pie for Cordelia, then I’m more than capable of having seconds and thirds for the man I love.

‘You’re mad.’ Ollie shakes his head. ‘Absolutely bloody bonkers. You’re lucky you passed out last night, that’s all I can say. James was ready to kill you.’

OK. So James wants to taste blood, preferably me-flavoured. I know how much last night meant to him so I can understand he’s a bit annoyed.

‘A bit annoyed?’ echoes Ollie when I repeat this train of thought aloud. ‘He threw you out! Why do you think you’re here? We wouldn’t have wrestled a mad drunken woman into a cab and watched her spew all the way here out of choice.’

Actually the thought of why I wasn’t at the flat hadn’t even occurred. Whenever I’m in trouble I end up with Ollie. I cock up and he looks after me. That’s how it’s always been. Waking up in Ollie’s house is par for the course after a drunken night out.

‘Was James very mad?’ I ask, a question that is on a level with wondering if the earth is round. Katy messes up and James gets angry. It’s practically one of the laws of physics.

‘Mad? He was fucking furious! Especially when you puked all over the seagrass matting in the bathroom,’ recalls Frankie.

My blood runs cold. James
loves
the seagrass matting. It took him months to choose the exact shade and texture that he required. Personally I find it rather scratchy, but hey! Like he says, it’s just as well I have him to guide me, because what do I know about style?

‘All that fuss over a carpet.’ Ollie looks bemused. Carpets to him are there to collect crumbs and random bits of fluff. Sometimes they might get hoovered if a transitory girlfriend can bear it no longer, but otherwise they just cover the floor to be walked over, not cried over.

Frankie raises an eyebrow. ‘Darling, are you sure he’s not gay?’

I ignore them. Of course James isn’t gay. Just because he doesn’t want sex very often and likes interior design doesn’t mean he’s gay. Probably if I was thinner we’d have shedloads of red-hot shagging. And if interior design is only for gay men, then who on earth goes to IKEA at the weekend?

Actually, who
does
choose to go to IKEA at the weekend?

‘I’m going home to apologise,’ I say with great dignity, or at least as much dignity as somebody who looks like a missing member of Kiss can muster. ‘I let James down and it was a disaster. And you,’ I give Ollie a steely gaze, ‘did not help.’

Ollie opens his mouth, presumably to repeat his point about James being a twat/wanker/dickhead, but catches the expression on my face and shuts it quickly. Not for nothing can I teach bottom sets and terrify kids twice as tall as me.

‘Maybe Sasha wasn’t such a great guest,’ he admits, following me as I clomp down the stairs. ‘And perhaps I was trying to stir things up a bit by inviting Frankie.’

‘I heard that!’ carols Frankie.

My coat is hooked over the banister. Studiously ignoring Ollie, I shrug myself into it. I am so out of here. I am on a mission. I will grovel like no one has ever grovelled and I will save my relationship.

Because, says a nasty little voice inside my head, what else have you got without it? ‘You deliberately set out to make trouble because you know how stuffy Julius Millward is. How could you, Ollie? I told you how important that dinner party was and you went out of your way to wreck it. You’re meant to be my
friend
.’

‘Katy!’ Ollie grabs my arm and pulls me around to face him. His hands clasp my upper arms tightly and he draws me close until my face is just inches from his. Any closer and that dark stubble would graze my cheeks.

Millandra found herself most powerfully drawn towards Jake. As he clasped her in his manly arms her heart beat so fast within her tender breast—

I give myself a mental shake. Ollie is no Jake. Ollie is about as far removed from a romantic hero as it’s possible to get. He burps, he leaves the loo seat up, he thinks
Dad’s Army
is funny, he wears glasses for reading… I could go on and on and on.

Still, I often forget just how strong he is. Surfing and skiing build muscles that marking books never touch.

‘James treats you like crap,’ says Ollie bluntly. ‘You’re an utter doormat and it’s about time you realised it. He’s a snob, he’s shallow, he’s egotistical, he’s vain and I know I’ve said it before but what the fuck? He’s an utter, utter wanker.’

‘You don’t like him then?’ I try to joke, but Ol isn’t in the mood to laugh.

‘He’s spent so long telling you how crap you are that you actually believe the shit he’s fed you,’ he continues. ‘I’ve seen you losing what shreds of confidence you do have and I can’t watch it for a minute longer. He’s not some storybook hero, Katy, he’s just a knob, so for Christ’s sake, dump the tosser.’

I gape at him.

‘And he’s only interested in you for the money,’ adds Ollie. ‘All James cares about is cash.’

Ah yes. The money.

Obviously
I
have no money. Have
you
ever met a rich teacher? I make church mice look like the Beckhams. What Ollie means is that Auntie Jewell is seriously loaded and has always loved to make extravagant comments about her will. But no one ever takes her seriously.

At least I don’t think they do…

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ I say.

‘Am I? Didn’t Jewell lend James ten grand shortly before you got engaged?’

‘There was a perfectly good reason. James’s share portfolio hadn’t performed well enough to buy my ring.’

‘He’s a merchant bloody banker!’ hollers Ollie. ‘He earns more cash in a week than we do in six months. Why would he need to borrow more?’

I can’t answer, but put it this way, my credit-card bills aren’t the only ones stashed under the kitchen sink.

‘James sees you as the perfect opportunity,’ ploughs on Ollie with all the tact of a charging rhinoceros with extra-thick skin. ‘It’s bloody obvious. He thinks you’re going to inherit her estate. He can’t wait to get his greasy mitts on that house in Hampstead.’

‘That’s bollocks! Besides, it’s a bit of a long-term game plan.’

‘Is it?’ Ollie shrugs. ‘It seems to me that his cash-flow problems would be solved a bit too easily by good old Auntie Jewell.’

I glare at him, wishing I’d had my tongue removed at birth. Why did I ever tell Ollie about James’s cash-flow problems? Ol’s an English teacher — what does he know about futures and options and gilt-edged stocks?

Well, about the same as me probably, but that’s not the point, is it? Like James says, financial markets are uncertain and at times he has to take risks. Jewell’s always been happy to help out. She even buys shares from him sometimes.

‘Sorry if it’s harsh,’ says Ollie, mistaking my silence for agreement, ‘but it’s time you woke up and smelled the coffee. They call this tough love.’

Bloody Ollie and his addiction to ‘let it all hang out’ talk shows. When Jerry Springer came to the UK I was in a state of terror for weeks. I wouldn’t put it past Ollie to drag me on to some show entitled ‘Hey, girlfriend! You’re in love with a wanker!’ just for the sheer and bloody hell of it.

‘James thinks he’s engaged to his own personal cash-point. He must have been jumping for joy that day he met you again and you took him to Jewell’s party. No wonder he proposed.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ I say.

‘It had to be said.’

‘No it didn’t!’ To my dismay, hot tears are prickling against my eyelids and I’ve got a nasty golf ball of a lump in my throat. ‘You didn’t have to tell me a man would only want me because I’ve got a generous godmother and might inherit some money one day.’

I swallow back the tears and concentrate instead on pulling on my boots. The laces writhe in my fingers so I give up and just tuck them in. Hopefully I’ll trip as I walk out and break my neck. Then he’ll be sorry.

‘That wasn’t what I said!’

‘Yes it was.’ I’m making a break for the door, sprinting away so quickly that I must surely be a likely contender for the 2012 athletics squad. ‘That’s exactly what you said. I’m so crap and useless and ugly and fat that no man would ever want me. I’d have to bribe them with an inheritance, that’s exactly what you said.’