Katy Carter Wants a Hero

by Ruth Saberton

  I prefer to think I’m made of sterner stuff than my parents. This is just a bumpy patch. The economy will pick up, James will get his promotion and everything will go back to how it used to be. I just have to be patient and not rise when he’s narky, which is easier said than done. I’m biting my tongue so much lately I’m starting to worry the Ed Psych will add me to the school’s list of selfharmers…

  So I can’t let James down with this dinner party. He’s been so stressed about money lately, what with the wedding to pay for, his mother always on the scrounge and his share portfolio worthless. Apparently Iceland isn’t just somewhere Kerry Katona goes shopping; it’s also where James put his last bonus, which even I know isn’t good news. Since I scrape by on a teacher’s wage and make church mice look rich, I’m not much help to our joint finances, so James has to get this promotion. He’s adamant that everything depends on it.

  I have to get this dinner party right.

  No pressure there, then.

  Just as well I’m in the pub. I seriously need a drink just thinking about tomorrow.

  Ollie returns, this time with a bottle of wine, and fixes me with a steely glare.

  ‘OK. I’ll do it. But,’ he adds swiftly before I can fling myself at his feet in an ecstasy of relief and gratitude, ‘on one condition.’

  ‘Anything!’

  ‘I’m allowed to come too with a guest. If I’m spending all sodding day cooking, I’m bloody well going to get to eat something.’

  I pause for a minute. What will James think about this? He’s not Ollie’s greatest fan, but on the other hand Ollie is clever and would be a brilliant conversationalist. What he doesn’t know about eighteenth-century literature isn’t worth knowing. I must make a mental note not to get him started on Fanny Hill, though. That really would go down like cold sick with a stuffy gathering of merchant bankers.

  ‘Who’s the guest?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘Not Nina?’

  ‘Chill out. She’s working. I’ll get my thinking cap on. We need somebody entertaining and fun to get the evening up and running.’

  Although, as I think I might have mentioned, I don’t find Ollie attractive, it seems that the rest of the female population does, and he’s never short of dates. Most of them, although stunning, have slightly lower IQs than a lettuce and aren’t going to pose much of a threat to James’s dinner guests. Julius Millward is an old goat, and adding a pretty girl to the equation can only improve things.

  This dinner party is so going to be a success!

  I beam at Ollie. ‘Bring whoever you want!’

  ‘Cool,’ Ollie says. ‘Now, get that wine down your neck and listen up. We’ve got a menu to plan.’

  Chapter Three

  The silken blindfold whispered deliciously against Millandra’s eyelids. Although she couldn’t see anything, she could smell the heady scent of honeysuckle, and the springy moss beneath her small feet hinted that she was outside. A breeze kissed her cheeks and lifted tendrils of hair from her face. Jake’s hand, pressed into the small of her back, guided her through the maze of trees.

  ‘Now, my lady,’ he said, as they came to a halt. ‘Do you trust me?’

  There were a thousand and one reasons why she shouldn’t trust him, Millandra knew. Jake Delaware was the most wanted felon in England, a notorious highwayman who terrorised the King’s Highway and who was quicker than lightning with rapier and blunderbuss. A gentlewoman should know better than to venture into the forest alone with such a character. But his gentle kisses and the knowing touch of his hands had overcome all other sensibilities.

  ‘I trust you,’ she breathed.

  With a swift motion the blindfold was pulled from her eyes to drift down to the mossy floor.

  ‘Oh!’ gasped Millandra in amazement.

  Spread before her astonished gaze was a feast fit for a princess. Laid out upon a sumptuous velvet cloak strewn with wildflowers was a fare of delicate pastries, strawberries and summer fruits, quails’ eggs and champagne. Deep in a shady forest glade, dappled with dancing sunbeams, it was the most romantic sight she had ever encountered.

  ‘I promised that I would wine and dine you as well as Lord Ellington could,’ said Jake, ‘if not even better.’

  And as Millandra smiled up at him, at the strong tanned throat, dancing emerald eyes and rippling beechnut hair, she felt certain that Jake Delaware could outdo her other suitors in every other way…

  OK, so I don’t suppose that Jake had to do battle in Sainsbury’s on a Friday night with every Nigella and Jamie wannabe in west London, nor did he have to lug eight groaning bags home on the 207 bus, but you get the picture. And even though he’s only a fantasy romantic hero, I’m pretty impressed with him so far. Lucky old Millandra. Bet she’s the kind of girl who just nibbles daintily on a crust of bread before declaring herself full, unlike those of us who’d shovel the lot in until we feel like a sausage about to burst its skin, and who sips champagne daintily rather than swigging it like there’s going to be a world shortage. Still, she is a romantic heroine and I guess that’s all in the job description.

  I put my notebook away and turn my attention back to the task in hand, namely figuring out how to get off this bus with my shopping avoiding a) doing serious damage to someone’s shins and b) severing my fingers with the twisting plastic bag handles. I’m not sure why Ollie needed to buy so much stuff. The amount I’ve just spent could have fed me for a month, and now I’m the proud owner of countless fillet steaks, cream, peppercorns, foie gras and numerous other bits and pieces that I haven’t got a clue what to do with. Ollie piled the trolley so high I practically had vertigo just looking at it.

  Still, at least I’m on my way to Wembley as regards this dinner party. Ollie’s going to cook an amazing meal and I’m going to dazzle and impress James’s senior colleagues.

  What can possibly go wrong? His promotion’s as good as in the bag. Our troubles are over.

  The bus crawls through the rush-hour traffic towards Ealing Common. The rain is falling steadily and the bus windows start to fog up. On the grey pavements people scurry along, bowed beneath umbrellas and dodging puddles. I don’t need to be psychic to predict that by the time I get home I’ll be sodden. I expect Millandra looks fantastic when it rains, all ringlets and flushed cheeks, unlike me, who with ginger frizz and a red nose looks more like Chris Evans with a head cold. Sometimes life really sucks.

  As anticipated, by the time I reach number 12b Allington Crescent, I’m soaked through to my knickers and feeling very fed up. My fingers are a nasty greeny-white shade from lack of circulation and my Doc Martens have sprung a leak. I also have a horrible suspicion that I’ve left Year 10’s coursework on the bus, which although it has the short-term advantage of saving me hours of marking, will eventually mean yet another visit to the Lost Property office. I’m practically on first-name terms with the lady who works there now, which gives you an idea of how forgetful I can be. I must have forgotten the pin number for our joint account too, because the card was declined so I had to use mine.

  Maybe I am a bit scatty.

  Or, as James puts it, disorganised.

  I can’t help it, though. When I’m deep in my notebook and thinking about sexy highwaymen, there’s not a lot of room for the twenty-first century. And to be honest, when it’s a choice between a forest glade with Jake or hauling my shopping up the street, I know which I prefer.

  I heave the carriers up the steps to our front door and then stand panting on the doorstep for a minute. I’m trying really hard to lose weight for the wedding, but it doesn’t seem to be happening. I partly blame the thoughtless bastard who installed a vending machine in the staff room. Honestly! After two lessons I’d kill my granny for a Kit Kat, so any hope of resisting temptation is futile.

  Our flat’s on the top floor of what used to be a rather large Victorian townhouse. We’ve got lovely views over towards Ealing Common, which almost makes up for the fact that you need to climb three steep sets of stairs to get to the front
door. Still, as James likes to point out to anyone who’ll listen, this flat is an investment and holds a lot of equity. James knows loads more than I do about finance, not hard really since you could put all I know about money on a postage stamp and still have room for War and Peace, and I’m sure that he’s right, just as he’s right about all the blond wood flooring and minimalist furniture. I’m sure it does look better than my clutter, but it’s not exactly comfortable. I once threw myself on to the futon and put my back out for two weeks, not to mention that I cracked two of the slats, which really upset James. As I lay groaning amid the wreckage, he was racing to the phone to call the Conran shop to check he’d taken out insurance. I suppose it’s nice to have a man who cares about domestic stuff, but sometimes, to be honest, it really pees me off. All this white makes me nervous; a herd of polar bears could move in and go unnoticed. I’d really like a few squidgy cushions and an Indian throw just to add a spot of colour to the place. But like James says, I’m not a student any more and it is time I developed some adult tastes.

  Guess I hang out with teenagers too much.

  ‘I’m home!’ I call, as I drag my shopping into the hall and take my coat off in record time. If I drip on the floor it ruins the wood, apparently, so I hastily kick off my shoes and put them in the rack.

  I can’t hear any noise from the lounge, which suggests that James is probably working away somewhere plugged into his headphones. With a sigh I lug the shopping into the kitchen, where I switch on the shiny chrome kettle and reach for the biscuit tin. I could murder a HobNob! Bugger the wedding-dress diet! I have thought about dieting. I have!

  And it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?

  Munching contentedly, trailing crumbs all over the floor, I start to unpack the shopping, marvelling at the amount Ollie’s managed to persuade me to buy. There are ingredients here I haven’t even heard of. What on earth is a vanilla pod used for? I rattle the packet just in case the answer flies out, but instead end up tipping the whole lot everywhere. Great. I’ve only been back ten minutes and already I’m wrecking the joint. There’s something about this kitchen and me that means that whenever I enter it I end up creating the kind of mess that’s more in keeping with a big-budget disaster movie. My sticky little paws make prints all over the chrome cooker, the funky steel bin vomits forth all the detritus from my culinary attempts and my feet virtually suction themselves to the floor.

  The sad truth is this kitchen is too good for me, and I have a horrible feeling it could be a metaphor for my life with James, the hero who’s too good for the heroine. Mills and Boon never mentioned that bit, did they?

  But it’s Friday night, the end of another busy teenager-riddled week, and I’m not going to let myself start to dwell on the uncomfortable thoughts that sometimes beat like dark moths around the edges of my mind. I brush them away. It’s the wedding stress that sometimes gets to me, that’s all. And I know a great cure for stress! It lives in the door of our Smeg and goes by the name of… alcohol!

  I grab a glass and uncork the bottle. The cool pale gold liquid glugs cheerfully into the glass and even more cheerfully down my throat; just what I needed after Sainsbury’s on a Friday night. I never knew people could get so frantic about their food shopping. Somebody should tell all those women rushing around like demented Formula One wannabes that Domino’s do a mean takeout!

  At the thought of a Meat Feast with extra cheese, my stomach does an impression of Vesuvius erupting. Perhaps I’ll order one. I know I’m not meant to be eating crap, but surely one pizza won’t hurt? And maybe some garlic bread as well. I’ll do some extra sit-ups to make up.

  Extra sit-ups? Who am I kidding? I’ll do some sit-ups.

  En route to retrieve the number, I happen to pass the biscuit tin, which I take as a sign from God to help myself to a couple more. Once I’ve ordered us a pizza, I’ll get on with unpacking the shopping, and I’ll even sweep the floor. That’s got to be a workout in itself.

  Perhaps I’ll even have cheesy garlic bread.

  But you know what they say about the best-laid plans and all that. Just as my eager little fingers are poised over the phone, ready to dial, the kitchen door flies open and in sweeps my future mother-in-law.

  Picture Cruella De Vil’s meaner older sister and you’ve got a pretty good picture of Cordelia St Ellis. Groomed and plucked and waxed and suctioned to within an inch of her life, she looks pretty much like a desiccated skeleton, albeit one dressed in Joseph and with Chanel-tipped talons. It costs a lot of money, apparently, to look this well preserved, so Mrs St Ellis is lucky her son still has a well-paid job. Cordelia doesn’t work. Blimey! There’s no way she could fit in earning a decent crust. Keeping her ageing body embalmed is a full-time occupation.

  Either that or she has a pact with Satan.

  As I guiltily try and swallow my biscuit, Cordelia pauses elegantly in the doorway and regards me in the same way you might regard a lump of gum that’s stuck to your foot. Her eyes are flinty grey and her mouth is pursed like a cat’s bum. I’m in the bad books.

  Again.

  She didn’t like me when I was seven, and time hasn’t altered her opinion.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she hisses, sounding as horrified as if she’d caught me torturing babies. In fact I’m pretty sure she’d rather I was torturing babies, instead of stuffing my face with calories. It would be a minor crime in comparison.

  ‘I’m just having a snack,’ I try to say, but sound instead like I’m speaking Klingon and spray the pristine marble work surfaces with regurgitated HobNob. ‘Just the one biscuit.’

  ‘Are you deliberately trying to sabotage my son’s wedding? ’ she demands, hands on hips so bony they could grate rock. ‘Do you want to be even fatter than you are already? Well? Do you?’

  It’s a tough question, because I really want those biscuits. Funny how I never used to think I was overweight till I met James. A little cuddly in places, and I have boobs for sure, but fat? Still, Mrs St Ellis, professional body fascist, has seriously disabused me of any misconception that I might be acceptable.

  ‘But I’m starving!’

  ‘You are not.’ Cordelia tips the contents of the biscuit tin into the bin. ‘Children in Africa are starving. You are merely greedy. If you want to eat between meals then have an apple.’

  Is she mad? Who eats apples rather than chocolate biscuits?

  ‘If you carry on eating at this rate, we’ll never get you into that size eight Vera Wang.’

  Quite frankly I have more chance of flying to Mars than I have of fitting into a size eight wedding dress. I’m size twelve on a good day, breathing in and wearing granny knickers.

  ‘Er, Cordelia,’ I venture, ‘I’m not entirely sure about that dress. I’ve seen one in Debenhams I really like—’

  ‘Debenhams!’ echoes Cordelia, as horrified as though I’d said I wanted to get married stark naked and with tassels on my nipples. ‘Debenhams! Are you insane? A high-street store?’

  To be honest, until I met Cordelia St Ellis, I was under the impression that high-street stores were exactly where most people bought their clothes. She’s never had to eke out a teacher’s salary, though, and if it’s not Harvey Nicks or Harrods then she won’t give it house room.

  She must be gutted to be gaining a daughter-in-law whose idea of heaven is a trolley dash in Top Shop. If she wasn’t such an old boot I’d almost feel sorry for her.

  ‘Yes,’ I say bravely. ‘It’s a lovely dress and only six hundred pounds.’

  And it is my perfect dress. Not the elegant cream tube Cordelia’s selected and which might just about go round one of my thighs, but an off-the-shoulder romantic dream of a dress. The type of thing Millandra would wear to a ball or that Jake would lift gently from her soft skin…

  Am I getting obsessed here? That’s what happens when I can’t write stuff down. In any case, I tried the dress on and it was perfect, skimming over any less-than-toned bits and making my boobs look like soft high p
eaches. The creamy satin was just the right shade for my pale skin and made my flesh look warm and tanned. In fact it’s the only dress I’ve ever worn that’s made me look good!

  I tell you, I could practically have fancied myself.

  I simply have to have it!

  But Cordelia’s looking at me as though I’ve sprouted another head.

  ‘Debenhams!’ she whispers, one bony claw held theatrically to where her heart would be if she had one. ‘I take you to Vera Wang, where Jennifer Aniston shops, and you want to go to Debenhams?’

  I’m tempted to say that if she throws in Brad Pitt I’ll go to Vera Wang with joy, but since Cordelia truly believes that James is Brad Pitt, Einstein and baby Jesus all rolled into one, I keep my mouth shut.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ asks Cordelia, slumped now against our electric Aga. ‘Are you trying to ruin the wedding?’

  ‘Of course not!’ I say, although actually wanting to take her Vera Wang brochure and shove it up her backside. ‘It’s just that I tried on this other dress yesterday and it looked much better. My friend said I looked lovely.’

  Probably best not to tell her that the friend in question was Ollie and that the expression he used wasn’t ‘lovely’ but ‘totally shagadelic’. Which, thinking about it, is probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.

  Cordelia looks extremely doubtful. But then she hasn’t seen me trying to squeeze into the size eight sample of the designer silk sheath she’s set her heart on. I looked like a snake shedding its skin in reverse.

  ‘And,’ I continue, ‘I can have it practically off the peg! All they need to do is shorten it a little.’

  ‘Off the peg?’ shudders Cordelia. ‘I think not. There’s not going to be anything cheap and tacky about this wedding. If James insists on…’ she pauses and the words marrying you hang almost visibly in the air like something out of Harry Potter, ‘having this wedding, then I shall do my utmost to make it perfect for him. And if that means a designer gown for his fiancée then so be it.’