Katy Carter Wants a Hero

by Ruth Saberton

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I choked. ‘I’ll try harder with your mother.’

  ‘And with everything else,’ he told me while I sniffed and blubbed. ‘I’m only saying this for your own good, Chubs, but you really need to sort yourself out. Not everyone’s as tolerant as me, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I sniffed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re always sorry, Chubs, aren’t you? Just as well I know you can’t help messing up.’ He ruffled my hair and yawned. ‘You can make it up to me by cooking the most fantastic dinner tomorrow and wowing the boss. You know what Julius Millward is like — if he’s stuffing his fat face he’s happy and hopefully more inclined to promote me. And let’s face it, we need that promotion to pay for the wedding.’

  ‘We don’t have to have a big flash wedding,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m happy to get married quietly somewhere. We could go abroad even.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, my mother would never forgive me,’ said James. ‘Now, I need to sort out the Amos and Amos contract before Julius Millward comes over and then get a decent night’s sleep, which I won’t get with you sniffing next to me until the small hours. I suggest you kip in here tonight and think about how you can make things up to my mother.’

  And off he went to our bedroom, leaving me to spend a restless night on a sofa that makes a bed of nails look snuggly. As I lay back on the hard suede and watched the orange sweep of car headlights march relentlessly across the ceiling, I thought how much I missed the cats and dogs that roam Auntie Jewell’s house like a friendly furry sea. It would have been really lovely to bury my face in warm fur and sob into something living and breathing rather than into the scratchy sofa. I’d have loved a cat, but James doesn’t like animals; he thinks they smell and shed too much hair. So I spent the night alone, listening to the swish of traffic through rain and the distant rumble of late tubes. Sleep was never going to come, so eventually I gave up even trying. I fished my exercise book out of the bin, sat back at the kitchen table and wrote until my hand started to cramp and the hands on the clock told me that it was eight thirty-five. After making a cup of coffee so strong that the spoon practically stood up and saluted me, I picked up the phone and took a deep breath.

  It was humble pie for breakfast, and knowing Cordelia, it would be a bloody huge slice.

  Two hours on I still have indigestion. After twenty minutes of grovelling, Cordelia graciously deigned to rearrange my dress fitting and generously forgave me.

  Forgave me? As I sit in the kitchen and try to ignore the biscuit tin, I feel like I’m living in some weird parallel universe. Between them my fiancé and his mother have me on the emotional rack and I’m sure I don’t deserve it. Surely choosing my own wedding dress isn’t too much to ask? All my friends think it’s high time I stood up to Cordelia, but it’s OK for them to give advice they’ll never have to act on.

  As I sip my coffee I ponder why I’m such a sap when it comes to standing up to James and his mother. I’m not like this anywhere else, honestly. At work Ollie says I’m like a cross between Robocop and a sergeant major, and it’s true to say that I never have discipline issues. Six-foot Year 11 lads tremble when I roar at them, and that’s saying something. So what goes wrong when I get home? I guess I’m just too exhausted from being tough all day long to continue after three thirty. Once that bell has shrilled and Sir Bob’s kids have been let loose to terrorise the good people of West London, all I want to do is collapse with a big glass of wine, close my eyes and recover from the trauma of my day. Teaching sucks the life out of me, and after a day doing battle with teenagers I just want an easy life.

  The only problem is that I don’t seem to be getting one. Far from it.

  Has my relationship with James always been so out of balance? When I told him I’d phoned Cordelia and apologised, he nodded, poured himself an espresso and then asked me what I was going to cook for dinner. There was no hug and no apology for making me sleep on the sofa, and I felt like a naughty girl being given the stern treatment by her head teacher. I was almost expecting a report card and a stint in detention.

  I sigh and wrap my hands round the coffee mug. Last night I was so sure I was in the right, but I’m starting to doubt myself now and, as the kids at school would say, it’s doing my head in.

  ‘I’m going to play a round of golf with Julius Millward,’ James announces as he reaches for the keys to his BMW. ‘Shouldn’t you be preparing for tonight?’

  I drag my thoughts back to the present. No doubt I should be marinating, flambéing and basting by now. And I would be if I knew what all that meant. I blame Nigella Lawson. That domestic goddess stuff has totally stitched up an entire generation.

  ‘It’s all taken care of,’ I say airily. At least I bloody hope it is.

  James fixes me with a steely gaze. ‘You know how important this evening is, don’t you, Katy?’

  How can I not? He’s been going on about it for weeks.

  ‘I know we really need to show them that we’re partnership material,’ I parrot dutifully.

  James is still eyeing me suspiciously. ‘So I can count on you not to balls anything up?’

  ‘Totally!’ I tell him. ‘That promotion is in the bag.’

  ‘I hope so,’ James replies, pulling his golf clubs out from the cupboard. ‘This wedding has cleaned us out and that new BMW wasn’t cheap. And Chubs,’ he adds over his shoulder, ‘make sure you wear something suitable. Try to dress a bit more like Sophie. She always looks the part.’

  I’m practically gnashing my teeth in rage. Sophie looks like someone’s rammed a broom up her arse and put a tax on senses of humour. Sod that for a packet of biscuits.

  Talking of biscuits, I’m feeling a little peckish. I wish that misery made me want to starve and fade away, but unfortunately it has the opposite effect. Come to think of it, so does happiness, and doubt and annoyance and just about any other emotion you can name. Just my luck. I bet Millandra would starve into a delicate decline, whereas I’ll end up making Jabba the Hut look undernourished.

  Just as I’m polishing off the last of the HobNobs, and flicking a mental V at Cordelia, the doorbell rings. Peering down into the street, I see Ollie clutching a vast box and waving frantically at me, so I buzz him up and wait to be amazed.

  ‘Christ,’ says Ollie when I open the door, ‘you look like shit.’

  ‘And good morning to you too,’ I reply.

  Ollie heaves a big polystyrene box on to the worktop.

  ‘Seriously, you look awful. What happened?’

  ‘Tough night.’ I flap my hands dismissively. I’m not prepared to analyse my relationship with Ollie. He thinks James is a wanker at the best of times and I can’t risk him refusing to help me with this dinner party on principle because he doesn’t want to help my fiancé out. The only row I’ve ever had with Ollie happened when James refused to insure me on his new BMW. James’s reasoning was that I could use the tube or the bus easily and didn’t need a car. ‘Besides, Chubs, you’re hardly the best driver, are you?’ he added, going on to list all the scrapes and dents I’d added to the outgoing Audi TT. I made the mistake of telling Ollie this, and he was totally outraged on my behalf.

  ‘He’s such a bully!’ Ol exploded. ‘Grow a bloody backbone, Katy, and tell him to insure you on the car. You’re his fiancée, for God’s sake!’

  Of course I stuck up for James, who was only thinking of the car, and Ollie went on to say some very harsh things and I was so hurt that we didn’t talk for a week. Eventually, over a sneaky fag in the school boiler room, we made our peace and agreed that in the future we wouldn’t discuss our respective partners. So far it seems to have worked.

  Ollie looks at me thoughtfully through narrowed toffee-coloured eyes but doesn’t pry any further. ‘Well, stick a pan of water on to boil and let’s get this show on the road.’

  I grab one of our Le Creusets and practically put my back out.

  ‘Too small,’ says Ollie, peeling back the tape on his polystyrene box. ‘It needs to be
really large to fit,’ he pulls back the lid proudly, ‘this fine fellow!’

  Oh. My. God. I stare at him aghast. From within the box a large claw is waving jauntily at me, a claw that is practically the size of a man’s fist.

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘It’s our starter,’ Ollie says proudly. ‘Isn’t he a beauty? I got him for an absolute song.’ Somehow he manages to pluck the creature out of the box without having any limbs severed. I stare across my kitchen at the world’s most enormous lobster ever, who regards me with beady black eyes.

  ‘It’s alive!’

  ‘Course it’s alive, you muppet.’ Ollie wiggles it at me. ‘Grr!’

  I step back hastily. Those claws look mean.

  ‘Doesn’t that mean we’ll have to kill it?’

  ‘Yep,’ says the murderous Ollie. ‘Which is why I asked you to put the water on to boil.’

  ‘We’re going to boil it alive?’

  ‘That’s the usual way. Although you can put a knife through his brain, I suppose. I can’t say I’ve ever really fancied that, though.’

  I look at the lobster and the lobster looks at me. Am I imagining it or is there a pleading look in his dark eyes?

  ‘So a pan of boiling water is best,’ Ollie continues cheerfully, lobster under one arm as he fills the biggest pan I own. ‘Don’t look so worried. It’ll be quick.’

  The lobster is waving its claws frantically. Ollie puts the pan on the hob and bungs the lid on. I feel faint. I know I’m being a hypocrite here because I eat meat, but I’m not used to being faced with the realities of where my yummy burger actually comes from. In Sainsbury’s, steaks come in nice little packages; they don’t line up and moo at me. I look again at the lobster and I swear to God it’s starting to tremble. It knows what horrible fate is about to befall it. I can practically hear it begging.

  Having a vivid imagination is such a curse!

  Steam is rising from the pan and the water boils like the pits of hell. Ollie whacks in some sea salt and lifts up the unfortunate crustacean.

  ‘No!’ I scream, hurling myself across the kitchen with a speed that would have done Kelly Holmes proud. ‘You can’t!’

  I’m face to face with the lobster. Its antennae wiggle desperately and I can almost hear it sobbing. Behind me the pot boils merrily.

  ‘Katy,’ says Ollie patiently. ‘Please step aside from the pan.’

  ‘It’s barbaric!’ I shriek. ‘We can’t murder it!’

  ‘It’s the starter for your dinner party and I don’t imagine that they’ll want to eat it alive.’

  ‘Can’t we have melon or something? Anything we don’t have to kill?’

  I’m sure the lobster nods.

  ‘Not quite as impressive as my Thermidor served in the claws,’ says Ollie, dangling the lobster above the hissing water. ‘And I thought impressing these tossers was the name of the game? A fresh lobster will definitely do that.’

  He’s right, but at this moment I don’t care. I just know I can’t drop this hapless creature into a vat of boiling water. I can’t!

  ‘Ollie, look at him,’ I say desperately. ‘He’s terrified.’

  ‘Don’t anthropomorphise him,’ says Ollie sternly. ‘You’ve taught Animal Farm too many times. He’s dinner, not a pet.’

  ‘Ollie! Please!’ I’m nearly in tears. ‘I can’t boil something alive that’s looking at me. Please don’t!’

  ‘Oh God.’ Ollie lowers the lobster wearily. ‘Rick Stein would be spinning in his grave if he was dead.’

  ‘Bugger Rick Stein.’ My heart beat starts to slow as I’m sure the lobster’s does. ‘I’d have nightmares for years. I’d probably turn vegetarian.’

  ‘Melon balls it is then,’ sighs Ollie. ‘This leaves us with a slight problem.’

  ‘Does it?’ All I feel is total utter giddy relief.

  ‘What do you suggest we do with a nine-pound lobster?’

  ‘Can’t he go back to the sea?’

  Ollie starts to laugh. ‘I didn’t get him from the sea! I got him from the market. And since it’s now,’ he checks his funky surf dude’s watch, ‘one thirty, I can’t exactly take him back.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, having a bit of a Free Willy moment, ‘you’re not going back to the market, are you, Pinchy? I’m going to take you back to the sea.’

  ‘Pinchy?’ snorts Ollie. ‘Are you mental?’

  I give him an arch look. ‘I’m not the one boiling animals alive.’

  Ol shrugs. ‘Point taken. But what do we do now? There isn’t a lot of sea in Ealing.’

  I’m thinking swiftly. ‘We’ll have to keep him here until we can take him to the coast. And we’ll have to make sure James doesn’t notice.’

  ‘What’s all this we stuff?’

  ‘You brought him here. So you’re totally involved.’

  ‘I was going to cook him,’ grumbles Ollie as he lowers the relieved Pinchy into the sink, ‘not play Animal bloody Magic. And anyway, where do you think you can hide a brute this big?’

  And then I have my brilliant idea. Minutes later the bath is full, I’ve lobbed in about a ton of sea salt and Pinchy is looking very much at home. I pull the shower curtain round the bath and voilà ! One secret lobster, saved from a hideous death by me.

  Brigitte Bardot, eat your heart out!

  And James will never know, right?

  While my new pet makes himself at home, I’m dispatched to Sainsbury’s to buy melon and Parma ham. I dash round like Speedy Gonzales on a really fast day, but even so, negotiating the harassed-looking families in the narrow aisles takes a while, and by the time I return, Ollie is surrounded by bubbling pans and gorgeous smells.

  ‘You’re seriously talented,’ I tell him, dipping my finger into a creamy brandy-scented sauce. ‘This is gorgeous.’

  ‘Fingers out!’ Ollie raps my knuckles with a wooden spoon. ‘I reckon this’ll take me another hour. Then I can push off and you can pretend that you’ve been slaving all afternoon. ‘

  ‘I owe you one,’ I say fervently. Bless him, he’s even laid the table and made it look like something out of an interiors magazine.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Ollie throws finely sliced fillet steaks into a pan, where they sizzle and spit. ‘I’ll call the favour in sometime. In fact, I’ve a stack of GCSE coursework that needs grading…’

  ‘Anything!’ I promise. ‘You’ve totally saved my life.’

  ‘I have,’ Ol agrees, chucking in a handful of peppercorns. ‘But never mind that now. Stop it!’ He slaps my hand away from the pan. ‘You’re distracting me. Why don’t you go into town and buy something to wear? Then when you come back I’ll be out of here and you can pretend that you’ve done all the hard work and managed to make yourself look gorgeous.’

  It’s worth any amount of GCSE marking if I can make tonight a success, and blowing him a kiss, I’m only too glad to leave the cooking behind.

  I spend a happy couple of hours in Ealing Broadway, where I shove a Big Mac down my neck and spend ages in Waterstone’s perusing the romantic fiction and convincing myself there must be a market for Jake and Millandra. Then I embark on the serious task of finding a suitable outfit for tonight. What I ought to do is buy something in Laura Ashley, all flowery print and velvet trimming, but I just can’t face it. Eventually I choose a pair of green velvet flares and a soft grey off-the-shoulder sweater, which I feel is sophisticated but sexy. I then buy about half the bangles and necklaces in Accessorize and treat myself to a shampoo and blow-dry in Toni & Guy. I’m all for saving Pinchy but I don’t really fancy getting in the bath with him. There’s something about the way he looks at people’s limbs that makes me a little nervous. Thank goodness James showers at the golf club. Somehow I think he’d prefer Pinchy in a cheesy sauce rather than floating in the jacuzzi bath.

  When I finally get home at just before six o’clock I’m feeling pretty darn good about myself. My hair is all curly and bouncy, my new clothes are deliciously heavy in their carriers and for once th
e make-up girl at the Clinique counter has done a good job. I pause and examine my reflection in the hall mirror. Perhaps the eyes are a little Lily Savage? I lick my finger and scrub some of the greeny-gold eye shadow away. I may well be putting on a show for Julius Millward and Co. but it doesn’t do to look too theatrical. Besides, I don’t need another lecture from James about how Sophie always looks so natural and fresh. If I had an au pair, a clothing allowance and worked part time in an art gallery, I’d look fresh too. But my classroom is more like Beirut than Bayswater, so I feel I can be forgiven for looking more than a little frayed around the edges. When I try telling this to James, though, I just get sarcastic comments about all my holidays and finishing at three thirty every day. Well, I tell myself, as I hang up my coat and saunter into the kitchen, if bloody Sophie had to battle with apathy and raging hormones on a daily basis, I bet she’d look as knackered as I do. And besides, I’m the fastest texter in west London and know all the latest slang. At least I am in touch with my generation.

  OK then. The one beneath it.

  The kitchen smells divine, and what’s even better, Ollie has cleared up and every surface sparkles. On the breakfast bar is an A4 piece of paper on which he has scrawled a long list of instructions. I skim-read it quickly and check the pans to make sure I know exactly what I’m dealing with. Sure enough I find fillet steak chasseur, baby corn, mangetout and carrots sitting on the hob and a pan of fragrant rice all drained and ready to be heated. Inside the fridge, the melon and Parma ham is ready plated and a large chocolate mousse shimmers and wobbles in a silver dish. It looks so good it’s all I can do not to dig in straight away.

  I pour myself a celebration glass of white burgundy and set to following Ollie’s instructions. Soon pans are bubbling merrily, Norah Jones is crooning softly and the fat white pillar candles in the fireplace are flickering romantically. I give myself a mental pat on the back, knock the wine back and take my new clothes into the bathroom. I feel like I’m wrapped in a warm, cosy bubble. Everything is going to be perfect, I just know it.