Katy Carter Wants a Hero

by Ruth Saberton

  ‘Now,’ I tell Pinchy, as I heap my jeans and sweater on the floor, ‘make sure you keep really quiet tonight.’

  Pinchy regards me beadily. He’s not particularly vocal, which although it doesn’t make for a very rewarding conversation, leaves me pretty confident that he’ll go unnoticed. Instead he wiggles his antennae and does a leisurely lap of the bath.

  ‘There!’ I smooth down my new trousers and spray some Coco down my cleavage. ‘What do you think? Pretty sexy, huh?’

  But Pinchy’s busy swimming and doesn’t so much as even glance my way. Typical, even lobsters ignore me. Still, I decide as I fluff up my hair and pout at myself in the mirror, I look respectable. The hippy chick has been banished and in her place stands a demure-looking merchant banker’s fiancée. Feeling pleased at this transformation, I pull the shower curtain around the bath and leave Pinchy to carry on his aqua-aerobics.

  Another glass of wine later and I’m feeling a lovely alcohol-induced warmth and confidence. This is a bit of a balancing act, though. I want to stay at the stage where I feel like the most gorgeous creature on the planet, but I know that too much more will turn me into a burbling wreck. Tonight really isn’t the night to get trolleyed.

  ‘This smells wonderful.’ James has crept up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. His lips brush against my ear lobe, sending ripples of goose bumps down my arms. I melt against him and feel almost faint with relief. The cold war between us seems to be over, because he’s been disarmed by the mouth-watering aromas of Ollie’s cooking. ‘You are clever, Chubs.’

  Actually, I am clever. I can read Beowulf in the original and know all about trochaic feet, but James doesn’t give a toss about that kind of stuff. What matters to him is having a wife who can cook and keep house.

  He should have stuck to the Beowulf, because I’m seriously crap at the other things.

  Still, I smile brightly and feel relieved I’m forgiven for upsetting Cordelia. ‘It’s nothing,’ I say. ‘It took me no time at all.’ And I’m not exactly lying, am I?

  ‘I’m sorry that I was so grumpy earlier,’ James says, cupping my breasts in his hands and kissing my neck. I wait to feel a Mexican wave of desire, but it doesn’t come, not even the teeniest tremor. It seems that even if my mind doesn’t want to hold grudges, my body does.

  ‘It’s just I’m so stressed at the moment,’ he continues, dropping feathery kisses on to my bare shoulder. ‘This wedding is costing a fortune, and if I’m going to go places at Millwards and make serious money, then I really need this evening to go well.’

  ‘But,’ I venture, because this seems like a valid point to me, ‘shouldn’t they promote you because you’re good at your job rather than because your fiancée can cook a nice meal?’

  ‘It’s all about image,’ says James, giving up on trying to turn me on and helping himself to wine instead. ‘The partners do an awful lot of networking and their wives have to play a part in that. If Julius is going to promote me, and,’ James has a smug smile on his face, ‘I rather think he will, he’ll need to make sure that he has the entire package. We’ll have to buy a bigger house, obviously, if we’re entertaining, and make sure that you get the hang of what cutlery to use and what wines to serve. Corporate entertaining is a vital part of a wife’s role. And this smells divine. I’m sure you’ll be up to it.’

  You know that bit in Titanic when the Kate Winslet character sees her life all mapped out for her and tries to fling herself off the back of the ship? Well, that’s how I feel as I tend to the dinner and paste a rigor mortis smile on to my face. Can I really spend the rest of my life pretending to be somebody I’m not? I can’t imagine that Ollie will be on hand to help me for the next forty years.

  In spite of all my good intentions I pour another glass of wine. I’m going to have to tell James the truth about tonight or our marriage is going to be totally based on a lie.

  ‘Darling—’ I begin, but am rudely interrupted by the buzzer.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ cries James. ‘It’s bound to be Julius; he was just behind me in the clubhouse.’

  I give up and let him rush to the door. If he was a dog he’d be barking excitedly and wagging his tail. It looks like I’m going to have to lie through my teeth this evening and fess up later.

  Oh what a tangled web…

  ‘Katy!’ cries James, bursting back into the kitchen. ‘Julius and Helena are here!’

  ‘How marvellous,’ I trill, like a character from a Noël Coward play. ‘How super to see you both!’ and I air-kiss the twig-like Helena and try to do the same to Julius. Unfortunately Julius Millward is an old lech of the first order and manages to plant his wet rubbery lips on mine and give my bottom a squeeze. It’s all I can do not to puke into the carrots.

  ‘Something smells divine,’ booms Julius as James pours him a glass of wine.

  Helena is peeking into the pans.

  ‘What’s in this?’ she demands, sniffing suspiciously. ‘Is there cream in it? I can’t eat dairy.’

  ‘Um,’ I say helplessly. I haven’t a flipping clue what’s in it.

  Helena glares at the sauce. ‘It looks like cream to me. And brandy? I can’t drink alcohol, you know. I’m detoxing.’

  I want to grab her head and ram it in the saucepan. Why on earth go to a dinner party if she’s on a detox diet?

  ‘Stick your detox diet up your arse, you raddled old bag,’ I say.

  Actually I don’t say that but I’d like to. What I really say is a very apologetic mutter about how there’s only a bit of cream in it, which could be true for all I know. Fortunately Julius saves the moment by booming that it’s about time she had a ‘bloody good feed’ and whisking his wife away from the kitchen and into the sitting room. Then the doorbell shrills again and moments later I hear the haw-haw tones of Ed and Sophie Grenville.

  Gritting my teeth so hard that I’m amazed they don’t shatter, I pick up the wine and glasses and force myself to be sociable.

  ‘Katy!’ Sophie brays, and we do the air-kissing thing. ‘What a sweet little outfit! Where’s it from, Agnès B?’

  Something in Sophie, possibly the way she acts as though she’s still head girl and about to banish me on to the lacrosse pitch, brings out the worst in me.

  ‘Trousers from Topshop, jumper from House of Oxfam,’ I tell her breezily and have the satisfaction of her hand recoiling from my shoulder. ‘They have some real bargains. I’ll have to show you.’

  ‘Oh! Lovely,’ says Sophie, as enthusiastically as though I’d asked her to eat worms for dinner.

  James shoots me a look that I choose to ignore. Three glasses of wine have made me bold. Sod him.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ I say brightly as the doorbell sounds again. ‘That’ll be Ollie and his dinner date.’

  ‘No doubt some random tart,’ I hear James say nastily. Sometimes I really don’t like my fiancé very much, and I have a distinct feeling that now is one of those times.

  I open the door and in bounds Sasha, all lolling pink tongue, drooling mouth and long ears. Definitely not the dinner date I had in mind.

  ‘Are you mad?’ I hiss. ‘James hates dogs! He’s allergic.’

  Ollie fixes me with a steely gaze. ‘I’m not leaving her on her own all evening, not when I’ve spent all day over here saving your neck. Especially not because of,’ he practically spits the name, ‘James.’

  ‘Point taken.’ I glance nervously at the sitting room door. ‘Let’s pop her into the office and she can sleep there.’

  Ollie looks a bit put out but shoves Sasha into our tiny box-room-cum-office, where James’s Mac beeps and whirs to itself on the desk surrounded by stacks of neat papers and his briefcase stands guard by the door. Apart from this, the room is pretty much bare. Surely a red setter can’t do too much damage in here?

  Ollie takes his coat off and puts it under the desk. ‘Sasha! Lie down!’

  Sasha obediently folds herself up like David Blaine in his glass box and pants hopefully up at us. I heave a
sigh of relief.

  ‘Good girl.’ Ollie strokes her silky head and then gently shuts the door. For a few moments we stand in the hallway like nervous parents waiting to hear their baby cry. Then the doorbell sounds again and I practically shoot into orbit.

  ‘Chill out!’ Ollie’s long legs stride to the door. ‘That’ll be my dinner date.’

  I lean weakly against the wall. The strain of giving this dinner party must have added years to me, and we haven’t even started eating yet. There’s no way I can do this for the next forty years. I’d rather disembowel myself.

  ‘Come in,’ I hear Ollie cry. ‘Thank God you could make it.’

  In spite of myself, I crane my neck in order to see who has had the misfortune to fall for Ollie this time. Not that I care, obviously! But because I’m madly curious to see who could put up with Ollie’s smelly socks, terrible taste in music and dribbly dog. Normally it’s a willowy surf chick type with big boobs and a vacant gaze. I’d bet my month’s salary that tonight is no different.

  It’s just as well I’m not a betting woman.

  The creature that explodes into my narrow flat is certainly no surf chick. In fact it’s no chick at all. It’s a man.

  Or at least I think it is.

  ‘Darling,’ trills a vision in flowing purple. ‘I simply adore the trousers! Velvet flares! So retro! So Seventies!’

  I goggle at him. I’m afraid I simply can’t help it. I’ve never seen a man wearing lilac eye shadow and pink lipstick. Well, not since about 1985 anyway. And I’ve certainly never seen one wearing what looks like a purple cloak. Think Doctor and the Medics meets Michael Praed in his Robin of Sherwood days and you kind of get a picture of the vision standing before me looking more like a wacky entrant to the Big Brother house than a guest at a dinner party for stuffy merchant bankers.

  It’s Frankie. Ollie’s cousin, lead singer of the Screaming Queens, camper than a Cath Kidston tent and on a mission to shock.

  Shit.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ says my guest cheerfully. ‘I’ve brought you a present.’ Reaching beneath his cloak, he pulls out a giant cactus in a blue china pot. I eye it nervously. It looks lethal. New York street gangs’ knives are blunter than the spikes on this two-foot monstrosity.

  Frankie shoves the cactus into my arms, nearly turning me into a kebab. ‘We got this especially for you.’

  ‘It’s a fiancé replacement for all the times yours is off playing golf,’ explains Ollie, carefully turning the plant pot around to reveal my beloved’s name daubed in fluorescent green paint. ‘I think it’s a vast improvement on the other giant prick called James.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I hiss. ‘Bring a bottle of wine next time.’

  ‘I adore giant pricks,’ wheezes Frankie, whose mascara is starting to run. ‘Can’t wait to meet the real James.’

  ‘Now’s your chance,’ grins Ollie, and sure enough James is emerging from the sitting room looking to refill glasses. Before he spots James the Cactus and all hell breaks loose, I reverse swiftly into our bedroom and kick the door shut.

  I am going to bloody kill Ollie. I might have known he’d pull a stunt like this. Talk about shaking up the evening.

  As I hide the cactus beneath the pile of coats on the bed, I think murderous thoughts about what I’ll do to Ollie when I can get my hands on him.

  En route back to the sitting room I take a detour via the kitchen and help myself to another glass of wine. Something tells me that nothing except getting plastered will get me through this evening.

  ‘So,’ Frankie is saying, gesticulating wildly with purple-tipped fingers and looking in the midst of my soberly dressed guests like a parrot who’s swooped in to have a chat with the local sparrows, ‘I quit my job to set up my own rock band.’

  ‘Really?’ says Ed, who appears quite curious.

  ‘I’ve got my demo disc with me.’ Frankie delves into his robes and pulls out a CD. ‘Shall we put it on?’

  James, looking murderous, takes the disc, and seconds later Norah Jones is replaced by a din that sounds like hyenas playing the saucepans. Ears are practically bleeding.

  ‘Isn’t it awesome!’ says Ollie, and the worrying thing is he’s being sincere. ‘The Queens are going to be huge.’

  ‘Suck on it, baby!’ shrieks Frankie, eyes closed and lost in rhythm. ‘Give it to me hard!’

  James presses the stop button and abruptly there’s an awkward silence.

  ‘Shall we eat?’ I say brightly. ‘James, would you help me with the starters, darling?’

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ spits James as he bundles me into the kitchen. ‘Are you deliberately trying to ruin my chances?’

  ‘Don’t blame me!’ I protest, delving into our fridge and passing the starters to him. If he’s got his hands full I figure he can’t punch Ollie. ‘I didn’t know he was going to invite Frankie.’

  ‘You invited bloody Ollie,’ James growls, ‘so I hold you totally responsible. Just make sure you keep him under control.’

  The words ‘or else’ hang heavy in the air and I gulp nervously. I have a lobster in the bath, a loony red setter in the office and the lead singer of the Screaming Queens in my sitting room. These things do not bode well.

  I lay out the starters and everyone makes polite conversation. James and I try to join in, but our ‘darlings’ and ‘sweethearts’ are positively glacial and you couldn’t cut the atmosphere with a chainsaw, never mind a knife. Frankie is telling an outrageous story about one of his band members, Sophie and Helena are planning a trip to the Sanctuary and James is trying to talk business with Julius, easier said than done over Frankie’s excited cries and actions. I stab at my starter and wish it was a voodoo melon. Ollie would be rolling around clutching his guts. God knows, it feels like the entire cast of Riverdance is warming up in mine.

  We move on to the main course, and I have to admit Ollie has done an excellent job. Frankie is too busy eating to make outrageous comments and Julius compliments me on my culinary skills. Helena pointedly restricts herself to vegetables. Well, it’s her loss. Ollie might behave like a fiend but he cooks like an angel. The steak melts on my tongue and the sauce explodes across my taste buds. Julius hoovers up seconds and even James looks mollified. Perhaps I’m going to get away with it.

  But in my past life I must have been totally evil, because karma is about to come back with a double whammy. Nipping to the loo, bladder overflowing with wine, I peek round the curtains to check on Pinchy.

  Who isn’t there.

  Fuck.

  I sink on to the loo seat feeling cold all over at the thought of a nine-pound lobster on the loose in my flat. Where on earth has it gone, the ungrateful creature? I’m starting to wish I’d let Ollie boil it alive. Lobster Thermidor has never seemed so appealing.

  OK, I tell myself as I try to breathe slowly and get my heart rate down to a less cardiac-arrest-inducing rhythm. This is a small flat and that’s one big mama of a lobster. There are only so many places it can be. It’s pretty hard to lose a lobster.

  Or at least I bloody hope it is.

  With any luck it’s crawled into a corner somewhere and died. Or hibernated. Or whatever lobsters do in their spare time.

  Escaping from the loo, I sneak into the kitchen and neck Chardonnay from the bottle. There’s no time for wine glasses when Pinchy’s on the loose. All my resolutions about not getting pissed have gone down the toilet, where I sincerely hope Pinchy has also gone. Then I attack the cheeseboard. Sod the calories; at this rate I’m not even likely to live long enough to worry. Selecting a lovely runny Brie, I whack a load on to a cracker, cram it into my mouth and chomp gratefully.

  Chubster? Moi?

  ‘There you are!’ wheezes Julius Millard, standing in the doorway and leering at me. As he speaks he wags a finger. ‘Eating all the Brie, you naughty little minx!’

  Christ! I’m not the only one who’s pissed. Julius advances like the Severn Bore and pins me against the Aga, obviously convinced that I’m total
ly up for it. Never in the history of the planet has anyone been more mistaken. But I’m in a tricky position, and not just because the Aga is burning a hole in my velvet flares. Do I tell Julius to piss off and risk him giving Ed the promotion out of spite, or do I bite my lip and think of England?

  Actually, isn’t that called prostitution?

  While I’m deliberating and Julius is all but licking his lips, there’s a sudden roar from down the corridor. At least I think it’s a roar, although perhaps it’s a scream. In any case I’m saved because Julius jumps backwards like Skippy.

  ‘What the hell?’ I hear James yell, and then more ominously, ‘Katy!’

  ‘Excuse me!’ I say brightly, ducking under Julius’s arm. ‘I think James needs me.’

  My fiancé is standing in the office doorway, his face absolutely puce with rage because our minimalist box room has been transformed Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen style into Narnia. And I don’t mean lampposts and wardrobes. James’s office is white with paper. Scraps flutter in the stirred air and drift down like home-made ticker tape. The laminate floor is hidden beneath sheets and sheets of paper, James’s Apple Mac is upside down beeping feebly and the Italian leather briefcase looks as though it’s been attacked by Godzilla.

  Right in the middle of all this chaos sits Sasha, chocolate eyes wide and innocent and plumy tail thumping with the joy of having her exile interrupted by so many visitors. I’m not going to point out that maybe she’s been bored and lonely because, quite frankly, I don’t think James will give a damn.

  Hanging from Sasha’s drooling mouth are the remains of a blue file; the blue file that contained the report James has slaved over for weeks. The report that he was going to present to Julius tonight to prove just what an amazing partner he’d make. When I think of the hours that have gone into that report I feel sick, so goodness only knows how James must feel.

  ‘I can explain!’ I say quickly, putting my hand on his arm, but James shakes me off like I’m plague-ridden.