I’m holding my breath, because the view that dips away beneath us is dizzyingly beautiful. It’s early evening and the twilight seeps in from a darkening sky, but I can still see the lichen-crusted rooftops of crumpled cottages where seagulls huddle against chimneypots. Other gulls are wheeling crazily above the village, swooping towards distant trawlers whose green and scarlet lights herald their return. Down against the harbour wall, boats rise and dip with the swell of the tide, and from the windows of a pub fairy lights glitter and spill dancing patterns into the water.
Lewisham it isn’t.
‘It’s stunning,’ I breathe.
‘That’s my house,’ Gabriel tells me, gesturing to a large white building perched precariously on the side of the valley. ‘The Lomaxes live over there, in the pink cottage just above the fish market.’
I lean forward and squint at the rectory. Either all the years of marking have wrecked my eyesight or there is no road anywhere near it.
‘That’s right,’ nods Gabriel when I mention this. ‘There’s a path up to the rectory from behind the fish market. The vicar can help you with your bags.’
That will really make Richard’s day.
‘I’ll have to drop you here,’ Gabriel says, pulling up by a paved seating area. ‘We can’t get the car any nearer.’
‘This is fine,’ I say, unbuckling my seat belt. ‘Thanks. I owe you one.’
‘Buy me a drink then.’ Gabriel retrieves my luggage, leaving me to carry Pinchy. ‘If you want?’
I can hardly believe my ears. Gabriel Winters is asking me to go for a drink with him! James who? Mads was right; this move to the country is a good idea.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ I say calmly, as though rich and famous actors ask me out for drinks on a daily basis.
So I follow him down a very narrow street past higgledy-piggledy cottages and gift shops whose windows are crammed full of piskies and fudge. We stroll past the fish market, where a crowd of holidaymakers watch oilskin-clad fishermen weighing their catch. The smell of fish is strong and I wrinkle my nose, but Pinchy waves his antennae with great enthusiasm, as though to tell me that he’s nearly home.
‘We’ll go to the Mermaid,’ Gabriel says. ‘It’s a great pub. You’ll love it.’
We climb some steep steps cut into dark rock, which lead up to the fairy light-dappled building I spotted from the car. Gabriel dodges a crowd of smokers huddled beneath a feeble patio heater and pushes open a sturdy wooden door, ducking his head as he does so. I follow him, catching the whispers of ‘Is it really him?’ that spread out in his wake like wash behind a boat, and wish that I’d had time to drag a brush through my curls. My one and only sort of date with a celebrity and I look like I’m wearing Ronald McDonald’s hair.
Just my luck.
Inside the pub it’s very dark and very hot. People jostle elbow to elbow at the bar and vie impatiently with each other to attract the barmaid’s attention. In the window seat, tourists dressed in walking boots pore over guide-books and play dominoes. The locals, who seem to be crammed into a dim corner at the far end of the bar, chat amongst themselves. By the fireplace a man in a big hat plays the guitar and sings enthusiastically while his girlfriend tries to persuade the drinkers to put on silly hats and join in the fun. Before long I’m wearing a sombrero and singing along while Gabriel, ridiculously attractive in a tricorn hat, signs autographs good-naturedly. Several people admire Pinchy in his blue crate but nobody seems to think it at all weird that I’ve brought a lobster in for a pint.
‘Here.’ Gabriel thrusts a fifty-pound note into my hands; at least I assume that’s what it is because I’ve never seen one before. ‘Get the beers in! I’ll find a seat.’
Feeling like a ginger dwarf in a land of giants, I dodge elbows and pint glasses and worm my way to the bar. I narrowly miss having my eye put out by a flailing cigarette and clamber up on to a foot rail. That’s better. I’m at least four inches taller now, and I enjoy surveying the world from my newly acquired vantage point. Even so, I’m just one small hand waving a note amongst a crowd worthy of a Madonna concert.
I catch the barmaid’s eye and she smiles apologetically as she serves the most enormous round to a fisherman with a very loud voice who’s happily telling all and sundry why the Common Fisheries Policy is a bad idea. Eventually he pays up and it’s my turn. While the barmaid pulls me two pints of very potent-looking scrumpy, she keeps looking first at me and then at Gabriel. I like the way her nose stud twinkles in the candlelight. Maybe it’s time for a piercing. I can do whatever I like now I don’t have James bossing me around.
It’s a heady thought. Perhaps I’ll get a tattoo as well, one of those ones on the small of the back that he always said were common. I could ask for Up yours James in Sanskrit or something. That could be fun.
‘Katy! Over here, darling!’ hollers Gabriel. He really doesn’t need to tell me where he is, though; the throng of holidaymakers clustered around clamouring for autographs kind of gives it away. I take a sip of cider from the brim of each pint glass so as not to spill it before negotiating a path through the throng, which is easier said than done. This tiny Cornish pub is so packed it makes the Piccadilly Line in rush hour seem roomy.
‘Thanks, sweetheart!’ Gabriel takes his drink and guides me through the press of people, and I’m struck by how bizarre life can be. I mean, this time last night I was still in London, terrified that James would pop up again with half of Kew Gardens, and this evening I’m in a Cornish pub drinking with Gabriel Winters! Nobody at home will believe me.
I hardly believe me.
Gabriel and I sit down in a window seat and admire the view. By that I mean he looks at the rolling sea and the boats straining against their moorings and I sneak sideways looks at him. How can anyone be so physically perfect? Even the sprinkling of golden stubble that shades his jaw is designer. What’s really strange, though, is that although I can admire him from a purely aesthetic point of view, I don’t feel remotely attracted to him.
I’m probably still in shock from breaking up with James. ‘Excuse me.’ A woman dressed in the tourist uniform of fleece and jeans approaches our table. ‘Aren’t you Gabriel Winters?’
Gabriel swells visibly. ‘I certainly am.’
‘Could I possibly take your picture?’ She waves her digital camera at him. ‘I’m a huge fan. I taped every episode of Jane.’
‘My pleasure.’ Gabriel smiles. ‘I’m always happy to oblige my fans. You guys have put me where I am today.’
The camera flashes. I can’t help but feel a little queasy. Beautiful he might be, but Gabriel could rival the Jolly Green Giant when it comes to corniness.
‘Sorry,’ he says, looking anything but. ‘This happens to me a lot.’
‘I think she’ll be disappointed.’ My eyes are still dazzled from the flash. ‘I’m sure I was in the shot.’
‘She can edit you out,’ he replies, totally without irony.
Charming! Still, he’s probably right. Lots of people seem to be editing me out lately.
As we drink, Gabriel tells me all about his pirate movie, which is still in the planning stages, his latest romance with a soap star and the renovations to his new house. Pinchy and I listen attentively for at least thirty minutes, during which Gabriel scarcely draws breath. I try to tell him about Heart of the Highwayman but his eyes keep sliding sideways and I soon realise that he’s checking his hair in the shiny horse brasses.
Blimey, even James wasn’t that vain.
Mind you, if I was as beautiful as Gabriel Winters I’d most likely be glued to a mirror too. I check my own reflection and wince. With my frizzy ginger hair and cheeks flushed from the heat, I look even more like Ronald McDonald. Not a good look.
‘Well, I’m here because—’ I begin, and then stop because he’s blatantly not listening. In fact he’s looking at his watch. I think it’s a Rolex but I can’t be sure. Humble English teachers seldom get to see such things.
‘Christ!’ Gabriel excla
ims loudly, attracting admiring glances from the female population of the pub. ‘Is that the time? I’m due at Rick Stein’s at eight to meet my director. Drink up, darling. I’d better make tracks.’
I’m obediently finishing my pint when the door of the pub flies open and a tall figure strides in.
‘Has anyone seen my wife?’ he asks, scanning the pub like the Terminator.
‘She hasn’t been here all day,’ the barmaid says quickly.
She has her back to me and I notice her fingers are crossed.
‘Well if you do,’ the man barks, ‘please remind her that she was supposed to be chairing the mother and baby group this afternoon. And,’ he adds tetchily, ‘that music’s far too loud. I can hear it in my study. Unless someone sorts it out I’ll be putting a complaint in to the local council.’
And with this parting shot he spins around in a whirl of black clothing and stomps out of the building.
‘Maybe his missus is having an affair,’ says the pub singer, pulling a face. ‘That’s the third time this month he’s come in here looking for her.’
‘Can’t say I blame her if she is,’ says the loud fisherman. ‘He’s a miserable bastard.’
I sink down into my seat and pull the sombrero over my eyes as the cross husband stamps past the window and down the steps. I feel like turning tail and running back to London as fast as my feet can carry me.
I have a very bad feeling about this, because the annoyed husband in question is none other than the Reverend Richard Lomax.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time I’ve plucked up the courage to venture to the rectory, twilight has fallen in and the lights of Tregowan twinkle below like hundreds of stars. Thanks to the steep climb up, I’m panting as though about to give birth.
‘Who needs a gym?’ I ask Pinchy as I collapse on the doorstep. After a few weeks of living here I’ll be the size of Nina. Just as well I built my strength up with a couple more pints of scrumpy.
I’ve been skulking about the fish market, pretending to be engrossed in the evening’s catch but really waiting to see if Richard is still about. I know that he’s a man of the cloth, but quite frankly I don’t want to enrage him any more. I haven’t the foggiest what’s been going on, but I know Maddy, and I have a horrible feeling it’s nothing Richard will like. If she is having an affair, though, I’ll be staggered, because I’ve always thought she really loves him. Can’t quite see the attraction myself, although I suppose he’s OK in a tall and aesthetic kind of way. He’s allegedly got a fit body beneath that cassock too, if Mads is to be believed.
I tug on the rope by the front door and somewhere in the rectory a bell tolls ominously. I peek through the window into a cosy kitchen, and sure enough there’s an Aga in the chimney breast and piles of clutter spread across all available surfaces. Mads is the queen of clutter. She makes Steptoe and Son look neat and tidy.
Then the front door swings opens and Mads appears, her dark hair up in curlers and a layer of green goo spread over her face.
‘Shit,’ she gasps. ‘Katy! Bollocks!’
‘Nice to see you too,’ I say. ‘Thanks for abandoning me at the station.’
‘I’m so sorry!’ She cries, ushering me inside. ‘I can’t believe I forgot you were coming. It just went out of my head.’
‘Luckily for you, I got a lift,’ I tell her, putting Pinchy’s crate down and rubbing my aching back. ‘But I’ve had to leave my stuff at the pub.’
‘We’ll get it later,’ says Mads airily. She peers into the crate. ‘This must be the famous Pinchy.’
‘Infamous more like,’ I say darkly. ‘Single-clawedly responsible for ruining my relationship with James.’
‘Good boy!’ Maddy grins. ‘Well done for seeing off that tosser.’
I open my mouth to point out that she’s hardly one to preach about being in a relationship with a total dickhead, but close it again. After all, I’m going to have to be a well-behaved guest for a while.
‘Let’s sort you out,’ Mads says to Pinchy, carrying the crate up a very narrow staircase. ‘Then Mummy and I will have a nice cup of tea.’
‘I’m not its bloody mummy,’ I mutter. Honestly! If I had a quid for every time I’ve wished I’d let Ollie cook the sodding thing, I could give the Beckhams a run for their money. It seems to me that I can trace all my problems back to the moment Ollie entered my flat with the crafty crustacean.
The rectory is even tinier on the inside, like the Tardis in reverse. It’s very sweet, all wooden floors, bright rag rugs and low beams, but even I have to duck my head going up the stairs. The bathroom is more of a cupboard, and while Mads runs the bath I have to stand on the landing because there’s no way we can both fit in. I notice that there are two rooms leading off from this area and another vertical flight of stairs to the attic space.
‘Pop up and check your room,’ Maddy suggests. ‘I cleaned it especially.’
Mads is to cleaning what I am to nuclear physics, so I’m pleasantly surprised to find a really cosy little room in the eaves waiting for me. There’s a double bed covered with a pretty quilt and blue gingham curtains at the tiny window. Mads has even put some flowers on the sill and piled up some books on the bedside table. I don’t relish the thought of negotiating the stairs after a night in the Mermaid, but apart from that it’s perfect. I kneel on the window seat and look down over Tregowan. Sure enough the view is all that Maddy promised, rolling waves and twinkling lights. I can just picture myself curled up here writing the next instalment of Jake and Millandra’s story, and for the first time in ages my skin prickles with excitement. I know I can write here, I’ll have loads of fun with Maddy, and already I’ve met a romantic hero who’s totally inspired my next chapter. Everything is going to be great. I just know it.
For the first time in ages the nasty twisty sensation of unease in my tummy vanishes and I feel… I feel…
I feel like me again.
My God! I really do. Not Chubster, or Miss Carter, or Ollie’s mate, but me, Katy Carter. How brilliant is that?
Jewell was right. Coming here is exactly what I needed to do. My life in London had been out of balance for so long that I’d just accepted it. James and I weren’t equal partners towards the end — maybe we never had been — and for far too long I’d been stuck in a rut thinking I needed him both emotionally and financially. It wouldn’t have mattered how long or how hard I tried to make the relationship work, it never would have been healthy because we were just too different. And maybe I was too reliant on poor Ollie as well?
It’s about time I stood on my own two feet and made some changes.
Like Jewell said, it’s time for me to find out what I want.
‘Tea!’ calls Mads, interrupting my deep and meaningfuls, and from downstairs I hear the chink of cups.
‘Coming!’ I cross the room swiftly, but on my way I notice that the corner of a box is sticking out from under the bed. I won’t want to bash my shin on that in the middle of the night. Giving the box a shove back underneath, I’d have thought no more of it except that it starts to make a noise.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! goes the box.
My poor heart nearly bursts out of my chest.
Buzz! Buzz!
I look around guiltily. What have I done? What have I broken? It’s bound to be something expensive that belongs to Richard, another blot in my exceedingly smudged copy-book. What to do?
I totally understand where Pandora was coming from when she opened her box, because my little fingers are itching to unfasten this one. I can’t just leave it buzzing, can I? I’ll actually be doing Richard a favour if I turn it off and save the batteries. I’m not being nosy. I’m being helpful.
Before I can stop myself, I’m dragging the box out. The buzzing gets even louder. Knowing my luck, it’s a giant hornet.
I pull off the lid.
Oh. My. God.
It’s giant all right.
But it’s not a wasp.
I only wish it was.
/> Buzzing away with a life all of its own is the most enormous vibrator I’ve ever seen in my life. Not that I’ve seen that many. And not just the one, either. This box is packed full of vibrators of every shade and variety known to man, or rather woman. Some have the most realistic network of veins (why?), others are bright candy pink, and one terrifying specimen is ten inches of black plastic complete with what look like revolving spikes. I stare at it in fascinated horror.
I’m a twenty-first-century chick, I’m pretty liberated and I’ve been known to wander into Ann Summers. OK, so I left my hood up. Can you imagine what my life at school would have been like if Wayne Lobb and Co. had seen their English teacher testing chocolate body paint or playing with love beads? It’s OK for those Sex and the City girls to act out their fantasies all over New York; they don’t have to work with a bunch of teenagers with hormones so rampant you can practically see them. There’s nothing like teaching to put you off sex for life — the thought of ending up with your own teen is too hideous for words.
So I do know all about vibrators; I’ve just never actually met one before, although this is less of a vibrator and more like a weapon of mass destruction. My eyes are watering just thinking about it.
Why has Mads got a box of sex toys under the bed? She’s always telling me how she and Richard have an amazing sex life. I’d rather pull my nails out with pliers than shag the Rev, but Mads has always insisted that beneath the cassock Richard is a love god. I’ve always assumed that’s why she married him.
Certainly wasn’t for his sense of humour.
Then I have a horrible thought. What if the sex aids are Richard’s? What if Maddy doesn’t know? That must be it. Maddy was trying to tell me something on the telephone the other day but had to stop because Richard came into the kitchen. She’s worried that he’s having an affair. And he’s pretending to be annoyed about her whereabouts in order to create a smokescreen.
The absolute bastard!
I’m a genius at solving mysteries. Hercule Poirot has nothing on me.
I reach into the box and switch the vibrator off.
Katy Carter Wants a Hero Page 18