Katy Carter Wants a Hero

by Ruth Saberton

  I thought about the vibrators under my bed. Snooping reporters were the last thing we needed. A vicar’s wife with a double life as a purveyor of sex aids would make a fantastic story.

  Richard would go mental.

  And even worse, I’d be homeless.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Have you?’

  Gabriel was silent.

  Oh shit, I thought, and my hands began to sweat. He’s into something awful.

  ‘Not exactly.’ He sounded awkward. ‘But there is something I need to discuss with you.’

  My mind wasn’t so much boggling as performing Olympic-standard gymnastics. What did he have to hide? ‘Well, you’re the expert on this fame stuff. What do you suggest?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m out most of the day.’ I could hear him flipping the pages of a diary. ‘Why don’t you come up to Smuggler’s Rest this evening for dinner? About seven?’

  I didn’t answer. Did I want to have dinner with Gabriel?

  ‘We can decide how to handle the situation then. I’ll ask my manager for advice,’ he continued. ‘Don’t worry, Katy, we’ll sort this out. And I’m a good cook. My coq au vin is legendary.’

  It was a surreal situation. One of the most gorgeous men on the planet was asking me over to his place for dinner. Most of the female population in Britain would give anything to be in my shoes, so why wasn’t I more excited? Wasn’t this exactly what I’d decided to do? Move on? Wasn’t that why I came to Cornwall?

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ I heard myself agreeing. ‘Tomorrow at seven it is then.’

  Gabriel gave me instructions how to find his house, which apparently involved a hike up the hillside, and rang off, leaving me to pace the kitchen until Maddy frogmarched me upstairs to get dressed. A morning’s job-hunting was exactly what I needed to take my mind off my Andy Warhol fifteen minutes, if only she would let me.

  Now that I’ve repeated the details of this phone conversation, I doubt we’ll ever talk about anything else again. You’d think I’d won the lottery or something, not just been invited up to the house of a celebrity. Gabriel might be on the telly but I’m sure he burps and farts like the rest of us.

  ‘Go, girl,’ Mads whoops. ‘A date with Gabriel Winters! Bet you’re glad you bought those sexy knickers now.’

  ‘It’s not a date,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s damage limitation.’

  ‘An intimate dinner for two in a secluded house,’ Mads squeals. ‘Come on! Even you aren’t that naive.’

  I shake my head. Mads can think whatever she likes but I’m sure Gabriel’s motives aren’t sexual. I mean, he is fantastically good-looking and he has all the talent and charisma that an actor could ever require, but I’m positive he isn’t interested in me. Sure, we laughed and chatted and even flirted a little, but there was nothing there, no frisson of sexual excitement.

  ‘Aha!’ Mads is distracted from Gabriel and is looking at a job advert with interest. ‘This one’s more like it. How’s your riding?’

  I drag my attention away from thoughts of Gabriel and back to Maddy. ‘My what?’

  ‘Your riding?’

  ‘Horse riding?’

  ‘Of course horse riding! What kind of riding did you think I meant, you rude girl?’

  It’s official. Mads has flipped. All this Anna Spring stuff has blown her mind.

  ‘I haven’t ridden since I was about fifteen.’ I think back to when I had nothing more pressing to worry about than getting my horse on the right leg in canter and was passionately in love with a pony called Toffee. It was certainly a whole lot simpler than being an adult.

  ‘But it’s like a bicycle, right? You never forget?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I say doubtfully.

  ‘Excellent! Then we may have found you a part-time job. Tristan Mitchell needs a stable girl for the Tregowan trekking centre. Must be able to exercise horses and lead rides, it says. How hard can that be?’

  ‘I’m very out of practice.’ I’m doubtful of my expertise in the saddle. ‘I don’t really think—’

  ‘Tristan Mitchell is gorgeous!’ Maddy is fizzing with excitement. ‘You have to see him, Katy. He’s pure testosterone. He’d be perfect for taking your mind off James.’

  ‘I really don’t think it’s me,’ I protest, but Mads isn’t listening, she’s too busy dialling on her mobile and arranging for me to have an interview. I sigh and resign myself to having to go along with yet another of her crazy ideas. I’m starting to see a pattern developing.

  ‘Fantastic,’ she crows, snapping the phone shut. ‘Tristan says he’ll be around tomorrow and he’ll see you then. You’ll love him, Katy. His thighs are like a vice; horses tremble when he wraps his legs around them.’ Her eyes grow dreamy. ‘Lucky old horses.’

  I’m alarmed. Whatever’s going on between Maddy and Richard, it doesn’t bode well if she’s starting to fantasise about other men. And all this horse stuff is far too Jilly Cooper for my liking. The sooner she saves that six grand and drags Richard off to Sandals the better.

  ‘And here’s another.’ Mads is on a roll. ‘This is perfect for you. “Part-time childminder required five nights a week to collect two children from Tregowan Primary School and look after them from three thirty to six thirty. Please contact Jason Howard.” You’d love Jason, Katy.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I say wearily. ‘He’s lush.’

  ‘He is! He so is! How did you know? You haven’t met him as well, have you?’ Mads says suspiciously, not wanting to be denied her role as matchmaker.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s got the art gallery on the quay, Arty Fawty?’ Mads is scribbling down this number too. ‘His wife left him about a year ago and abandoned the children. Poor motherless darlings! Just think, Katy. You could be like Maria in The Sound of Music.’

  I have a hideous vision of me with a severe lesbian crop running through fields of buttercups dressed as a nun. Being a teacher has never seemed so appealing, and I think of my litter-strewn classroom with a pang.

  ‘If it doesn’t work out with Tristan,’ decides Maddy, ‘we’ll give Jason a call. He’s ever so sweet, all long hair and hippy clothes. You’ll love him.’

  ‘What I’d really love,’ I tell her, spying a tea shop, ‘is some lunch.’

  ‘You have no soul.’ Maddy puts the notebook away and links her arm through mine. ‘I’m working really hard here to find your Mr Right and all you can think about is food. Still,’ she continues, leading me across the street to the cosy tea shop, ‘we’ll sail better on a full stomach, I suppose.’

  ‘Sail?’ I echo. ‘What do you mean, sail?’

  Mads looks shifty. ‘Didn’t I mention that we’re going out to sea this afternoon, to release Pinchy?’

  ‘No, you conveniently forgot to mention that.’ Suddenly all the plump buns and pasties piled high in the steamy window don’t look at all appealing as I envisage them reappearing over the side of a boat.

  ‘Oh! Silly me!’ Mads taps her head. ‘We’re going out on Dancing Girl at two. I’ve had to do some serious grovelling as well, so you and Pinchy boy owe me one. Fishermen don’t like taking women on board. They think it’s unlucky.’

  ‘I agree.’ I have a hideous sense of foreboding. Boats and I are not a fortuitous combination. ‘I think it’s really unlucky. Give me a break, Mads. You know I’m a rubbish sailor. Remember the university booze cruise to Cherbourg?’

  Mads has the grace to look abashed.

  ‘We hadn’t even left port and I was throwing up,’ I remind her. ‘I spent the entire time lying on a bench outside the hypermarket while you guys got pissed.’

  There was also the Sir Bob’s staff boat trip up the Thames when I seem to remember Ollie had his work cut out scraping me off the deck and back on to dry land. But I don’t mention this to Mads. I really can’t talk about Ollie right now. The more I think about what a great friend I’ve lost, the more I feel like sticking my head in the oven.

  ‘Don’t be such a wuss!’ scoffs Mads. ‘It’s the least yo
u can do for Pinchy. He needs you there to support him.’

  ‘We’re tipping him into the sea,’ I say. ‘Not going to his graduation.’

  We wander away from the tea shop and towards Boots. ‘Get in there and buy some Kwells,’ orders Mads. ‘I’m not having you chucking up in front of the skipper. That won’t impress him.’

  ‘I thought we were releasing Pinchy, not man-hunting.’ My legs feel weak. From where I stand I can just about see some trawlers bobbing up and down on the tide. Is it my imagination, or do I feel sick already?

  ‘We’re women,’ says Mads. ‘Multitasking is our speciality. Besides, when you see Guy Tregarten you’ll be too busy drooling to feel ill. He’s got the most amazing body under those oilskins. Think George Clooney in The Perfect Storm and you’ll get the picture.’

  ‘The Perfect Storm? Didn’t they all drown?’

  ‘For pity’s sake!’ She propels me into the shop. ‘The sun is out and the sea’s flat calm. What can possibly go wrong? Think of poor little Pinchy.’

  ‘Pinchy’s fine in the bath.’

  ‘Well he won’t be if Richard comes home and finds him still there. It’ll be Thermidor quicker than you can say Rick Stein.’ Mads pops some tablets and a pair of bright orange wristbands alleged to ward off sickness into her basket. ‘Look on the bright side,’ she adds. ‘Any press who turn up will never find you ten miles out to sea. Am I not a genius? Don’t worry about thanking me. It’s what friends are for.’

  ‘Bring on my enemies,’ I mutter.

  This is not what I had in mind when I decided to spend the summer in Cornwall. So much for long lazy days writing my novel and strolling along the cliffs; I think I’d rather be back battling to get Wayne Lobb’s homework in. Even dealing with Cordelia and her endless criticism would be a breeze compared to Maddy Lomax on a mission.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ Mads says, paying for the Kwells. ‘It’ll be fine. We’ll find you a hero or die in the attempt.’

  ‘That,’ I say through gritted teeth, ‘is what I am afraid of.’

  Have you ever tried climbing over the decks of two fishing boats in order to reach the third, which happens to be tied just beyond? No? Well, lucky you is all I can say, because you need the agility of Spiderman and the balance of a trapeze artist to do it with any degree of success.

  The decks are speckled with seagull poop, a yellow slime that seems to coat pretty much everything in Tregowan, and my feet in their flip-flops slither and slide until several times I end up in a most undignified heap. By the time I scrape myself up from fish guts and gull crap for the third time, I’m starting to lose my sense of humour, unlike Guy bloody Tregarten, whom I instantly recognise as the loud fisherman from the pub, and who is finding the whole spectacle of the landlubber townie in inappropriate shoes going arse over tit absolutely hysterical.

  ‘What kind of fucking silly shoes are those?’ he hoots as I pick myself up again and attempt to clamber on to Dancing Girl, which isn’t as easy as it sounds when you’re wearing a little skirt that threatens to give the world a view of your knickers.

  I look down at my feet, and feel insulted. My pink flip-flops with the yellow flowers are gorgeous. Frankie is totally jealous of them.

  ‘Katy’s from London,’ explains Mads.

  Guy nods, as though this explains it all, and watches me from his vantage point on the deck of his boat, arms crossed over his oilskins and a mocking smile playing on his lips. He makes no attempt to help, but seems happy enough to watch and laugh.

  I hate him.

  ‘You might help,’ I snap, belly-flopping across the side of the boat and finally slithering on to Dancing Girl.

  ‘Why?’ asks Guy, expertly balancing along the edge of the deck like a tightrope walker. ‘You’re perfectly capable of getting on board. No limbs missing? Thought not. Isn’t my fault if you insist on wearing silly clothes, is it?’

  He bounds across the decks of the moored boats and zips up a ladder up on to the quay.

  ‘Nice arse,’ breathes Mads, watching the muscular denim-clad posterior.

  ‘Total arse, more like.’ I shoot a glare at Guy’s retreating back. ‘Next time you have a brilliant idea, please let me know and I’ll make sure that I have something else less agonising planned, like open-heart surgery without anaesthetic, maybe.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’ Mads brushes bits of seaweed and seagull crap off my clothes while I stand and sulk. ‘You must admit, he is attractive.’

  I shield my eyes against the glare of the sun. Guy is silhouetted on the quayside, legs braced as he lifts Pinchy’s crate. His biceps swell. With his dark hair, cut so short that it looks like a mole’s pelt, skin tanned from the wind and white teeth, he is a dead ringer for a younger, less lived-in George Clooney.

  Shame he has the manners of George’s dead pet pig.

  ‘OK,’ I agree. ‘I can see where you’re coming from, but he is no way a romantic hero.’

  ‘Only trying to help,’ says Mads sulkily. ‘Take your mind off James and help you finish the book, you said. That’s what I’m trying to do.’

  ‘I know, but could you be a little less full on.’

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ interrupts Guy, thrusting Pinchy under my nose.

  ‘It’s a lobster,’ I say calmly. ‘They live in the sea.’

  ‘I know it’s a bloody lobster,’ says Guy. ‘What I want to know is why I’m taking it out to sea. Let me explain how fishing works. I get stuff out of the sea and sell it. Fucking simple, I’d have thought.’

  Gordon Ramsay’s monopoly on the F word is under serious threat.

  ‘We’re going to release him back into the wild,’ I tell Guy. Pinchy looks a little nervous, which is understandable, since Guy’s probably massacred scores of his relatives and must feature regularly on Lobster Crimewatch. ‘He’s a rescue lobster.’

  ‘You want to tip that into the sea?’ Guy’s incredulous. ‘It’s a beauty. I’ll save us all the hassle and give you a tenner for it. I could sell it on the fish stall ten times over.’

  ‘You will not!’ I cry. ‘I’m not giving up now. If you had any idea of how much hassle this lobster has caused, you’d never dream of suggesting that. Take us out to sea, buster!’

  ‘Bloody emmets,’ Guy says, but his eyes are twinkling, no doubt at the thought of the fat fee he’ll charge and the mileage he’ll get out of retelling this story in the pub. ‘Still, you’re paying.’

  ‘Certainly am,’ I mutter under my breath. Don’t know quite what I’m paying for exactly, but it must have been something pretty awful. I don’t think I’ll be going for past life regression any time soon. The thought of what I could discover is too horrific. Besides, I’m not doing a fantastic job of running this one, am I?

  The Kwells must be working because once we’ve cast off from the quay and rounded the headland I find that I’m actually enjoying the gentle rolling motion of the boat as she bounces over the waves. The water glistens and sparkles in the sunshine and I tip my face back and enjoy its warmth on my cheeks. The wash spreads out behind us like white lace and Tregowan diminishes beyond, more like a model village than ever. Up on the cliff path tiny matchstick figures are strolling along or sitting admiring the view. One waves to us and I wave back, before we round a headland and leave them far behind.

  Suddenly I feel a bit more hopeful.

  Mads is sitting at the stern, one hand tightly clutching the gantry, the other holding her tangled hair back from her face. Guy is nowhere near as idle as his passengers. Setting the boat on autopilot (and alarming me terribly before I check), he scoots about the deck coiling the ropes that trail serpent-like around our feet, stacking bright yellow boxes and heaving debris into the ocean. Now that he’s in his element and his mouth is firmly closed, I can appreciate what Mads was trying to point out. There’s something earthy and essentially masculine about him. Whether it’s the knowledge that he risks his life on a daily basis or simply because his work is so physically demanding, he has a
confidence that borders on arrogance. Add that to a well-muscled body, a large kissable mouth and a set of cheekbones that most women would pay a fortune for, and the combination is pretty devastating.

  He’s attractive, I can see that. But I don’t fancy him at all. First Gabriel and now Guy. What’s wrong with me? Frankie would think he’d died and gone to heaven with all these gorgeous men on tap.

  I feel a bit miffed. It’s like going to Cadbury World and suddenly developing an aversion to chocolate.

  I watch Guy move around the boat, admiring the way his body adjusts to the motion of the sea. In my mind’s eye I have him dressed in tight white breeches and a billowing linen shirt, with a cutlass at his waist and a diamond glittering dangerously in his ear. The rusting metal skeleton of the trawler vanishes too and instead she becomes a stately galleon with acres of white sails and rigging that stretches high above my head.

  Hey! Maybe Mads is right about this crazy action-hero idea. I wish I had my writing book with me.

  Millandra’s hands were bound tightly and the harsh rope chafed against the soft skin of her wrists. The ship heaved and thrust beneath her feet, leaping over the brine with a power that would have felled her were she not tied to the mast.

  The mast? Maybe that’s overdoing it a tad. I look up and am surprised to see Guy dressed in cat-sick yellow oilskins rather than his pirate gear. He’s doing some daredevil stuff up on the roof of the wheelhouse, and I notice, purely from the point of view of research for my novel, that he’s shed the T-shirt and is working barechested. All that lugging nets about in the sun must pay off, because his torso is bronzed, taut with muscle and corded with sinew.

  Peter Andre would die of jealousy.

  ‘All right?’ Guy catches me looking at his body and gives me a wink.

  Shit! He thinks I’m checking him out! Face flaming, I look hastily away. How absolutely excruciatingly embarrassing.

  ‘Absolutely fine, thank you,’ I say primly.