Katy Carter Wants a Hero

by Ruth Saberton

  Chapter Eighteen

  As an avid reader of such literary tomes as Heat and OK!, I’ve always thought I had a pretty good knowledge of such important world events as the National Television Awards and Soap Personality of the Year. I’ve even been known to fill in the voting slip in TV Quick. But compared to Gabriel I’m an ignoramus. If he was to appear on Master-mind, his specialist subject would probably be ‘Obscure Awards for Television Personalities’, and I have no doubt he’d score full marks. The only subject dearer to Gabriel’s vain little heart is that of himself. He holds a PhD in that one.

  Since I decided to hand my notice in from this increasingly bizarre job, my desire to quit is increasing with every passing second. All this fibbing is starting to make me feel dizzy, and I hate having to look over my shoulder all the time just in case Angela Andrews and her mates are lurking in the undergrowth or a diehard fan is hiding behind the dustbins. I’m even starting to look forward to earning an honest crust supply-teaching at Tregowan Comp, and seeing as teenagers give supply teachers a similar reception to the one the lions in the Colosseum gave the Christians, you can gather how desperate I am. Life as a celebrity’s partner sucks.

  ‘As soon as Jewell’s party’s over, I’m quitting,’ I tell Maddy from my comfortable nest of pillows on the enormous bed in Gabriel’s suite at Claridges. My head is hanging over the edge and I enjoy the rush of blood to my brain. In all honesty, it’s the most excitement my brain’s had in ages. ‘That’s going to be our last official outing as a couple. I’ve promised Gabe I’ll stick it out until then so he can spend some time with Frankie. Frankie’s going to do his best to persuade Gabe to come out; he says he can’t stand the deceit any more either.’

  ‘Any chance of that happening?’

  ‘About as much chance as I have of flying to the moon but I don’t want to disillusion Frankie. He’s so miserable about being Gabe’s guilty secret. Honestly, you should see him. He’s lost all his bounce and sparkle.’

  ‘So have you,’ Mads points out.

  ‘That’s because I can’t stand another minute of having to grin vacuously at the cameras and pretend I don’t want to thump Gabriel. Besides, all these awards ceremonies are doing my head in.’

  ‘Poor you. Which one is it tonight?’

  ‘National Television Drama Awards,’ I say, feeling the familiar surge of boredom. ‘Gabriel’s having a full body wax right now.’

  Mads splutters. ‘Too much information already. Treatments aside, though, how’s the trip to London? What’s Claridges like? Have you met Gordon Ramsay? Is he sex on a stick?’

  I laugh. ‘Where do you want me to start? The trip is tedious and if Gabriel has any more plucking and exfoliation he’ll be a totally new man, which actually may be a good thing. Claridges is…’ I glance around the sumptuous hotel room, all white Egyptian cotton and gold fittings, ‘nice.’

  ‘Nice? Hark at you, Mrs Blasé! I’ll probably go to the moon before I go to Claridges, you bitch. Information, now! What’s Gordon like?’

  ‘Cool. He told Gabe to fuck off when he asked for a low-carb main course.’

  Mads laughs. ‘I’d have liked to see that. What’s your suite like?’

  ‘Enormous. Your entire house could fit in the bedroom. ’

  She whistles. ‘Tell me more.’

  Dutifully I flick the speakerphone switch and wander around the suite, describing the thickness of the carpet, the piles of towels softer and whiter than snowdrifts, and the contents of our not-so-mini bar. I even pull back the heavy curtains and open the windows so she can hear the growl of the London traffic. As Mads oohs and aahs I feel such a fraud. I’ve written a novel, moved on with my life and here I am in this amazing hotel, and I have never felt so unhappy. What’s the point of being in these fantastic surroundings on my own? All I’ve done since I arrived is watch satellite telly and miss Ollie. I’ve even called him at the house and left him a message telling him I’m in town if he wants to catch up. I’ve left the hotel name and number, but so far so silent. I just hope he keeps his promise and comes to Jewell’s party.

  I decide against telling Mads I’ve rung Ollie. She won’t be impressed to know I’ve called six times just because hearing his voice on the answerphone makes me feel all tingly and warm. I don’t want my best friend thinking I’m a psycho stalking bitch from hell.

  Because I’m not. I’m just taking Fate into my own hands, aren’t I?

  ‘Katy!’ There’s a tinny but indignant shout from the speakerphone. ‘Stop ignoring me! What are you wearing tonight? What shoes have you got? Tell me!’

  Obediently I pad across the carpet to the enormous wardrobe — in which I fully expect to find fauns and lions — fling open the doors and look at the beautiful green Alice Temperley dress, all beading and embroidery and by far the most gorgeous frock I’ve ever seen. Below is the pair of strappy Jimmy Choos I’ll wear as I trip, hopefully not literally, up the red carpet. It’s a bitter irony that once I would have died of joy to possess such wonderful things, but now I have them I feel as flat as week-old Coke.

  I look in the full-length mirror at the new gym-toned and straight-haired Katy Carter and suddenly miss the old curvy, boingy-haired version so much it’s a physical pain.

  I collapse on to the bed. ‘I’m so sick of lying to everyone!’

  ‘It’s only for a few more days,’ soothes Mads from her Cornish kitchen. ‘Anyway, think of your writing. It must have been fantastic research material hanging out with Mr Rochester.’

  ‘I don’t remember the bit when Mr Rochester had manicures.’ Call me a hypocrite, but there’s something just wrong about a man hanging out in the bathroom for longer than I do.

  ‘But the point is,’ says Mads with the patience of one explaining particle physics to a single-cell amoeba, ‘that women the length and breadth of Britain do find Gabriel sexy, and that’s just the type of material you need. That was the entire point of your hero hunt.’

  I murmur agreement and try to ignore the small voice telling me that Ollie in his holey fisherman’s sweater, faded Levis and tanned bare feet is a million times sexier than the achingly beautiful Gabriel.

  ‘Katy! Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  Don’t you just hate it when your friends can read your mind?

  ‘Surely you’re over James by now?’

  I think I’ll demote Maddy from her position as best friend. She asks way too many personal questions. I’ve explained that I’m quitting because of what Seb did, but I have’t told her why I’m so angry and upset. Mads knows something’s up, but luckily I’m saved from damning myself with even more lies because there’s a sharp rap at the door, followed by copious nervous throat-clearing as the hotel manager pops his head around it.

  ‘Pardon me, madam, but there’s a gentleman at reception demanding to see you. He’s being most insistent. Shall I send him away?’

  Oh my God! My heart starts to head-bang under my rib cage and I feel faint. It’s Ollie! He’s picked up my messages and he’s come all this way to see me! My blood poings all over my body and someone has tipped half the Sahara in my mouth. I can’t speak, so I nod dementedly.

  ‘I’ve got to go. Call you later,’ I tell Mads, cutting her off and dashing around the room like a loony, biting my lips and pinching my cheeks like a Jane Austen heroine before standing sideways in front of the mirror and hoping my DVB jeans really do make my bum as peachy and my tummy as flat as the shop assistants swore they would. Will Ollie like the new me?

  There’s a sharp knock at the door. As I fling it open, my heart swells like a helium balloon, only to pop when I see who the visitor is.

  ‘Hello, Chubs,’ purrs James, elbowing past me into the suite. He looks around, feasting his eyes on every sumptuous detail. ‘My, my. Haven’t you gone up in the world?’

  I don’t return the compliment. James looks like a grubbier version of himself. His skin has a grey tinge and his eyes are threaded with tiny red veins. Even his suit is crumpl
ed, the collar of his shirt grimy around the neck.

  I shut the door and fold my arms across my chest. ‘What do you want? And how did you find out where I am?’

  James taps his nose with a forefinger. ‘I have my sources.’ He smiles, but it isn’t a nice smile; it’s the kind of smile that a crocodile might have prior to gobbling you up. My scalp prickles with unease.

  ‘Get out, James, before I call security.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I was you. What would your boyfriend say,’ James wonders, perching on the edge of the bed and bouncing thoughtfully, ‘if he knew you’d invited your ex-fiancé into his private suite?’

  ‘I didn’t invite you,’ I point out. ‘You barged in.’

  ‘A mere technicality.’ He shrugs, and I notice that his suit looks loose on his shoulders. ‘All the hotel staff will know by now that Gabriel Winters’ girlfriend is all alone with another man. What will they think?’

  ‘James, Mick Jagger keeps a suite here. Do you really think they’ll give a toss if an ex-merchant banker pays a total nonentity a visit?’

  ‘But you’re not a nonentity; you’re the girlfriend of Britain’s most handsome man. Everyone’s talking about you and wondering how on earth you managed to pull him.’

  Charming as ever, he meanders around the room, helping himself to some grapes from the fruit bowl and checking out the enormous bathroom.

  ‘Where’s Gabriel anyway?’

  ‘Press stuff,’ I say.

  James wanders back into the bedroom, two pots of Jo Malone shower gel in his hands. ‘Won’t he be upset when he opens the Sunday papers and reads all about how his girlfriend cheated on him while he was out working? Our afternoon of passion isn’t going to make very comfortable reading for him.’

  ‘James,’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘I don’t know how I can make this much clearer. It’s over, you and me, we’re finished. We’re not going to get back together. I’m not going to sleep with you. Ever.’

  James rolls his eyes. ‘You always were so fucking slow, Chubster. Have you any idea how annoying that was? I’ve got no intention of screwing you now. Christ! It was enough of a chore when I had no choice.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘No,’ he continues, moving to the window and looking down at the scuttling pedestrians. ‘I’m through with all that shit, thank Christ. I tried being nice. I tried sending flowers. I tried being reasonable. And where exactly did that get me? Absolutely fucking nowhere. So you haven’t left me a choice. I was prepared to wait until the old bag kicked the bucket, I was even prepared to marry you, but that wasn’t good enough, was it?’

  He turns and gives me a chilly stare. Flecks of spittle are collecting in the corners of his mouth.

  ‘So now I’ve got to play it the nasty way. When I describe this suite in perfect detail to,’ he plucks a card out of his breast pocket and looks at it thoughtfully, ‘a certain Ms Angela Andrews of the Daily Dagger, and bung the hotel lackey fifty quid to back me up, it’s not going to look very good for you, is it? Just imagine the whole of Britain waking up to read about how Gabriel Winters’ girlfriend has been shagging about. It’s not going to do his image much good.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘I think you’ll find I can,’ smirks James. ‘What a shame, you’ll be chucked yet again. Won’t lover boy be upset?’

  Yes, but not for the reasons he thinks. Image is everything to Gabriel. I look at James’s cold face, the eyes as chilly as sea-washed glass, and wonder what I ever saw in him. My self-esteem must have been lower than the worms.

  Jewell will be proud. I really have changed.

  ‘So,’ ploughs on James, ‘unless you want this little romance of yours to end, we need to come to an arrangement. One hundred thousand should cover it. In cash.’

  My chin practically hits the carpet. All the pressure of losing his job has blown his brain. ‘I don’t have that sort of money! You know I don’t!’

  He shrugs. ‘Gabriel does. Ask him for a new dress or something.’

  ‘He’s an actor, James, not Bill bloody Gates.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, darling. And if you don’t…’ he pauses and smiles, ‘it will all be over. Poor old Gabriel. Won’t he be devastated?’

  I hate him. If I hated him before for what he said about Jewell, I really hate him now, because he doesn’t know I’m not head over heels in love with Gabriel. He doesn’t care either. He’d ruin everything for me without a moment’s thought.

  ‘This is blackmail,’ I whisper.

  ‘What a nasty word. I’d rather call it a business arrangement. ’

  ‘Like our whole relationship was,’ I say bitterly. ‘I know about the money, James. I know about the problems with the bank. But what I don’t understand is why, if you needed money so badly, you ended it with me.’

  James helps himself to some whisky, holding the glass up to the light and admiring the generous amber measure.

  ‘Ed’s been blabbing, I suppose. He never could keep quiet about anything, never had the nerve to take the risks I have.’

  I say nothing. Like a Scooby-Doo villain, James can’t wait to spill the beans.

  ‘So what if I made some speculations that didn’t quite work out, lost some money and speculated more and lost some money again? I thought that old godmother of yours was bound to die sooner rather than later, but the silly old bag just didn’t oblige. She got increasingly funny about lending me money too. Then the bloody recession started and the screws were really on.’ He takes a swig of his drink and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘When I met Alice, I thought my luck was in. No more waiting for some old dear to snuff it; her father was worth millions. So, my darling, when you fucked up the dinner party in such spectacular style, it was the perfect excuse to end our engagement. Who in their right mind could have blamed me?’

  ‘Nobody,’ I murmur. ‘Even I didn’t blame you.’

  ‘How touching,’ says James, polishing off another whisky and starting on a third. ‘Since you care so much, you’d better sort out getting some cash to me, hadn’t you? Otherwise off Gabriel Winters will go like a shot. One hundred thousand in cash. You can give it to me tomorrow evening at your godmother’s party.’

  ‘You expect me to raise that sort of money overnight?’

  He drains the drink. ‘You’d better, or otherwise Angela Andrews will have the scoop of the year. I’m sure she’ll pay me well for that. Have I made myself clear?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ I say faintly.

  ‘Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Business completed, James bangs the glass down and saunters out of the room, leaving me alone and trembling.

  All his horrible words are like poison darts in my ears, and I keep hearing them over and over again until I think I’m going to go insane. How could I have loved such a horrible person? How could I have been so stupid?

  I mustn’t be stupid any longer. James has given me the push I need to make things right, right with Ollie, right with Gabriel and right with myself.

  James would be furious if he only knew that his stirring has actually done some good. Tonight’s the last time I’ll put on my make-up, straighten my hair and play the part of Gabriel’s girlfriend. Tomorrow, after the party, I’ll end it. I’ll tell Gabriel the truth and let James run his story. Who knows, it may even do Gabriel some good. At least nobody will be on to the truth.

  Dashing the back of my hand against my eyes, I swallow my tears. I can’t turn up at the awards ceremony with a red nose and puffy eyes; that wouldn’t look good in the papers. And I certainly don’t want to turn up to Jewell’s party looking like a goblin. Jewell deserves to have a fun night.

  And even if Ollie is in love with Nina, I want to look as good as I can.

  A girl can dream, can’t she?

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘What do you think?’ Maddy does a twirl and her black robes spin out around her. She leans forwards, smooths her red wig down and tucks the wriggling Mufty u
nder her arm. ‘Can you tell who I am yet?’

  ‘Richard’s a bit of a giveaway,’ I point out, as Richard, done up as Ozzy Osbourne in a straggly black wig and purple shades, gives me a cheerful V sign. I’m impressed actually that Richard’s favourite celebrities are Ozzy and Sharon. Although like Mads said, who was I expecting them to be? Cliff Richard and Thora Hird?

  I guess I should have learned by now that nobody is ever exactly what they seem. Still, there’s the benefit now of both Richard and Mads having to be extremely nice to me since the Bishop found Throbbing Theo hiding in the Bible boxes. I took the rap for that, of course, and suffered a long lecture from the Bishop about my moral fibre — which apparently isn’t something Kellogg’s makes — but the upshot is that I’m getting lots of free drinks in the Mermaid and Richard has given up nagging me about lack of honesty in relationships.

  Well, pots and kettles spring to mind, don’t they?

  ‘I wonder if I need more eye shadow?’ Mads peers at her reflection through narrowed eyes. ‘Have you finished with that green yet?’

  ‘Almost.’ I cake another layer on and bat my false eyelashes experimentally. ‘Done, I think.’

  There’s a whole crowd of us shoehorned into Jewell’s dressing room, frantically putting the last-minute touches to our fancy dress. ‘Come as your favourite celebrity’ turned out not to be a joke, and the Hampstead house is awash with Kylies and Robbies and even a Darth Vader, although I’m not sure he actually counts as a celebrity. My parents are wafting around in their habitual cloud of cannabis smoke, loosely dressed up as Lily and Herman Munster, although this hasn’t required much work on Mum’s part, and even my sister Holly has come as a very butch-looking Lauren Bacall.

  I haven’t seen Jewell yet, but I’m sure she’ll have really pushed the boat out. Her parties are always spectacular, but this year’s is something else and I can’t imagine how she’ll top it next time. There’s a stunning marquee set out in the garden all festooned with white and pink fairy lights and crammed with waxy lilies and fat pink roses. A string quartet is playing on a dais and there’s an ocean of champagne being carried around by black-suited waiters, each gliding along with an elegant arm held behind his back. Rumour also has it that the Screaming Queens, currently number one, will be doing a turn later and lots of the guests seem really excited about this. Certainly Frankie, who is busy strutting around in full Freddie Mercury garb, appears to be having the time of his life. Everywhere I look I see celebrities chatting and drinking. Chris Evans is talking to Posh Spice and Henry the Eighth is dancing with Cher.