Katy Carter Keeps a Secret

by Ruth Saberton

  The trouble is that as I say this I don’t quite believe it myself. Our floor has more craters than the surface of the moon and the air’s thick with the dust of centuries. Oh dear. I think this looks just as bad as it really is.

  “I can explain!” I cry when he shakes his head in disbelief. “You see, I—”

  But Ollie holds his hands up. “Do you know what, Katy? I’m too tired to even hear it. All I wanted to do was come home and relax. Is that too much to ask?”

  “I was looking for treasure!”

  “Katy, I don’t care if you were looking for sodding Godot,” he replies wearily. “All I want is a rest but I can’t even have that.”

  “You can! Of course you can. This won’t take me a minute to fix. Why don’t you have a bath while I do it?” I say desperately. I can’t bear to see him look so defeated. All I wanted to do was help but I’ve gone and made things ten times worse.

  In fact, forget ten. I’ve made things twenty times worse.

  “I’m going to the pub,” Ollie says, “and I might be some time because I bloody well need a drink. Possibly two. Maybe when I come home we might have a floor again? Just a thought. Up to you. Floors are probably overrated.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ollie this fed up. Not even when I accidentally flooded the bathroom or dyed all his clothes pink by leaving a rogue sock in the wash. No, usually he finds my disasters amusing and we have a laugh about them. Then he helps to put things right, and we end up having a lot of fun before sloping off upstairs for even more fun. That’s what we normally do.

  But not today. No, today he looks scarily like a man who is at the very end of his tether.

  I lapse into silence as Ollie picks up Sasha’s lead and calls her. Moments later I hear the front door slam shut and his footsteps passing the cottage. He’s gone, and if I want him to come back and stay I’ll need to fix a bit more than just this floor.

  I pick up the dusty bottles and stow them under the stairs. Then, and with a very heavy heart, I make a start on replacing the floorboards. I don’t care about how awkward they are, or about splinters and spiders. I only care about Ollie. I hope I can as easily sort out all the other gaps that have suddenly appeared in my life.

  Chapter 14

  DAILY DAGGER

  CORNISH TEACHER’S SEXY SECRET

  BY: Staff Show Business Reporter

  TANSY TOPHAM REVEALS: “I didn’t write a word of my bestselling novels!”

  SHE’S HAD an amazing career, from lads’ mag pin-up to WAG to fashion designer to bestselling novelist. Incredibly, Tansy Topham’s literary efforts have even outsold the Booker list.

  But far from writing the books herself, Tansy – wife of England striker Tommy Topham – leaves the hard work to a ghostwriter.

  “I’m far too busy with my fashion lines and being on telly!” Tansy boasts. “Anyway, have you ever tried typing with acrylics? I just say I want a story written and there it is! It’s easy!”

  So far Ms Topham has ‘written’ three novels. Her first book, Thrilled by His Touch, sold 200,000 copies in six weeks and her second, Tamed by His Touch, stormed straight to the top of the bestsellers list. The books might be simplistic and downmarket but they are undeniably racy.

  “My books are about WAGs and sexy footballers. I haven’t read them yet but everyone tells me they’re dead good,” Tansy explains.

  “I’m lucky to have a really talented writer in Cornwall who does the books for me. I can’t say who it is because it might get them into trouble at work, as they’re an English teacher and my books are full of sex! Oh! You won’t put that bit in, will you?”

  Do you know the identity of Tansy’s saucy ghostwriter? Contact the newsroom on the number below, or drop us an email.

  “The press think it’s me!” Ollie exclaims. “They’ve been camped outside school all day trying to get comments from parents and kids. We’ve had complaints, the school governors have called an emergency meeting, the Head’s going crazy and the priest has had a fit. It’s an utter disaster.”

  He’s sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and an expression of utter despair on his face. He’s had the day from hell and it’s all my fault.

  Again.

  He’s only just about forgiven me for the pulling-up-the-floor episode. Putting it all back proved a lot trickier than I’d thought and I’d had to pay a local builder to give me a hand. Ollie winced when he saw the bill but didn’t say anything. He hadn’t needed to. I already felt bad enough and there wasn’t even any treasure to show for all the grief either, just six dusty bottles of plonk. And now this.

  I smooth the tabloid out onto the table and scan it again. Simplistic and downmarket? How very dare they! I slaved over those books. I polished that prose. It was art!

  “What the hell was Tansy thinking?” Ollie groans. “She’s created havoc.”

  “She wasn’t thinking,” I sigh. “This is Tansy, after all. Thinking isn’t really her forte. In fairness she did mention she might have said something, but I didn’t worry too much since they all know at the comp that I write books. It never occurred to me for a minute that the press might think it was you.”

  He sighs wearily. “I guess it makes more of a story if the writer of sexy books is the Assistant Head of a Catholic school. That way they can dig up all kinds of salacious stories. What does it matter whether or not they’ve outed the wrong person? Papers are selling.”

  Books are too, but I keep this observation to myself because I think it would be the last straw for Ollie. I only received a one-off fee but Tansy will be doing very nicely as the royalties flood in. The last time I checked Amazon, Thrilled was riding high at the top of the charts, with the rest of the series catching up fast. At this rate Tansy will be choosing a new Lotus by bedtime.

  This story, or rather non-story, of a celeb hiring a ghostwriter really has been blown out of all proportion. Within literally minutes of the Dagger’s online newspaper running the piece Mads was banging on my door and the village shop was doing a roaring trade in selling papers and spreading gossip. Somebody somewhere had called the newsroom with the information that a teacher from Tregowan was the culprit – and because Ollie’s the only one of us officially teaching he’s been mistakenly outed as Tansy Topham’s ghostwriter. The “sexy bonkbusters penned by a teacher at a strict Catholic school” angle is the hook the press have run with and, unsurprisingly, the management at St Jude’s are most unimpressed.

  Poor Ollie has had a lot of explaining to do.

  It’s seven p.m. now and we’ve been sitting in the kitchen for the past couple of hours, trawling through the stories and shaking our heads at the ridiculous amount of interest. We’ve given up any hope of trying to put the record straight. After all, we’ve spent enough time with Gabriel and Frankie to know that unless we have huge amounts of money and a Rottweiler of an agent there’s no point protesting. We just have to ride it out.

  Or rather poor Ollie does.

  Oh God! What if they find out about Kitchen of Correction? It’d destroy him and probably lose him his job. What have I done?

  I have to stop getting into these scrapes. And I will too. Just as soon as this latest book is delivered I’ll tell the editor that I simply can’t write another one. Maybe Maddy could take over? Richard would flip but he’d get over it eventually, and Maddy could always give the royalties to the church. In a way I’d actually be doing good!

  Feeling cheered by this idea, I wind my arms around Ollie’s neck and kiss the top of his shorn head.

  “But your Head Teacher was all right in the end, wasn’t he?” I ask hopefully. “Now he knows it’s me and not you?”

  Ollie nods. “Once I scraped him down from the ceiling and apologised profusely to Father O’ Neill, he calmed down a bit. I think I still have a job.”

  “Think?”

  He pulls me onto his lap. “Don’t look so worried. I’m teasing you. Of course I still have a job. But,” he pauses and rests his nose ag
ainst mine, “I have been told in no uncertain terms that the reputation of St Jude’s is not to be dragged into the mud for a second time. You have no idea just how old-fashioned that place is.”

  Actually I do, but of course I can’t tell him this.

  “Apparently my partner’s behaviour reflects on me and therefore the good name of the school,” Ollie continues. “So maybe no more trashy books, Katy?”

  I’m offended on the behalf of my Tansy books. “My books aren’t trashy! The last Tansy one outsold Dan Brown!”

  Ollie kisses my nose. “You know what I mean. Look, I don’t want to sound like some nineteen-fifties throwback here, but with my new salary and your supply wages I think we’ll be OK financially without any more ghostwriting income. Why don’t you step back from all that now and concentrate on your own stuff? You could write a novel or even another screenplay.”

  I can’t think of anything I’d like better, but I have a very big Throb-shaped cloud looming over me. I have no choice but to finish that book now. If I don’t then their lawyers will tear me to shreds and feed me to the sharks. Or something like that. Whatever lawyers do to people who break contracts. For a moment I teeter on the brink of confessing all. I hold back though, because I feel there’s a “but” hovering.

  “But?” I prompt.

  Ollie grins. “But nothing too sexy? It’s more than my job’s worth. OK?”

  “OK,” I say reluctantly. There goes any hope of confessing. Maybe I should pop over to St Jude’s and just collar the priest instead? I certainly can’t burden Ollie any further. I’ve caused him quite enough stress.

  He gives me a hug. “Don’t look so worried, Katy. It’s not your fault St Jude’s is so uptight.”

  No, I think, but it is my fault I signed a contract with Throb which I never bothered to read carefully. Why didn’t I listen to Frankie? How typical that the one time he spoke sense I ignored him.

  “And all this fuss will soon go away and everything will go back to normal,” Ollie adds. “You’ll see. Now, why don’t we open a bottle of wine and forget about today?”

  I know that even a year in therapy won’t come close to helping me forget about today. In fact, it’s not today I’m worried about so much as the unseen days that lurk ahead. Days when my literary secret could be revealed at any time.

  I’m going to be a nervous wreck!

  OK. Don’t panic. It’s all going to be fine. All I have to do is finish the book. It’s almost completed anyway and I know I’ll make the deadline. Then I can forget all about it.

  I hope.

  I slither off Ollie’s lap and fetch us both a big glass of wine – which, let’s face it, we both need. I know it won’t make much difference though. This is the first time I’ve deliberately withheld something from him and it doesn’t feel right at all. I’m so tired of all the secrets.

  It’s no good. I’m going to have to tell the truth.

  Deep breath, Katy. You can do it.

  “Ollie, I—”

  The sudden hammering at the door makes us both jump and interrupts the confession that’s poised on my lips like a diver about to leap from the highest board.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! goes the door, while the cottage shakes with each blow. Thud! Thud! Thud!

  “There’s only one person I know who knocks like that,” says Ollie, hauling himself out of his chair. “Shall I let your future brother-in-law in?”

  “If you don’t the whole place will fall down,” I say.

  “Wait a minute, Guy,” calls Ollie, unfastening the kitchen door. “The door’s locked.”

  “What have you locked it for?” grumbles Guy, ducking his head as he steps inside. “Hope you two weren’t at it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous; of course they weren’t. It’s locked to keep out all the nosy reporters,” snaps my sister, who’s hard on his heels. “Everyone’s talking about Tansy Topham’s ghostwriter. Don’t you ever listen to a word I say?”

  “Try not to, babe,” replies Guy. “Easier that way and it’s probably why we’re still together.”

  “We’re together because nobody else would put up with you,” Holly says darkly. “And, if you read anything more than the Beano you’d know that the press is full of the story.”

  Knowing from experience that this pair can squabble all day once they start, I do my best to get a word in while I still have the chance.

  “Is there something you two need? Only we’re pretty busy right now.”

  “Looks like it,” Guy remarks, nodding towards the wine glasses and plonking himself down at the table. “Busy on the piss more like. Typical teachers. No wonder the country’s going to a bag of maggots. Go on then, don’t mind if I do. Pour us a glass.”

  As he makes himself at home I give in and fetch a couple of glasses from the dresser.

  “Not for me, thanks,” Holly says quickly. “I’m off alcohol at the moment.”

  “I’ll have hers,” Guy says. “Top yours up, you two, and then sit down. We’ve got some big news.”

  I glance at my sister, then at Guy holding two wine glasses, and suddenly the penny drops. I can’t believe I didn’t twig sooner!

  “Oh my God! You’re having a baby!”

  Holly nods and Guy beams, and then I’m hugging them and kissing them and the men are shaking hands and clapping each other on the back. Wow! I’m going to be an aunty! Me! An aunty! I don’t think I’ve been this excited since Take That got back together!

  When we’ve all finished crying/hugging/knocking back the wine, Guy says casually, “So now we all know Holly’s up the duff can I tell you the big news?”

  I’m confused. “You mean that wasn’t it?”

  Holly laughs. “Oh yes, there’s far more exciting news than a baby, at least as far as Guy’s concerned!”

  Her fiancé looks hurt. “That’s not true, babe. Nothing’s more important than Turpin Tregarten.”

  “We are not calling our baby Turpin!” Holly says, and they’re off again, bickering about what to call their child while Ollie and I wait for them to draw breath.

  “Your other news?” Ollie prompts.

  “Oh yes,” says Holly. “Go on, Guy! Tell them!”

  My future brother-in-law beams at me. “You’re going to love this, Katy, since it was your pet in the first place.”

  “What pet?” I’m totally blank. Sometimes I really think too much beer and rough seas have done Guy some sort of damage, because he talks utter nonsense half the time.

  “Your lobster,” he says impatiently. “Jeez! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it already? Not when you made me take the bloody thing miles out to sea and release it. Twenty quid I could have got for that on the fish stall, but no. You had to release it into the wild. And now it’s back.”

  I stare at Guy in disbelief. Five years ago I was throwing a dinner party for my then tosser of a boyfriend and his odious boss, something that was bound to be an absolute disaster for a girl with my culinary talents. In desperation I’d bribed Ollie to do the cooking by promising to mark his GCSE coursework in return. All was going well until his speciality dish turned out to be a lobster.

  A lobster that was very much alive.

  It’s a long story but Pinchy, as my starter course became known, ended up travelling with me to Tregowan – where he spent a few happy days splashing around in Maddy’s bath before Reverend Rich lost what small sense of humour he did possess. Cue one voyage out to sea with Guy and one released lobster, and the rest was history.

  Or so I’d thought…

  “No way! Not Pinchy?” I gasp, and Guy snorts.

  “Pinchy! Ha! Who names a twatting lobster?”

  Ollie puts his arm around me. “Katy does. Come on, Guy! Don’t keep us all in suspense. What’s the news?”

  Guy knocks his entire glass of wine back and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “When I released Pinchy, I made a note and tagged the lobster – it was to get me in the good books with the fisheries by taking part in a research proje
ct – and I let the hatchery in Padstow know too for their records.”

  “Guy’s part of a sustainable fisheries programme,” Holly explains, catching my blank expression. “Conservation is important to fishermen. He’s not a philistine, you know.”

  This is good to know because he certainly does a bloody good impression of one.

  “Course I’m not. I’m bloody well Cornish,” Guy agrees. “Anyway, let’s forget talking about foreigners for a minute, because what I’m about to tell you is far more interesting. I’ve just had a call from the hatchery – they’ve only had bloody New York on the phone.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Katy, your lobster is in New fucking York!”

  “What? That’s impossible!”

  Impossible and totally unfair! Even I haven’t been to New York yet! How on earth has Pinchy the lobster managed to get there first?

  “Apparently not impossible at all. A fishing boat caught your lobster off Cape Cod and because it was tagged they’ve traced it back to here,” Guy explains.

  “Blimey,” says Ollie. “Pinchy swam all the way to America?”

  “Well he didn’t take a jumbo jet!” says Guy. “Of course it bloody swam, you harris!”

  “Technically, we don’t know that for sure,” Holly corrects him. “Pinchy could have been in currents, hopped into another pot and been turfed out, or even caught in flotsam and sailed across. The marine biologists are speculating like crazy because this is unprecedented. So unprecedented, in fact, that there’s a film crew making a documentary about it all now, which is why Guy’s been contacted.”

  “Wow,” I say, impressed. “Pinchy gets to star in a documentary? Like with David Attenborough?”

  “It’s more of a dramality show set in the city’s aquarium,” Holly explains and, when Ollie looks at her blankly, adds, “like TOWIE or Keeping Up with the Kardashians? Apparently the Pinchy story is going to be featured as a thread.”

  “The Only Way is Lobster,” grins Ollie. “Especially for dinner! Or how about I’m a Lobster Get Me Out of Here?”

  I thump him. “I did not drag Pinchy all the way from London to Cornwall just so somebody could cook him, thank you very much!”