Katy Carter Keeps a Secret

by Ruth Saberton

“Thanks,” I say. “Remind me again why I’m here with a prophet of doom like you?”

  “Because I’m pregnant and sick and my fiancé is still in the States?” Holly says. “You did far too much of a good job looking after him. I’m starting to wonder if he’ll come back now he’s enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame so much!”

  They persuaded Guy to extend his stay for a little bit, so I had to return on my own. For a man terrified of travelling he’s certainly making up for it now; when I left he was flying off to San Diego to speak at a conservation expo. While he’s abroad I’m keeping Holly company. She’s suffering with morning sickness and high blood pressure but has sworn me to secrecy because she wants Guy to make the most of his time away. He’s supposed to be catching a flight home tomorrow, but there’s no knowing whether they’ll talk him into something else instead.

  “He’s done exactly what he set out to do,” I say. “He’s raised awareness of fishing, all right.”

  “By posing bare-chested for Cosmo in bib and braces?” She rolls her eyes. “Just wait until he gets home! Tell me again how that’s raised awareness of UK fishing quotas?”

  I’m not sure either, but it raised a few pulses and there was certainly a lot of talk about his tackle! Guy’s a character and a novelty in the States. Apparently the ratings of the dramality show soared when his episodes aired.

  “People are talking about sustainable fishing though, and when he gets back he’ll be able to use his brush with fame to speak about it all and make a difference,” Holly continues. “Guy’s no fool. He’s using a celebrity lobster and a lucky break to do what he set out to. I can’t wait for him to come home.”

  “You’re really missing him,” I say sympathetically. I can’t imagine ever missing Guy myself, but then I guess you must miss toothache if you’ve had it long enough.

  But Holly snorts. “Don’t be so soft! I just need somebody to make me cups of tea and to warm my feet on when they’re cold in bed.”

  “Who says romance is dead?”

  “Well not you, with your kinky book and washing lines!” Holly whips out a copy of Kitchen with a flourish. “I’m on chapter ten already and it’s a lot more exciting than maths! And I’ve noticed that all my students are reading it rather than revising for their finals. If they fail, then I’ll know exactly who to blame.”

  “I think Ollie has the same problem,” I sigh. “He’s really upset.”

  My sister looks at me as though I’m stupid, which is fair enough given recent events. “You’ve nearly lost Ollie his job and totally humiliated him in front of all his colleagues, and now most of his kids and their mothers are reading the book. Worse still, he didn’t even have a clue you’d written it, which has made him look like a right plank. I bet all the kids are really ripping it out of him.”

  “Thanks, Hol, I feel so much better now.” I place my head in my hands. When they were giving out tact my sister must have been right at the back of the queue. No wonder she and Guy get on so well. “What if Ollie dumps me?”

  “Of course he won’t,” says my sister. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.” Holly hasn’t seen how strained Ollie looks. When he came back from his meeting with the senior leaders last week he was grey with stress and certainly didn’t want to talk to me – which was hardly surprising since, as usual, I was the cause of his troubles.

  “Not now, Katy, all right?” he’d said when I’d asked how he was. “It’s been a shit day and it’s not going to get better any time soon. Have you any idea how many cabbages and washing lines have been left on my desk since all this got out?”

  “Cabbage soup and bondage tonight, honey?” I’d tried to joke, but Ollie understandably hadn’t been amused.

  “The school governors have called an emergency board meeting,” he’d said, throwing his briefcase onto the floor and heading straight for the fridge to grab a beer. “They’re going to discuss my future at the school. They’ve asked me to attend.”

  He looked so upset and I was devastated for him.

  “This isn’t anything to do with you!” I’d cried, stepping forward and putting my arms round him. “I wrote that book! I don’t even work for St bloody Jude’s.”

  “And you’re my girlfriend,” Ollie had shot back, shaking me off and starting to pace our tiny kitchen. “As far as they’re concerned that means this is my cock-up and my responsibility. You’ve seen the headlines. They love the fact that you live in sin with your partner, who just so happens to be the Assistant Head of a Catholic school.”

  I’d seen the headlines and they didn’t make pretty reading.

  “That’ll all be fish and chip paper soon, as the saying goes,” I’d remarked as cheerfully as I could, but Ollie just gave me a withering look.

  “Unfortunately since the advent of the Internet all those platitudes about fish and chip paper no longer count. That story will be there forever. Any parent who Googles St Jude’s will be able to read all about it.”

  “Maybe they’ll all buy the book and we’ll have so many royalties you’ll never have to teach again?” I’d offered hopefully.

  “This isn’t about you and your royalties!” Ollie had exploded. “This is about my career and our future! Why do you think I’m working so hard in the first place? Do you think it’s because I like being up all night marking or coming home late? I’m doing it for us, Katy! So that maybe we can pay the bills and have a family or even manage to retire before we’re eighty. I’m doing this so that you can have the chance to write your novel and enjoy it!”

  I’d stared at him. Had he really just mentioned starting a family, or had I just dreamed that bit? And was this a good time to point out that if Kitchen kept selling at this rate my share of the royalties could be enough to make our lives a lot easier? Maybe neither of us would need to teach…

  I’d opened my mouth to say something but then shut it again fast when I’d recalled the part of the contract that stipulated I had to write the next two books in the series. He’d go spare. If only I’d read that contract before signing it! Note to self: literary agents are worth every penny of their commission. I’d tell him about the sequels in a few days, when things were a little less fraught and the royalties were rolling in. This wasn’t keeping secrets as much as a case of damage limitation.

  “I’m so sorry,” I’d said, for what had to be the billionth time. “I never meant any of this to happen. I was trying to help.”

  “I love you, Katy,” Ollie had said wearily, “but maybe be a little less helpful in the future? I’m so tired of all the stress. I’m not twenty-five anymore. I can’t drink all night long and not be hung-over to shit the next day. I can’t ski as well as I did either, and I certainly can’t cope with any more dramas. I just need a quiet life. I think I can weather this at work – just – but it can’t go on. Those books have got to stop.”

  He wasn’t wrong there. All I had to do was figure out how. Since pizza wasn’t going to do it and even pasties had failed, I was going to have to think more creatively. Sitting Room of Sin and Dining Room of Desire were starting to keep me up at night – and not in the way that Throb intended, either.

  But one week on from this conversation I still haven’t come up with a solution. Now I’ve got the added strain of Ann and Geoff Burrows rocking up. By some miracle they don’t seem to know anything about Kitchen of Correction and I’m crossing everything that it stays that way. There are some benefits to Geoff thinking about nothing but wine and Ann being busy with the WI and church. Thank God they have no idea that their eldest son’s girlfriend, their youngest son and a vicar’s wife are jointly responsible for a smutty book that’s being talked about everywhere. I think the shock would kill them.

  Anyway, as I say, it’s one week on – and although he’s not nearly as pissed off as he was, Ollie’s still far from being over the trauma. Nothing I can say or do can make it up to him. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s keeping something from me too, but af
ter the hassle I’ve caused I don’t dare mention that odd transaction. I’m hoping it’s a mistake or that he’s bought something special for Ann. It’s strange he’s not mentioned it at all though. What if my worst fears were spot on all along?

  What if he’s bought a present for another woman?

  It’s like my heart is a ball of string in my chest and every time I think about losing Ollie somebody tugs it a little tighter. I love him so much. If only I could put things right and life could go back to normal, or our version of it anyway.

  “Look,” Holly’s saying now, joining me at the table with another mug of ginger tea, “the way I see it is that, yes, you made a mistake not telling Ollie about the book, but you had the best intentions. You never set out to hurt or embarrass him.”

  “Of course not!” I cry. “I was only trying to get some money together and take the pressure off him because he’s working so hard.”

  “And he’s working so hard to take the pressure off you.” My sister rolls her eyes. “What a pair you are! I don’t know why you worry so much. You’re made for each other.”

  I stare down at the grain of her table and the rings blur. “I used to think so but I’m not sure he feels the same way. I think there’s someone else.”

  Holly splutters ginger tea all over the table. “What! No way! Ollie would never cheat on you.”

  “So why would he spend nearly a thousand pounds and not tell me?”

  It’s not often that my super-brain sister is lost for words, but she is now.

  “He must have bought something for Carolyn,” I conclude.

  “Who the fuck is Carolyn?” Holly asks.

  Ah yes, I forgot I’d only told Maddy and Tansy about her.

  “She’s a teacher at Ollie’s school,” I explain. “Blonde, skinny and they work together.”

  “And?” says Holly, looking puzzled.

  For a girl with a PhD from Cambridge my sister can be ridiculously slow on the uptake sometimes.

  “So maybe he’s having an affair with her? She rings all the time and they work together too.”

  “Guy calls Crab Pot Mike all the time and they work together on the trawler. I don’t think they’re shagging though, even if Mike has long blond hair,” she says. “And before you tell me I’m being absurd, no more so than you. Seriously, Katy? Do you really think Ollie’s so shallow he’d fancy somebody just because she’s blonde and skinny?”

  “He’s a bloke,” I say.

  “Fair point. But I still say you’re totally wrong. How about this for a crazy notion. What if he’s bought something for you and he’s keeping it as a surprise? Hmm?”

  For a millisecond hope blossoms in my heart before I slam on the old mental brakes as fast as I possibly can. I’ve been here before, remember? The Great St Valentine’s Ring Hunt? Ollie doesn’t do surprises.

  “Not Ollie’s style,” I tell her. “Besides, he couldn’t have kept it a secret this long.”

  Holly shakes her head. “Having a fling isn’t his style either but I think—”

  At this point there’s a knocking on the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” I say to Holly, who has her hand over her heart. Having a pregnant sister is terrifying and I can’t wait until Guy’s here to take over the responsibility. “Your blood pressure is high enough.”

  “Hardly any wonder with you around,” she says wryly.

  Leaving her to sip her tea, I wiggle through the narrow passages of Holly’s tiny cottage (which is easier said than done, since the place was built for half-starved Tudor fisher folk rather than size-twelve me) and open the door.

  And once I have, I feel like shutting it again.

  Fast.

  Can life really hate me this much? Any more spanners to throw in my works, Fate?

  “Surprise!” booms my father.

  Chapter 20

  “Dad! What are you doing here?”

  To say I’m taken back is an understatement. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my parents for months, so to find one of them literally on the doorstep is indeed something of a surprise.

  And not a good one either.

  Don’t get me wrong, I think the world of my parents. Of course I do! It’s just that sometimes they can be a little difficult to love and even more difficult to live with. Pop them on the scene just when my sort-of in-laws are about to arrive and you could have fireworks that would make the New Year’s Eve celebrations in Trafalgar Square look half-hearted.

  My parents, although well meaning and very easy-going, are also sometimes a little bit embarrassing. I know what you’re thinking! You’re thinking that all parents are embarrassing. It’s practically their duty to remind you of your most awkward teenage moments or whip out the family photo album and show your new boyfriend pictures of you aged one and with more spare tyres than Kwik Fit. Yes, I bet that’s cringe-making, but I spent my formative years longing for that kind of embarrassment, because naff dad jokes and teasing about the time you played the back end of the donkey in the school nativity are normal, aren’t they? Whereas a father with a talent for “organic herbal gardening” and a mother who insists on chatting to her spirit guides halfway through your parents’ evening really aren’t.

  My folks are ageing hippies who still live in a seventies time warp in their ramshackle barn near Totnes, when they’re not travelling. They spend a lot of time driving about the continent to various New Age festivals and goddess workshops, in a rusting VW van held together with their own unique blend of patchouli oil, rainbow paint and optimism. No wonder Holly and I rebelled by becoming total squares. The only time I ever saw my mother cry was when I told her I wasn’t interested in travelling to an ashram with her and was off to do teacher training. She went to bed for a week and still claims her aura’s never recovered from the disappointment.

  Anyway, as I said, I love my parents but they’re not always the easiest of company, especially in the presence of Ollie’s slightly less relaxed folks. I haven’t forgotten the last time, when Geoff innocently took a few puffs of one of my father’s herbal cigarettes – and several hours later ate his way through the entire sherry trifle Ann had prepared for Sunday lunch. Poor Ann had looked as though she’d needed that sherry herself when Mum announced that Ollie’s dead grandmother had joined us in the sitting room.

  Still, as two sets of in-laws meeting for the first time goes, I guess it could have been a lot worse.

  Somehow…

  Anyway, since then I’ve done my best to keep the Burrows and the Carters apart and, unless we ever hold a family gathering in the Large Hadron Collider, that’s the way I intend to keep it. I’ve enough on my plate already with the fallout from Throb and organising Ann’s surprise party, without having to manage Quentin and Drusilla Carter. I kid you not, sieving jelly would be easier.

  “Do I need a reason to be here? I’ve come to see my best girls!” my father booms, so loudly that several seagulls just quietly minding their business on the chimney pot opposite take fright. “It’s been far too long!”

  “You’ve been travelling around Spain. It wasn’t like we could just pop round,” I point out, and Dad grins.

  “Fair point. I do wish they’d run those goddess workshops a bit closer to home, but what can you do? The sun’s out in Spain and we’d freeze our bits off doing naked circle work in Devon.”

  Ew! I don’t want to think about my parents doing naked circle work ever. What if they decide to do this in Tregowan? A horrific image of my naked olds doing a sun salutation flashes before my eyes and I feel quite faint. Ann will flip but I guess Geoff might enjoy it. He was very taken with Mum, although I suspect that had more to do with Dad’s special cigarettes than a hitherto undiscovered love of tarot cards.

  “Come here!” My father engulfs me in a massive bear hug. The wool of his ethnic knit is scratchy and his beard tickles my cheek, but he’s solid and cuddly and smells so comfortingly Dad-like that I feel about six again. As I hug him back I decide that it doesn’t matter what An
n and Geoff think. My parents are good-hearted people. We can get through a couple of evenings together. Of course we can!

  How hard can it be?

  “Where’s Mum?” I ask, as we step inside. Is it wrong of me to cross my fingers that she’s still halfway up a hill in Andalucía, standing on her head and chanting? Like naughty kids in my classroom, Quentin and Drusilla are easier to deal with when split up.

  “Mum’s on her way,” Dad says, cheerfully destroying all hopes of managing them separately. “She was just parking the van on the harbourside and got it a bit stuck. She shouldn’t be long.”

  The road down to the quay is so narrow I can almost touch either side if I walk along and stretch out my arms. Designed for horses not hippy wagons, it’s regularly blocked by holidaymakers tricked by the strident tones of their satnavs into ignoring the evidence of their own eyes.

  “She’ll get it wedged,” I warn. “Can’t you go and tell her to put it in the car park?”

  “O ye of little faith! Silla can back that camper like a pro. None of the old jokes about women being told one inch is actually five for her,” he grins, and I wince. “Oh smile, Katy! It’s a joke. J. O. K. E. Anyway, have you seen how much they charge for parking here?”

  “I have and, believe me, four pounds is a lot cheaper that respraying a wing,” I point out.

  “Respraying? Any scratches on that van are marks of honour! Badges of distinction! Wounds of the well-travelled,” he says while I roll my eyes. “Anyway, why pay to park when Mother Earth belongs to us all? I’m not a slave to the capitalist system!”

  “The ground here belongs to me, so take your shoes off! They’re filthy!” Holly has left the kitchen and joined us, hands on hips and glowering at my father’s muddy wellies.

  “Hello fruit of my loins number two!” Dad beams, but he knows my sister well enough to take his boots off before he kisses her. Placing a hand on her belly he adds, “And how’s little Mountain Tiger doing?”

  “Mountain Tiger?” I echo and Holly shakes her head.