Katy Carter Keeps a Secret

by Ruth Saberton

  “So what exactly did you think BB stood for?” Tansy asks me.

  “To be honest I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d just thought it was a random name,” I reply. I must admit this does sound a bit pathetic now.

  “Didn’t you look at the website? Or ask the staff when you called?” Her eyes are wide. The unspoken question hangs in the air like the patterns of fireworks in a night sky. Are you really that stupid?

  “I booked this while Katy was away in the States,” Maddy confesses. “I was in the middle of trying to stop Rafferty from putting the hamster in the loo at the time, so chatting wasn’t high on my list of priorities. To tell you the truth, I was hardly listening to anything.”

  Those twins are seriously psychotic, the Reggie and Ronnie of the local playgroup, but Tansy’s nodding as though this is all entirely normal.

  “Shanissa was just the same when she was three. She was obsessed with the khazi. Tommy lost two Rolexes. What happened?”

  “It was a close call: Bluebell was about to flush. Honestly, since we went to Center Parcs the twins have been obsessed with flumes. They thought this would be fun for Fluffy.”

  “Shanissa and Chicago tried to do exactly the same with the gerbil,” Tansy nods sympathetically. “Or maybe it was the cat? I’d have to ask the nanny. Tom and I were in Marbs at the time. And don’t get me started on the bloody micropig!”

  It’s looking as though the tales of pet woe might go on and on and on, but luckily Tansy’s Swarovski crystal-smothered mobile rings before I have a chance to call the RSPCA. Much smacking of kisses and cries of “Thanks, babes! Love you!” and “You’re the best!” later, she ends the call, shoves the phone in her huge bag and beams at me.

  “So, Katy had no idea about any of this, it’s all a big mistake and we need to make it up to her ma-in-law. Fear not, girls! Tell it like it is Tansy is on the case!”

  And before I can stop her, she’s marching into the function room like an orange-hued, designer-bag-clutching whirlwind. Maddy and I are hard on her heels, but we haven’t got a hope. All those hours in the gym haven’t been wasted on Tansy; she’s across the room in seconds to where Ann is being comforted by her pastor, Geoff is lecturing a mutinous Nicky and poor despairing Ollie is doing his best to mediate. The other guests are plundering the buffet, hacking slices out of the cake and trying to pretend they’re not enjoying every dramatic second. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to them since VE Day.

  “Mrs Burrows?” Tansy says, holding her hand out to Ann. “May I wish you a very happy birthday?”

  She grabs Ann’s hand, pumping it up and down with great enthusiasm and chatting away. There’s no need for Tansy to introduce herself because anyone who hasn’t been living on the moon for the past few years knows exactly who she is. Stunned, Ann and Geoff and their pastor allow their hands to be shaken. Even Great Uncle Clifford reappears, happy to abandon Playboy TV in order to meet the real thing.

  “Now, I know today has been a shock,” Tansy continues, tossing back her long tresses and batting her false eyelashes at them, “but I really feel I need to explain a few things.”

  Ollie catches my eye. Make her stop! he mouths silently.

  I can’t, I mouth back. And I’m not exaggerating: Tansy’s a force of nature when she gets going, and nothing I could do or say would stop her. I’d have more luck holding back the Severn Bore.

  “First of all, Katy had no idea that BBs actually stood for Barely Butlers,” Tansy explains, setting herself down on a seat next to Ann. “She really thought I was just serving up canapés and sandwiches. Can you imagine? It’s as though all the hours I put into choosing the hottest guys were for nothing! As if! Those interviews were hell, especially the bits when I had to feel their biceps and check out the six-packs.”

  Oh God. Kill me now.

  “So don’t be angry with poor Katy, Mrs Burrows! She really wanted to give you a lovely birthday surprise.” Tansy flashes the stunned Ann with that dazzling white smile. “She wouldn’t even let me give her a discount. She insisted on paying full price. That’s how much she thinks of you.”

  “Blimey,” says Nicky, laid out on a sofa and still swaddled in the curtain like a paisley-covered baby Jesus. “You must have spent a fortune, Katy.”

  “We’re very reasonable at BBs actually,” Tansy says quickly. “Cheaper than many other companies, and we’re available at short notice too. Here, why don’t some of you take my card. You never know when you might need us.”

  She delves into her bag and hands out business cards, which everyone takes dutifully. I can’t quite imagine when an octogenarian churchgoer or a pastor might need a naked butler, but I guess you never know. Let’s face it, I never thought I’d be booking one either.

  “And as for Nicky here,” Tansy continues, waving her French-manicured acrylics in his direction, “you really should be proud of him. He has an excellent work ethic.”

  Ann looks taken aback, which isn’t surprising given that the words work ethic and Nicky Burrows aren’t usually found in close proximity. Idle and waster maybe, but work ethic? Never.

  “I fail to see how mincing around starkers in a pinny constitutes hard work,” huffs Geoff.

  “Ah, and that’s the final piece of the puzzle,” Tansy tells him, leaning forward and revealing a Cheddar Gorge cleavage, seemingly by accident. The poor men in the room don’t stand a chance and even the women are mesmerised. Isaac Newton, were he present, might need to rethink the laws of gravity.

  “Serving the food and wearing our uniform are the least of the job. Working for BBs is about so much more than that,” she explains earnestly. “Nicky has to be on time, talk to clients, sell our brand, make sure he looks after himself, and represent the company to the best of his ability. It’s a huge responsibility.”

  “So it’s not just strutting about in the nuddy and being accosted by ladies?” asks Great Uncle Clifford, sounding disappointed. Good Lord, was he about to sign up too?

  Tansy looks shocked. “Absolutely not! This is about brand identity and light-hearted fun. It’s a way that women can escape from the daily grind of their lives and the reality of being wives and mums, a way for them to forget their age and relive the dreams they once had of being adored and waited on by a handsome prince. It’s escapism, pure and simple – no different in essence to reading a Mills and Boon or watching Gone with the Wind. What woman doesn’t dream of being the sole object of a gorgeous young man’s attention, even just for one night? Barely Butlers can deliver that dream for anyone!”

  Wow. She’s good, and so is whoever wrote that spiel for her. All the women in the room are nodding now, even Ann and the pastor’s wife, and the ancient old aunts have gone all misty-eyed too. I’m not convinced myself that the handsome prince needs to have his bum cheeks on display, but maybe I’m just old-fashioned like that?

  “Nicky’s hard work and dedication have helped many women to enjoy that little escape. It’s practically a social service,” Tansy concludes, smiling warmly at her curtain-shrouded employee. “He’s by far our most booked butler; in fact he’s earned himself over ten grand already.”

  “Bloody hell!” splutters Geoff. “Ten grand?”

  “Where do I sign up?” Ollie murmurs to me.

  “All to help towards my uni course and to further my education, of course. It’s far too much of a financial burden to place my parents under, thanks to successive Tory governments, and I wanted to help you,” Nicky says sanctimoniously.

  I’m not sure this argument would stand up on Question Time, but Geoff looks convinced – and is that a proud tear I see Ann wiping away?

  “And nothing at all went on his flash scooter or new clothes or the gap-year fund,” Ollie says sotto voce, but his parents pay no attention to this. Neither do they seem to think it odd that their left-wing son has suddenly embraced capitalism (well, except for the jibe at the Tories, which apparently went noticed). Instead they appear to be having a change of heart, especially w
hen Nicky mentions that he wants to set up an ISA. Suddenly it’s like the second coming and I can practically see his halo. Who cares what he was up to anymore? He was making money! Nicky Burrows is a capitalist and no longer a commie! Their prayers have been answered and all is well for the Surrey contingent!

  Ann smiles fondly at him. “Darling, I do understand what you were trying to do and I’m proud you’ve worked so hard towards your future, even if it was in a rather misguided way.”

  Ollie snorts. “Chatting up girls and waxing his chest is hardly work!”

  But Ann and Geoff aren’t listening to Ollie. Geoff’s still hanging off Tansy’s every word – the conversation having turned to football – and Ann is busy ruffling Nicky’s hair and telling him again how proud she is.

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Mum,” Nicky says sweetly.

  “I still don’t think it’s appropriate, sweetie, and I’d like it to stop so that you can concentrate on your exams,” she replies.

  “Of course, Mum,” Nicky agrees, all big-eyed and innocent. “My exams must come first. I’ve been doing well at school though; just ask Katy and Ol.”

  It’s true. Nobody’s nagged me about Nicky for weeks. Even Steph hasn’t mentioned him. At least something is going right. Then again, maybe they think he’s left because he’s never there? I make a mental note to ring the attendance secretary first thing on Monday.

  “Really well,” I say to Ann, crossing my fingers and praying hard. “And I’m so sorry about all this. I really had no idea.”

  Ann gets up and gives me a hug. “I know you didn’t, love. It’ll be a story to tell the girls in the WI, I suppose.”

  “And the moral of the story is that your sins will always find you out,” adds her pastor, shooting a suspicious look at Nicky.

  “Anyway, I hope that’s everything about BBs cleared up now?” Tansy asks, smiling beatifically at her gathered audience. “And before I go, I have a little something for you all with my compliments.”

  “Is it a free butler?” asks one of the great aunts hopefully.

  Tansy laughs. “Far better than that! My Tommy’s sending every one of you free tickets to the next England game. You’ll all be in the corporate suite with champagne on tap, and afterwards we’ll have dinner. You can even meet the team if you like?”

  Geoff’s eyes light up and I admire Tansy’s master stroke. Even the pastor looks thrilled and the old aunts are fondly remembering 1966, while Great Uncle Clifford is getting excited about meeting Posh Spice. I won’t mention that Stanley Matthews doesn’t play anymore or that Victoria Beckham is now a fashion designer; they’ve had enough shocks for one afternoon.

  And just like that, all is immediately forgiven. Ann is even laughing about the horror of seeing her son in a thong, as though it was all just a bit of fun and she wasn’t ready to have me tarred and feathered fifteen minutes previously.

  “Happy with that?” Tansy asks me, once she’s kissed everyone goodbye, signed autographs and posed for pictures. She’s also paid for a crate of champagne, so the party’s in full swing now – minus a butler, of course. Nicky isn’t daft enough to push his luck that far. He’s changed back into jeans and handed Tansy his uniform. His bare-butlering days are well and truly over.

  “I think ‘relieved’ comes closer to how I feel than ‘happy’,” I reply as we air-kiss goodbye.

  Ollie puts his hand on my shoulder and together we watch Tansy drive away, top down on the Lotus and blonde hair flying in the wind.

  “I have no idea what just went on in there,” he says, kissing the top of my head, “but I think we can safely say you’ve given my mother a party she’ll remember for the rest of her life. Now, do you think that from now on in we can have a quiet life?”

  I kiss him back and cross my fingers.

  “Of course,” I say.

  And we can, I know it. A quiet life is just around the corner. There’s just the small matter of two racy books to deal with first…

  Chapter 24

  Unfortunately, the corner my quiet life’s hiding behind doesn’t appear to be close by, and as the weeks pass I begin to worry I may not be approaching it any time soon, if ever. My parents have trundled back to Totnes, the Burrows have returned to Surrey, Ollie’s flat out at school as always and even Nicky’s allegedly burying himself in revision rather than taking his clothes off – but that’s as far as it goes for supposed normality.

  I guess nothing in life’s normal when suddenly you’re the author of a book the media’s chosen to hype as the latest big thing. Everyone wants a slice of Isara Lovett and everywhere I go, from the supermarket to the village shop, Kitchen of Correction is stacked in tottering piles. My hand aches from squiggling my name across countless copies and if I never do another book signing again it will be too soon. Life has really taken on a bit of a surreal tint since the trip to New York. All the publicity generated there, plus the public’s bizarre obsession with Guy as the latest reality-TV star, means that rather than fading into total obscurity as it utterly deserves, my debut novel with Throb is riding high in the charts and selling ridiculously well.

  It’s a dream come true that’s turned out to be something of a nightmare.

  There’s no way I can get out of writing the next two books now; it seems that people can’t get enough of Alexi and Lucinda’s culinary capers. I even read somewhere that there’s been a rush on clothes pegs and that the price of cabbages has rocketed – which might be good news for farmers but is probably very bad news for the NHS if the tabloids are to be believed.

  “You should be thrilled,” Holly says when I complain to her during some sisterly bonding in the pub. “This is what you’ve always wanted. Guy, on the other hand, just wants to go to sea. He’s really fed up with all the attention. He’s turned down more television work today but everyone wants him. Strange but true, eh?”

  Guy, who’s wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap, cowers behind his pint and nods miserably.

  “They won’t bloody leave me alone. All I want to do is go fishing. I’ve done my bit for publicising the industry. Why can’t they all sod off?”

  “Because it doesn’t work like that,” says Holly. “Chin up, baby. You’ve done wonders for the fishing industry and I bet there’s lots of very grateful lobsters too.”

  She’s right. For the past few weeks Guy’s been everywhere talking about the plight of British fishermen and sustainable fisheries. The last I heard, UKIP were trying to persuade him to stand as an MP and Loose Women were desperate to have him on the show.

  “All because of a bloody lobster,” he mutters, giving me an accusing look. “This is all your fault, Katy.”

  “What isn’t?” I wonder sadly. Ann’s nearly ruined party, Ollie’s stress at school, Nicky’s stint as a naked butler – all these things seem to be bouncing back at me like emails from a faulty address.

  “Those TV harrises keep calling the house and trying to get me to sign stuff too,” Guy adds despairingly. “The words are far too long and I can’t be arsed to read any of it. I wish they’d just go away. Maybe they would if I signed?”

  “No! Don’t sign anything!” Holly and I chorus.

  “Of course I won’t!” Guy rolls his eyes. “That was a joke. I’m not that stupid.”

  They both look at me pointedly and I sigh.

  “OK. I get it. I’m an idiot and I should never have signed the contract without looking at it properly. Nobody knows that better than me.”

  “Bit late now though,” says Holly. “Seriously, Katy, what are you going to do?”

  I stare dejectedly into my cider because I cannot for the life of me think how I can get out of writing two more books. Holly’s right: this was what I always dreamed of but, like some fairy tale where the heroine gets granted her dearest wish only to learn that it isn’t really what she wanted after all, life as a bestselling novelist isn’t turning out quite as I’d imagined. I always thought I’d want to sing my success from the rooftops, but apart
from the fact that Kitchen isn’t in the genre I want to write, I also have Ollie to think about. The more publicity Kitchen receives, the harder a time he has at work. It’s a nightmare for him.

  Oh God. I’m going to have to tell him I’m writing two more, aren’t I? There’s no way I can keep that a secret. No way at all. But it’s going to make his life impossible at St Jude’s. What if he decides he wants to break up with me because of this? He’s been so quiet and distracted lately that I’ve no idea what he’s thinking. He’s keeping something from me too, I’m certain of it, but I’ve no idea what.

  And, a nasty little voice reminds me, I never did see him give Ann that necklace…

  I gulp a big mouthful of my drink. I am so not going down that road right now. I have quite enough to deal with as it is. Besides, if Ol’s being quiet then it’s because he’s having such a tough time at work; of course it’s that and nothing more sinister. There have been lots of hushed calls, late meetings and discussions with senior management as St Jude’s do their best to field any awkward questions from parents. I know it sounds bonkers and medieval, and quite frankly what his girlfriend does in the twenty-first century is nothing whatsoever to do with Ollie, but unfortunately the school doesn’t see it that way. I’m half expecting the Inquisition to knock on my front door at any moment and drag me away for a spot of torture followed by a nice big bonfire.

  In any case, the fact of the matter is that there’s no hiding my identity now and definitely no way I can get out of the contract. In desperation I even faxed a copy to Frankie and Gabriel’s scary agent Seb, just in case he could find a loophole, but no joy.

  “Next time do yourself a favour and get an agent before you sign anything,” was his (too late) advice. “There’s no way I can get you out of this. You’ll just have to grit your teeth, do the promo, write the next two books and hire me in the future.”

  The irony is that if the royalties keep rolling in like they are at the moment then I can probably afford to hire Seb. Like Holly said, I really should be thrilled; even though my percentage of the total profit is tiny, our bank balance is looking the healthiest it’s ever been, and my need to dig up floors in search of treasure is a thing of the past. I don’t even need to moonlight as a supply teacher at Tregowan Comp anymore, but do you know what?