Katy Carter Keeps a Secret

by Ruth Saberton

  Anyway, hold on! He’s English! What on earth does Frankie know about country music? We don’t even have country music in England, unless you count Morris dancing, which I don’t really think the Americans will get.

  Let’s be fair, I’m English and I don’t get it.

  “I’ve got a house in Bucks,” Frankie says indignantly when I point out that his knowledge of country music might be a little on the sketchy side. “I go there all the time. I’m always in the country.”

  Frankie so does not go to the country all the time. I know for a fact he gets twitchy if there isn’t a Starbucks within fifty paces. And anyway, the last time he tried to drive me to his rock-star rural pad he couldn’t find it so we gave up and went to the pub instead.

  “So what do you know about country music?” I ask, while the minders divvy my luggage up between them, using a novel system of grunts and hand gestures to communicate.

  “I know that Ivan and Igor like it,” Frankie says, gesturing to his minders, both of whom nod. “They listen to it all the time in the limo and I’ve got into it too. Hell yeah and yehaw! I love cows and tractors and I bought ten copies of the Young Farmers’ naked calendar.”

  “I don’t think country music has much to do with cows and tractors,” I say doubtfully. “Isn’t it about the American way of life?”

  “Well, even better because I know all about that,” says Frankie airily. “I’ve even bought a ranch.”

  I goggle at him. “A ranch?”

  “Yep. With horses and everything,” he says happily. “It’s got thousands of acres.”

  Frankie can’t even keep the basil plant in his kitchen alive for a week. What he’ll do with thousands of acres is anyone’s guess.

  “Anyway,” he carries on, “I’ve got the outfits and the ranch and I’ve listened to oodles of that country music stuff now. Seb reckons I can pull it off if I write about blue jeans, beer and being working class.”

  The fact that Frankie normally wears leather trousers, drinks champagne and went to public school doesn’t seem to be an issue, which I guess is just as well.

  “Seb reckons there’s a massive gap in the market, so I’ve got the gear and I’m off to Nashville tonight to record an album,” he adds. “Just you wait; I’ll be a country sensation. You’ll see.”

  As we walk across the concourse, the minders lifting my cases as though they’re filled with feathers rather than all the clothes I could cram in, Frankie’s already causing a sensation. At six feet tall, reed slim and wearing high-heeled cowboy boots he couldn’t look more different from all the other smart-suited travellers. I follow him with my head spinning. I know I’m probably totally jet-lagged but surely he can’t be going to Nashville tonight. What about the anniversary party?

  I must be hearing things wrong. I’m so tired and I’ve been so stressed about Ollie that I can’t even think straight. Ten hours of flying and crossing several time zones will do that to a girl.

  Ollie! I must call him and let him know I’ve landed. I haven’t been able to talk to him since he left for France two days ago. He’s been on a coach and in the depths of the Channel Tunnel, which is bound to be why he hasn’t answered his phone, but we never go this long without talking. I hope he’s OK. What if he’s choked on a croque-monsieur or drowned in the Seine and I don’t know?

  “Can I borrow your mobile?” I ask. “I need to call Ollie.”

  “Right now, angel? Can’t it wait?”

  “Not really. I haven’t spoken to him for almost two days and I want him to know I’m here safely.”

  Frankie thinks for a moment. “Won’t it be night-time in France? He’ll be in bed surely? Why don’t you just wait until tomorrow rather than disturbing everyone?”

  I stare at him. Is it my imagination or is he trying to put me off? But why on earth would he do that? I’m being daft and must be more jet-lagged than I thought.

  “It’s only a six-hour time difference, Frankie. It’ll be the evening in France and the kids will be up until the small hours anyway, so I hardly think I’m disturbing Ollie.”

  “Sorry, sweetie, I haven’t got my phone on me,” he says.

  “There’s one in the limo, boss,” grunts Igor (or is it Ivan?).

  “That isn’t working,” Frankie reminds him sharply.

  “Fine,” I say tightly. “I’ll use my phone. It’s got roaming.”

  I dread to think how much this will cost since I’m calling from New York. I’ll probably have to write at least five more Throb novels to pay for this call – but I need to talk to Ollie. I miss him so much and if Frankie won’t help then I’ll do it myself.

  Frankie looks as though he’s about to say something, but we’re outside the terminal now and the minders are loading my luggage into the boot (or should I say the trunk) of a big black limo and the moment is lost.

  “Do you want to watch telly?” he asks once we’re inside and lolling about on butter-soft white leather seats. “I’ve got all the channels. Ooo! Look! The Kardashians are on. Kim and Kanye said they’d do their best to come tonight. Exciting!”

  This is exciting but I can’t summon up a drop of enthusiasm. What is wrong with me?

  “And I’ve got a cocktail bar! How about a cosmo?” He leans forward and presses a button, and a mini bar pops out like magic. “Ta-da! What do you think?”

  What do I think? I think that I’m being chauffeured in the most luxurious car imaginable, through endless lanes of zooming traffic and towards the most amazing city in the world… and I’ve never felt unhappier. What am I doing here without Ollie? I don’t want to be partying without him or driving through New York or even hanging out with celebrities. I don’t want to do anything without Ollie. Ever. While Frankie chatters away and mixes drinks and the car glides soundlessly towards the beating heart of Manhattan, I stare miserably down at my lap and try as hard as I can to bite back the panic rising steadily in my chest.

  I want to go home.

  Whatever was I thinking, going this far away? I know Ollie’s in France and I was annoyed at first, but he had to be there because of his job. He didn’t have any choice, did he? I’ve been totally unreasonable getting upset. Of course he had to go. That extra responsibility is part of being an Assistant Head.

  Sod the roaming charges. I’ll write ten more novels for Throb and dream up all kinds of dreadful things to do with vegetables and clothes pegs if it means I can tell Ollie I love him and I’m sorry.

  “What are you doing?” Frankie asks as I pull my phone out of the bag Tansy gave me.

  “Calling Ollie.” As if it has a mind of its own, my forefinger scrolls through the contact list and hits Ollie Mob. The phone rings and rings before switching to his answerphone. I cancel the call. I’ve spoken to that answerphone so many times lately that it’s starting to feel like an old friend.

  “Time difference,” Frankie says firmly. “Try tomorrow, angel.”

  But I’m made of sterner stuff than that. No answerphone or time difference will come between me and the man I love, or anything else for that matter.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I’m going to call the St Jude’s emergency mobile number – which, as luck would have it, Carolyn herself gave me on my supply day. The teachers on the Paris trip will definitely have it with them. I know that missing Ollie isn’t strictly an emergency but, believe me, it feels like it.

  “Can’t it wait?” pleads Frankie, starting to look agitated. The way he’s carrying on you’d think he didn’t want me to call Ollie. Which is just ridiculous.

  I shake my head, locate the number and dial while Frankie takes a big swig of his cocktail and regards me dolefully.

  “Just remember, none of this was my idea,” he says.

  I’m just about to ask what this is supposed to mean, seeing as throwing an anniversary party and inviting me to stay was totally his idea, when there’s a scuffling sound at the end of the line as though somebody’s been scrabbling about in their bag to
answer, followed by accordion music and chatter. I can practically smell the garlic and see men in stripy sweaters and wearing onion garlands cycling by brandishing baguettes.

  Or something like that anyway.

  “Hello?” says a female voice. “Can I help you?”

  It’s Carolyn Miles. My heart plummets because I’d so been hoping that Ollie would answer.

  “Hi,” I say, turning my back on Frankie. “Is it possible to speak to Ollie?”

  “Ollie?” Carolyn sounds surprised. “Ollie Burrows?”

  “Yes,” I say, before adding quickly, “please.”

  “He’s not here, I’m afraid. Can I help?”

  “Not there?” I’m a bit thrown. “Not with you, you mean? So where is he? Watching dancers at the Moulin Rouge?” I mean this as a joke, but it comes out a little harsher than I intend and I hear an intake of breath. “Look, I don’t want to be a pain but it’s Katy here. His girlfriend? I really need to talk to him. Is he with the kids?”

  The following pause is just a beat too long.

  “Katy! Oh hi! Yes, I think so! In fact, I’m sure that’s where he is. I’ll get him to call you when he can.”

  Now intuition is a powerful thing and mine couldn’t be trying to alert me more if it came tap-dancing along the freeway or doing the lambada.

  She’s fibbing, I know it. But why? Lately I’d convinced myself that there was nothing going on between them after all, necklace riddle or not. Was I wrong? Or rather, was I right in the first place? Was it all an elaborate double bluff? Is this why everyone’s being so odd lately? I’m sure Mads and Holly have been avoiding me, Guy’s conveniently vanished on a week-long fishing trip, Frankie can’t look me in the face, Ollie’s incommunicado and now even the saintly Carolyn’s at it. It feels like my life’s turning into one of those trendy grit-lit novels. (You know the ones I mean, with black covers, stark orange typography and heroines on trains/faking going missing/wondering why everyone they know is being weird. I think my title would be Girl Totally Confused – and if I ever, ever escape from Throb I might even write it.)

  “OK, Carolyn,” I say. “This is the thing: I know that there’s something going on here, so you may as well admit it and tell me what it is.”

  There’s silence.

  Fine. Let’s bluff with an old teacher trick that’s never known to fail. “To be honest,” I add, “there’s no point trying to pretend. I actually know everything, so you may as well just be straight. It’ll make life easier.”

  There’s another sharp intake of breath at the end of the line. “You know everything?”

  “Yes,” I say firmly.

  “No you don’t,” mutters Frankie, but I ignore him.

  Carolyn groans. “Oh shit. Ollie’s going to be devastated. He’s tried so hard to keep all this from you for so long. He’ll be horrified you’ve found out! I’m truly sorry.”

  Can you believe she actually says this with regret? I’m so incensed I could explode and it’s exceedingly lucky for Carolyn Miles that she’s the other side of the Atlantic.

  He’s been keeping all this from me, has he? For so long? They must have been planning their dirty week away for ages. And where is he now? Having a shower in their hotel room?

  “I see,” I say grimly. “Just how long has all this been going on?”

  She thinks about it for a moment. “I couldn’t really say, Certainly since before you went to New York.”

  A wave of horror breaks over me.

  “You’ve been having an affair with Ollie since I went to New York?”

  “What?” screeches Frankie.

  “What?” chorus Ivan and Igor before Frankie presses a button that shoots a screen up between us and them. Even the Kardashians seem to pause.

  “I’m sorry? What did you say?” stutters Carolyn, sounding stunned. God she’s good; she should teach drama, not French.

  “You and Ollie. You’ve been having an affair,” I say quietly. My hands are shaking and I think I’m going to be sick. Miles High Club was what Steph called her, wasn’t it? I really should have listened.

  There’s a gasp. “What on earth makes you say that?”

  “You! You just told me!”

  But rather than agreeing or apologising or even gloating, Carolyn starts to laugh.

  “I have absolutely no idea where you got that notion from, but I can assure you that Ollie and I most certainly are not having affair! We never have been and I can promise you that we never, ever will either!”

  Of course she would say that now she’s busted, wouldn’t she?

  “So let me speak to him,” I say. “Let me hear his side of the story.”

  She sighs. “I can’t. He isn’t here right at this moment. But, Katy, please, you have to trust me on this one. Ollie’s the last person who would have an affair. He’s totally and utterly devoted to you and even if he wasn’t – which he is – I’m the last person he’d be interested in.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. I’ve seen Carolyn and she’s gorgeous. Any guy with a pulse would look twice.

  “You two spend a lot of time together,” I point out. “And then there’s all the phone calls and the urgent meetings.”

  “We work together,” she says wearily. “We’re colleagues, Katy. Come on, you’re a teacher. You know how intense school can get. And there’s been a lot to deal with lately too, with the book business as well as helping him with… with other things.”

  I wait for her to explain what these “other things” are, but instead she just sighs again. “Just take it from me. You’re barking up the wrong tree here. And besides, I have a partner. One I’m very happy with, actually.”

  This is news to me. From what Steph said I thought Carolyn was a real man-eater.

  “And doesn’t your partner mind you working late with Ollie?” I ask her.

  “Sam gets a bit fed up with the workload but he understands that’s teaching,” Carolyn says thoughtfully. “It’s not easy but you make it work, don’t you? When you love someone that’s what you do. You make sacrifices for them.”

  “Sam?” I echo.

  “My boyfriend,” Carolyn explains patiently.. “Obviously with St Jude’s being the progressive school it is,” she laughs sarcastically here, “I keep my private life pretty close to my chest. Only a few people there know I’m living in sin. It’s the main reason I’ve just handed in my notice. I want to shout about Sam from the rooftops, not hide away. I’m bloody proud of him – just like Ollie’s proud of you and your writing. And he is proud, Katy. Really proud. He’s always talking about you.”

  That lump in my throat’s back because I’ve got it all wrong haven’t I? Again. Everything was right there in front of me, as plain as day to see, but I was so busy interpreting things my own way that I simply couldn’t see it.

  Ollie loves me.

  Ollie’s proud of me.

  Ollie has never let me down.

  But I’ve let him down horribly. I’ve doubted him and let my own insecurities and paranoia get in the way.

  I start to apologise to Carolyn but she won’t have any of it.

  “Hey, it’s all right. I can see how things must have looked,” she says kindly. “I’d be jealous if Sam was spending all his time with you! I mean, you’re Isara Lovett! How could anyone compete with that?”

  Oh Lord. This is worse than I thought. Carolyn is nice. Really nice.

  I’d got that wrong too, of course. Like I’ve got everything wrong.

  Once she rings off, promising to ask Ollie to call the next time she sees him, I stare down at my phone and bite my lip. Not even Frankie’s reassurances, three cocktails or the soaring glory of Manhattan can make me feel any better. Party plans and reality TV wash over me just like the Hudson washes over the shoreline, and all I can think about is how soon I can get home to the man I love.

  Ollie’s in France and I’m in the USA, but the distance between us feels even further than that.

  What can I do to make things right
again?

  Chapter 28

  “I’m staying here? Seriously?”

  Frankie’s limo turns into Park Avenue and, weaving its way through swarming yellow taxis, draws up alongside a majestic hotel that stretches along the pavement right to the end of the block. A constant stream of stylish women and smart-suited men flows past, and now and again some of them turn left and spin through revolving glass doors flanked by liveried doormen.

  “Welcome to the Waldorf Astoria,” smiles Frankie.

  As one of the hotel staff opens the door for me and another takes my cases from Ivan/Igor, I crane my neck and gaze up at the hotel soaring above. It makes me feel quite dizzy. The street we’re standing in is a deep canyon walled with the tallest buildings, and from the bottom of this shadowy gorge I can just make out a slither of bright blue sky and sharp sunshine high above us. Flags rustle in the gentle breeze and countless windows stretch heavenwards, up and up and up until the iconic hotel seems as though it’s touching the clouds.

  “It’s amazing,” I breathe. “A bit different to the budget hotel I stayed in the last time! Frankie, are you sure? It must have cost you a fortune to put me up here!”

  Frankie flaps his hand dismissively and won’t look me in the eye.

  “Let’s not talk about money, sweetie-pie. It makes me feel awkward. Just enjoy!”

  Golly, it’s not like him to feel embarrassed about splashing the cash. Usually he loves to discuss the bling.

  “The Presidential Suite is right at the top,” Frankie tells me, following my gaze. “I haven’t tried it myself yet but I hear it’s stunning.”

  “The whole hotel’s stunning,” I say. And it is, it really is, but do you know what? Even one of the most magnificent hotels in the world doesn’t glitter as brightly or feel as exciting without Ollie beside me. I’d rather be in a tatty seaside B&B with him than here all alone in luxury.

  As I follow Frankie through the doors and up a wide staircase, not even the opulent gold and marble decor or the thick carpet my feet sink into raise my spirits. And neither do the sparkling chandeliers or the elegant mahogany furniture, or even the gentle harp music floating across the lobby.