Katy Carter Keeps a Secret

Katy Carter Keeps a Secret

by

Ruth Saberton

A Katy Carter novel

Edition 4 US Version

Copyright

All characters, organisations and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed in this book are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and / or legal right to publish all materials in this book.

Copyright © 2016 Ruth Saberton

Editor: Jane Griffiths

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher. If you wish to share this book please do so through the proper channels.

www.ruthsaberton.com

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

In 2010 my first novel, KATY CARTER WANTS A HERO, was published and my life changed forever. It had always been a cherished dream of mine to be an author and I’d written ever since I was a child -  mostly stories about ponies – and as I grew older the passion for telling stories only grew stronger (as did my love of horses and horse riding, although that’s another story!) In between teaching English at a big comprehensive school and moving to Cornwall, I wrote several novels - all of which were rejected by agents and publishers. Many times I felt close to giving up but when I met a well known author who advised me to “write about what you know and never give up” I picked myself up and penned KATY CARTER WANTS A HERO, the story of an English teacher who moves to Cornwall to follow her dream of being a writer.

The rest is history. This novel attracted the attention of TV’s Richard Madeley and Judy Finnigan as well as being splashed across the national press – feel free to Google that! Katy’s adventures and her pet lobster, Pinchy, touched a chord with readers and to my delight many people enjoyed the book and were kind enough to write and tell me. It was even shortlisted for the UK Romantic Novelists’ Association’s ROMANTIC COMEDY OF THE YEAR award in 2011.

 As time went on it was unusual for a week to pass without receiving an email asking me what happens next for Katy and whether there would be a sequel. I thought about this and an idea came to me but I knew that, like me, Katy needed a little time to reach the next stage of her life. Has she changed? Is she still as impulsive and scatty? Now that would be telling!

By the start of this year I felt ready to write the next part of Katy’s story and it’s been the greatest fun to catch up with her. In KATY CARTER KEEPS A SECRET we rejoin Katy and her friends about five years on from the end of the first book and ready to set out on a new adventure. I have loved writing this story and I really hope you’ll have fun reading it. If you do, I would really appreciate a review on Amazon or GoodReads. These make all the difference to the success of a book and are like gold dust for writers.

I love to hear from my readers. Contact me at
[email protected]
and please visit my website,
www.ruthsaberton.co.uk
for my blog and news of upcoming books.

Brightest wishes,

x
Ruth
x

Chapter 1

Alexi reached forward to unlace Lucinda’s tight bodice. Her heart was racing beneath the swell of her breasts and she moaned with desperate need. She wanted him so much it hurt and this desire was the most exquisite torture she’d ever known. If she didn’t protest now he would surely ravish her and then…

And then… and then…

My pen hovers over the page, just as up for whatever happens next as good old quivering Lucinda, but unfortunately for my heroine I haven’t a clue what that’s going to be. I know in
theory
what’s supposed to happen next. You don’t get to your thirties and not know, do you? Especially when you’ve been with the love of your life for almost five years. So of course I know. Every time I look at my boyfriend Ollie my insides turn to soggy Weetabix.

Soggy Weetabix
? What kind of image is that? I can do better than soggy Weetabix! At least I hope I can, or I can kiss goodbye to securing this latest ghostwriting contract. If not, it’ll be even more supply teaching and there’ll be no way to mend our leaking cottage roof or clear the overdraft. No wonder my boyfriend – unlike the always-up-for-it Alexi – is so tired all the time. He’s exhausted from the constant plugging of leaks and listening to staccato rain dripping into buckets all night long. I have to get this ghostwriting job. I have to!

My love life and our finances depend on it.

Talking of supply teaching, I’d better make sure today’s bunch of Year Nines are getting on with the work I’ve set them. They’ve been suspiciously quiet for the past twenty minutes, but then it is an ICT lesson and they probably haven’t twigged that playing on the computers is actually work.

I glance up from my page and scan the classroom just to make sure that nobody’s throttling a friend with a tie/smoking/playing on their phone, but all is calm.

Go me! I’ve nailed it! Being a supply teacher is a tricky job and some prankster usually feels duty-bound to try and push it with a new face, but this group of students are behaving beautifully so far. I don’t
think
this has anything to do with my telling them that their computers are bugged and that the Headmaster can see everything they’re up to, or my playful threat of letting them out for lunch so late they’ll have no hope of reaching the canteen pre-stampede. I also
may
have let slip that earlier on I overheard the dinner ladies saying there was a shortage of chips today…

I’m sure I was quite a nice person before I was a secondary school teacher. Now I’m a grand master of psychological chess and such an expert teen whisperer I should have my own show on Sky. These are great skills in the classroom, of course, but not much use if you aspire to be a bestselling novelist – which is still what I want more than anything in the world. Actually that should be what I want
almost
more than anything in the world, because what I really want is for Ollie to stop working so hard in his Head of English job. If I could only write a bestseller and make squillions of pounds he wouldn’t have to push himself for all these promotions. Then we could go back to the way things used to be before bills and listed cottages and his career got in the way. And if he doesn’t fall asleep on the sofa every night we might even put Alexi and Lucinda to shame. You never know!

I chew my pen and return to my notebook. Think, Katy, think. How hard can it be? You’ve written a screenplay and you’ve been a ghostwriter in the past too, so this should be a doddle.

It’s thanks to my ghostwritten books that I’ve got a shot at this new series in the first place. You’ve probably seen them; in fact, if you’ve been through an airport or a motorway services area in the last three years or trundled your trolley along the paperback aisle in Tesco, then you’ll definitely have seen my books. With their scarlet covers, brash gold font and muscle-bound heroes literally bursting off the front of them, they’re pretty hard to miss. Subtle isn’t the way to describe a Tansy Topham novel.

Yes! I’m Tansy Topham! Me, Katy Carter! Incredible but true!

OK, so I’m not really Tansy. Obviously not! She’s a leggy blonde ex glamour model married to a top Plymouth Pirates striker and I’m a short, ginger teacher living with St Jude’s Head of English – but the words inside those scarlet covers are all mine, every single breathless one of them. I’m a bestselling novelist in disguise, which is great, of course, but not
quite
how I thought things would turn out.

When my first book,
Heart of the Highwayman,
became a screenplay I really thought that was it; I was up and running. The ink had barely dried on the contract and already I was mentally lobbing my teaching folders into the skip, packing our suitcases and relocating to Hollywood. I’d even picked us a fantastic house to rent in Beverly Hills, close to all the major studios and handy for bumping into film stars and Kardashians – who, as I keep having to explain to Ollie, aren’t
Star Trek
aliens but THE most famous family on this planet. It was all looking perfect. Even though Ol kept telling me not to let my imagination run away, I was convinced that this was it. Boy wizards and vampires were so yesterday, and historical blockbusters were the next big thing for sure.

Except they weren’t.

Thanks a lot, Christian Grey.

Cable ties and red rooms of pain aren’t quite my forte. Just ask Ollie. The wiring in our cottage makes Spaghetti Junction look organised, and when it comes to pain I’m such a wimp that I’ll scream the place down if I have a splinter. Every time my best friend Mads tells childbirth horror stories I clap my hands over my ears and sing
la la la
very loudly until she gives up. Seriously, I’m more than happy to believe that Rafferty and Bluebell were delivered by the daft-names stork.

As for sadomasochism and kinky sex? If a girl’s spent a long day being mentally beaten in a secondary school classroom, the last thing she needs is another round when she gets home. A hot bubble bath and a big glass of wine are much more like it. And BDSM? I’d thought that was something to do with beefburgers in the eighties, until Mads handed me her copy of
Fifty Shades
and insisted I read it.

“It might help you and Ollie,” she’d said kindly. “Richard and I have been very inspired by it.”

Ew. Much as I love my best friend and can just about tolerate her vicar husband, the mere thought of how they might have been inspired was enough to put me right off my school lunch. I’d skimmed the book, blushed a bit, then returned it and thought not much more about it until I realised this was what the whole world wanted to read now.

So, to cut a long story short, Ollie and I never did go to LA and I’m still supply teaching at Tregowan Comprehensive School. But I haven’t given up my dreams of being a famous writer. Of course not! I know that sweeping romantic sagas will come back around and my time will come. All I have to do is wait.

In the meantime I’ve needed to find a way of making enough money to keep our cottage from falling down around our ears. Listed cottages that dip their toes into one of England’s most picturesque harbours are all very well in theory, but maintaining one costs more than a class-A drug habit. And this isn’t an exaggeration, because our friend Gabriel Winters – yes
the
Gabriel Winters the movie star – told Ollie just how much that might be. And honestly? I actually think a cocaine addiction would be cheaper than running the gauntlet with the planning people and English Heritage.

Maintaining our cottage was certainly getting tricky on just Ollie’s teaching salary and my dwindling royalties from
Highwayman.
I’d needed a solution and fast. When Tansy Topham’s agent contacted me looking for a ghostwriter for a series of “light-hearted sexy romps” I’d been thrilled. It didn’t matter that I was only top of a very short shortlist because I was the writer nearest to Plymouth and Tansy couldn’t be bothered travelling far to attend meetings in between her hectic schedule of manicures and shopping. Nor was I worried that these books were hardly works of great literature. I didn’t even care that the royalties were just a one off payment. No! In a fit of agentless and leaky-roofed desperation I signed the contract and grabbed the one-off advance with both hands.

Hmm. Possibly
not
my wisest financial decision, seeing as the books have sold squillions and kept Tansy very nicely in designer bags and Caribbean holidays. And I probably should have spotted the clause which stipulated I couldn’t write for anyone else while I was under contract, buy hey! These things are all a learning curve, right? And besides, Tansy’s great fun and we’ve had a hoot coming up with plotlines together. What I actually mean by this is that I drive over to Tansy and Tommy’s mock-Tudor house, chat to Tansy and give her some ideas, she nods and says, “Sounds great, babes,” and then I go home and write them into books. It’s hours of work and a few quid for me and about five minutes and loadsamoney for her, but then she’s the famous WAG and I’m just an English teacher from a small Cornish fishing village. I don’t mind really. After all, it’s good experience and I can genuinely say that I am a bestselling novelist, even if this is in disguise and I still have to grovel to the bank manager.