Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (3 page)

My imagination is really up and running now. Desert Orchid has nothing on me. I know it’s totally unfeminist, and my parents would be bitterly disappointed in me (“Marriage is just so
bourgeois
, Katy!”), but I would really, really like to get married.

There. I’ve said it. Embarrassing or what? So
not
cool or twenty-first century or feminist. I’m supposed to want to be an astronaut or a nuclear physicist or prime minister or something like that, not harbour secret dreams of white dresses, bridesmaids and glittery diamond rings.

I know my mother would roll her eyes and make some remark about slavery to patriarchy (which is pretty ironic, since I don’t think my father has done any of his own ironing since about 1979), but the truth is I don’t like heights, I’m rubbish at science, and the House of Commons is far too similar to the school playground for my liking. I’d just like to be Mrs Oliver Burrows.

(And a bestselling novelist, of course.)

Anyway, I think I’ve kept my thoughts on all this pretty much to myself. In an age when experimenting with gender, sexuality and even cable ties is the norm, it feels as though the last and biggest taboo of all is wanting to get married.

Did I say married?

Shush!

Not so loud, Katy!

Seriously, when I paid for my latest copy of
Brides
magazine yesterday, I couldn’t have felt more self-conscious if I’d been buying hard-core porn. As I passed my money over I muttered, “It’s for a friend”, then shoved the magazine in my bag as fast as possible. As soon as I was home I hid it in the drawer where I keep my Tampax and all the other girl-specific stuff Ol’s never likely to root through when hunting for a spanner or something. My credit card statements live there too now, since he busted me by finding them under the sink. Anyway, so far so good. I don’t want to look desperate or for him to feel under any pressure. When Ol proposes properly (and I’m sure he will one day soon because, leaky roof and quiet love life aside, we really have had a brilliant five years together) I don’t want him to feel railroaded into it. I actually think I’ve done a good job of not looking too needy or too desperate; any hints I drop are so subtle Ollie probably doesn’t even notice them. The couple of times I have
accidentally
left wedding magazines lying about he’s used them as coasters and I don’t think he even realised what they were.

Subliminal and subtle. That’s the best way.

I just wish it wasn’t so slow.

But now my hopes are sky high because it’s Valentine’s Day, Ol’s said nothing and I’m one hundred percent certain he’s planning something amazing.

“Katy! I said are you all right?”

Lucy’s voice, fully trained in the art of silencing thirty teenagers at fifty paces, rips me out of a very pleasant daydream where Ol is slipping a gorgeous diamond ring onto my finger (and not one from a Haribo packet like he once threatened) and saying all the romantic things that he’s been waiting five years to say. It’s pretty depressing to find myself in the staffroom, surrounded by the detritus of a tub of Miniature Heroes and a plate of congealing macaroni cheese.

“Fine! Fine!” I say quickly.

“You haven’t touched your lunch.” Lucy’s eyeing up my food the way teenage girls eye up Harry Styles. It’s weird but I’m so excited at the thought of what’s going to happen when I get home this evening that my appetite’s totally vanished.

“Do you know what? I don’t think I want it after all. You have it,” I say, and Lucy’s forking up the macaroni cheese even before I’ve finished speaking.

“You must eat something,” she says through a huge mouthful. “Have a chocolate.”

My hand hovers over a miniature Flake. I shouldn’t really stuff my face with sweets though, if I’m going to be squeezing into a wedding dress any time soon.

“One won’t hurt,” Lucy adds.

“Bloody hell!” exclaims a voice from the coffee machine. “You’re not still scoffing sweets are you, Luce? Thought you said you were on a diet?”

Steph, our Head of English, weaves her way through the heaving staffroom and slops a stained coffee mug onto the table, liberally coating Lucy’s marking, before hurling herself into a chair. Pushing her long hair back from her face, she helps herself to a mini Crunchie and munches furiously.

“I’m starving! What moron decided to move lunchtime to one-fifteen? I was almost gnawing my desk.”

“The later lunchtime is better for the students,” Lucy says piously. “They learn more consistently in the mornings. It’s all about accelerated learning.”

Steph helps herself to another chocolate. “Bugger the students. What about me? And Katy. She looks bloody awful. What’s happened? Just found out you’re covering bottom-set Year Seven art this afternoon? They painted the last supply teacher blue and chased him out of the room with the lino-cutting knives. Ha! Ha!”

Bollocks. That’s the exact class I have this afternoon. Goodbye quiet hour with Alexi and Lucinda, and hello
Lord of the Flies
with paint. Just my luck.

“Katy forgot Valentine’s Day,” Lucy tells Steph, who raises her eyebrows.

“You’re a disgrace, woman. How dare you neglect the lovely Mr Burrows? I’ve a good mind to steal him away from you.”

“Get in the queue,” Lucy sighs. “I saw him before you.”

“Hello, people? I am here,” I say. “Me. Katy Carter? Ollie’s girlfriend?”

“Did you hear something?” Steph asks Lucy, who shakes her head. And then they cackle like something out of
Macbeth
.

I raise my eyes to the suspended ceiling. My colleagues are staunch members of the Ollie Burrows Fan Club and, in spite of the fact that
I
am the founder member thank you very much, they never miss a chance to tell me how wonderful my boyfriend is. As if I didn’t know! Everyone adores Ollie, from Sasha our dog to my parents to the grumpy woman in the petrol station who can just about grunt when I go in but is all smiles for Ol. He’s got that special magic: everything from his twinkly toffee eyes to his cute smile to his personality is gorgeous, and people just love him.

I
love him.

Anyway, before he headed off to Plymouth to become a very serious Head of English, Ollie worked at Tregowan Comp and he was popular with everyone – from the dinner ladies who gave him extra-big portions to the hardest kids and even Steph, who for all her talk about
little sods
and
buggers
is one of the most dedicated teachers I’ve ever come across. When Ollie left the school it was like somebody had died, and even though I’m sometimes drafted in on supply to fill the gaps I know I’m a very poor second.

Even a year on since he left, Steph’s still mourning Ollie’s departure. She and Lucy are talking now about what a fantastic job he’s doing in his new school. I’m sure he is too (he certainly works hard enough), but I can’t help thinking life was more fun when he worked here and was home by five most evenings, and when the extent of his ambition was going out to grab a kebab. Nevertheless, I arrange my face into an
I totally agree
expression and nod sagely. A couple of times I check my phone, just in case, but no such luck.

Maybe he’s waiting for me to find the engagement ring and call him?

Yes! I bet that’s it! Come on, three-thirty! I have to get home!

“Is Carolyn Miles still Deputy Head at St Jude’s?” Steph is asking, unwrapping her fifth chocolate and ignoring the look of panic on Lucy’s face. “Blonde? Scarily efficient? Drives a red convertible?”

“The one who looks like a model?” Lucy pushes the empty pasta plate aside and grabs a handful of sweets while she still has the chance. “I met her on a course once. She scared the life out of me.”

Lucy isn’t alone. I’ve met Carolyn Miles a few times and she scares the life out of me too. Tall, slim and blonde, she’s like some data-crunching senior management Bond villainess, and whenever our paths cross I feel like I’ve been sent to her office for a stern telling off. Ollie works very closely with her, but that doesn’t worry me because I know he loves me and Carolyn is my total opposite so, ha! She doesn’t stand a chance.

I hope…

“Wouldn’t want her working with
my
boyfriend,” says Steph.

“You don’t have a boyfriend,” Lucy points out.

Steph shrugs. “Well if I did have one, especially one as lush as Ollie, then. No way would I want him working with Carolyn. From what I’ve heard, all her male colleagues end up joining the Miles High Club!”

I’m hoping this is a joke but even if it is, I’m not laughing. I’m trying to come up with a mature and sensible retort (other than
sod off, Steph
) when the end-of-break bell sounds. Not one member of staff stirs – apart from Lucy, who sweeps up her books, shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and scurries out. Outside, I watch the kids moving as slowly as it’s possible for teenagers to move. As one they chew and swear their way across the campus. Well, there’s no putting it off any longer; death by art class it is.

I really hope I make it home in one piece. I can hardly wait to find my engagement ring, and I’ve had a brilliant idea about what I can do to prove to Ollie just how much I love him too.

This is going to be the best Valentine’s Day ever, I just know it!

Chapter 3

Alexi’s eyes glittered dangerously as they raked Lucinda’s  flesh.

“Delicious,” he murmured. “Now, step forward and take off your clothes.”

Lucinda’s mouth trembled. She was consumed with such longing that she thought she would swoon. Her gaze dropped to the cable ties held in his strong and pleasure-promising hands and her heart raced. She ought to step away, run back to the office and back to her job as a sous chef at Alexi Gould Hotels International, but Lucinda’s inner goddess was telling her…

Telling her…

Oh Lordy. I have no idea what Lucinda’s inner goddess is telling her.

Run for the hills? Take the cable ties home and sort out the macramé behind the telly? Never cover a bottom-set Year Seven art lesson again if you like classroom ceilings that aren’t splattered with paint and don’t think having
KIK ME!
daubed on your back in vermillion is amusing? Maybe the inner goddess is saying
give up trying to write erotica, Katy
?

Forget writer’s block. I should be so lucky. This is writer’s constipation and unless I can find the literary equivalent of syrup of figs very soon I’m in big trouble, and so are my finances. Usually I can write anywhere. On a train. In a classroom. Even in the bath. Voices come into my head and chat away to me and I write it all down as soon as I have a pen and paper to hand. Alexi and Lucinda just don’t want to play ball – presumably because it’s adult games they ought to be playing and, good as my imagination is, I can’t quite stretch it far enough. I need a little real-life inspiration, hence why I’m in the Tregowan general store with a wire basket looped over the crook of my arm.

And, FYI, I am not looking for cable ties.

It’s after school now and, having made it out alive, I’m in the village shop cruising the aisles for romantic dinner inspiration. Like writing erotic novels, cooking isn’t really my forte. Fortunately Ollie, who’s a brilliant chef thanks to a stint in culinary boot camp courtesy of his ex, generally takes care of the meals and does all of our cooking. If I say so myself I do make a mean slice of toast and Marmite and I have been known to stretch to pesto and pasta, but generally (and so that we don’t starve or die from food poisoning) we divide the labour up so that he cooks and I do other stuff. Like… like…

Well. Lots of things, I’m sure. Far too many to even start to list, which is why I’m struggling to think of any.

Anyway, Ollie knows I’m no cook, so preparing a really romantic dinner says loads about just how much I love him. And hopefully I won’t poison him either. But what’s easy to make and won’t take very long? I don’t want to waste valuable ring-hunting time sautéing and blanching and all those other weird and wonderful things they do on
MasterChef
. Basically if it doesn’t take sixty seconds and go ping then I don’t want to know.

During the few blissful moments when the bottom-set art class weren’t trying to flick paint at the ceiling or graffiti on me, I managed to Google “easy recipes” and I think I’ve found one for risotto that fits the bill. It’s only rice and a few other bits and bobs – and, best of all, lots of wine goes in too – so how hard can it be? I never knew there were quite so many varieties of rice though. Call me stupid but I thought rice was rice; pop it in the microwave for two minutes and ping! Ben’s your Uncle!

But no. Apparently it’s not that simple because there are endless varieties of rice to choose from. Pudding. Basmati. Arborio. Jasmine. Brown. White. Green with pink spots. OK, I may have made that last one up, but you get the drift. I feel overwhelmed looking at them all. Since when did the Tregowan village shop get so sophisticated? This isn’t trendy Rock or foodie heaven Padstow. I’m feeling a bit cross-eyed actually.

I’m still squinting at the packets and wondering which variety to use when Maddy bowls in with Bluebell and Rafferty in tow. At least I think it’s my godchildren whose wrists are clamped inside her fingers, but it’s hard to tell since one’s dressed as Spiderman and the other appears to now be some kind of Ninja Turtle.

“Fancy-dress party,” Mads explains when I enquire about their attire. “As if I don’t have enough to do without having to try and make costumes and bake fairy cakes, now I’ve got to find a sodding card.”

“Don’t swear, Mummy,” says Spiderman piously. This has to be Rafferty because he sounds just like his father. How terrifying is that? I’m nervous; he’ll be asking me where I stand with Jesus if I don’t get out of here pronto.

“I said spodding,” Mads tells him, rolling her eyes at me. “Never have kids, Katy. It’s like living with the bloody Gestapo.”

“You said bloody,” pipes up Donatello or whichever turtle Bluebell has chosen as her alter ego today. “Daddy will be very cross and Jesus will be very sad.”