Katy Carter Wants a Hero (8 page)

Shit.

‘Hello, darling,’ says my guest cheerfully. ‘I’ve brought you a present.’ Reaching beneath his cloak, he pulls out a giant cactus in a blue china pot. I eye it nervously. It looks lethal. New York street gangs’ knives are blunter than the spikes on this two-foot monstrosity.

Frankie shoves the cactus into my arms, nearly turning me into a kebab. ‘We got this especially for you.’

‘It’s a fiancé replacement for all the times yours is off playing golf,’ explains Ollie, carefully turning the plant pot around to reveal my beloved’s name daubed in fluorescent green paint. ‘I think it’s a vast improvement on the other giant prick called James.’

‘Very funny,’ I hiss. ‘Bring a bottle of wine next time.’

‘I adore giant pricks,’ wheezes Frankie, whose mascara is starting to run. ‘Can’t wait to meet the real James.’

‘Now’s your chance,’ grins Ollie, and sure enough James is emerging from the sitting room looking to refill glasses. Before he spots James the Cactus and all hell breaks loose, I reverse swiftly into our bedroom and kick the door shut.

I am going to bloody kill Ollie. I might have known he’d pull a stunt like this. Talk about shaking up the evening.

As I hide the cactus beneath the pile of coats on the bed, I think murderous thoughts about what I’ll do to Ollie when I can get my hands on him.

En route back to the sitting room I take a detour via the kitchen and help myself to another glass of wine. Something tells me that nothing except getting plastered will get me through this evening.

‘So,’ Frankie is saying, gesticulating wildly with purple-tipped fingers and looking in the midst of my soberly dressed guests like a parrot who’s swooped in to have a chat with the local sparrows, ‘I quit my job to set up my own rock band.’

‘Really?’ says Ed, who appears quite curious.

‘I’ve got my demo disc with me.’ Frankie delves into his robes and pulls out a CD. ‘Shall we put it on?’

James, looking murderous, takes the disc, and seconds later Norah Jones is replaced by a din that sounds like hyenas playing the saucepans. Ears are practically bleeding.

‘Isn’t it awesome!’ says Ollie, and the worrying thing is he’s being sincere. ‘The Queens are going to be huge.’

‘Suck on it, baby!’ shrieks Frankie, eyes closed and lost in rhythm. ‘Give it to me hard!’

James presses the stop button and abruptly there’s an awkward silence.

‘Shall we eat?’ I say brightly. ‘James, would you help me with the starters, darling?’

‘What the fuck is going on?’ spits James as he bundles me into the kitchen. ‘Are you deliberately trying to ruin my chances?’

‘Don’t blame me!’ I protest, delving into our fridge and passing the starters to him. If he’s got his hands full I figure he can’t punch Ollie. ‘I didn’t know he was going to invite Frankie.’

‘You invited bloody Ollie,’ James growls, ‘so I hold you totally responsible. Just make sure you keep him under control.’

The words ‘or else’ hang heavy in the air and I gulp nervously. I have a lobster in the bath, a loony red setter in the office and the lead singer of the Screaming Queens in my sitting room. These things do not bode well.

I lay out the starters and everyone makes polite conversation. James and I try to join in, but our ‘darlings’ and ‘sweethearts’ are positively glacial and you couldn’t cut the atmosphere with a chainsaw, never mind a knife. Frankie is telling an outrageous story about one of his band members, Sophie and Helena are planning a trip to the Sanctuary and James is trying to talk business with Julius, easier said than done over Frankie’s excited cries and actions. I stab at my starter and wish it was a voodoo melon. Ollie would be rolling around clutching his guts. God knows, it feels like the entire cast of
Riverdance
is warming up in mine.

We move on to the main course, and I have to admit Ollie has done an excellent job. Frankie is too busy eating to make outrageous comments and Julius compliments me on my culinary skills. Helena pointedly restricts herself to vegetables. Well, it’s her loss. Ollie might behave like a fiend but he cooks like an angel. The steak melts on my tongue and the sauce explodes across my taste buds. Julius hoovers up seconds and even James looks mollified. Perhaps I’m going to get away with it.

But in my past life I must have been totally evil, because karma is about to come back with a double whammy. Nipping to the loo, bladder overflowing with wine, I peek round the curtains to check on Pinchy.

Who isn’t there.

Fuck.

I sink on to the loo seat feeling cold all over at the thought of a nine-pound lobster on the loose in my flat. Where on earth has it gone, the ungrateful creature? I’m starting to wish I’d let Ollie boil it alive. Lobster Thermidor has never seemed so appealing.

OK, I tell myself as I try to breathe slowly and get my heart rate down to a less cardiac-arrest-inducing rhythm. This is a small flat and that’s one big mama of a lobster. There are only so many places it can be. It’s pretty hard to lose a lobster.

Or at least I bloody hope it is.

With any luck it’s crawled into a corner somewhere and died. Or hibernated. Or whatever lobsters do in their spare time.

Escaping from the loo, I sneak into the kitchen and neck Chardonnay from the bottle. There’s no time for wine glasses when Pinchy’s on the loose. All my resolutions about not getting pissed have gone down the toilet, where I sincerely hope Pinchy has also gone. Then I attack the cheeseboard. Sod the calories; at this rate I’m not even likely to live long enough to worry. Selecting a lovely runny Brie, I whack a load on to a cracker, cram it into my mouth and chomp gratefully.

Chubster? Moi?

‘There you are!’ wheezes Julius Millard, standing in the doorway and leering at me. As he speaks he wags a finger. ‘Eating all the Brie, you naughty little minx!’

Christ! I’m not the only one who’s pissed. Julius advances like the Severn Bore and pins me against the Aga, obviously convinced that I’m totally up for it. Never in the history of the planet has anyone been more mistaken. But I’m in a tricky position, and not just because the Aga is burning a hole in my velvet flares. Do I tell Julius to piss off and risk him giving Ed the promotion out of spite, or do I bite my lip and think of England?

Actually, isn’t that called prostitution?

While I’m deliberating and Julius is all but licking his lips, there’s a sudden roar from down the corridor. At least I think it’s a roar, although perhaps it’s a scream. In any case I’m saved because Julius jumps backwards like Skippy.

‘What the hell?’ I hear James yell, and then more ominously, ‘Katy!’

‘Excuse me!’ I say brightly, ducking under Julius’s arm. ‘I think James needs me.’

My fiancé is standing in the office doorway, his face absolutely puce with rage because our minimalist box room has been transformed Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen style into Narnia. And I don’t mean lampposts and wardrobes. James’s office is white with paper. Scraps flutter in the stirred air and drift down like home-made ticker tape. The laminate floor is hidden beneath sheets and sheets of paper, James’s Apple Mac is upside down beeping feebly and the Italian leather briefcase looks as though it’s been attacked by Godzilla.

Right in the middle of all this chaos sits Sasha, chocolate eyes wide and innocent and plumy tail thumping with the joy of having her exile interrupted by so many visitors. I’m not going to point out that maybe she’s been bored and lonely because, quite frankly, I don’t think James will give a damn.

Hanging from Sasha’s drooling mouth are the remains of a blue file; the blue file that contained the report James has slaved over for weeks. The report that he was going to present to Julius tonight to prove just what an amazing partner he’d make. When I think of the hours that have gone into that report I feel sick, so goodness only knows how James must feel.

‘I can explain!’ I say quickly, putting my hand on his arm, but James shakes me off like I’m plague-ridden.

‘Don’t bother,’ he hisses.

‘But Ollie really helped me and—’

‘I said don’t bother!’ James spins on his heel and stalks down the hallway, self-righteous anger dripping from every pore. The bedroom door slams.

‘Oh dear!’ says Sophie, so loudly that lost tribes in the Amazon rainforest reach for ear plugs. ‘Was that the Amos and Amos report? Fancy leaving it in such a vulnerable position when it’s so important. My Edward would never have done that.’

‘Absolutely not,’ agrees Helena. ‘And I’m sure you would have made certain your dog was well trained, unlike that brute.’

‘She’s not a brute,’ snaps Ollie. ‘She was bored.’

‘Know how she feels,’ drawls Frankie. ‘Shall I skin up?’

I want to disappear, wish myself on the moon, anywhere but here.

Julius Millward peers into the office in confusion.

‘Darling,’ gasps Helena gleefully. ‘You’ll never guess what James has done!’

‘James didn’t do it,’ I point out. ‘This is my fault.’

Helena fixes me with a steely glare. ‘The wife of a Millwards executive should support her husband, Katy. Her role is to be his helpmeet.’

Just as I’m about to tell her to stick the 1950s wife act up her arse, there’s another howl from James. Only this time it’s pain rather than rage.

‘My God!’ splutters Julius, as my fiancé ricochets out of the bedroom. ‘Whatever’s going on?’

It’s a fair question, because James is leaping up and down and clutching his backside. Julius, Helena and Sophie stare at him, mouths opening and shutting like goldfish. Closer inspection reveals that hundreds of tiny spines are firmly embedded in the seat of his suit.

I glance across at Ollie, who meets my eyes guiltily. James the Human has just had a close encounter with James the Cactus, and I am holding my friend totally and utterly responsible.

‘Chubs!’ James is shouting. ‘Why is there a giant cactus in our bed?’

I open my mouth to explain but for once am lost for words. Unlike Frankie, who is howling with laughter.

Julius drains of colour.

‘I think we should leave,’ he says. ‘This is a lunatic asylum.’

‘There’s no need,’ I say hastily. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding. I can explain.’

‘You don’t need to,’ snaps Julius. ‘I can see exactly what’s going on. You’re a disgrace.’

‘
I’m
a disgrace? What have I done?’

‘Inviting these… these…’ Julius gestures at Frankie and Ollie. ‘These faggots! Drinking yourself into a stupor and trying to make a pass at me in the kitchen.’

‘I’m not gay!’ squeaks Ollie.

I stare at Julius Millward in amazement. ‘Why would I make a pass at you?’

‘For the promotion, I presume,’ he says.

‘That’s bollocks! You trapped me in the kitchen! He did!’ I try to catch James’s eye but he looks away.

‘Your behaviour’s shocking,’ snaps Julius. ‘How could I possibly trust James to entertain Millward Saville’s clients after tonight? You’re not the sort of wife I’d expect one of my partners to choose.’

‘James is marrying me because he loves me! Not because he needs someone to entertain his clients,’ I tell Julius. ‘Right, James?’

James remains silent, studying the hall floor intently.

Oh. Maybe not, then.

‘Fetch your coat, Helena,’ barks Julius.

‘I’ll get it,’ creeps Sophie.

‘And you,’ adds Julius, glaring at James, yellowy moustache bristling in indignation, ‘had better think carefully about the type of people you associate with if you want to get anywhere at Millwards.’

‘Julius, please,’ pleads James, dragging his attention away from the parquet floor. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding.’

Is it? Abruptly the room starts to spin and roll and I realise that I am in fact very drunk indeed.

‘Actually, it’s not.’ I tell him, suddenly feeling very brave. With the exception of Ollie and even Frankie, I can’t bear these people. They are a bunch of… tossers! Why am I so worried about what they think of me? Why can’t they just laugh and enjoy themselves? Sasha didn’t deliberately sabotage the report; I didn’t make James sit on a cactus. I sneak a look at him trying to subtly pluck spikes out of his trousers and bite back a giggle. This is
really
funny! What’s the matter with them all?

I try hard not to laugh, but when Sophie hands Helena her Louis Vuitton tote and a crimson claw pokes out, practically giving her the V, I can’t contain myself any more. Laughter bubbles up like a geyser.

‘We’re leaving,’ barks Julius. ‘I can’t spend another minute in this madhouse. Young man,’ he adds to James, ‘if you want promotion and to move in the right circles, I suggest you find yourself a more suitable fiancée!’

The room is rocking now, dipping and rolling like crazy. I feel liberated, rebellious and strong.

And maybe just a little bit pissed…

My legs buckle and I slither to the floor, tears rolling down my cheeks as I watch the claw waving jauntily at me.

‘Bag,’ I gasp, pointing. ‘Your bag!’

‘How dare you call me a bag? I’ve never been so insulted in all my life!’ shrieks Helena.

‘Really?’ mutters Ollie.

‘Your bag!’ I wheeze again, clutching the stitch in my side. ‘Not
you’re
a bag,
your
bag!’

But I’m drowned out by the strains of Helena screaming blue bloody murder as she discovers the stowaway. Julius Millward turns purple with rage, James is prostrate with horror and Frankie’s laughing so hard that his mascara drips on to the floor. The hall starts to shift and buck like a fairground ride and I close my eyes giddily. Abruptly everything goes black.

Which is probably just as well.

I’m dying.

Seriously, I’m pretty sure I’m on my way to meet my maker. Or, knowing my luck lately, I’m off to the other place.

Anyway, I hope the end comes soon because it feels like somebody is driving a JCB around my skull and scooping out huge slushy wodges of brain. And just for good measure they’ve got a pneumatic drill going too, somewhere just above my left eye, in a relentless beating rhythm. So much for all that being half in love with easeful death Keats bollocks, this feels like the Terminator has come round to practise on me.