Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (11 page)

“Mock all you like, Holly Carter, but Cecily Greville came from one of the richest families in the area. Her father was a wine merchant, and believe me she’d have been worth something in any age. Before she died she told the old vicar she’d buried her life savings under the floor of the sitting room. He didn’t take her seriously, as she was quite muddled towards the end, but maybe she wasn’t as confused as we all thought?”

I’m staring at him. “She told the vicar her life savings were buried under her sitting room floor?
My
sitting room floor? And you never thought to mention that before? Not in nearly five years?”

Derrick shrugs his plump shoulders. “Sorry, maid. Never occurred to me before. Truth be told I’d all but forgotten it.”

Derrick might have been able to forget that there’s a fortune buried under my sitting room but I know I won’t be able to. It’s going to drive me mad! How on earth can I sit on my sofa now watching
EastEnders
when underneath me are squillions of pounds? I’ll never sit still again.

It’s going to be
unbearable!

If I find the missing money all our problems will be solved! I can get the roof fixed, rewire the cottage, pay off the mortgage and not write for Throb, and Ollie won’t have to work so hard. That’s what I call a result!

I
have
to find out what’s under my floor! I have to!

“Don’t you dare,” Holly says.

“Dare what?”

“Dare even think about pulling up the floorboards and looking underneath. It’s all nonsense, Katy.”

It’s scary sometimes just how well my sister knows me. Then again, she’s seen me tear my parents’ place upside down hunting for our Christmas presents.

“It might not be nonsense though. It could be true!” Frankie’s eyes are enormous. “Oh my God! Katy! There’s a fortune underneath your house, angel! I just know it!”

Frankie has a fortune in his wallet and an even bigger one in his bank account, but he couldn’t look more excited as he clutches my arm and makes plans.

“Even if there is, the money isn’t Katy’s,” says Maddy, pouring a gallon of water on my lovely sunshiny parade. “We know who it belonged to, don’t we? So it’s part of Miss Greville’s estate.”

“Which Katy purchased,” says Derrick. “The house and all that’s in it are hers.”

“And you said she had no family,” adds Frankie excitedly. “So it’s legally Katy’s! Finders keepers!”

Although Frankie is a rock star and not a lawyer, he’s speaking with such conviction that I’m convinced. “Let’s go and look now! Before Ollie comes home and tells us we’re being daft!” I say.

“You
are
being daft!” Holly’s practically shouting now. “It’s just a story!”

But my poor sister might as well talk to the beer pumps because Mads, Frankie and I are now so worked up we can hardly sit still, and no matter how many times Holly tries to calm us down we’re quite unable to hear reason. By the time we leave the pub I’m one hundred percent certain I’m only metres and minutes away from financial salvation. As soon as I’ve found a way to lift the floorboards and pull out the treasure, my lottery habit, leaky roof and rewiring bill will all be history!

“If you find anything, call me straight away,” Mads insists when we part company by the fish market.

“And if Ollie kicks you out for being a total lunatic you can sleep on our sofa,” Holly tells me. “But you’ll have to watch
Ice Road Truckers
and
Trawlermen
with Guy when he comes in from the pub, so don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

With this parting shot my sister gives me a hug and then she and Mads set off for their houses on the left-hand side of the valley. Frankie lives this way too, in a beautiful big house called Smuggler’s Rest,
but he’s far too excited to think about going home. Besides, it’s only nine o’clock, the night is still young and Ollie will only just be finishing parents’ evening. I reckon this gives me at least half an hour to peek under the floor without causing him any stress.

Once back at home I fob Sasha off with a doggy chew so that she’ll leave us in peace, then I pour Frankie and myself a couple of glasses of wine and survey the sitting room thoughtfully.

It’s a tiny cottage. How hard can this be? All I have to do is find the right spot, pull out the loot and ta-da! No more almost electrocuting myself every time I plug the telly in. Simples.

“Right,” says Frankie, rubbing his hands together gleefully, “where shall we start?”

“Derrick said the living room,” I recall. It seems an obvious choice. From what I can remember about moving in, Miss Greville had been using the living room as a bedroom during her last few months. Of course she’d have kept her life savings here where she could keep her eye on them.

“So let’s get stuck in!” Peeling off his beautiful leather jacket and the Hermès scarf, Frankie is rolling up the rug before I even draw breath to reply. He stares at the nailed-down floorboards and then asks, “Where do you keep your crowbar, sweetie?”

“My crowbar?”

“Yes, your crowbar,” Frankie repeats, hopping from foot to foot now in agitation. “We need it to prise these mofos up!”

Do you know, it’s the strangest thing but in over thirty years on this planet it’s never before occurred to me that I’m lacking one of these. But apparently, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a young woman in possession of a potential fortune must be in want of a crowbar.

“I don’t have one,” I confess.

At least, I don’t think we do – unless it’s in the shed with all the boy stuff Ollie keeps in there like… like… well, anyway, like his tools and things.

Frankie looks pained. “I love you, angel girl, but fancy not knowing where your crowbar is. It’s an utter disgrace!”

“And I suppose you know exactly where to find one at your house?”

“Of course. Gabe keeps ours under the bed.”

“Too much information!” I tell him.

Frankie laughs. “Not for anything naughty. We’re mega-famous remember? We might get a stalker or a deranged fan breaking in. Mufty can’t defend us from everyone.”

Mufty is Gabriel’s toy poodle and he has teeth like needles. If I were a stalker, I’d take the crowbar any day.

“We’ll just have to see if we can use brute strength,” Frankie decides.

Since he’s stick thin and I’ve got all the muscle tone of a rice pudding, this idea last for about five seconds. Several snapped fingernails (Frankie) and one giant splinter (me) later, we’ve totally lost heart with pulling up the floorboards by hand. Instead, we’re lying on our stomachs peering down through the cracks between the boards when Ollie walks in.

“Unless snorting dust is the latest A-list vice of choice, what on earth are you two doing?”

Frankie and I leap up as though scalded. We’d been so engrossed in shining the iPhone torch through the floorboard gaps that we hadn’t even heard the door open, although that could have been down to all Frankie’s screeching when a spider crawled across his hand. Frankie catches my eye and I know straight away that he’s not going to say anything.

Ollie slumps onto the sofa, leaning right back and closing his eyes. “Don’t tell me. Katy’s lost another earring, but without the fancy dress this time?”

“Eh?” says Frankie.

“You promised not to bring that up again,” I remind Ollie.

One eye opens and his lovely mouth curls into a smile. “I can’t resist. You made such a lovely WAG and it was such good fun helping you out of that sexy underwear.”

Frankie claps his hands over his ears. “Enough already.”

Ollie laughs. “Chillax, Frankie. Katy thought it might be a good idea to wear two pairs of control pants – until she needed the loo. Then we had an underwear trauma.”

“Double-Spanx bladder?” Frankie nods sympathetically. “Total red carpet nightmare. I feel your pain, girlfriend.”

I feel it too. Even if I live to be as old as Cecily Greville I don’t think I’ll get over the humiliation of my boyfriend having to tug putty-hued spandex over my knees. Ollie almost passed out with the effort.

“I’m not even going to ask what you two are up to now,” Ollie continues, taking off his glasses and grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “I’m so tired I can hardly think. Just don’t switch on any lava lamps.”

“Ha. Ha,” I say, getting to my feet and rolling the carpet back into place. “Actually, Ol, we were looking for hidden treasure.”

“Of course you were,” Ollie agrees wearily. “And when you’ve had enough of looking for it, could you maybe find the kettle and pop that on? I’m going to have a bath and go to bed.”

I’ve told the truth and he doesn’t believe me. How ironic is that? I have every sympathy for the little boy who cried wolf.

“He looks awful,” Frankie says once Ollie’s dragged himself off the sofa and up the stairs to run a bath. “I’ve never seen him look so tired.”

“I told you he was working too hard. He’s even going for an Assistant Head Teacher job.”

Frankie looks alarmed. “That doesn’t sound like Ol. Doesn’t he think all managers are tossers?”

He used to, until Carolyn Miles came along, but I don’t tell Frankie about her. So far I haven’t told anyone except Tansy. I don’t dare.

“I need to do something to take the pressure off him,” is all I say. “And soon.”

“And you will.” Frankie gives me a hug. “We’ll find that loot. It’s down there, I just know it – and I am never wrong. It’s all going to be fine, Katy, trust me.”

All I can do is nod because I really hope he’s right.

And if not? Well then, I just don’t know.

Chapter 9

There’s nothing harder than trying to write a book with a potential fortune underneath your feet. Never mind the temptation of Jeremy Kyle or Facebook; those I can handle. The possibility of treasure under my living room floor I simply can’t ignore.

It’s going to drive me crazy. I have to know!

It’s been four days since Derrick mentioned Cecily Greville’s life savings – four days during which I’ve been slowly and steadily going mad with not knowing. Frankie’s gone back to London to see his agent so I’ve not had access to his crowbar and, as hard as I’ve tried, my kitchen knives are no match for heavy-duty nails. So far I’ve bent three and practically severed one of my fingers in the attempt so, unless I want to type with my nose for the rest of my life, I’ll have to abandon my feeble attempts to lift the floorboards until Frankie returns. He’s made me promise I won’t peep without him being present but it’s proving very difficult to resist.

Focus on the job in hand, Katy! Focus! It’s not as though I have time to waste either, because the pressure is well and truly on since Lisa Armstrong, Throb’s Senior Commissioning Editor, called earlier with the news that they love my chapter and are hiring me as Isara Lovett, their hottest new erotic novelist.

I Lovett?
Seriously? I have to admit that, cash-strapped as I am, I almost baulked at this one. I mean, it’s hardly subtle, is it? Then again,
Kitchen of Correction
is hardly a subtle book. Alexi, the sexy Russian billionaire chef, isn’t really a subtle kind of guy either, not when he gets going with the marrows…

Still, beggars with big rewiring bills, leaky roofs and stressed boyfriends can’t be choosers, so I’ve said yes and the contracts are in the post. The Booker Prize is still a distant dream and I don’t think Radio 4 will be wanting to interview me on
Woman’s Hour
any time soon, but at least there’s a couple of grand on its way. The deadline’s very tight, though. I only have six weeks to write the thing, so I can’t waste a second.

“Is that going to be all right for you, Katy?” the editor had asked. “We appreciate it’s a very short time frame. Will you be able to make the deadline?”

“Of course!” I’d crossed my fingers, toes and eyes at this point. Anything to get my mitts on that money.

One hundred thousand words in six weeks seems perfectly doable. Even my hopeless maths is able to calculate it’s only sixteen thousand words or so a week and only just over two thousand a day. I can do that. OK, so this isn’t exactly my usual genre and I’ll have to do a little more research than I normally would (i.e. collude with Mads), but it’s perfectly possible. Kinky kitchen here I come! Or rather, kinky kitchen here Alexi and Lucinda come!

So for now I have to forget the fortune under my sofa and concentrate on justifying my advance. I have to be professional and produce the novel I’ve been paid to write. I can do this. Of course I can. It’s just like the Tansy books, only a bit more thrusty…

I take a deep breath and begin to type.

CHAPTER 2

Great! That’s a start. Maybe I should make a coffee now and have a biscuit while the muse wakes up? Or perhaps have another go at swinging Maddy’s lucky crystal over the carpet? It was a bit confused earlier and swung just about everywhere, which wasn’t quite what
Fate and Destiny
said it would do. Left for yes and right for no, I think it was. Or maybe the other way around? I’m always getting left and right muddled up, so perhaps the crystal does too – or else there’s so much treasure under there that the crystal doesn’t know what to do first? Oh my God! Of course! That’s exactly what it is! And didn’t my
Fate and Destiny
horoscope also say something about fortune’s finger pointing my way in a very unexpected manner? What could be more unexpected than finding lost loot under my own sitting room? Fortune’s finger is pointing at me! It really is!

Hold on. Didn’t the National Lottery once use a pointing finger in its advertising campaign? What if the horoscope’s saying I ought to buy some lottery tickets? And tonight the EuroMillions jackpot is meant for me?

Lord. It’s tricky trying to decipher all this cosmic stuff, but I’m feeling lucky and if I don’t act on my intuition it could cost us a fortune. Thirty quid out of the emergency bills account won’t hurt, not when this week’s jackpot is so high. Buying tickets is practically an investment!

A few mouse clicks later I’m feeling very optimistic. The winning tickets have been purchased and my success is in the bag, I just know it. Now the pressure’s off I’m sure I can settle down and write today’s chapter. Let Holly scoff all she likes about the mathematical odds of lottery success.