Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (2 page)

It’s a lesson in looking at contracts closely too, and I’ll never make the same mistake again. Of course not! And anyway, Tansy’s great fun to hang out with and writing for her won’t do my CV any harm. She’s not signed another contract with me though, because apparently she’s far too busy with a new project – something to do with catering I think, although to be honest I wasn’t really listening. While she was talking I was trying to do some rapid mental arithmetic, in a panic-stricken attempt to work out whether we’d still be able to pay the bills without the income of a fourth Tansy book.

I’m pretty rubbish at maths, but even I could figure out that the answer to this was a very depressing “no”.

Luckily for me and my cottage roof, Tansy’s publishers have a new ghostwritten project in mind and they’ve asked me if I want to try out for it. The good news is that in all there are three books up for grabs and the royalties are much better than the Tansy ones. The bad news is that the genre they want me to write in isn’t exactly romance.

OK. I won’t beat about the bush – although this is exactly what my characters probably
will
be doing if I’m chosen to write the books – this new series is an erotic one. Not quite my forte, but how hard can it be?

How
hard
can it be? See, I’m practically there already! I’m a natural!

I glance down at the notes Throb
Publishing
have
emailed over and I have a hot flush just looking at the top sheet. It’s a miracle the staffroom printer didn’t combust when I ran this lot off before assembly. I had to snatch my pages from old Miss Myers, who’d picked them up with her RE worksheets by accident and was squinting down in amazement.

“A-level creative writing project!” I’d said hastily, almost rugby tackling her to the floor in my desperation to grab the printout. “Writing in the style of err… popular modern authors. Exam boards today, eh! What will they think of next?”

I think I’ve got away with it. I mean, exam boards do come up with the weirdest assignments, don’t they? The other day my bottom-set Year Eleven class had to write in role as creatures from
Animal Farm.
After I’d explained that this was
Animal Farm
the political allegory and not the dodgy movie they all thought I meant, I spent twenty minutes arguing with Josh Johns about whether or not animals could actually write and, if not, then why bother with the assignment? He had a good point; after all, how many bestselling novels are written by animals? About as many as are really written by celebrities, I reckon.

So, like I say, I think I got away with it. Using the school printer for personal use is a big no-no anyway, but using it to print out the brief from Throb Publishing most definitely wouldn’t put me in the good books, so to speak. Tregowan Comp’s not a bad place to work but they’re not keen on me being Tansy Topham as it is. In fact, one of the conditions of my working here is keeping this quiet in case the parents get upset and it tarnishes the school’s reputation.

I can’t see an issue myself. Most of our kids and parents love Plymouth Pirates and are glued to Tansy’s reality show. Tansy might be an ex glamour model but she’s a business woman too, isn’t she? And her handbag collection alone is probably worth more than most people’s houses. Still, beggars who need supply work can’t be choosers, and so I do my best to keep my alter ego under wraps – a bit like Bruce Wayne, I like to think. Or Wonder Woman, although I’m not sure I could get away with wearing the satin tights these days.

Just thinking about my narrow escape at the printer makes me feel a little hot under the collar. I think I need some fresh air before I risk another attempt with Lucinda and Alexi. Time for a stroll around the classroom to check on these students. One’s swinging on the back two legs of his chair, so I give him my best stare of death, which does the trick. Everyone else looks like they’re on task and utterly fascinated by the pie-chart lesson their usual teacher has set, so all is well. They’re probably just superfast at minimising the browser screen, which I do secretly admire; I’m an expert at this myself, given my tendency to scoot around the Internet when I’m supposed to be concentrating on my job. Still, at least they’re nice and quiet, which means I can get back to work.

Right, Katy, focus on this sample chapter. You can do this. Of course you can.

I pick up my pen, turn the top sheet of paper over and take a deep breath. It’s not as though I haven’t done this before. Writing to a plan is how the Tansy books work and this is no different, just a bit more… err… a bit more naked and grunty. All very natural though, I’m sure, and if you like experimenting with B&Q’s cable-tie selection probably nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve even got a very helpful synopsis and chapter breakdown of this novel right in front of me. Basically, Throb
just want an author who can churn out the next
Fifty Shades
for them. I can do this!

Except I can’t. How on earth am I supposed to give this publisher the sample first chapter of a novel that’s meant to be hotter than Brad Pitt’s Aga, when my own love life is quieter than Cornwall in January?

Brad Pitt’s
Aga
? Seriously? What’s happening to me? I used to be able to write steamy stuff with my eyes closed, or at least with thirty teenagers creating havoc around me – and I’ve got gorgeous, sexy Ollie to inspire me too, my own perfect romantic hero. The words ought to be flowing onto the page.

Let’s try again.

Alexi drew her into his arms and she felt the silken heat of his flesh as he pulled her into a burning kiss. The press of his…

Of his… his…

I chew my biro. Meat? Sausage? Baguette?

Oh Lord. Have I spent too much time eating Ollie’s lovely cooking and not nearly enough having wild and crazy sex? Will I ever be able to fix the cottage roof so that my boyfriend can finally get a good night’s sleep and remember that there’s more to do in bed than fall unconscious?

I push the papers back into the folder and heave a sigh of relief when I see it’s lunchtime in five minutes. Time to finish the lesson, scoop up the paper aeroplanes and make my students tuck in their shirts. In a moment I’ll be hotfooting it to the school canteen to try to grab my lunch before being trampled by the hungry teen stampede, and then I’ll be enjoying a welcome coffee in the staffroom.

Alexi and his sausage will just have to wait until later on.

Chapter 2

One of the best things about being a supply teacher at Tregowan Comp, apart from the obvious joy of educating young minds and exploring my subject, is the macaroni cheese served in the school canteen. Sometimes the only thing that gets me through a double period of bottom-set Year Eleven English without hurling myself out of the window and onto the chewing-gum-freckled concrete below is holding out for a dish of piping hot pasta with gooey cheese on the top. Occasionally I really push the boat out and have chips too, and then the day doesn’t seem so bad, not even when Luke Harries tells me to eff off or Bryan Kay (aged sixteen) calls his mummy to come and beat me up because I’m cruel enough to suggest he actually takes his head off the desk for two minutes and does some coursework. Sorry to disillusion you, Jamie Oliver, but junk food really does make everything better – and if you had to do my job you’d be guzzling Turkey Twizzlers by morning break, trust me.

Luckily no education secretary has yet twigged that teachers are easily placated by a free bun or a good lunch, and as I weave my way through the corridor crush – my plate held high to avoid being taken out by monster rucksacks and flailing elbows – all is well in my world. I’ve jumped to the front of the lunch queue and grabbed my food without sustaining a serious injury, coffee will be brewing in the staffroom, and then I’ve got an easy afternoon covering an art lesson. I love covering art lessons! Kids listen to their iPods and splash paint about with total concentration while I get on with my own work, which today means writing some X-rated action for Alexi and Lucinda. With some stodgy calories inside me and another read-through of the notes, I’m sure I’ll get there. I don’t actually need to be having mind-blowing sex myself to write about it, do I? That’s what imaginations are for. After all, Tolkien wasn’t a hobbit and I’m pretty sure J K Rowling isn’t a wizard.

Yes, I’m feeling so much more positive about this sample chapter, and that’s
before
I’ve even eaten my lunch.

Throb
Publishing, prepare to be amazed!

“That looks good!” Lucy Tyler, one of the English teachers, peers longingly at my lunch as I settle myself into a saggy chair and prepare to tuck in. “I’m starving. I wish I wasn’t having salad.”

Lucy is perpetually on a diet and, like me, has the willpower of a very weak-willpowered gnat. As she gazes down sadly at her Tupperware tub of limp green leaves, I can’t help but notice that the small coffee table between us is littered with sweet wrappers. Seeing me look, she turns pink.

“Rob from IT sent them over. He said they were for all of us because it’s a special day.”

Rob from IT has had a crush on Lucy for just about forever. Cue lots of blushing (him) and hair twiddling (her, not him, since he’s one of those guys who shaves his head and thinks it fools everyone into not noticing he’s going bald). It’s really quite romantic, in a
just get on with it
kind of way. Their eyes meet across the crowded staffroom, him sitting with the geeky IT crowd and her with the cool and sassy English teachers, just like Romeo and Juliet at the Montagues’ party. Sometimes they might bump into each other at the photocopier, or maybe their hands will brush when they reach for the same worksheet on teacher training days, but neither dares cross the acres of scratchy blue school carpet to declare their love. So longing looks and shared pedagogy is as far as it goes…

Hmm. Not quite the loin-grinding and nipple-hardening detail that Throb
are asking me to produce, but it’s sweet nonetheless. Maybe teacher romance is the next big thing? Snogging in the staffroom? Passion in the PE office? I make a mental note to jot some ideas down once lunch is over. Ollie’s a teacher too, so maybe he could help me with some practical research? All in the name of literature, of course, which means he can’t plead being too tired.

That’s genius! I can hardly wait to get home and—

Well, yes. That.

Lucy’s staring at me. “Are you all right, Katy? Your eyes have gone all weird and your mouth’s hanging open.”

I yank myself out of my steamy-novel planning and back into the present. I feel quite hot and bothered, and I don’t think it’s from the molten lava temperature of my macaroni cheese either.

“I’m fine. I was just thinking about the chocolates. But what’s Rob on about, saying it’s a special day?”

She turns even pinker. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

You know that dream where you suddenly find yourself naked in the middle of the high street? Well, I have a very similar feeling right now.

Oh. My. God.

Call myself a romantic novelist?

I’ve totally forgotten Valentine’s Day!

No, that’s not quite right. I haven’t
totally
forgotten Valentine’s Day. Like Christmas and Halloween and the ever so slightly schizophrenic Easter, it’s hardwired into my consciousness thanks to an endless barrage of adverts. And at this time of year the supermarket shelves are filled with so many hearts it’s tricky to know whether you’re in Tesco or a cardio ward. So on some level I’d known that Valentine’s Day was almost upon me; it’s just that lately I haven’t been able to think about anything else except having to produce this flipping sample chapter in record time. It’s how I get when I’m writing.

And now I’ve missed Valentine’s Day? Poor, poor Ollie! What must he think? I know it was still dark when he left this morning, and I think I kissed him goodbye (although I
might
have just rolled over and gone back to sleep), but how could I have let him drive to Plymouth without saying a big Valentine’s
I love you
?

Hold on. Did he wish me happy Valentine’s Day? Was there a card or present left somewhere for me to find? Is he right now waiting for his mobile to beep with a huge
thank you
from me? Or maybe there’s a dozen red roses in the sitting room that I didn’t notice because I slept through the alarm again and only just escaped getting marked late for school myself?

I fish my phone out of my bag in case I’ve missed a call from him. I sent a text at break time and usually he replies. Aha! I knew it. There’s a text.

Ring later x

A ring! Is that a cryptic comment or what? Does he mean he’s going to call me or does he mean more? He loves to play word games and he knows how my mind works. Some people might call it jumping to conclusions but they don’t know Ollie like I do.

And I may have been hinting just a little bit…

Let’s look at that text again and deconstruct it.

Ring later

Ring. Later.

There’s a deeper meaning to this. I should know. I’m an English teacher. I spend all day analysing this kind of thing. What if he’s left a ring for me to find when I get home?

He might have done! He really might! I bet that’s what he means!

Years ago when we first got together, Ollie said he wanted us to get married and not mess about wasting time. He said we knew each other so well that there was no need to wait. I’d totally agreed because I loved him and knew there and then that there would never be anyone else. As far as I was concerned we were technically engaged and all I needed was a ring. So I waited.

And waited.

And waited a bit more.

And waited even a bit more than that, but still no ring.

You know when you’re introduced to somebody and don’t take their name in properly and then for ever afterwards you can’t ask again for fear of seeming rude? Well, that’s the kind of situation I’m in with getting engaged properly. I daren’t keep asking because it will sound dead pushy, and everyone knows guys like to do things according to their own timing, don’t they? Besides, we’ve been so busy with sorting the house and paying off student debts and the general day-to-day busyness of living that the wedding thing has gone right to the bottom of the list. I know Ollie hasn’t forgotten though, because he would never have said it if he didn’t mean it. He’ll be waiting for the right time – and what better time than Valentine’s Day?