Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (7 page)

“Nothing so exciting. It’s evening teacher training,” I tell her. “Ollie has to deliver a session on data analysis and exam-grade predictions. It’s all really complicated stuff.”

“Blimey,” says Mads. “And there was me thinking it was all about chalk, leather elbow patches and confiscating fags.”

“Where on earth do you get your ideas about school?
Grange Hill
? It’s all interactive white boards and suits these days, and the kids are way too busy sexting to worry about cigarettes. Just you wait until the twins are teenagers.”

She grimaces. “I’m dreading it already; believe me, nursery school’s bad enough. But, listen, if Ollie’s got all this extra responsibility with data, surely that explains why he’s working so hard and staying late at school? If it’s as complex as it sounds then he’s got to be right on top of it all, hasn’t he? Especially if he wants to be promoted in the future or something.”

“But that’s the thing, Mads! This is Ollie we’re talking about here. Ollie! The man who likes surfing and rock climbing and playing on his Xbox. Since when was he worried about being promoted? It’s not like him at all. He’s totally changed since he moved to St Jude’s! He’s become so ambitious.”

And what if Carolyn Miles is the reason?
I add silently. I’m not going to say anything about my fears to Mads yet. I know that if I do she’ll be like a dog with a bone and there won’t be a minute’s peace until we’ve done something hare-brained like staking out St Jude’s so that Maddy can have a good gander at the opposition. But the worry is still there and, like a pair of too-tight leggings, is making me very uncomfortable. I trust Ollie, I do, but Carolyn’s so groomed, so driven, so
grown up
– and I’m just none of those things, am I? What if somebody like her is actually what he needs, rather than daydreaming me with my trail of toast crumbs and ink-stained fingers?

I love Ollie with all my heart and soul. He’s my special best friend, my other half and the person whose very existence makes me smile every day – but what if I’m no longer what he needs?

This thought makes my stomach swoop with horror.

“More wine,” Mads says, catching sight of my face. Jumping up, she heads for the fridge. Returning with another bottle and twisting off the screw cap, she refills our glasses and settles back onto the sofa. “I think you’re worrying too much about Ollie, babes. None of us are twenty-five anymore and it’s not unusual for a guy to want promotion at our age. Richard was just the same: he wanted his own parish and the chance to prove himself. That’s why we came to Tregowan.”

I nod but I’m not convinced. Richard and Ollie are nothing alike. The Rev probably won’t be happy until he’s Archbishop of Canterbury or something, but Ollie’s never been the kind of person who wanted to follow the management route. Something’s changed but I’ve no idea what.

“My guess is he wants to prove himself in his new school,” Mads concludes. “From what you tell me that’s going to be really hard work, so he’ll have to put in a lot of time and effort. I wouldn’t read too much into any of it if I was you.”

She’s right. Of course she is. I know how hard heads of departments in secondary schools have to work, and this certainly accounts for Ollie being exhausted and stressed. I’m shattered after just a day of supply teaching, so it’s no wonder he’s worn out. But what this doesn’t explain is why he felt the urge to take the job in the first place. If it’s because we need the money, then I’d feel dreadful. I have to find a way of taking the pressure off him and pulling my weight financially, which could start with winning the contract to write for Throb…

Writer’s block is not an option. It’s time for that brainstorming session.

I’m just reaching into my bag to dig out the brief when a pyjama-clad Rafferty pads into the sitting room demanding a drink. With ruffled dark curls, pink chubby cheeks and a teddy bear clutched to his chest he looks so cute that even my hard teenager-teaching heart melts. I have the cutest godchildren! OK, so as a godmother I’m a bit lacking in the moral and religious parts of my duties, but with Richard at the helm I’m sure they’re more than well provided for on that score. I’m very good at other bits such as the buying of McDonald’s and accidentally teaching them swear words. I’m also an excellent teller of bedtime stories and, as soon as he clocks me, Rafferty demands one.

“No way,” his mother says sternly. “It’s way past bedtime. You need to get straight back up those stairs.”

Rafferty’s bottom lip juts out. Then he sees the two wine bottles on the table and his eyes widen.

“Grown-up drink! Daddy says no grown-up drink! Naughty Mummy!”

Ah yes. Just to complicate life Richard and Maddy have given up alcohol for Lent, or rather Richard has and his wife is humouring him. Personally, I’d have given up being bossed about by the Rev, and for a bit longer than Lent too – but Mads says give and take is all part of a marriage and, anyway, what Richard doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“But isn’t that lying?” I’d asked, a bit confused by the moral quicksand I’d found myself immersed in. But Mads just grinned and said she’d crossed her fingers when they’d agreed. I’m still not convinced this would stand up in a court of law or with Jesus either if he were to pop in and enquire, but since I’m not a vicar’s wife, or anyone’s wife actually, what do I know?

“That’s Katy’s drink,” Mads says swiftly, shooting me a look that says part of being a godmother is very definitely letting Mummy off the hook while I look like a complete booze hound. “Mummy’s going to have a nice cup of tea.”

“One bottle. Two bottles.” Rafferty counts. “Is Katy always very thirsty, Mummy? Is that why Daddy says she drinks too much?”

“Daddy doesn’t say that!” Mads is bright red. And so she should be. I’m losing count of how many times I take the blame for whatever madcap scheme she’s dreamt up. Thinking I’m a lush is probably one of the nicer opinions he holds of yours truly.

“He does! And he said—”

“Bed! Now!” With a face hotter than the wood burner, Mads leaps up from the sofa and scoops her son into her arms, presumably before he can drop his parents in it any further.

“I’ll pop the
kettle
on shall I?” I say sweetly, and Mads flushes an even deeper crimson.

“Back in a minute,” she promises and heads upstairs. With every step I hear Rafferty demanding a story and, suspecting that stories operate in a similar fashion to forgetful sweets, I distract myself by having a rummage through the jumble. Several avalanches later I’ve unearthed a couple of dog-eared Jilly Coopers and a funky lava lamp that wouldn’t look out of place in Austin Power’s shag pit.

“Have it,” Mads insists when she eventually rejoins me. “I’ll pop a donation into the funds on your behalf.”

“Feeling guilty about letting your son believe his godmother is Tregowan’s answer to George Best?” I ask, and Mads sighs.

“You know how seriously Richard takes these things. If he thought I’d cheated he’d feel utterly betrayed. I can’t let him down. Not when he’s trying so hard and hasn’t cracked at all. I really appreciate you covering for me when I slip up.”

“Slip up? Mads, you’ve had the best part of a bottle!”

“So would you if you had to sort out all that jumble! Besides, I can’t help it if I’m not as strong-minded as Richard, can I?”

Strong-minded is a nice way of putting it. The Rev’s about as flexible as a steel girder and Mads has the self-control of… of… well, of something with zero self-control. Every year she cheats at Lent and every year I end up covering for her. It wasn’t so bad when it was chocolate or shopping she’d given up; I could take the blame for those and just look like a greedy spendthrift. But appearing to be a raging alcoholic is hardly conducive to my reputation – or Ollie’s, for that matter. The last thing Ollie needs now that he’s so career-minded is anyone at St Jude’s hearing
that
about me.

“Let me make it up to you by coming up with some amazing ideas for your sample chapter,” says Mads, who knows exactly how to get around me. “Let’s have another
cup of tea
and get brainstorming. Just you wait! In a couple of hours’ time your notebook will be so hot it’ll burst into flames!”

So, fortified by more wine, we work our way through the guidelines from Throb and Mads puts her thinking cap on. Before long I’m making notes on things I haven’t even imagined and she’s right! It’s so hot I’m having to fan my cheeks with the A4 sheets. By the time Richard arrives home (the wine glasses having been safely washed up and put away, and two mugs of very non-alcoholic coffee having been placed innocently in front of us), I have so many ideas that my head’s spinning. I kiss my best friend goodnight, wave to Richard and head back home, filled with optimism.

I can do this. I know I can. The Throb
contract is as good as in the bag. Alexi and Lucinda had better be ready – they’re in for a very busy time!

Chapter 6

I love Saturdays! There’s nothing better than waking up with the blissful knowledge that the whole weekend is still ahead, brimful of possibilities and acres of free time. It’s impossible to lie in when there are seagulls tap-dancing on the rooftop and a boisterous red setter leaping onto the bed demanding walks and attention, so usually Ollie and I get up early and have breakfast together before taking Sasha for a long walk.

OK, maybe I’m using a little bit of artistic licence here. What I should say is that we have breakfast together and then Ollie and Sasha go for a long walk while I potter around the house and think about writing my book, which can take ages. Sometimes they’re back before I’ve even typed a word. This is because thinking about writing a book is a very serious thing indeed, and although Ollie reckons I’m just wasting time checking Facebook and Instagram, what he doesn’t realise is that this is all a major part of the creative process. All the famous writers are on the Internet – and very busy they are too, tweeting and Facebooking and pinning things on virtual pinboards. Reading what they put there is like attending a digital masterclass, and there are loads of funny video clips of cats too (although I only look at those as a break from research, of course). But honestly, I can spend hours just getting into the writing zone.

Anyway, Saturday’s usually a relaxed day of writing and chilling out and generally just enjoying some spare time together, although recently Ollie hasn’t had much of this. He’s been spending Saturday afternoons planning lessons or grading coursework while I pop over to see Mads or to visit Holly. I hadn’t realised quite how much his job had been eating into our time together until I started to really think about it, but now that I have noticed I’m worried.

Ollie is working far too hard.

Take this Saturday, for example. It’s one of those beautiful crisp and sunshiny days, without the usual rain and sea mists that tend to be wrapped around Tregowan like a scarf for most of the winter. Even
I
woke up feeling eager to go for a walk. I didn’t bark or jump around on the bed like Sasha but I did share her enthusiasm for going out along the cliffs and letting the cold air blast the cobwebs away. I’ve been working pretty hard on my sample chapter too, and unless I want to contract a bad case of writer’s bum, going for a walk is a great idea – especially if we make it as far as the next town and can buy pasties. A pasty always motivates me to do some exercise.

“I can’t,” Ollie says. Even though it’s not yet nine o’clock he’s already settling down at the kitchen table and spreading out folders and books. “I need to get this A-level coursework ready for moderation on Monday.”

“But it’s Saturday!” I exclaim. “Ol, you need a day off.”

He laughs bleakly. “I can’t have a day off; there’s far too much to do. Anyway, I didn’t work last night, did I?”

“Only because you fell asleep in front of the telly!”

“That’s because I was exhausted after three hours spent trying to fix the electrics in this place,” he reminds me with a wry smile. “Don’t blame St Jude’s for that one, Katy Carter! Blame your lava lamp.”

Ah. Yes. My lava lamp. It seemed like such a good idea at the time…

“There was a very good reason why somebody donated it to a jumble sale,” my boyfriend continues, fishing out a red pen and flipping open his mark book. “They probably weren’t huge fans of having all their wiring blown up either.”

“I didn’t know that at the time! I just thought it looked like fun and would cheer up the kitchen,” I protest. “And in fairness to me I was right; it looked brilliant.”

Ollie nods. “It certainly did until it shorted out the entire house and melted the circuit boards. Then we couldn’t see anything. Not even our hands in front of our faces. And I’d hardly describe the bill from the emergency electrician as
fun
, although he’s certainly laughing all the way to the bank!”

He’s got a point. I never knew an electrician could put so many noughts onto a bill. He said he’d put together a quote for having the whole cottage rewired too, which apparently is what we need to do if we don’t want the place to go up in flames. All this makes the advance from Throb look even more attractive. I must give Mads the final draft of my first chapter, for the bonk queen’s seal of approval before I email it across to them – because, thanks to me and my jumble-sale find, Ollie and I need some extra cash. And fast.

Ollie’s rubbing his eyes and replacing his glasses, which always heralds a bout of serious concentration. So, feeling dreadful for being the cause of yet more financial woe, I fetch Sasha’s lead and allow her to drag me out into the stinging cold. We walk down the beach and play stick for an hour and then do a loop around the harbour, and by the time I’m heading back through the village I feel slightly better. I’m just crossing the little bridge at the foot of the quay when my phone rings and Tansy Topham’s beaming face flashes across the screen.

“Katy!” she squeals as I answer. “How are you? It’s been too long!”

It’s been about three weeks but a lot can happen in three weeks if you’re Tansy. I’ve been reading in
Hiya!
all about her romantic Caribbean getaway with Tommy,
Closer’
s just published an interview about her latest fashion fail and yesterday she popped up on
Loose Women
. Not that I was watching telly when I was meant to be writing; I only had it on in the background.