Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (13 page)

I don’t think I’m being paranoid on this score. In the last week Carolyn’s called Ollie constantly and he’s been closeted away in the kitchen, surrounded by files and printed spreadsheets and having low-voiced and intense conversations with her while I work in the sitting room, guard Cecily Greville’s loot and develop RSI from minimising the screen every time Nicky saunters in.

Lord, but teenagers have a lot of energy. He might sleep until noon most days but once he’s up Nicky’s constantly bouncing around the house like Sasha – except that he spends ages media stacking, which for the uninitiated and from what I’ve seen means watching telly, listening to his music, surfing the Internet and playing on his Xbox all at once. It’s awesome multitasking and I feel very inadequate, since I can hardly string a sentence together at the moment. My target of two thousand words a day might as well be two billion. Right now I’d be happy to write two hundred.

To all those parents I’ve met during my teaching career – I totally take it back. Having a teenager is way, way harder than it looks. I seriously feel like my brain’s turning to cream cheese, and if Nicky plays much more Xbox then I’m sure his will too.

To cut a long and very involved story short, it’s been agreed that Nicky can stay with us until he sits his exams in the summer. Once his parents were over the shock (more that their youngest son was left wing than that he’d been excluded), Ollie managed to convince them that the state system was more than capable of delivering A-levels and that we’d make sure Nicky attended school and studied hard.

“I must be mad,” Ollie said to me once the decision had been made and we were now the proud owners of an A-level student. “I know this is the last thing we need right now, but I couldn’t make him go back to that bloody awful prison of a school, Katy. I was so miserable there.”

It had been on the tip of my tongue to point out that Nicky hadn’t seemed miserable in the slightest to me; in fact he’d been having a lovely old time flogging black-market goods to his peers and being a rebellious left-wing anarchist too when it suited him. But knowing how much Ollie adores his little brother I kept quiet. Besides, this was only going to be for a few months. Just how hard could it be?

The answer is: blooming hard.

Seriously.

Until this past week I had no idea just how difficult parenting is. I might have spent years teaching, but having kids at home? I’m soon discovering that this is a whole new ball game. All of a sudden I totally get why Bluebell and Rafferty can tie Maddy up in knots – and even local artist Jason Howard’s exhausted resignation regarding his evil teens, Luke and Leia, makes sense now. Being on somebody’s case 24/7 is exhausting.

If I’ve ever felt the teeniest bit broody watching cute babies in TV adverts, then the last few days have put paid to that. The reality of life with a teenager is a world away from sweet tiny tots and designer buggies. So far as I can tell, it’s all about empty milk cartons put back in the fridge and trails of dirty socks. And I’ve fallen down the loo more times than I can count because Nicky has an inability to put the seat down. Then there’s his sleeping in till noon and the constant grazing on anything remotely edible. (I had to forcibly take Sasha’s biscuits away from him.) That’s not to mention the mysterious disappearance of Ollie’s beer and the miracle of the emptying wine box…

Ollie’s trying to work, I’m trying to write and in the middle of all this we’ve also been frantically doing our best to persuade Tregowan Comp that a late-entry sixth-former who’s been kicked out of public school is exactly what they want.

“Sleep with the Head if you have to,” Ollie had said to me last night after the oversubscribed St Jude’s turned his brother down flat. “Do whatever you can to get Nicky a place.”

“Don’t even joke about it,” I’d shuddered, and Ollie had raised his eyebrows.

“Who says I’m joking? If we don’t do something soon he’ll lose the use of his legs and never get out of bed again!”

It was a fair point.

“Maybe’s he’s nocturnal?” I’d suggested.

“I wish I was,” Ollie had yawned. “I’ve been up all hours trying to prepare for tomorrow.”

I’d been about to propose an early night – Nicky having vanished out for the evening with some new-found village friends – when Carolyn had phoned and embroiled Ollie in a fascinating discussion about Ofsted reports. Knowing that this conversation could well go on for several hours, I gave up and went to pace the living room, swing my crystal and attempt to pour all my frustrations into Alexi and Lucinda. But even they weren’t in the mood, so I ended up slamming my laptop lid closed in annoyance.

Anyway, today’s been far more successful because Nicky now has a school place and I didn’t have to use my womanly wiles either. The Head wasn’t keen at first, but I swung it by pointing out that Nicky was already an Oxbridge success, which would look good on our league tables in such data-driven times and also be a great bragging point at sixth-form recruitment evenings.

See. I have learned something from listening in to Ollie and Carolyn’s conversations, although I’m far from thrilled with myself. It feels as though these days both my literary and my educational morals are going down the swanny.

Anyway, Nicky’s sorted and so I’m writing in the kitchen this morning and guarding the fridge. It was a tough call between the treasure and the milk, but the milk’s won because I’m getting very tired of black coffee and empty Nutella pots. Worse, when Ollie went to make his packed lunch he discovered tooth marks in the cheese, so enough is enough. Until Nicky’s safely in school I’m a human shield between him and our groceries.

I’ve opened the kitchen half-door and glorious golden sunshine is streaming in and dancing across the tiles. Seagulls are squabbling outside, the air’s sharp and I can hear the chugging of small fishing boats as they put out to sea for a couple of hours’ netting. Surely on a day like this everything’s going to go well? Ollie will get his job, I’ll write a brilliant chapter and life will start to look up! I might not have won the lottery last week but I’ve bought a few more tickets and I feel certain that tonight’s my night. Fate’s lucky finger is pointing at me!

“More likely it’s giving you the bird,” Mads grins, when I voice my optimism. She’s sitting next to me at the table, nursing a cup of coffee and turning the air blue with all her ideas for today’s chapter. At this rate poor Alexi will be too exhausted to open his naughty restaurant. “The lottery’s a loser’s game, babes. Don’t be fooled.”

I know she’s right but those big-money numbers are to me what gin was to desperate Victorians.

“Besides, don’t forget the loot under the floor,” she continues. “As soon as we’ve got a clear evening and a crowbar we’ll pull the boards up and have a good hunt, and hopefully all your problems will be solved.”

I open my mouth to ask whether she thinks finding the treasure will solve my Carolyn problem. But then I shut it again quickly, because I still haven’t told Mads any of this. I’m teetering on the brink of confessing my deepest fears when Frankie arrives with Gabriel in tow. They’re both brimming over with excitement because they’re off to New York while Gabe stars on Broadway, and they’ll be renting an apartment on Central Park.

“I’m going to do some recording too,” Frankie announces, in between a flurry of air kisses (me and Mads) and enthusiastic patting (Sasha). Meanwhile Gabriel, who’s so ridiculously good-looking it almost hurts to look at him, checks out his hair in the microwave window.

“Brilliant news,” says Maddy, giving Frankie a hug. “Your solo album will be amazing.”

“It probably won’t be, but hopefully everyone will buy it anyway,” Frankie grins. “And then I’ll get billions of downloads, be number one all over the world and One Direction can kiss my arse!”

“In your dreams, darling,” says Gabriel, and then they squabble happily for a bit over who gets Harry Styles and who can have Bieber as a consolation prize, while Mads and I roll our eyes indulgently.

“Frankie’s been quite low since the Queens have been on a break. This is going to be wonderful for him,” Gabriel says eventually, squeezing his husband’s hand. “A change of scene and some quality shopping is just what he needs. New York’s got it all.”

I’m pea-green with envy. Ever since watching my first episode of
Sex and the City
I’ve hankered after a trip to the Big Apple, where I just know I’d channel my inner Carrie Bradshaw and become a celebrated writer. I’d also have the designer wardrobe and shoe collection too, of course, although I might draw the line at the tutu. Much as I’d love to wear it, I’d look like a ginger loo-roll dolly.

“What Gabe actually means is that I’ve been feeling broody,” Frankie sighs. “It must be my age or something, but the last time we were over at Victoria and David’s I couldn’t help thinking how adorable their kids are.”

“I’ve got a cure for that,” Mads tells him. “Feel free to borrow my two whenever you want. You’ll soon be glad you’ve only got a poodle.”

But Frankie isn’t having this. “Bluebell and Raffy are simply gorge!”

“Tell me that when they wake you up at five a.m. every day,” Mads says. “No wonder I’m haggard.”

Gabriel looks horrified. “I can’t afford to look tired, Frankie. I’ll lose some of my modelling work and the film roles will go to younger guys.”

“That’s what Botox’s for,” Frankie reassures him.

“If you’re feeling broody, help yourself to Nicky,” I offer as, right on cue, in he shuffles clad in baggy tracksuit pants and with his hair on end. Yawning widely and heading for the fridge as though pulled there by a tractor beam, Nicky selects the milk and proceeds to knock it back from the carton, his eyes still shut and totally oblivious to his audience. Drink finished, he belches happily and wipes his mouth on his hoody sleeve before placing the empty carton back in the fridge.

“Err, maybe not?” says Gabriel nervously to Frankie. “How about another dog?”

Maddy’s eyes are wide. “Dear God. Is that what I have to look forward to?”

I nod. “Times two. Good luck.”

As though on autopilot, Nicky’s now heading for the kitchen cupboard where, by some amazing feat of psychic prowess, he selects a packet of Frosties without looking – then tips it straight into his mouth. Munching contentedly and trailing cereal all over the floor, he shuffles past and vanishes into the living room.

“It’s like watching a cereal-eating Lady Macbeth,” says Gabriel in awe. “Is he still asleep?”

I nod. “Nicky’s eyes don’t open until noon. This is early for him.” I’m actually starting to wonder how I’ll manage to get him up, dressed and into school on time. Maybe an electric cattle prod? The farmer down the road probably has one. If not, then cold water should do the trick.

“How much does he cost to feed?” asks Mads.

“Put it this way, Nicky’s been with us less than a week and already I’m thinking of calling Geldof and arranging a
Feed the Teen
concert,” I say.

“Since when did little Nicky get so big?” wonders Frankie. “I feel old!”

I sigh. “How do you think
I
feel? He won’t even friend me on Facebook.”

In fact, it’s even worse than this; I’m still smarting because, according to Nicky, only “olds” go on Facebook anyway, and all the cool young people are on Snapchat and Instagram or vlogging. Vlogging? What on earth is that? It sounds like a disease. Nicky also tried to give me a lecture on YouTubers, who apparently make a fortune. I’m starting to feel a bit like my dad must have done when Holly and I gave him an iPad (“Where’s the on button, Katy? What do you mean I swipe it?”) and my brain is clearly turning to mush.

I’ve been in a state of growing alarm ever since. Until Nicky arrived I’d thought I was young and cool and up to date. Now I feel about as relevant as a VHS video recorder.

“I’ll friend you on Facebook if you like,” offers Bob the Post, reaching in through the open stable door with today’s mail. “I’ve got eight hundred and thirty friends but I can probably fit you in.”

Mads winks at me. “I bet you feel really special to be number eight hundred and thirty-one!”

“Right now I’ll take anyone,” I say.

“No change there, darling!” Frankie teases, and I wallop him with the big brown envelope Bob’s just handed me, while he yelps and hides behind his husband.

“Careful with that,” Bob warns me. “Looks like a publishing contract to me.”

He’s right. Closer inspection reveals this to be my contract with Throb, raced through for me to sign as promised. All I need to do is squiggle my signature on the dotted line, pop it in an envelope to send back and bingo! The advance is in my bank account and all will be well. There isn’t a second to waste. I need to get this bad boy signed and back in the post.

I rip open the envelope and pull out the contract. There’s pages and pages of it and, as if this wasn’t enough, the whole thing’s in triplicate too. While Mads makes some tea and Gabriel delightedly signs autographs for Bob’s five sisters (nobody has the heart to tell him Bob’s an only child and these will be up on eBay before the postie’s finished his round), I skim-read the first few pages before going cross-eyed. How many clauses? And what exactly does it all mean?

I squint at the small print but it’s no good. Even if I turned the thing upside down it wouldn’t make any more sense; there’s way too much legalese. I’m sure it’s all fine though. I mean, how complicated can it be? They want to pay a writer to ghostwrite
Kitchen of Correction
and I’ll write the thing and get paid. There really isn’t any more to it than that.

Of course there isn’t.

I bet they just make these contracts super complicated so that lawyers can feel clever and agents can justify their twenty percent. It’s like the emperor’s new clothes!

Picking up one of Ollie’s stray pens from the table, I sign my name with a flourish. Once, twice and then three times in bright red ink.

There! The contacts are completed and it’s only a matter of days before the money is on its way. That was actually very easy. I can’t imagine what agents make such a fuss about.

“Err, is that a good idea?” Frankie asks as I stuff the signed paperwork into the return envelope and seal it.