Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (22 page)

While Frankie orders some drinks I log into an online savings account. It’s not one we use often – in fact I’m under strict instructions not to touch it unless there’s a dire emergency – but surely Ol won’t mind if I use some for a little weeny splurge?

I type in my password and wait, and when I’m into the account it’s lucky I’ve already had a drink because a huge chunk of money’s gone. My heart goes into free fall.

Over a thousand pounds is missing.

One thousand pounds! That’s almost everything that was in there!

Have we been robbed?

With a racing pulse I scroll through the online statement. Maybe it’s a mistake? Or perhaps online fraudsters have struck? Any minute now I’ll discover that I supposedly have a porn addiction or a new-found liking for Internet bingo… You read about this kind of thing all the time, don’t you?

My shaking finger clicks on the transaction. Oh! It’s a transfer to Ollie’s credit card. He must be paying something off. But for a thousand pounds? What on earth could he have spent a thousand pounds on.

Oh God. Has the roof finally caved in? But if it had then I’d know about it. Maddy would have called me instantly.

Frankie glances at me. “Are you all right?”

“I... I…” I falter because my speech has suddenly dried up. Am I all right? To be honest I’m not sure, because the answer’s obvious, isn’t it? This is no mistake.

Ollie must have bought something for somebody else.

And he waited until I was out of the country to do it.

Have I been wrong about Carolyn? Has something been going on all this time?

“Katy?” Frankie says again.

“I’m fine,” I answer, but my voice sounds all wobbly and weird. “Just not in the mood for shopping.”

Frankie looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads – which is fair enough, because here I am in one of the world’s retail-therapy hotspots, with designer stores everywhere I turn, and I’m saying that I don’t feel like shopping. But I know that even if I bought twenty handbags and a hundred trinkets from Tiffany’s, none of this would make me feel any better. What does shopping matter if I’ve lost Ollie?

My heart’s slamming against my ribcage. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for why my boyfriend’s been secretly splashing the cash while I’m away, but even my active imagination’s struggling to come up with an explanation of what this could be. Ann Burrow’s sixtieth birthday is coming up soon. Has he bought her a present? But one thousand pounds? I know Ollie loves his mum, but that amount of money on a gift for her is verging on Oedipal.

“There’s not as much money in there as I’d hoped,” is all I manage to say. “Maybe we could just window-shop?”

Frankie looks horrified. “Darling girl, you can’t
window-shop
in New York. It’s practically against the law. What I think we should do is—”

But at this point my phone rings again and I snatch it up just in case it’s Ollie.

“Hello?” says a clipped voice. “Is that Katy?”

Oh. Not Ollie then. The surge of disappointment I feel is almost unbearable.

“It is,” I say.

“Thank God! We’ve been trying to get hold of you for days,” says the voice, sounding exasperated. “We had no idea you were in New York. You really should tell us if you’re out of the country – paragraph four, second clause, just in case you were wondering – but as it turns out this couldn’t be better!”

“Who?” mouths Frankie.

“No idea!” I mouth back.

“Sorry, who is this?” I ask when the unknown speaker pauses.

“Lisa Armstrong,” she says and, when I don’t reply, adds, “Senior Commissioning Editor at Throb
Publishing?”

Great. Just great. Can this day get any worse?

“Hi, Lisa,” I say, trying to sound thrilled. “What can I do for you?”

So Lisa tells me and by the time the call ends I need the second glass of champagne that Frankie lined up for me, and the third too. There’s a huge cloud of doom hovering above my head and I’m finding it hard to find the silver lining.

Probably because there isn’t one.

“Spill,” says Frankie.

I gulp. “Remember that contract I signed without reading?”

“I certainly do. Don’t tell me – it’s come back to bite you on the bum?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” I say. “Throb want me to publicise the book for them. There’s a launch planned and I need to be there in role as Isara Lovett.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? I thought writers loved publicity for their books.”

“Usually. The trouble is that this book’s a bit on the saucy side.”

Frankie’s plucked brows shoot under his pork-pie hat.

“I take it by ‘saucy’ what you actually mean is mind-blowingly blue?”

I blush. “I swear to God I only wrote it to pay some bills. I never thought things would get this out of control.”

“Darling, you’re very sweet but there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” says Frankie kindly. “Bondage. BDSM. Whips. It’s all mainstream now, you know. In fact, I’d be far more ashamed if I was partaking in what folks used to call ‘normal’, if I were you. How dull would that be? Kinky is cool now, you know.”

I shake my head. “Not if your boyfriend’s the Assistant Head of a strict Catholic school, it isn’t.”

“Ah yes,” says Frankie, who gets it at once. “Oh dear. And you haven’t told him.”

It isn’t a question. He knows me far too well by now to need to ask.

“How could I?” I say despairingly. “It would have put Ollie in an impossible position. Besides, we needed the money.”

Frankie nods. “I get it. And now they want you to plug the book and your secret could be about to unravel.”

It feels a bit like my whole life is unravelling, although that could be down to three alcoholic drinks in quick succession.

“I can’t refuse, because it’s written into my contract,” I say, starting to gnaw on my thumbnail. “They could sue me, couldn’t they?”

“I’m afraid so,” he agrees. “Darling, I hate to say ‘I told you so’ but—”

I give him a grim smile. “I told you so?”

We both stare thoughtfully into our drinks. How on earth can I put things right with Ollie, tell the truth and get things sorted, if I’m about to do something that I know will compromise his career? There might be a very good explanation for the jewellery thing (although I’m yet to come up with one), but I won’t be able to explain things to
him
very easily if I come out as the appallingly named I Lovett. Ollie will be mortified and I’ll never forgive myself if I ruin his career. He loves that job.

Come on, Katy, there has to be a way out of this mess. A way that you can keep Throb happy and not embarrass Ollie. It’s all going to be fine. There must be a solution, short of heading for the International Space Station or hiding down in the sewers with the Ninja Turtles. Maybe I could even rock a disguise like Spiderman? Mild-mannered Katy Carter is Throb Woman!

Actually, that sounds a bit dodgy and I’d hate to see the costume.

Costumes. Disguise. Alter egos. Secret identities…

Hang on. I’m onto something…

And then, just like the perfect plot of one of I Lovett’s books, it all falls into place in my head. Of course! Secret identities are the key. It’s so obvious I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it already.

“Frankie,” I say slowly. “I think I’ve changed my mind about going shopping…”

Chapter 18

BOOKS AND THE CITY

Exclusive event!

Kitchen of Correction

by

I. Lovett

If you can’t stand the heat…

Meet and greet book signing with

Isara Lovett

Saturday 12 noon

Free book for the first thirty!

Well, so far so good. This book-signing lark is actually far less stressful than I thought. I’ve no idea what all those celebrities make such a song and dance about. All I’ve had to do is drink several coffees, sit behind a table, scribble my pretend signature onto some books and chat to a few folks about their own writing. It’s a bit awkward because some people want to just scuttle past like I’m collecting for charity or something, but others have been very kind. The nun who said she’d pray for me was lovely, and she did seem to really appreciate her free copy. I think it was quite sweet of her to take a few more for her sisters at the convent. The Hell’s Angel who insisted on having his photo taken with me was friendly too, and I think it only goes to show that just because someone’s got a tattoo of the grim reaper on their face doesn’t necessarily mean they’re a bad person. And like he said, the murder wasn’t really his fault and he’s served his time for helping hide the body.

Yes, book signing is fascinating. I’m not sure what I was making such a fuss about. Books and the City
is a small independent bookstore in Manhattan and it’s fairly quiet. I’m safe enough here. It’s not as though CNN are about to burst in and interview me.

So, here I am. It’s just gone two p.m. and things seem to be going well. Isara Lovett has made an appearance, the contractual obligations have been met and honour is satisfied. Now I only have to survive for another hour and I can escape back on the subway and into obscurity. Nobody will ever be any the wiser. The book’s only been out a couple of days and hopefully it’s going to sink without a trace. There are piles of it on the table in front of me and posters in the window and even a massive cardboard cut-out of it by the door, but no one seems very interested. Although I’m sitting here at the table, my pen clutched in my hand and poised for action, my powers of invisibility are strong. Besides, why should people be remotely bothered about an author they’ve never heard of? On a sunny Saturday New Yorkers have got far more exciting things to do than come and see a nobody called Isara Lovett. They’ll all be jogging around Central Park or sipping wheatgrass juice in trendy juice bars.

Luckily for me.

Still, when Lisa called and demanded that I did this signing I had no idea that Books and the City
would be so quiet. The customers are certainly giving me quite a wide berth, which I suppose could be something to do with the way I’m dressed, or maybe the cardboard cut-out of Alexi wielding a whisk? It’s hard to say. In any case, my shopping trip with Frankie has worked a treat. It was definitely worth maxing out what little credit was left on my Barclaycard: I hardly recognise myself now, thank goodness.

I look like I should be heading for the Playboy Mansion, not flogging books. Frankie’s gone totally over the top styling Isara Lovett but the end result looks nothing like me. Even Tansy Topham would be impressed. I think we’ve got the outfit exactly right in the end, even if it wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind initially.

“Are you sure it’s not too much?” I’d asked Frankie as I’d stepped out of the Saks fitting room and done a little twirl. “Wouldn’t a trouser suit be better? This is a bit revealing.”

“You’re a purveyor of passion, not a librarian,” he’d said, stepping forward and adjusting the lapel of the tight jacket to reveal my new scarlet bra. “Darling, it’s perfect. You look very sexy and totally like the writer of erotic romance. Even I think you’re hot! Nobody will ever know it’s you.”

I think that was a double-edged compliment but he’s right, thank God: when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shop window there’s Isara Lovett – writer of steamy books and absolutely nothing to do with Katy Carter.

A bit like Clark Kent to Superman, Isara favours dark colours and glasses, but there the resemblance ends. We might be able to glimpse her pants, but that’s because she’s wearing a ridiculously short skirt rather than because she’s put them on over her tights. As if! Isara Lovett doesn’t wear tights. No, she’s a stockings girl through and through.

Unfortunately for me.

I shift a bit in my seat because actually stockings are flipping uncomfortable and the suspender belt’s cutting into my middle. That could be down to my newly discovered passion for pastrami on rye, or merely because these garments are more torturous than anything good old Alexi could dream up in his kitchen. But if it’s good enough for Lucinda then I guess it’s good enough for me, even if I feel as though I’m being sliced in half. Add a blonde wig and a full face of make-up into the mix as well as Frankie’s cool fashion specs, and ta
-
da! Isara Lovett has arrived.

It’s a good disguise. Even Guy walked straight past me earlier in the hotel lobby. I had to run after him and the expression on his face was priceless.

“It’s me!” I’d said, when he’d failed to recognise me. “Katy! I’m off to a book signing.”

“Bloody hell! I thought you were a hooker!” Guy had exclaimed. “What kind of a book signing is it?”

“One I’d rather not go to,” I’d said darkly, and then the film crew had arrived to collect him and I’d been left to make my own way to Books and the City
by subway.

I got some very strange looks.

Anyhow, I think I’ve got away with it.

As the customers browse the bookshelves and pretend not to see me, I lean back in my seat and watch some tumbleweed blow by. Then I flick through a copy of the book, wincing a little at the scene with the cabbages and the washing line. I’m just about to send Ollie a text when the phone rings. It’s Mads.

“Hi!” I say, pleased to hear from her. “You’ll never guess what.”

“Guy’s famous?” says Maddy.

I sit up. “No way! At home too?”

“Absolutely. Holly’s just popped in. Apparently
Question Time
want him as a panellist as soon as he’s back, and UKIP have called too.”

“Crikey,” I say. “That’s just insane. All he’s done is stomp about, make crazy comments and shoot his mouth off.”

“Sounds like he has a great career in politics ahead of him,” Mads muses. “Get him home fast or he’ll probably be running for president by tonight.”

“Poor old Pinchy’s hardly getting a look-in – and the docudrama was supposed to be about his epic journey, not Guy goes to the city,” I sigh.