Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (26 page)

Getting a seat in Joe’s always means a wonderful meal, so Ollie and I go there whenever we have enough spare change in our pot. There’s no choice on the menu; Joe serves whatever he’s bought from the boats that day and the fish is so fresh it’s practically swimming across the plate. Mussels, crabs and, I hate to say it, lobsters backstroke in garlic butter, which you can mop up with wads of freshly baked bread.

There’s always a good atmosphere there, too. In the evenings it’s dimly lit with candles rammed into wine bottles, the necks of which are stalactited with congealed wax. Conversation flows as readily as the Chianti and the air’s so thick with the scent of garlic and fresh bread that you can more or less taste it.

So, as I say, usually I love eating in this place – but tonight is definitely not one of those times. Quite the opposite in fact. I’m so on edge I don’t think I’ll manage a mouthful.

Ollie’s somehow wangled an extra two places, which makes the seating arrangements interesting to say the least. Ann and Geoff Burrows are on one side of the makeshift table, opposite Ollie and Nicky, with me perched at one end and my father at the other. As always the restaurant’s packed and we’re crammed together like proverbial sardines. Of my mother there’s been absolutely no sign whatsoever, so I’m assuming that she’s still in the pub – and I’m crossing everything that she stays there. So far all has gone smoothly enough, give or take a couple of dodgy moments (like when Dad and Nicky sneaked outside for a smoke), and now we’re tucking into our moules starters while wine expert Geoff takes care of the booze.

“Ah, Châteauneuf-du-Pape 1996,” he says, his eyes lighting up when the waiter proffers a dusty bottle. “That’s a fine vintage, wouldn’t you agree, Quentin?”

My father, utterly clueless, beams at him. “As long as it gets us all pissed it’s good by me!”

Nicky snorts with laughter. He’s been giggling a lot since he came back inside and his eyes keep crossing. I don’t think Ann has noticed but Ollie and I, both well trained in Personal and Social Education, are on full alert. Honestly, I could throttle my father. Will he ever grow up?

Geoff pours the wine now and swirls it thoughtfully. Then, in practised style, he lowers his nose just above the rim of the glass and inhales deeply.

“Drink it, mate, don’t snort it,” Dad advises. “It’s not cocaine! That’s for later!”

Ann winces and Geoff splutters. I guess this isn’t how their wine-tasting evenings usually go.

“Joke!” Dad says swiftly when he sees my expression. “That was a joke! I can’t afford coke! That’s a joke too by the way! Ha ha!”

But Nicky’s the only person laughing. Ollie raises his eyes to the ceiling, Ann is grimacing and Geoff is back to the serious business of wine tasting.

“Hmm, a bouquet of marzipan and blackcurrant, topped with overtones of citrus and woodsmoke,” he pronounces with a serious expression. “And maybe a note of seafood?”

Now, after five years with Ollie, I’m pretty used to Geoff and his wine snobbery; wine for Geoff is Very Serious Indeed. He can be a bit pompous but he means well and, as Ollie always says, at least whenever we spend Christmas in Surrey we’re always guaranteed some good wine. My father, however, is more used to his lethal home-made nettle wine and finds this whole performance absolutely hilarious.

“Marzipan and woodsmoke!” he guffaws. “What on earth are you going on about, Geoff? It’s just booze! Now let’s get stuck in!”

And before Geoff can even draw breath, Dad reaches across and busies himself sloshing sixty-quid claret into everyone’s glasses before raising his own.

“To the beautiful Ann!” he says, winking at her. “Sixty and still sexy! Woof woof!”

Oh God. He’s hammered. I glance nervously across the table at Ann but luckily she seems thrilled with this toast; she’s even blushing a little. I guess the people at her church don’t generally call her sexy. It’s also true to say that when Dad turns up the smooth talk and goes all twinkly-eyed he still has that magic which makes women of all ages go daft and giggly.

“Quentin, you’re such a charmer,” Ann says coyly, peeping up at him from under her lashes, Princess Diana style.

Charmer
is not the word I’d use to describe my father.
Liability
would come closer. On the other hand, Dad’s a great raconteur and people always enjoy his company – easy to do if you’re not related to him – and as we eat he regales us with stories of his travels around Europe. I can hardly swallow a mouthful though. I’m way too terrified he’s going to launch into tales of the naked goddess workshops. Pillar of the church Ann will have a pink fit, although Geoff will probably be off to Spain to join up before the main courses have even arrived! When Dad goes to show Ann his newest tattoo I nearly faint with fright. Thank goodness this one is on his arm…

Whatever I did in a past life to deserve this must have been really bad. I was probably Mussolini or something.

Ollie, who knows me so well and can interpret the
I’m having a great time
rigor mortis smile on my face, squeezes my hand under the table. “Relax, Katy. Mum and Dad are having fun, the food’s great and even Nicky’s taken the night off work for once. Your Dad’s on form and they’re having a really nice evening. Mum can have a sedate time tomorrow when we take her out for afternoon tea.”

I nod, although I know full well that tomorrow afternoon will be far from sedate. Tomorrow’s Ann’s birthday and I’ve got my surprise gathering planned at the Tregowan Country Hotel, where Ollie thinks we’re taking her for a cream tea. I’ll make some excuse to join them later on, when really I’ll be hiding with the guests, ready to wow Ann with the bespoke catering Tansy’s so proud of. I can’t say I ever imagined that cooking was Tansy’s thing, but Nicky’s been inundated with work so BBs must be pretty good. I can’t help smiling to myself a little because Nicky’s actually working tomorrow night and hasn’t a clue he’s booked for his own mother’s do. I really do think this is utter genius on my part, even if I say so myself! I can’t wait to see Ann’s face when she sees him. She’s going to be so proud.

“And as for that money,” Ollie whispers, smoothing my hair away from my face and brushing a kiss across my cheek, “there’s no issue with it, I promise. OK?”

“OK,” I whisper back. And I totally believe him, of course I do. Everything is about to go back to normal. Better than normal, even. I just know it!

“And I know things have been weird but it’s all going to be fine,” Ollie adds. “It really is. You’ll see.”

And at this exact moment, as if just waiting for her cue to prove him totally wrong, my mother arrives. Or maybe I should more accurately say, my mother chooses to make her dramatic entrance. Long purple dress billowing and wild silver curls tumbling down her back, she wiggles her way through the restaurant, cannoning into tables and bumping into diners.

“Silla!” My father leaps up from his seat. “Where were you, babe? I was getting worried!”

“No you weren’t,” my mother replies, kissing him soundly on the lips and waggling her finger. “If you were, you’d have come and helped rescue me. I had to get some lovely fishermen to drag the van out of the lane with their forklift. It was wedged and they couldn’t even get out until they helped!”

“And once you were out you went to the pub,” I say. Oh dear. I sound a bit bitter.

Oh! Maybe it’s because I am? Why does my mother always get herself into these scrapes? Why can’t she just be normal and do embroidery and bake cakes and… and… well, all the stuff that I’m sure normal mothers do?

“Katy!” In a swirl of tasselled skirts, Mum turns to me. “Darling! There you are! Oh, baby girl, I am so, so proud of you! I always was of course, but I was always a little worried too. It’s not natural for a young woman to be so uptight and so repressed, so afraid of her own divine femininity and sexuality. I couldn’t work out where your father and I had gone wrong. The hours I’ve spent talking to my guides about you! Even they were at a loss.”

I stare at her, lost for words.

“Then I read this and I knew all my worries had been in vain!” My mother reaches into her pocket and out of its depths comes a copy of a horribly familiar scarlet book, which she flourishes proudly. “Darling! I’m so happy! You’re totally liberated and so, so at ease with your sexuality. You’ve written about things even your father and I haven’t tried – but we will now!”

“I bought the clothes pegs,” my father interrupts. “You just forgot the washing line and cabbages.”

Geoff pales. “Never mind that. How about we have a look at the champagne?” He whips out the wine list and shoves it at his wife. “There was a particularly fine 1998 Taittinger on the list and I think we should splash out seeing as it’s your special birthday!”

But Ann doesn’t hear a word. She looks aghast.

“Isn’t that the book everyone’s talking about? The one our pastor said not to read?”

“Bet he checked it out first though, the old perv,” grins Nicky. “Read all the rude bits just to see how bad they really were. At least, that’s his story!”

“Don’t be so disrespectful,” snaps his mother. “The book is pure filth! It’s the pathway to hell.”

Oh Lord. She’s not wrong there.

“Oh bollocks to all that nonsense!” scoffs my mother, flicking through the book. “It’s earthy and sexy and shows a woman in firm control of her sexuality – and
my
little girl wrote it! I’m the proudest mother on earth. I’m telling everyone that Isara Lovett is my daughter!”

It’s one of the most bitter ironies of my life that A-levels, an honours degree and even a respectable teaching career have never made my mother as proud as the antics of Alexi and Lucinda. I should have forgotten academia and written erotica years ago if I wanted her to sing my praises.

Ann’s mouth is hanging open. A fork laden with mussels hovers between her chin and the plate, while sauce drips onto the table.

“Katy wrote that book?” she says at last.

Mum nods proudly. “She certainly did. I wish they hadn’t bothered with the silly pen name though. Quentin and I have to convince everyone it really is our Katy.”

Ann turns to Geoff. “Did you know about this?”

Her husband’s Adam’s apple bobs nervously. “Err… I might have heard about it.”

“So how come I had no idea?”

“Because I did my best to keep it quiet,” says Geoff miserably.

Ann is whiter than the table linen. “You lied to me?”

“I wouldn’t say I lied exactly,” replies poor Geoff. “I just hid anything that might link our son’s girlfriend to the book and turned the telly off if there was a mention. I didn’t want to upset you, love.”

“Well, I’m certainly upset now,” says Ann, folding her arms and fixing her husband with a steely look. “Who else knew? Quentin and Drusilla, clearly, and Katy of course, but did you, Oliver? Or you Nicolas?”

Her sons don’t reply – which, of course, says it all.

This is probably
not
the time to tell Ann that her youngest son actually helped me write huge chunks of the book in question and edited my apparently clunky syntax. (Lisa Armstrong’s raving about my
maturation
in narrative style, which is pretty galling.) When it comes to writing women’s erotic fiction Nicky Burrows is a natural.

“I see. So you all knew and you chose to keep me in the dark,” Ann says quietly. She turns to me. “Katy, whatever possessed you to write that dreadful book?”

I have the horrible sensation that all the blood’s freezing in my body, and now the room’s starting to whirl.

“I can explain! There was a really good reason and—” I begin, but my boyfriend’s mother isn’t in the mood to listen.

“I don’t want to hear excuses, Katy! There’s never an excuse for that kind of filth!”

I open my mouth to plead the lava-lamp explosion and our rewiring trauma, plus our leaky roof that needed fixing – but I shut it again very fast because I can see from her appalled expression that these reasons won’t wash with Ann. Besides, I can appreciate that it’s all come as a shock for her.
I’m
still shocked and I’ve been living with Isara Lovett for months.

“What will people think?” Ann is asking now, shaking her head. “And what about Ollie? Did you stop to consider what effect this could have on his career? I can only imagine how it will reflect on him.”

I’ve thought of nothing else and I really can’t feel much worse than I already do. Even the settled bills and the beautifully rewired and reroofed cottage don’t help. If I could turn back time and never sign with Throb
I would happily live with a huge overdraft, buckets of water everywhere and electrics that hiss and crackle whenever we throw a switch.

“I’m really sorry—” I try again to apologise but I’m interrupted by Ollie, who puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me against him.

“Mum, I know you’re upset but this is absolutely none of your business. My girlfriend’s literary career,” Ann winces at this but Ollie ignores her, “is nothing to do with anyone else but her. Katy’s working very hard to succeed as an author and how she goes about that is her decision. She took a pen name and she did her very best to keep the book low-key. It’s not her fault things have worked out this way. But do you know what?” He’s looking at me now and his eyes are full of such kindness and love that I feel quite choked. “She did it all for us and our future. She carried a huge burden and never once complained or tried to dump it on me. I’m incredibly proud of her.”

He is? I could fall off my seat with surprise. Ann looks stunned, Geoff’s knocking back the wine in resignation and my parents are clapping.

“Is that true?” I whisper to Ollie. “Do you really mean that?”

He nods. “Of course I do. I’ve always been proud of you, Katy Carter. I’m so sorry if St Jude’s has got in the way at times, and I’m even more sorry you didn’t feel able to tell me about the book. I hate that you thought you couldn’t share a part of your life with me. I’m sorry too if I’ve overreacted lately; I’ve just been a bit stressed, that’s all.”

“I didn’t want to burden you with it. I’d messed up so badly and I really hoped I could sort things without having to worry you,” I explain while Ollie shakes his head.