Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (8 page)

“I’ve got a window in my diary for today,” Tansy carries on, not pausing for me to say “hi” back or tell her how I’ve been. “Do you fancy meeting up for some shopping and some lunch? Tommy’s training and the nanny’s got the kids and I am so bored it’s untrue! We so need a girly catch-up. There’s a really cool new wine bar on The Barbican and you’ll love it. What do you think? Have you got time?”

I think I really should be working on my chapter, but the idea of a little bit of time out with Tansy is very appealing – as is being able to enjoy a glass of wine without constantly looking over my shoulder in case the Reverend Richard Lomax appears. For a few seconds I’m torn, before reminding myself that getting out and about and seeing the world is all part of being a writer. Visiting a new wine bar with Tansy’s practically research, isn’t it? I might find something to inspire me to write the definitive great British novel which would never happen if I just stayed at home. I’m actually doing my creativity a favour by meeting her.

“I’d love to,” I say, and we arrange to meet in an hour. Plymouth is only forty minutes away so I should make it with acres of time to spare and, anyway, Tansy’s always late everywhere she goes.

Back in the kitchen Ollie’s almost through his pile of marking and looking far more cheerful. Three coffee cups are lined up on the table and his hair’s all messed up where he’s been running his fingers through it, something he always does when he’s concentrating very hard. Last night it was practically standing on end as he did his best to figure out how to get our electricity back – and mine was certainly standing on end when I saw the electrician’s bill.

His face lights up as he sees me, and my heart melts. I love him so much. There
has
to be a way I can make his life easier.

“Tansy’s invited me for lunch,” I tell him, winding my arms around his neck and dropping a kiss onto his head.

Ollie pulls me onto his lap and kisses me back. “Since when did Tansy eat?”

It’s a good point. Tansy thinks champagne is a food group. I guess that’s why she’s a size zero and I’m… not.

“She said she wants a girly catch-up,” I tell him.

Ollie grimaces. “You mean she wants to moan about Tommy. Poor man. I wonder what he’s done now? Not bought her this season’s LV bag in the right colour?”

Tansy famously rules her footballer husband with a rod of iron. She might only be a size-zero slip of a thing, but Tommy’s absolutely terrified of her. And yes, she has an amazing handbag collection in all kinds of colours and fabrics. The only person with a selection that comes anything close is Frankie.

“I’ll come into town with you,” Ol says, tipping me off his lap and starting to gather up his work, “but I’ll give the girl talk a miss. You can drop me into school and I’ll pop this data onto the system. I may as well get ahead.”

“On a Saturday?” I can hardly keep the horror from my voice. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Ollie Burrows?”

He laughs. “I know; I would never have believed it either, but I might as well play catch-up while you’re busy with Tansy. That way we can have some time together later.”

Well, I’m not going to argue with this. Three days sitting at my laptop dreaming up steamy scenarios for Alexi and Lucinda have left me very hot under the collar and some time together is exactly what I need! He can input data all afternoon if it means we get some quality time later on.

Maddy’s comment about my being a passenger is in the back of my mind and Ollie is nervously relegated to co-driver while I take the wheel and steer us to Plymouth. Our car is a rather featureless Focus and I do miss the quirky little Beetle he owned for years. Still, there’s a lot to be said for not breaking down every five miles or being gassed by carbon-monoxide fumes. We sail along the A30 and over the Tamar Bridge, except for Ollie yelling “Stop!” when I’m so busy looking at the view I almost forget to brake at the toll barrier. Then we head into town. The car has more acceleration than I remember, and I have a lot of fun seeing how fast I can pull away at the traffic lights. Nowhere near as fast as Tansy in her Lotus but pretty good for me, I think – and everyone knows that speed cameras don’t really have film in them, do they?

I hope not, anyway…

“I feel like kissing the ground,” Ollie remarks when I pull up outside St Jude’s and he opens the door. “You’ve missed your vocation in Formula One, that’s for sure.”

“Stop exaggerating and go and do some work,” I say, leaning across and kissing him goodbye.

Leaving Ollie and his giant wheelie bag of work outside the side entrance, I pull away from St Jude’s. Unlike Tregowan Comp, which is situated slap bang in the middle of the local council estate, my boyfriend’s school is in a very smart residential area and at the end of a neat tree-lined drive. Not a scrap of litter or a scavenging seagull is to be seen and nobody’s graffitied the St Jude’s sign either. What kind of school is this? It’s so posh it’s making me nervous.

I’m trying to recall how Ollie said to reach the Barbican from here (although it doesn’t help that I struggle with remembering my left and right), when a red car turns off the main road and into the school drive. It’s a very sexy convertible with the hood down on such a gorgeous day, and as it bowls past I can’t help but look – which I guess is the point of cars like this. Nobody does a double take at me in the Ford Focus. Well, not unless I cut them up at the roundabout. (That wasn’t strictly my fault, by the way; the road markings were very faint.) No, this is a sleek little number with a curvy bonnet and cheeky pop-up headlights, which is practically yelling
look at me!
So of course I look and, surprise surprise, it’s being driven by a glamorous blonde in giant sunglasses and wearing a black leather jacket.

Wait a minute. I recognise that driver. I know I do! I last saw her at the St Jude’s staff Christmas dinner when she was poured into black velvet and wearing lipstick the exact colour of that car.

It’s Carolyn Miles. What on earth is she doing here on a Saturday?

Unless… unless…

Unless she’s meeting Ollie?

My brain has taken a few seconds to click into gear but now it’s made the connection it’s whizzing away. Has Ollie arranged to meet Carolyn at St Jude’s while I’m out of the way with Tansy?

I go cold all over and a horrible churning sensation grips my stomach. I crane my neck to see over my shoulder and, sure enough, the car is pulling up outside the school and a pair of long, denim-clad legs are stretching out as Carolyn uncoils herself from the low-slung seat.

Bugger. I haven’t imagined it. She really
is
here, on a Saturday, in an empty school where my boyfriend is supposed to be working.

Supposed to be working
? Is that what I really think? I’m horrified with myself. I trust Ollie one hundred percent! Of course I do. Over the past few days I’ve managed to convince myself I’m being ridiculous and paranoid about Carolyn, but seeing her now and in the well-toned flesh makes me wobble.

Come on, Katy, you’re being ridiculous!

Ollie loves me and we’re happy together, I’m sure we are, and there’s no way he’d cheat. No way at all. Yet how come Carolyn’s here too and Ollie didn’t think to mention it to me? Is she the real reason he’s so keen to come in to work on a Saturday?

It’s a coincidence. Of course it is! I’m sure I’m jumping to all kinds of conclusions here, but as I head off to meet Tansy there’s one thing I do know for certain: if I don’t find out soon what’s going on I’ll drive myself round the bend.

And given today’s success with roundabouts, that won’t be a pretty sight.

Chapter 7

Pop! The champagne cork explodes out of the bottle and flies across the wine bar, narrowly missing a couple of lunchtime diners.

“Oops!” giggles Tansy, waving at them apologetically. “I must stop doing that. I almost took Tommy out the other day, and that could have cost us a place in the Premier League.”

We’re balancing precariously on the most uncomfortable bar stools imaginable at a tiny weeny table slap bang in the window of Plymouth’s newest and most achingly trendy wine bar. I’m suffering from a severe case of bum overhang while Tansy, who as usual is wearing a very short skirt, flashes her gusset to all the passers-by and the somewhat jaded photographer from the local rag. Everyone who passes the window cranes their neck to have a good look in and does a double a take when they realise who I’m sitting with.

It’s a bit like being a goldfish in a very posh bowl.

“To us!” Tansy declares, raising her glass and tossing her glossy blonde extensions. “The bestselling authors! And to my new business, BBs!”

We chink glasses, although I’m not really sure I have quite as much to celebrate. Writing for Tansy might have been a small income stream but it was better than nothing, and without it my literary career is looking very precarious indeed.

Almost as precarious as my relationship’s beginning to feel…

I still can’t believe Ollie’s arranged to meet Carolyn Miles at school and hasn’t told me. Every time I think about this my insides turn into tangled knitting. It must mean something, but what?

“What’s wrong?” Tansy’s brow is fighting Botox in an attempt to furrow. “You look really down. I know what will cheer you up – let’s go to Waterstones after lunch and face out all my books. That’s always fun!”

I laugh. “Maybe not. You caused havoc last time when all those people wanting autographs blocked the shop.”

“Can’t help being popular, hon,” Tansy says, passing me a menu and casting a critical eye over it. “Bollocks. There’s hardly anything low fat on this.”

She’s right – and usually I’d say that was a good thing, especially since what
is
on the menu is the most delicious selection, all moules-frites this and baked-brie that – but my appetite’s totally vanished. I don’t even think I could manage one of the sea-salt-crusted artisan breadsticks.

What a waste.

“I’ll have the chicken and radicchio salad, no dressing and no chicken,” Tansy tells the waiter. “Katy? Choose whatever you like. It’s on me.”

“I’ll have the same,” I say, snapping my menu shut and passing it over. Yes, I know I’ve just ordered a bowl of leaves but at least I’ll be skinny and miserable.

Tansy stares at me. “Is that it? Don’t you want the fries with truffle shavings? Or the blue cheese and wild boar burger?”

I shake my head. “Salad’s fine.”

“Salad’s fine?” Tansy echoes. She couldn’t look more shocked. “What’s going on? Are you leaving Ollie and becoming a footballer’s wife? Should I sign you up for my gym and take you on a trolley dash round Louis Vuitton?”

Louis Vuitton? After we’ve paid for the damage caused by my lava-lamp disaster I’ll be lucky to afford a trolley dash around Lidl.

Tansy crosses her arms – quite a feat with E-cup fake boobs – and narrows her blue eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so down. What’s wrong?”

Where do I start?

“And don’t say nothing, either,” she adds, mind reading clearly being another of her skills, alongside her talents as author/chef/fashion designer. “You should tell me because
Hiya!
magazine have just given me an agony aunt column and I need to practise.”

“So I’m your problem-page guinea pig?”

“What an unkind way to put it. No, you can be my dry run and I might be able to help, you never know. I’m good at solving problems. Everyone always says so.”

Since Tansy’s usual idea of solving problems is getting someone else to do things for her (I need to write a book! Hire Katy! I need to look after my children! Hire a nanny!), I don’t hold out much hope, not unless she can reroof and rewire cottages and make Carolyn Miles vanish. But she means well, and as our salads arrive I find myself telling her all my woes.

“Shit,” Tansy says once I draw to a close. “No wonder you’re off your food with all that lot going on.”

I gaze down at my bowl of glossy leaves. Yum.

“Yes,” she continues, steepling her fingers beneath her pointed chin, tilting her head and adopting a caring agony aunt expression, “I can see it’s upsetting when your long-term partner doesn’t love you enough to want to commit, forgets Valentine’s Day and sneaks around with another woman. You’re bound to feel awful. It’s a rejection in every possible way. I’d be devastated. Broken-hearted. Suicidal even.”

I blink. “Err, Tansy, do you really think a career as an agony aunt is for you?”

“Of course!
Tell it like it is Tansy
is what they’re going to call me. It’s tough love. None of your pussyfooting around nonsense with me!”

“Pussyfooting? That was more like stomping all over my feelings in Tommy’s football boots! Ollie isn’t sneaking around with another woman anyway! It could be a perfectly innocent meeting with a work colleague for all I know. And anyone could forget Valentine’s Day if they’re as busy as he is! It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me! You’re talking utter rubbish. Everything is absolutely fine.”

“Ta-da! Problem solved!” Tansy cries triumphantly. “God, I’m bloody good, even if I do say so myself! Bet you’re feeling better already, aren’t you?”

She’s right! I am! I was so stung by what she said that I leapt to Ollie’s defence and, do you know what? I was totally able to justify his actions. She’s a genius!

“I’m so going to get my agent to make
Hiya!
pay me an extra twenty percent,” Tansy decides, attacking her salad with gusto. “Oh, sod it! Thirty percent, why not? I’m saving lives here.”

I hardly hear her. What on earth have I been stressing about? This is Ollie! My lovely dog-loving, nacho-eating, comfort blanket, gorgeous Ollie! Not the Casanova of Cornwall.

Everything’s OK!

And I’m starving!

“Can I have a side of truffle-shaved fries?” I ask a passing waiter. “And a portion of baked brie too?”

“Phew,” says Tansy. “That’s more like it. You had me worried for a minute there.”

I had myself worried too. Thank goodness I’ve seen the light! Maybe I should have some garlic bread too in celebration?

“Still,” she continues, spearing a leaf thoughtfully, “if this Carolyn is as good-looking as you say she is then I can see why there might be a problem.”