Katy Carter Wants a Hero (13 page)

‘Could I really do it?’ I ask Sasha. ‘Could I just give it all up and start again? Could I really pick up that dream of just writing for a while? And is there a Mr Right just waiting for me?’

Sasha doesn’t know, but she gives a positive thump of her tail.

I sigh. ‘It’s a nice idea, but life isn’t really like that, is it?’

Still, talking to Mads has perked me up a lot, and even though my life is still empty and lonely and generally pretty pants, right this minute I at least have a little spark of hope.

Leaving the phone switched on, just in case James should decide in the next five minutes that actually he can’t live without me after all, I heave myself out of bed and pad downstairs.

Where did Ollie leave that sodding laptop?

If I can’t get to Cornwall and bag one of Maddy’s romantic heroes, then the least I can do is create my own…

I spend the best part of the following two weeks surgically attached to my duvet and existing on a diet of Dairy Milk and Blossom Hill, neither of which do much for my complexion or my master plan of losing shedloads of weight in order to win James back. Ollie rings in sick for me and delivers cups of tea and sympathy in regular doses, and while he battles with the teenage hordes I cry myself sick, develop a worrying addiction to Jeremy Kyle and bash away on the laptop. But it’s hard to imagine being the fragrant Millandra when I feel so grotty and I end up deleting great chunks of my writing, which makes me even more fed up.

As for Cordelia, it’s almost indecent just how keen she is to unravel the wedding arrangements. I have one short phone call in which her relief is palpable, and ironically it’s the most civilised conversation we’ve ever had. But from James I hear absolutely nothing, and that hurts. A lot. I know that things weren’t always perfect but I thought he loved me and that it was stress at work that was making him so grumpy. I never thought for a moment I was the problem. So I’m a bit spontaneous (read disorganised in James’s book) and I suppose I do have a tendency to have my head in the clouds, but those are hardly hanging offences. And James did choose me, so it stands to reason that there are many things about me that he does like.

All these thoughts are inconsiderate enough to go whizzing round in my mind at about four a.m. Night after night I pummel my pillow, snivel a bit and have to literally sit on my hands to stop myself sending desperate little text messages into the ether. Ollie and Mads are fantastic and I bang on at them non-stop but I’m going to have to change the record soon. Ollie’s eyes are starting to glaze over and yesterday Maddy asked whether I had Tourette’s.

In the two weeks since James literally threw me out of his life, Ollie’s been working very hard on his tough-love theory. In the kitchen we have a ‘James’ box into which I have to put a pound every time I mention his name, while the dartboard in the hall has James’s photo Pritt-Sticked to it and as a regular part of my therapy I hurl darts at my beloved’s face. I’m too darn busy to slip into a decline because I’m being dragged all over west London to parties and pubs, and Maddy is constantly on the phone telling me about all the gorgeous men she’s lining up for me in Cornwall. Everybody is so busy trying to cheer me up and chivvy me along that I feel totally exhausted. All I want to do is curl up and howl for a bit in peace. Surely that’s par for the course when an engagement breaks up?

Apparently not. In fact it’s rather insulting that my friends think I should be celebrating rather than snivelling.

I keep trying to explain that I can’t give up on James without a fight. Ollie makes puking noises to such comments, but he’s hardly one to talk, is he, seeing as he still has Vile Nina phoning and turning up at all hours? And obviously Nina is really thrilled that I’ve moved in. Not.

Ol says he’s told her that it’s over between them, but Nina’s having none of it. She’s going to cling to him and Ollie, as usual, is too soft to tell her to get lost. Maybe he should take lessons from James? He didn’t take long to boot me out. Perhaps I should have put up more of a fight.

The problem is I’m not much of a fighter. As much as I’d love to be one of those feisty types who command admiration wherever they go, the sad truth of the matter is that I’m more inclined to keep quiet and live in hope that I go unnoticed. I spent years at school trying to keep my head down, hoping the teachers didn’t spot me, ditto university, and even now I’m still doing it, which is probably why instead of driving a JCB into James’s car and planting cress in the seagrass, I’ve been snivelling into a pillow and pickling my liver for the last two weeks.

I’m even starting to bore myself.

Well, I decide on the third Monday that I bunk work (thank God any doctor I see clocks ‘teacher’ on my notes and instantly signs me off with stress), no more Mrs Sappy Person. It’s time to take matters into my own hands and stop being so dependent on Ollie and Maddy. Millandra would fight for Jake. So it’s about time I did the same for James. You have to work at relationships, right?

Once Ollie has left for Sir Bob’s, muttering darkly about covering skivers’ lessons, I tear into the bathroom, lob Pinchy into a bucket and scrub, pluck and exfoliate as though my life depends upon it. Not an inch of me is left untended. I even put a scarlet colour through my hair. So what if the bathroom looks like Dracula has paid a flying visit and my fake tan has dyed the edges of Ollie’s bath robe nicotine yellow? The end result is totally worth it. I twirl in front of the hall mirror and admire the glowing reflection. My skirt hangs looser on my waist and even my face looks slimmer. The wine and misery diet has worked wonders.

I could practically fancy myself.

My master plan can’t fail.

It’s a lovely sunny morning. The sky above the London rooftops is taking a break from its usual leaden hue and is all duck-egg blue streaked with pink-edged clouds. I take this to be a good omen — you don’t teach English for this long without learning something about pathetic fallacy — and as a celebration I buy myself a latte and a blueberry muffin from the little Italian café by the station. I even treat myself to
Heat
. Once on the tube, I sweep a sheaf of
Metro
pages on to the floor and settle down on my seat. The fabric prickles against my bare legs and for a moment I wonder if I should have stuck to jeans. But then James wouldn’t have the benefit of my newly thinner and fake-tanned legs. I catch a glimpse of myself in the tube window and give my reflection the thumbs-up. When James sees how fab I look, I know he’ll want me back. He’s surely missing me by now?

The journey passes pleasantly and I wonder why people moan about the tube. Soon leafy Ealing is replaced by rows and rows of terraced houses, their narrow gardens stretching down to the railway lines, lawns dotted with assortments of plastic toys, washing dancing in the breeze and bare earth just waiting for planting. When the train plunges beneath London, I amuse myself by reading about the latest celebrity break-up, which cheers me up a lot. I mean, if Jennifer Aniston and Kylie can’t hang on to a man, then
of course
it’s harder for us mere mortals. I just need to put some more effort in, that’s all, which is
exactly
what I’m doing now. By the time I reach my stop and emerge into the sunshine, I feel much more positive. Everything’s going to be OK. I just know it.

All I have to do is find James’s office and I’ll be sorted, but this might be easier said than done. Now where was Millward Saville again?

Dredging up the directions from my Swiss-cheese memory, I cross the square and head towards the imposing glass and marble building opposite. It glitters in the sunlight and practically blocks out the dome of St Paul’s that cowers behind. Kind of fitting really, since Millwards is probably one of the biggest cathedrals to Mammon that you will find anywhere. Judging from the lack of people entering, it appears that most are already hard at worship.

I square my shoulders and inhale. Exhale stress out. Inhale calmness in. See! I knew that yoga video wasn’t a waste of money. So what if Ollie was right and I never got to any of the actual workout? I think I’ve pretty much sussed the basics.

Up the marble steps I tip-tap in my heels like one of the Billy Goats Gruff. Come on, Katy! Don’t be intimidated! In my little power suit (bought for school but only worn once because the kids pissed themselves laughing and asked if I was on interview), I’m as good as any of these city types. I’m just like Ally McBeal.

But a bit fatter.

‘Katy!’

I turn round, but sadly it isn’t James running in slow motion towards me with his arms outstretched but Ed Grenville, chins wobbling and glasses slipping down his nose, lumbering up the steps behind me. He doesn’t look overjoyed to see me, which, given our last meeting, is understandable.

‘Good Lord, Katy,’ Ed pants, shaking his head and pushing his glasses up his nose with a stumpy forefinger. ‘I didn’t expect to see you, old girl. Kind of takes a chap by surprise.’

‘Don’t panic, Ed,’ I say airily. ‘I haven’t got a lobster with me, or a cactus. I’ve just come to chat to James.’

From the look of abject horror on Ed’s face, you’d think I’d said I was about to do a naked tap dance, complete with nipple tassels, on the trading floor.

‘James isn’t in yet.’

I’m taken aback. James is late? I couldn’t be more surprised if he’d told me the earth was flat. James is always at work by seven a.m. Greenwich could set their clocks by him.

‘He’s really taken this break-up hard then,’ I breathe. No wonder he isn’t answering my texts or picking up the telephone. He’s too upset to face me, too riddled with guilt to speak without breaking down.

‘Well, um,’ Ed says.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t let him know you’ve told me. I know he’d hate to be embarrassed at work.’

He smiles weakly. ‘I’ll tell James you popped by. Why don’t you go home? I’ll get him to call you.’

I can take a hint. ‘What time will he be here? Shall I pop back for lunch? Or is lunch still for wimps?’

I laugh at this, but Ed certainly doesn’t. His gaze is fixed on a bright red Mercedes convertible pulling up with a flamboyant screech at the bottom of the steps. The driver, who has a windswept mane of blonde hair and the most enormous pair of sunglasses, is busily kissing the passenger, who responds with such enthusiasm that they are practically having sex on the dashboard.

The passenger, who is unmistakably James.

All the blood in my body curdles.

‘Sorry, old bean,’ Ed says.

My stomach lurches and for a hideous moment I think the muffin and latte are going to make my reacquaintance. I swallow bile quickly.

‘Who the hell is that?’

‘Alice Saville.’ Ed can’t look me in the eye. ‘She’s doing some work experience here. She’s, um… she’s been working under James.’

‘I bet she has.’ In the car James and Alice, who must be eighteen at the most, are still kissing.

‘If your dad’s the chairman of the bank you can pretty much keep your own hours,’ explains Ed. ‘She’s always late. Especially now she’s with James.’

No wonder all my texts have gone unanswered.

‘How long has this been going on?’ I can’t stop looking; it’s like they’re eye magnets or something. ‘And don’t bloody lie to me, Ed.’

Poor Ed mutters to his feet, ‘A month?’

Maths isn’t my strong subject, but that seems to pretty much pre-date our dinner party from hell. I look again at Alice Saville, all honey skin and platinum hair, and I know why James has really dumped me. It wasn’t anything to do with lobsters or dogs or cacti. It wasn’t even because I’m not a perfect size ten. He simply got a better offer.

‘I’m sure it won’t last,’ bleats Ed. ‘But you know how obsessed James is with money, old girl.’

Don’t I just. It seems to be all he thinks about recently. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard him yelling down the phone about extending his terms or exploring other options.

‘Rumour has it,’ Ed’s voice drops to a whisper, ‘that he’s made a few errors of judgement when speculating. Maybe he needs Alice to help him out of a tight spot.’

‘Ed, stop trying to make me feel better. It’s sweet of you but it’s not working.’ I dash tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘She’s gorgeous and he’s mad about her. It’s over.’

Trying desperately to muster my dignity, I shake off Ed’s hand before running into the street. Then I’m crying in earnest, with tears dripping down my cheeks and splashing on to the pavement. I can hear Ed calling but I’m beyond caring. All I want to do is get away. I don’t think I have ever felt this stupid or humiliated in my entire life.

Which is really saying something.

Splosh! Ollie zooms past me at a furious front crawl, creating his own mini tsunami, which shoots right up my nose. Spluttering, I doggy-paddle to the side of the pool and gulp lungfuls of air. I’m not suicidal just yet so drowning isn’t top of my list of things to do, although drowning Ollie might be fairly soon if he carries on this exhausting means of distracting me from my woes.

‘Come on!’ Ollie powers past, on his back this time. ‘Put some effort into it, Katy. You know it makes sense.’

‘No it bloody doesn’t,’ I mutter resentfully. Tell me what exactly makes sense about starting the day all cold and soggy? I know life with James was tricky sometimes, but at least I got to stay in bed until half seven and eat my breakfast while glued to GMTV. No one woke me up at six and made me swim at such an ungodly hour.

I set off again, bobbing in Ollie’s wash, and grit my teeth. The sooner I move in with Auntie Jewell the better. Ollie may think he’s doing me a favour by taking my mind off my broken heart with all this physical exercise, but to be honest I think I’d be happier being miserable. I’d really like some time to wallow in my bedroom, sobbing into my pillow and generally doing the entire broken-hearted thing. If it’s good enough for Jane Austen’s characters then I’m pretty sure it’s good enough for me.

As I swim, I try to take my mind off the fact that I’m a) knackered and b) puffing like Thomas the Tank Engine, by continuing
Heart of the Highwayman
in my head. Not the best place to write it, but since I’m surrounded by gallons of water I haven’t much choice. Besides, I’d rather think about Jake and Millandra than contemplate the plaster that has just bobbed past my nose. I’ll probably contract cholera and die before I get to finish my book. Literary critics will find the torn remnants and weep over my lost genius, A-level students will be forced to discuss what I actually meant, and Richard and Judy will run a writing competition in my honour.