Katy Carter Wants a Hero (22 page)

I ought to say no to this lift; after all, I’ve seen all the stranger-danger videos going, but this is Gabriel Winters, possibly the hottest actor in Britain, not some old perv in a mac. He’s not going to do anything unspeakable to me.

I should be so lucky.

‘Are you sure?’ I ask, totally transfixed by the long denim legs emerging from the BMW. The muscles ripple beneath and strain at the fabric. I also glimpse a tantalising strip of taut, tanned stomach as his white T-shirt rides up. Oh my God! He’s a virtual-reality Mills and Boon alpha male!

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Gabriel lifts my suitcases into the boot as easily as though they were made of polystyrene. ‘Besides, I’m going there anyway. Didn’t you read in the papers that I’ve bought a house in Tregowan?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Oh.’ He looks really disappointed, and it’s as though the sun has gone in.

‘But I’m sure it’s all over the papers,’ I say quickly. ‘I haven’t read any for ages.’

Gabriel looks slightly happier.

‘I’m filming down in Tregowan so I thought I might as well buy myself somewhere there,’ he continues, helping me climb into the passenger seat. I take his hand as I spring up and hope my bum doesn’t look too ginormous in my skirt. ‘Property in Cornwall’s an excellent investment, isn’t it?’

‘Absolutely!’ I nod manically, although I can’t even afford a doll’s house.

Gabriel puts the car into gear and I find I can’t tear my eyes away from his strong brown hand upon the gear stick, the very same hand that brought Jane Eyre to ecstasy. ‘The house is called Smuggler’s Rest. It’s the most amazing place, with stunning views. Needs a bit of work, though, so I thought I might invite Sarah Beeny down to have a look.’

‘Really?’ I try very hard not to sound too impressed. Sarah Beeny! Wow!

Gabriel guides the car down a steep hill and into a densely wooded lane. Purple and lilac shadows pool across the road. The sky is smeared with turquoise and a slice of moon beams down at us like a smile in the sky. I feel as though I’m in a very weird dream.

‘Tregowan’s amazing,’ Gabriel says. ‘It’s like a model village. You’ll love it… um…’

‘Katy,’ I say. ‘Katy Carter. I’m staying with Maddy Lomax, the vicar’s wife? She’s not been here long.’

But Gabriel doesn’t want to talk about Maddy.

‘Did you enjoy
Jane
?’ he asks, swinging the car around a hairpin bend and up a very steep hill.

I think about telling him that I think the post-feminist representation of Jane is a mistake and that I found his portrayal of Rochester to be distinctly misogynistic, but something about the expectant look on his face stops me in my tracks.

‘It was great!’ I fib. ‘I loved the wet-trousers scene.’

Gabriel nods, his golden ringlets bobbing.

‘Colin Firth was really put out about that,’ he grins. ‘Helen says she’s going to use it in her next book.’

‘Helen?’ The only famous Helen I can think of was in
Big Brother
donkey’s years ago. I’d be amazed if she could write her name, never mind a book.

‘Fielding.’ He changes down a gear and we crawl up a hill. ‘She wrote
Bridget Jones
? My agent’s going to get me an option on the part of Rochester, Bridget’s new lover. Renée is up for it. And Hugh.’

My head’s swimming. It’s like being in a real-life copy of
OK
! magazine. Posh and Becks will pop out from under the back seats in a minute.

‘But enough about me!’ laughs Gabriel, and his laugh is deep and gravelly. ‘What about you?’

How do I compete with that?

‘I’m writing a novel,’ I say, because this sounds better than unemployed and dumped. ‘Mads is letting me stay with her for a bit to work on it. She says Cornwall’s inspirational. ’ I decide to leave out the bit about all the fit men and finding myself a romantic hero. It would sound ridiculous, seeing as I’m sitting next to the personification of one.

Gabriel turns his head and shoots me a really cute smile, and I like the quirky way that his mouth is higher one side than the other. I wish I could get my notebook and jot down some ideas. Millandra could do with another suitor to give Jake a run for his money.

‘It certainly inspires me,’ he drawls. ‘There are eight pubs in Tregowan, and sometimes you find cute girls at the side of the road!’

Cute
girls
? The kids at school think I’m practically dead! Wayne Lobb once asked me what life was like in the war, cheeky little bastard.

Gabriel’s got more cheese than the cheddar factory, but I’m absurdly flattered that he’s making the effort to chat me up. We pass the twenty-minute journey to the village chatting, mostly about Gabriel, and flirting mildly. By the time the 4x4 descends down an almost vertical hill, I know everything about his career, from his toothpaste commercial to the latest pirate movie. And if Gabriel knows little more than my name, it’s hardly surprising; he is after all a television star and I’m just an unemployed English teacher.

‘Welcome to Tregowan,’ he says.

I’m holding my breath, because the view that dips away beneath us is dizzyingly beautiful. It’s early evening and the twilight seeps in from a darkening sky, but I can still see the lichen-crusted rooftops of crumpled cottages where seagulls huddle against chimneypots. Other gulls are wheeling crazily above the village, swooping towards distant trawlers whose green and scarlet lights herald their return. Down against the harbour wall, boats rise and dip with the swell of the tide, and from the windows of a pub fairy lights glitter and spill dancing patterns into the water.

Lewisham it isn’t.

‘It’s stunning,’ I breathe.

‘That’s my house,’ Gabriel tells me, gesturing to a large white building perched precariously on the side of the valley. ‘The Lomaxes live over there, in the pink cottage just above the fish market.’

I lean forward and squint at the rectory. Either all the years of marking have wrecked my eyesight or there is no road anywhere near it.

‘That’s right,’ nods Gabriel when I mention this. ‘There’s a path up to the rectory from behind the fish market. The vicar can help you with your bags.’

That will really make Richard’s day.

‘I’ll have to drop you here,’ Gabriel says, pulling up by a paved seating area. ‘We can’t get the car any nearer.’

‘This is fine,’ I say, unbuckling my seat belt. ‘Thanks. I owe you one.’

‘Buy me a drink then.’ Gabriel retrieves my luggage, leaving me to carry Pinchy. ‘If you want?’

I can hardly believe my ears. Gabriel Winters is asking me to go for a drink with him! James who? Mads was right; this move to the country is a good idea.

‘It’s the least I can do,’ I say calmly, as though rich and famous actors ask me out for drinks on a daily basis.

So I follow him down a very narrow street past higgledy-piggledy cottages and gift shops whose windows are crammed full of piskies and fudge. We stroll past the fish market, where a crowd of holidaymakers watch oilskin-clad fishermen weighing their catch. The smell of fish is strong and I wrinkle my nose, but Pinchy waves his antennae with great enthusiasm, as though to tell me that he’s nearly home.

‘We’ll go to the Mermaid,’ Gabriel says. ‘It’s a great pub. You’ll love it.’

We climb some steep steps cut into dark rock, which lead up to the fairy light-dappled building I spotted from the car. Gabriel dodges a crowd of smokers huddled beneath a feeble patio heater and pushes open a sturdy wooden door, ducking his head as he does so. I follow him, catching the whispers of ‘Is it really him?’ that spread out in his wake like wash behind a boat, and wish that I’d had time to drag a brush through my curls. My one and only sort of date with a celebrity and I look like I’m wearing Ronald McDonald’s hair.

Just my luck.

Inside the pub it’s very dark and very hot. People jostle elbow to elbow at the bar and vie impatiently with each other to attract the barmaid’s attention. In the window seat, tourists dressed in walking boots pore over guide-books and play dominoes. The locals, who seem to be crammed into a dim corner at the far end of the bar, chat amongst themselves. By the fireplace a man in a big hat plays the guitar and sings enthusiastically while his girlfriend tries to persuade the drinkers to put on silly hats and join in the fun. Before long I’m wearing a sombrero and singing along while Gabriel, ridiculously attractive in a tricorn hat, signs autographs good-naturedly. Several people admire Pinchy in his blue crate but nobody seems to think it at all weird that I’ve brought a lobster in for a pint.

‘Here.’ Gabriel thrusts a fifty-pound note into my hands; at least I assume that’s what it is because I’ve never seen one before. ‘Get the beers in! I’ll find a seat.’

Feeling like a ginger dwarf in a land of giants, I dodge elbows and pint glasses and worm my way to the bar. I narrowly miss having my eye put out by a flailing cigarette and clamber up on to a foot rail. That’s better. I’m at least four inches taller now, and I enjoy surveying the world from my newly acquired vantage point. Even so, I’m just one small hand waving a note amongst a crowd worthy of a Madonna concert.

I catch the barmaid’s eye and she smiles apologetically as she serves the most enormous round to a fisherman with a very loud voice who’s happily telling all and sundry why the Common Fisheries Policy is a bad idea. Eventually he pays up and it’s my turn. While the barmaid pulls me two pints of very potent-looking scrumpy, she keeps looking first at me and then at Gabriel. I like the way her nose stud twinkles in the candlelight. Maybe it’s time for a piercing. I can do whatever I like now I don’t have James bossing me around.

It’s a heady thought. Perhaps I’ll get a tattoo as well, one of those ones on the small of the back that he always said were common. I could ask for
Up yours James
in Sanskrit or something. That could be fun.

‘Katy! Over here, darling!’ hollers Gabriel. He really doesn’t need to tell me where he is, though; the throng of holidaymakers clustered around clamouring for autographs kind of gives it away. I take a sip of cider from the brim of each pint glass so as not to spill it before negotiating a path through the throng, which is easier said than done. This tiny Cornish pub is so packed it makes the Piccadilly Line in rush hour seem roomy.

‘Thanks, sweetheart!’ Gabriel takes his drink and guides me through the press of people, and I’m struck by how bizarre life can be. I mean, this time last night I was still in London, terrified that James would pop up again with half of Kew Gardens, and this evening I’m in a Cornish pub drinking with Gabriel Winters! Nobody at home will believe me.

I
hardly believe me.

Gabriel and I sit down in a window seat and admire the view. By that I mean he looks at the rolling sea and the boats straining against their moorings and I sneak sideways looks at him. How can anyone be so physically perfect? Even the sprinkling of golden stubble that shades his jaw is designer. What’s really strange, though, is that although I can admire him from a purely aesthetic point of view, I don’t feel remotely attracted to him.

I’m probably still in shock from breaking up with James. ‘Excuse me.’ A woman dressed in the tourist uniform of fleece and jeans approaches our table. ‘Aren’t you Gabriel Winters?’

Gabriel swells visibly. ‘I certainly am.’

‘Could I possibly take your picture?’ She waves her digital camera at him. ‘I’m a huge fan. I taped every episode of
Jane
.’

‘My pleasure.’ Gabriel smiles. ‘I’m always happy to oblige my fans. You guys have put me where I am today.’

The camera flashes. I can’t help but feel a little queasy. Beautiful he might be, but Gabriel could rival the Jolly Green Giant when it comes to corniness.

‘Sorry,’ he says, looking anything but. ‘This happens to me a lot.’

‘I think she’ll be disappointed.’ My eyes are still dazzled from the flash. ‘I’m sure I was in the shot.’

‘She can edit you out,’ he replies, totally without irony.

Charming! Still, he’s probably right. Lots of people seem to be editing me out lately.

As we drink, Gabriel tells me all about his pirate movie, which is still in the planning stages, his latest romance with a soap star and the renovations to his new house. Pinchy and I listen attentively for at least thirty minutes, during which Gabriel scarcely draws breath. I try to tell him about
Heart of the Highwayman
but his eyes keep sliding sideways and I soon realise that he’s checking his hair in the shiny horse brasses.

Blimey, even James wasn’t that vain.

Mind you, if I was as beautiful as Gabriel Winters I’d most likely be glued to a mirror too. I check my own reflection and wince. With my frizzy ginger hair and cheeks flushed from the heat, I look even more like Ronald McDonald. Not a good look.

‘Well, I’m here because—’ I begin, and then stop because he’s blatantly not listening. In fact he’s looking at his watch. I think it’s a Rolex but I can’t be sure. Humble English teachers seldom get to see such things.

‘Christ!’ Gabriel exclaims loudly, attracting admiring glances from the female population of the pub. ‘Is that the time? I’m due at Rick Stein’s at eight to meet my director. Drink up, darling. I’d better make tracks.’

I’m obediently finishing my pint when the door of the pub flies open and a tall figure strides in.

‘Has anyone seen my wife?’ he asks, scanning the pub like the Terminator.

‘She hasn’t been here all day,’ the barmaid says quickly.

She has her back to me and I notice her fingers are crossed.

‘Well if you do,’ the man barks, ‘please remind her that she was supposed to be chairing the mother and baby group this afternoon. And,’ he adds tetchily, ‘that music’s far too loud. I can hear it in my study. Unless someone sorts it out I’ll be putting a complaint in to the local council.’

And with this parting shot he spins around in a whirl of black clothing and stomps out of the building.

‘Maybe his missus is having an affair,’ says the pub singer, pulling a face. ‘That’s the third time this month he’s come in here looking for her.’

‘Can’t say I blame her if she is,’ says the loud fisherman. ‘He’s a miserable bastard.’