Katy Carter Wants a Hero (40 page)

Call me a sad cow, but didn’t Ollie once mention a fantasy about Jordan and a trampoline? And if I’m not mistaken, Jewell has hired a bouncy castle, which is practically the same thing.

I just hope Ollie comes, even if Vile Nina is with him. I keep peeking out the window but there’s no sign of him yet.

‘Scary,’ says Mads, eyeing me up and down. ‘You look just like Pamela Anderson. Let’s hope nobody comes as Tommy Lee.’

‘I’m Jordan!’ I protest, but Mads isn’t listening; she’s far too busy sticking her tongue down Ozzie’s throat. Honestly! The pair of them are worse than teenagers lately; they can hardly keep their hands off each other. Just as well I can escape up to Smuggler’s Rest to leave them to it.

Giving up on Mads and Richard, who may be some time if past experience is anything to go by, I give myself one more practice pout and amble on to the landing. Pausing for a split second at the top of the curved stairway, I look down at the busy scene below. There’s no sign of James yet, thank heavens, but I’m sure that it’s only a matter of time. Can’t think who he’ll come as, though; I don’t think BBC News 24 is that big on celebrities.

Spotting some familiar faces, I make my way through the throng, accepting a glass of champagne on the way, and join Gabriel and Guy, both of whom look absolutely normal.

‘Who are you?’ I ask Guy, who’s swigging Stella from a can and sporting his usual yellow bib-and-braces attire. I’m amazed he came. He must really rate Jewell to allow himself to be dragged to London, a place on a par with Sodom and Gomorrah for decadence as far as he’s concerned. He also has to be the only person I’ve ever met who has never been to a Pizza Hut. It was hell last night trying to prise him away from the Ice Cream Factory.

‘Can’t you tell?’ Guy does a twirl. ‘I’m George Clooney in
The Perfect Storm
!’

I clap my hands. ‘Great outfit, Guy! And who are you?’ I ask Gabriel, who’s looking perfectly normal in a plain DJ and bow tie, golden curls caught up in a ponytail.

‘I’ve come as myself,’ replies Gabriel, totally without irony. ‘I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather be.’

‘Of course you couldn’t,’ I say, patting his arm. Gabriel is the most conceited person on the planet, it’s official. When
Cosmo
phoned the other day and asked me what his favourite position was, and I replied ‘In front of the mirror’, they had no idea how honest I was being. Frankie literally has to peel Gabe away from the looking glass before they can go anywhere. ‘You look great.’

‘Thanks.’ Gabriel looks me up and down. ‘Why did you come as Lily Savage?’

I give up.

‘Just felt like it,’ I say.

‘Smile!’ A camera flashes and for a moment I see stars. Blinking rapidly, I eventually distinguish Angela Andrews, cunningly disguised as Cruella de Vil, with her photographer decked out as a Dalmatian.

‘Hello.’ Angela smiles, or at least I think she does; it’s a bit like being beamed at by a piranha. ‘Marvellous party. We’ll chat later. I’m sure you have loads to tell me.’

‘Who invited her?’ asks Frankie, sidling up to Gabriel and looking nervous.

I frown. ‘She’s probably gatecrashed. Just be on your best behaviour, you guys. No snogging, OK?’

‘I should be so lucky,’ sighs Frankie. He looks so genuinely miserable that my heart goes out to him. It’s just a shame that Gabriel won’t come out for him. Surely life would be so much easier?

‘She’s got to be on to something,’ worries Gabriel. ‘The Rottweiler, remember? Katy, you’ll have to stick next to me like glue. Hold my hand or something.’

But I have absolutely no intention of holding his hand. In fact I hardly hear a word that he is saying because my attention has been totally diverted. Walking across the hallway, dressed in a billowing white lawn shirt, tight cream breeches and knee boots, with his long curly hair caught back at the nape of his neck in a velvet bow, is none other than Ollie. A three-cornered hat swings from his hand.

I am totally and utterly lost for words.

He’s come as Johnny Depp in full
Pirates of the Caribbean
mode.

And he looks absolutely gorgeous.

My legs morph into overcooked spaghetti and my heart really does start to pound when I catch his eye across the room. And when he gives me that wry little dimpled smile, I’m lost. Honestly! All these years of churning out romantic clichés, and now I’m actually experiencing them for real. All this over Ollie, the man I dismissed out of hand as ever being hero material. Ollie, who leaves the loo seat up and has a passion for garlicky olives, who smokes sneaky cigarettes and has terrible taste in daytime television.

That Ollie. The one I’ve thought of every single day since I left London.

‘Ollie!’ screeches Frankie, ‘Oh! My! God!’ And then he does what I’m far too shy to do but am actually desperate to: he flies across the hall and launches himself at Ol, flinging his arms around his neck and hugging him. ‘Darling! You look absolutely gorge! I could eat you up!’

Gabriel scowls. Funny how his pretty-boy looks appear a bit petulant sometimes.

‘Who’s that?’ he hisses.

‘That’s Ollie,’ I say, and there’s a lovely glowy feeling spreading through me. ‘Frankie’s cousin.’

‘Get off me, you old bender!’ says Ollie, and they wrestle for a minute before joining us. Ollie’s hair has come loose and I notice how much longer it’s grown, presumably because I haven’t been around to hack off the ends for him with the kitchen scissors. His face is thinner too, and very tanned from the wind and the sun. Freckles dust the bridge of his tilted nose and I’m overwhelmed by the urge to kiss each one.

In a desperate attempt to distract myself I take an enormous mouthful of champagne and practically choke. It takes Ollie and Frankie several minutes of slapping me on the back before I gain sufficient control of my lungs again.

Not a good start.

‘Are you all right?’ asks Ollie.

I nod desperately. My wig is a bit skewwhiff and I think I’ve lost an eyelash, but I’ll live to fight another day.

‘You’ve come as Jordan?’ Ol asks. ‘Thought you couldn’t stand her? When I put her calendar up in the loo you said she was a vacuous bimbo.’

Oh yeah. I forgot that. Still, honesty and all that gubbins. Taking a deep breath, I look him in the eye and, no doubt turning a fetching shade of beetroot, remind him of his trampoline fantasy.

Ollie throws back his head and laughs. I can’t help but notice how the muscles ripple in his throat. Kiss me! they say.

‘That was a joke,’ he chuckles. ‘I can’t stand her. I was just winding you up.’

‘You were?’ He was? I stare at him aghast. Ten bums in a row. There goes my seduction plan; unsophisticated as it was, at least it was a plan of some kind. Now I’m dressed in a revealing chilly outfit that’s as sexy as control knickers. If only I’d come as someone beautiful and glamorous, like that girl over there who’s exquisitely dressed as Marilyn Monroe, all chiffon skirts and bouncing peroxide curls. If I was dressed like that I’d be home and dry.

Marilyn heads our way, gore-red lips parted in a smile.

‘Hello,’ she says, linking her arm through Ollie’s. ‘Lovely to see you again, Katy. And even lovelier to see
you
!’ she adds, batting her eyelashes so manically at Gabriel that I half expect Charlie from
Casualty
to come rushing in and start to apply first aid to her eyelids. ‘I’m Nina.’

Plop. There goes my heart into my patent-white tart boots, even quicker than you can say broken dreams. Sure enough, under the Marilyn outfit is Nina. And from the way her bony hand grips Ol’s bicep, they’re still very much an item.

I’m such an idiot. Why don’t I just invite everyone to drive a steamroller over my emotions?

‘Everyone,’ I say, injecting maximum false cheer into my voice. ‘This is Nina, Ollie’s fiancée.’

‘Fiancée!’ squawks Frankie, looking at me and then at Ollie. ‘Fiancée?’

‘Katy,’ says Ollie, ‘I think—’

But what Ollie thinks we don’t get to find out, because at that very moment Jewell makes her entrance, to much cheering and a loud blast on the electric guitar from Ricky, the candyfloss-maned bass player in the Queens. She pauses theatrically at the top of the stairs and waves at the speechless guests.

We’re speechless because it’s not every day you see a seventy-year-old woman (and that’s discounting that fact that Jewell’s been seventy for at least the last ten years) dressed as Madonna. And I’m not talking Madonna in her Ray of Light hippy phase.

If only.

No, Auntie Jewell has plumped for the full Vogue era, complete with Jean Paul Gaultier pointy-coned basque and blonde wig. She looks as though she’s about to burst into a rendition of ‘Hanky Panky’ at any moment. I wouldn’t put it past her.

‘Darlings,’ cries Jewell, flinging her arms wide and sending the feathers on her hat bobbing. ‘Thank you so much for coming tonight to celebrate my birthday! It’s not every day that a girl reaches seventy.’

No, just every year.

‘I’m delighted to see you all here,’ Jewell beams. ‘There’s booze and nibbles, and darling Frankie’s kindly lent me his band for the evening too. But before you all get carried away, I need you to indulge a little old lady and play a game for me.’

Little old lady my bottom. Beneath the wrinkles Jewell is pure steel. I dread to think what she’s cooked up tonight. All Jewell’s party games tend to end up with me making a prat of myself in one way or another.

I expect that surprises you, doesn’t it?

‘I’ve got the names of famous lovers from film and literature and history,’ announces Jewell as she descends the staircase. ‘I’m going to attach the names to your backs. But the game is that you won’t know what your name is, so you’ll have to ask all sorts of questions to find out!’

She claps her hands, and at once two waiters scurry forward with baskets of name badges.

‘And when you do eventually find your partner,’ she adds, busily pinning the name
Becks
on to Guy’s plastic back, ‘you have to stay with them for one drink. So have fun! Get chatting, and meet lots of lovely new people.’

‘Watch her,’ warns my sister Holly, passing by with the name
Posh
pinned to her suit. ‘She’s up to something.’

Of course she is. Still, at least it buys me some breathing space from Ollie and Nina. I move away, helping myself to another glass of champagne, and begin to ask questions. I circle the room endlessly. I know I’m from literature, I know that I’ve been in a film, but I’ve drawn a blank. Frankie has teamed up with Marilyn, good luck to him, and Guy and Holly are whispering in each other’s ears.

People are pairing off left, right and centre and I’m starting to panic. This is like being back at the school disco when the slow dances begin, pressing my back against the wall and praying either to vanish into the floor or for somebody not too ugly to ask me to dance. Being short and ginger, I was invariably left until last.

Not a happy memory.

Ollie sidles up to me, twisting round. ‘Who am I?’

‘That’s cheating!’ I say sternly, trying to ignore the way the very sight of him turns my insides to ice cream. ‘You’re meant to ask me questions.’

‘Sod questions,’ Ollie says. ‘Yours says Elizabeth. What’s mine?’

‘Darcy,’ I read. Nice one, Jewell.

‘Hello, Miss Bennet.’ Ollie reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Do you want a drink?’

No, what I want is for you to love me and not Nina.

‘A drink would be lovely,’ I say graciously. Well, may as well get into Lizzie Bennet mode, even if I’m dressed more like a hooker. A girl can dream, can’t she? I try to slow my tattered breathing. Any more oxygen and I’ll pass out.

Ollie returns with two brimming glasses.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks. ‘You look a bit odd.’

‘It’s very hot in here,’ I improvise wildly. How I can be hot dressed in hot pants and a bra is one of life’s great mysteries.

Ollie raises his eyebrows; the same thought has obviously just occurred to him too. He puts both glasses into one hand and steers me towards the garden.

Once through the French doors and into the darkness of the terrace, the noise of the party starts to recede, chatter just a distant ebb and flow like the tide as it sucks at the pebbles on Tregowan beach. The air is heavy with night-scented stock, the sky sprinkled with stars like glitter on a child’s Christmas card.

‘Have a sit-down.’ Ollie guides me towards a lichen-crusted stone bench and I sink on to it, wincing a little when the stone grates my thighs.

Ollie fixes me with a steady gaze. ‘Katy, what’s going on?’

This is it. Honesty time.

I take a gulp of cool night air. Thank goodness it’s dark and he can’t see my Edam face.

‘Why are you marrying Nina?’ The words bolt out at about one hundred miles an hour.

‘I’m not marrying Nina.’

‘I mean, I know that she has great tits and can cook and all that—’ Whoa. Brakes. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said,’ Ollie repeats slowly, like he’s talking to bottom-set Year 7, ‘I’m not engaged to Nina. I don’t know why you think I am. Your imagination again, I suppose.’

‘No!’ I’m most indignant. My poor old imagination is often to blame, but not this time. ‘She told me. When you went shopping and went to the jeweller’s. You looked at rings?’

Ollie’s face registers nothing but disbelief. ‘Is that why you sent me an engagement card?’

‘Of course it was! Nina practically told me you’d bought the ring.’

‘Nina looked at rings. I went to Millets.’

I stare at him. ‘But I assumed you’d bought her a ring. Of course that was why I posted you a card!’

He shakes his head. ‘I thought it was your way of telling me to leave you in peace and make a go of it with her. When exactly did she tell you this?’

I think back. ‘About three months ago.’

‘About the same time you started seeing Gabriel Winters?’

‘Try the same day, actually. After all, what did I have to lose? I left you loads of texts and voicemails on your mobile. And I was always asking Nina to pass on messages to you. You never got back to me, Ollie. And every time I called I had to listen to her going on and on about how absolutely flipping fantastic everything was between you. How you were only being kind to me because you felt sorry for me. How… how…’ My voice breaks at this point and I’m horrified to find that tears are trickling down my face, and they won’t be elegant little diamondlike tears either, because when I cry, I blub. Just my luck that snot and froggy eyes aren’t sexy. ‘How you were pissed off with me for taking up so much of your time with the breast cancer stuff. How you wanted to be with her and I was wasting your time by dragging you to the hospital.’