Katy Carter Wants a Hero (3 page)

Except he didn’t.

In fact all my handsome princes had the very unfortunate habit of turning into frogs almost as soon as I kissed them. It was all very disappointing.

Just as I was considering suing Mills and Boon under the Trade Descriptions Act and my sexual organs had forgotten what they were for, Fate decided it was time to put me out of my misery. Rewind to four years ago: I was getting dressed up for Auntie Jewell’s birthday party without a clue that my life was about to change in the most unexpected way.

Jewell’s birthday parties are legendary. Every year she posts a notice in
The Times
and sends out invitations to her eclectic collection of friends and relatives, who drop everything in order to attend what’s always a fantastic bash. That year the theme was
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, and I’d spent weeks starving myself to get into a green shimmery fairy costume.

OK, I’d spent ten quid on control knickers, but my intentions had been good.

Anyway, just minutes before I was due to leave, my then boyfriend decided to dump me by text message, leaving me with a dilemma: did I howl until I looked like a goblin or did I head out to the party alone? Usually I dragged Ollie along for moral support because Jewell adored him, but that summer he’d pushed off to the Andes. Deciding to leave my broken heart for later, I set out for Jewell’s party in Ollie’s temperamental VW Beetle, complete with fairy costume, wings and wand. What could possibly go wrong?

Quite a lot as it turned out, because Fate has a nasty habit of flicking V signs at me. Unless you’ve broken down on the A5 dressed in a fairy costume, you can’t possibly have any concept of what it means to be embarrassed. Tooting lorry drivers and whistles abounded as I desperately tried to look under the bonnet before eventually remembering the engine lived in the boot. Not that I had a flipping clue what to do once I
did
locate it. It just made me feel better to be doing something,
anything
rather than throwing myself under the next juggernaut. Even the AA didn’t want to know, because Ollie hadn’t paid his membership.

Ollie was very lucky he was in the Andes…

I’d collapsed on to the ground and buried my head in my hands. I was well and truly up that famous creek without a boat, never mind the paddle. What on earth was I going to do?

And then it happened. The moment I’d been dreaming about since I was about twelve. A beautiful sleek Mercedes pulled up, the door swung open and a tall, lean body slowly uncoiled itself.

‘Can I help?’

I looked up and was instantly lost for words, which for me is pretty darn unusual. I opened my mouth to speak but it was as though he’d pressed my mute button, because I couldn’t make a sound. This tall, dark stranger was simply too beautiful to be true. He had eyes of the most amazing ice blue, cheekbones so chiselled the royals should ski off them rather than trekking to Klosters and long, black gypsy curls that blew in the wind. The sun shone behind him like a halo. Well either that or he really was an angel.

‘Has the car broken down?’

I’d forgotten all about the car, but my voice box was well and truly buggered, that was for sure. He could have stepped straight from the pages of my latest Mills and Boon.

Just my luck to be dressed like Tinkerbell.

The man stepped forward, his eyes crinkling as he looked (most powerfully) down at me. Then he said, ‘Bloody hell! Katy? Is that you?’

I screwed my eyes against the sun and tried to figure out who he was, but no, he still looked like he’d materialised from a romantic novel.

‘It’s me, James,’ the stranger said, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. ‘I used to live next door to your Auntie Jewell? Don’t you remember? We used to play together all the time.’

My chin was practically in the London sewer. This divine-looking man was snotty little James? This alpha male who smelt of expensive aftershave was the same annoying creature who used to rip the wings off flies and pull my ponytail?

No. Way.

‘It really is me,’ James laughed, dropping a kiss on to the corner of my mouth. ‘But I promise I won’t throw worms at you any more! You look amazing, Katy. Who’d ever have thought you’d grow up to be so beautiful?’

Luckily for James the cliché police were off duty, not that I cared. Being five foot three and ginger, I know I’m not beautiful, but hey! A girl’s allowed to get swept off her feet once in a while, isn’t she?

And sweep me off my feet is exactly what James did. He insisted on chauffeuring me to the party, where he was greeted with rapture by Jewell, but he never left my side or let go of my hand. That night he whisked me away to a beautiful hotel where… well, you can probably work that out for yourselves! Anyway, the rest is history and by the time Ollie came home I’d practically moved into James’s smart flat and was head over heels in love with my perfect romantic hero. And if Ollie was a bit narky and made snide comments, then it served him right for not paying the AA.

So there you have it. James St Ellis is perfect. And I still can’t believe that somebody so perfect would be interested in dumpy little old me. OK, so at times he can be a bit bossy, but he’s only doing it for my own good. It’s because he loves me and wants the best for me that James sometimes comes across as a little bit insensitive. When I think about it, lots of the things he says make perfect sense: I do need to dress more smartly, lose a stone and think about the future if I’m to make the most of myself. And he’s right: my disrupted education isn’t as good as it could be — and is certainly no match for his Oxbridge one — so I do need to listen to him when it comes to finances, politics and career stuff. If he’s bossy it’s only because he cares, unlike my parents, who never gave a monkey’s what I did. My life with James is a million times removed from the haphazard one I had with them. I really have been rescued by a handsome prince and my own fairy tale has come true! So what if I’ve had to change a little and improve myself so that I’m good enough? James is worth it because he’s everything I ever dreamed about when I was growing up.

He’s
my
romantic hero, and if I’m not exactly the perfect romantic heroine then I’m working on it, because I do love James. I’m sure I do. When he’s bossy or grumpy I remind myself how stressful it is working in the City, especially with all this credit-crunch stuff going on, and that he doesn’t mean the things he sometimes says to me. He’s on edge; who wouldn’t be seeing their colleagues and friends losing their jobs on a daily basis? I’m the one he comes home to, the one who listens and the one on whom he vents his bad temper. I can’t say I like it much, but nobody ever said relationships are easy; you have to work at them, don’t you?

Although placating James’s bad moods has started to feel more like hard labour lately…

But that’s what adult relationships are all about, working things through I mean, and loving the other person even when they’re not behaving in a particularly lovable manner. Real love deals with issues rather than quitting, which has always been my parents’ preferred method. They’d row, Dad would vanish off in his VW van and Mum would hook up with someone called Rain or Baggy for a few months until Dad came back full of tall tales and with his pockets packed with hash. Not quite the example I want to live my life by! My preferred method of rebellion has been becoming a total square, working as a slave to the system and subjugating myself to the patriarchy — my mother’s words, not mine — rather than exploring my inner goddess or trekking off to Marrakesh.

I prefer to think I’m made of sterner stuff than my parents. This is just a bumpy patch. The economy will pick up, James will get his promotion and everything will go back to how it used to be. I just have to be patient and not rise when he’s narky, which is easier said than done. I’m biting my tongue so much lately I’m starting to worry the Ed Psych will add me to the school’s list of selfharmers…

So I can’t let James down with this dinner party. He’s been so stressed about money lately, what with the wedding to pay for, his mother always on the scrounge and his share portfolio worthless. Apparently Iceland isn’t just somewhere Kerry Katona goes shopping; it’s also where James put his last bonus, which even I know isn’t good news. Since I scrape by on a teacher’s wage and make church mice look rich, I’m not much help to our joint finances, so James
has
to get this promotion. He’s adamant that everything depends on it.

I
have
to get this dinner party right.

No pressure there, then.

Just as well I’m in the pub. I seriously need a drink just thinking about tomorrow.

Ollie returns, this time with a bottle of wine, and fixes me with a steely glare.

‘OK. I’ll do it. But,’ he adds swiftly before I can fling myself at his feet in an ecstasy of relief and gratitude, ‘on one condition.’

‘Anything!’

‘I’m allowed to come too with a guest. If I’m spending all sodding day cooking, I’m bloody well going to get to eat something.’

I pause for a minute. What will James think about this? He’s not Ollie’s greatest fan, but on the other hand Ollie is clever and would be a brilliant conversationalist. What he doesn’t know about eighteenth-century literature isn’t worth knowing. I must make a mental note not to get him started on
Fanny Hill
, though. That really would go down like cold sick with a stuffy gathering of merchant bankers.

‘Who’s the guest?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘Not Nina?’

‘Chill out. She’s working. I’ll get my thinking cap on. We need somebody entertaining and fun to get the evening up and running.’

Although, as I think I might have mentioned, I don’t find Ollie attractive, it seems that the rest of the female population does, and he’s never short of dates. Most of them, although stunning, have slightly lower IQs than a lettuce and aren’t going to pose much of a threat to James’s dinner guests. Julius Millward is an old goat, and adding a pretty girl to the equation can only improve things.

This dinner party is so going to be a success!

I beam at Ollie. ‘Bring whoever you want!’

‘Cool,’ Ollie says. ‘Now, get that wine down your neck and listen up. We’ve got a menu to plan.’

The silken blindfold whispered deliciously against Millandra’s eyelids. Although she couldn’t see anything, she could smell the heady scent of honeysuckle, and the springy moss beneath her small feet hinted that she was outside. A breeze kissed her cheeks and lifted tendrils of hair from her face. Jake’s hand, pressed into the small of her back, guided her through the maze of trees.

‘Now, my lady,’ he said, as they came to a halt. ‘Do you trust me?’

There were a thousand and one reasons why she shouldn’t trust him, Millandra knew. Jake Delaware was the most wanted felon in England, a notorious highwayman who terrorised the King’s Highway and who was quicker than lightning with rapier and blunderbuss. A gentlewoman should know better than to venture into the forest alone with such a character. But his gentle kisses and the knowing touch of his hands had overcome all other sensibilities.

‘I trust you,’ she breathed.

With a swift motion the blindfold was pulled from her eyes to drift down to the mossy floor.

‘Oh!’ gasped Millandra in amazement.

Spread before her astonished gaze was a feast fit for a princess. Laid out upon a sumptuous velvet cloak strewn with wildflowers was a fare of delicate pastries, strawberries and summer fruits, quails’ eggs and champagne. Deep in a shady forest glade, dappled with dancing sunbeams, it was the most romantic sight she had ever encountered.

‘I promised that I would wine and dine you as well as Lord Ellington could,’ said Jake, ‘if not even better.’

And as Millandra smiled up at him, at the strong tanned throat, dancing emerald eyes and rippling beechnut hair, she felt certain that Jake Delaware could outdo her other suitors in every other way…

OK, so I don’t suppose that Jake had to do battle in Sainsbury’s on a Friday night with every Nigella and Jamie wannabe in west London, nor did he have to lug eight groaning bags home on the 207 bus, but you get the picture. And even though he’s only a fantasy romantic hero, I’m pretty impressed with him so far. Lucky old Millandra. Bet she’s the kind of girl who just nibbles daintily on a crust of bread before declaring herself full, unlike those of us who’d shovel the lot in until we feel like a sausage about to burst its skin, and who sips champagne daintily rather than swigging it like there’s going to be a world shortage. Still, she is a romantic heroine and I guess that’s all in the job description.

I put my notebook away and turn my attention back to the task in hand, namely figuring out how to get off this bus with my shopping avoiding a) doing serious damage to someone’s shins and b) severing my fingers with the twisting plastic bag handles. I’m not sure why Ollie needed to buy so much stuff. The amount I’ve just spent could have fed me for a month, and now I’m the proud owner of countless fillet steaks, cream, peppercorns, foie gras and numerous other bits and pieces that I haven’t got a clue what to do with. Ollie piled the trolley so high I practically had vertigo just looking at it.

Still, at least I’m on my way to Wembley as regards this dinner party. Ollie’s going to cook an amazing meal and I’m going to dazzle and impress James’s senior colleagues.

What can possibly go wrong? His promotion’s as good as in the bag. Our troubles are over.

The bus crawls through the rush-hour traffic towards Ealing Common. The rain is falling steadily and the bus windows start to fog up. On the grey pavements people scurry along, bowed beneath umbrellas and dodging puddles. I don’t need to be psychic to predict that by the time I get home I’ll be sodden. I expect Millandra looks fantastic when it rains, all ringlets and flushed cheeks, unlike me, who with ginger frizz and a red nose looks more like Chris Evans with a head cold. Sometimes life really sucks.

As anticipated, by the time I reach number 12b Allington Crescent, I’m soaked through to my knickers and feeling very fed up. My fingers are a nasty greeny-white shade from lack of circulation and my Doc Martens have sprung a leak. I also have a horrible suspicion that I’ve left Year 10’s coursework on the bus, which although it has the short-term advantage of saving me hours of marking, will eventually mean yet another visit to the Lost Property office. I’m practically on first-name terms with the lady who works there now, which gives you an idea of how forgetful I can be. I must have forgotten the pin number for our joint account too, because the card was declined so I had to use mine.