Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (14 page)

“Of course! This book’s going to get our house rewired.”

“Not writing the book,” he says. “I meant signing a contract without getting your agent to check it through. Is that wise? Loads of bands get totally ripped off that way.”

I’m touched that Frankie thinks I might have a literary agent. In my dreams.

“I don’t have an agent,” I confess. In the past Tansy’s agent did all that stuff and I just got paid. Admittedly it was a pittance, so maybe I
should
have looked a little more closely at the paperwork?

“OK, at least read it carefully then? What if there’s something in there that you don’t like?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, sweetie! That’s what I pay my manager for! Do you want Seb to have a look at this? He’s done such wonders for Gabe I’ve hired him. Honestly, angel, he’s one of the best there is.”

I laugh at the very thought of being able to hire Seb Sharp. One of the media industry’s top managers, anything he charges for looking at a contract will make my rewiring bill look small.

“It’s fine, Frankie. Don’t look so worried. This is just a standard industry thing for a spot of ghostwriting. It’s just a formality.”

He looks doubtful. “Really?”

“Really!” I promise. “I’ve signed loads of these. It’s fine. Stop stressing.”

Frankie holds his hands up. “OK! I’m sure you know what you’re doing. I just hope they haven’t got some hidden clause in there that you have to paint yourself pink and dance naked or something.”

It’s scary what goes on in some people’s minds, isn’t it? And even scarier that I can’t help thinking that this is
exactly
the kind of thing Throb
might want their authors to do…

Come on, Katy! You’re being ridiculous. Of course they won’t! Still, this has given me a very good idea of what Alexi can do with strawberry custard…

I just need to get on with writing the book, banking the money and fixing this lava-lamp disaster. It’s too late now to start worrying: the contracts are signed and the money will soon be in the account. This is all good. I bet Ollie even gets his job too.

Today is going really well. Nothing can possibly go wrong. Signing that contract was definitely the right thing to do.

Chapter 11

“Katy,” calls Nicky. “What’s this?”

I almost jump out of my skin, nearly dropping my toast and Marmite on the kitchen floor. It’s only half past ten on a Saturday morning and, thinking myself safe because Ollie’s yet again in school and Nicky never rises before noon, I’ve been working on
Kitchen of Correction
in the sitting room. Needing inspiration for my latest chapter, I’ve headed to my own far less exciting kitchen to refuel, foolishly leaving my laptop and notes unguarded.

Toast abandoned mid-butter, I dash back to my laptop. But it’s too late: Nicky’s sprawled on the sofa reading through my notes with eyes like saucers and his mouth hanging open.

“Sick!” he breathes. I know this is teen for
wow
, but it makes my heart sink all the same. Today’s chapter is set in Alexi’s special bakery and although “sick” isn’t quite the right adjective, once I’d read the synopsis through I was certainly put off glacé cherries for life…

“Are you writing porn?”

“Of course not! And that’s my private work! You shouldn’t be looking at it!” I fly at the laptop, slam the lid shut and gather all my papers into a pile – as if hiding the evidence will make any difference now. Never mind shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted; this one has just done several laps of Aintree and is now enjoying a press call with its owner.

I’m so busted.

“If it’s private you shouldn’t be leaving it lying around for everyone to look at,” Nicky points out.

Is nothing sacred? Can’t a girl even write a book in peace?

“It wasn’t lying around for everyone to read,” I say huffily. “It was on the table where I was working. In my own home and in private! And anyway, what are you doing up? It’s daylight. Shouldn’t you still be in your pit?”

“I thought you’d be pleased to see me up early.” Nicky looks offended. “I thought this was what you wanted? Why else pour cold water on me yesterday and hide an alarm clock under my bed the day before that?”

“To wake you up for school! You have to be up for school but it’s Saturday today. You can sleep in all day if you feel like it!”

No wonder parents feel like tearing their hair out. At this rate I’ll be bald by half-term. Nicky’s managed fifteen schooldays at Tregowan Comp so far and every one of these has seen him arrive late. I’ve already had a stern phone call from the attendance secretary, and when I did a day’s supply on Friday I was too ashamed to look the Head of Sixth Form in the eye. Then Steph took me to task about several missed deadlines. I am now officially the guardian of a problem pupil, and although I share this joy with Ollie I haven’t managed to talk to him about Nicky yet. Since he became the Assistant Head at St Jude’s, Ollie’s been busier than ever. Forget ships that pass in the night; we’re sailing different oceans altogether, and these days the good ship Ollie Burrows has Carolyn Miles firmly at the helm…

“I felt like getting up early. I thought you’d be pleased,” Nicky complains, interrupting my musings on Carolyn and her endless calls.

“I am pleased, but not when you go nosing through my work!”

“I wasn’t nosing. I was being your beta reader. And talking of beating, I like that bit with the egg whisk. Kinky!”

My face is hotter than the earth’s core. Oh God! I can’t believe he’s read
that
bit! I knew I should never have let Mads persuade me to include it. I’ll have social services knocking on my door any minute to take Nicky away from my dubious care.

Now there’s a thought… Do they take eighteen-year-olds away, I wonder?

“You look well guilty! I take it Ollie doesn’t know?” Nicky fans my red face. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell.” He pauses and then adds slyly, “Or rather, I won’t tell Ollie as long as you stop throwing cold water on me.”

Bollocks. There goes any vain hope of ever having any authority over him. I know when I’m beaten. Nicky’s so sharp Alexi could chop carrots with him in the fictional kitchen.

“Do you know, it’s actually not bad,” Nicky continues, his toffee-brown eyes narrowed critically. “The syntax needs a little work and you’ve got a few typos there, but the shagging’s red hot. And that bit where they get the wet tea towels and—”

I clap my hands over my ears. Apart from being critiqued by an A-level English student, even one that’s a potential Oxbridge high-flyer, I can hardly bear to hear any of this. I want to write romance! How did it all go so wrong?

“I’m only writing this to get the house rewired!”

“I didn’t think you were writing it because you wanted to or liked it. Let’s face it, you and Ollie are a bit past all that stuff anyway at your age,” Nicky says pityingly.

We are not! Of course we’re not!

Are we?

Maybe he has a point, because come to think of it when was the last time Ollie and I did much more in bed than pass out or drink tea? Even the seagulls on the rooftop get more action than us lately. No matter how many wedding magazines I leave about – because I’m through with subtle, Goddammit – or how much of my best underwear I dig out, all Ollie can think about is his new job.

His new job or
, says a nasty little voice deep down inside,
Carolyn Miles?

“To be honest,” Nicky continues thoughtfully while I panic about my (lack of) love life, “I can see straight away this isn’t one consistent style. I take it Maddy’s helping you with the book?”

There’s no point hiding anything now, so I nod.

“She comes up with the err… material and I write it up,” I confess. “I know it’s not great literature but it’ll pay some bills.”

“Sod great literature. Write what pays,” says Nicky, who for a socialist seems to have some very capitalist leanings. “So why doesn’t my big brother know about this?”

“I haven’t said anything because his school wouldn’t approve and I don’t want to compromise him,” I explain, and Nicky nods sagely. Having been rejected by St Jude’s, he totally gets it.

“Look, don’t take this personally, and you can tell me to get lost if you want, but your book’s a bit clichéd in parts,” Nicky tells me kindly. “I’m pretty good at creative writing myself and I could give you some help. If you like?”

I’m even more horrified at this thought than I am at being patronised by an A-level student. “Absolutely not! You can’t write this kind of thing at your age!”

“I’m eighteen,” he says patiently. “I’ve had Internet access all my life, not like you lot. There’s not much my generation haven’t seen. Besides, what do you think is in all those A-level English literature texts? Chaucer? Byron?
Fanny Hill
? Sex, Katy. S. E. X. Pure filth, that’s what. We can be a writers’ collective. You, me and Maddy. What do you say? It’ll be fun.”

It would? Personally I can’t think of anything worse. It’ll be like writing a book with Beavis and Butt-Head. My head’s already aching just imagining all the sniggering.

“It won’t count towards your English language coursework,” I warn, and Nicky laughs.

“No, but you donating a few pennies for my consultancy input will be brilliant for my gap-year fund! Just think of me as your editor at home. That way I’ll
have
to make sure I don’t
accidentally
mention anything to Ol because I’ll be in on it too! Don’t think of my contribution to all this as a literary experience. Think of it as insurance!”

And with this Nicky jumps up, kisses me on the cheek and bounds out of the room whistling while I stare after him incredulously. I can’t believe it! I’ve just been well and truly stitched up – and I can’t help admiring his nerve.

One thing’s for sure: Nicky Burrows has got a great career ahead of him as a politician.

“That’s brilliant!” Mads wipes her eyes when I recount this episode over a pub lunch. “Fantastic! I love it! Or should that be,
I Lovett
?”

“Very funny,” I say gloomily. “Do you see me laughing? This is terrible! Apart from the fact I’m keeping a huge secret from Ollie, which feels really wrong, I can’t possibly let Nicky look at the synopsis. He’s far too young!”

“He’s eighteen!”

“Exactly!”

“And what were you up to at eighteen? Knitting? Baking fairy cakes? Or red-hot shagging?”

The answer to this is none of the above, not that I’m going to let on to Mads just how dull my teenage years were. The nearest I got to sex was sneaking a copy of
Riders
into my school bag.

“Anyway, you can bet your life Nicky knows way more than we did at his age,” Maddy continues. “You’re a teacher, you must know that.”

I nod miserably. Even though I know she’s right I’m horrified at the thought of sweet little Nicky reading up on Alexi and Lucinda’s shenanigans. The fact that sweet little Nicky is blackmailing me, albeit in an amusing and helpful way, is totally beside the point.

“But I’m in a position of authority! I can’t let him read this stuff.”

“Katy, it’s just a book and Nicky’s right: it’s not even a very naughty book really compared to some of his A-level texts. It’s just worse for you because you’re—”

“What?”

Mads shakes her head. “No, I can’t say it.”

“What? What am I?”

“You’re a prude!”

I stare at her. “I am not.”

“Are too,” says Mads. “You read
Fifty Shades
with a Jane Austen dust cover over it.”

“I was protecting my intellectual reputation!”

“No you weren’t,” she says fondly. “But it doesn’t matter anyway because we all love you. Nicky and I will help you deliver this bloody book – but then step away from the erotic literature, please? For your own sanity? And mine?”

“I will, I will.” I nod fervently. From now on in, I swear to God the most action anyone in my novels will get is a spot of chaste handholding.

Mads dunks a cheesy chip in ketchup and munches thoughtfully.

“So now I’ve set your mind at rest about sweet innocent Nicky, we’ve just planned chapter five of the book and the advance has landed in your savings account. I would have thought all was well, so why do you look so miserable?”

“I don’t look miserable.”

“I’m afraid you do. Never take up acting, Katy, because you’re crap.”

This is a blow indeed, because I’d thought I was doing a sterling job of putting on a brave face. The thing is, all this business with Carolyn is starting to really get to me. As much as I appreciate that Ollie needed to be at work today, I have a horrible feeling she’ll be there too, all bright-eyed and flippy-ponytailed, and they’ll be able to talk data and learning strategies to their hearts’ content. Then they’ll probably go for lunch and laugh at school in-jokes, just like we used to do.

There’s a lump the size of a trawl float in my throat and my eyes fill.

“Tell me,” Mads orders, and so I do. By the time I’ve talked myself into a standstill our lunch is cold.

“Fuck a duck,” she breathes. “You did well to keep this to yourself. I’d have been climbing the walls.”

“I’ve been digging the floors. Does that count?”

“I guess so. Now listen, I don’t believe for one minute that Ollie would even look at another woman when he’s bonkers about you.”

“You haven’t seen her,” I point out gloomily.

“We can soon sort that. I take it there’s a St Jude’s website? She’ll be on there, I should think,” says Mads, plucking her phone from her bag and selecting the Internet browser.

I nod. “They have a staff page. Ollie’s has just been updated. He had a new picture too. He even had a haircut.”

“Blimey,” says Maddy. “He is taking this new job seriously.”

She isn’t wrong. I’d shed a secret tear when Ollie had come home with his gorgeous shaggy curls lopped off and his earring gone. He’d looked so serious all of a sudden. I know an Assistant Head Teacher can’t look like a gangly surfer dude, but it feels as though another part of him has stepped out of my reach.

“Found it. St Jude’s, blah blah, senior leaders, Carolyn Miles… oh. Oh dear.”