Katy Carter Keeps a Secret (32 page)

“Oh look! The netters are in. I’d better given them a hand,” he says, looking as though he’s about to bolt.

I grab the arm of his smock. “Guy? Who told you about Ollie going to Paris?”

I know gossip travels fast in Tregowan but this has to be a record surely? I’ve only just told Maddy.

Guy looks a bit shifty. “I think it was Holly.”

“Holly? How on earth did she know?”

“I think Ollie might have mentioned it?” He’s hopping from rigger-booted foot to rigger-booted foot in agitation now.

“Ollie? When did Ollie tell my sister?” I ask, totally thrown. “He only told
me
last night. Why didn’t Holly think to mention it?”

But Guy isn’t saying anything else and all of a sudden he’s far too busy catching ropes and helping to moor a fishing boat to talk to me. By the time bright yellow fish boxes are swinging out of the ice room and onto the quay I know there’s no point trying to press any further. There’s no way I’ll get any sense out of him now.

My head’s spinning and I’m utterly confused. Has Ollie been talking about me to my sister? But why would he do that? I’d go and speak to Holly right now except she’s at work. I guess I’ll have to wait until Ollie comes home from school and ask him what’s going on – not that he’ll tell me. So much for trust. And how come nobody other than me thinks it’s a major deal that Ollie’s off to Paris with a gorgeous blonde colleague?

Oh Lord. I think I’m going mad. If I don’t get some answers soon I’m going to go completely doolally.

I know, I’ll distract myself with a giant pasty. If ever a girl needed comfort food, it’s me. Everything always feels better on a full stomach and then I can worry about being fat rather than stressing about Ollie, which is a result of sorts I suppose.

I’m just sitting on a bench and tucking in to a giant steak pasty when my phone rings. Swallowing pastry and brushing crumbs from my mouth, I answer.

“Frankie! Hello!”

“Darling! What on earth are you eating?” Frankie’s kohl-rimmed eye is pressed so close to the screen that I can count his lashes. “Tell me it isn’t a pasty? Oh God! It is, isn’t it? Are you deliberately trying to torture me? I’d kill for a pasty! And anyway, aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?”

Don’t you just love Skype? There’s no hiding in the twenty-first century. There’s Frankie, beautifully made up with blue eyeliner and looking achingly trendy in his spotless white apartment, and here I am on a weathered bench, windswept and scruffy and with a guilty gob full of pastry.

“I thought carbs were the devil?” I say, taking a big bite just to taunt him. Having had this mantra drummed into me while in New York, I’m certain pastry shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near Frankie’s well-glossed lips.

“Will you stop teasing me?” he wails. “Have you any idea what wheatgrass tastes like? Have you?”

“Not really,” I admit. “We don’t have a lot of wheatgrass in Cornwall, Frankie, remember?”

But Frankie isn’t listening. He’s far too busy drooling over my lunch. “Or macrobiotic mung beans?” he continues. “Or tofu flakes with soya shavings? Disgusting. I’m practically fading away here! I can’t remember when I last ate something solid. And as for all the colonics—”

“Stop right there. Too much information.”

“Am I over-sharing?” he asks. “Sorry, angel. You keep on eating. Don’t worry about the fact that meat stays rotting in your colon for years. If you never have an enema you won’t have to see it. Or smell it. Oh my God, darling! The stench!”

Do you know, I’m not so excited about my lunch anymore.

“Anyway, never mind my diet,” he continues, while I stuff my pasty back into the bag and try very hard not to think about what may or may not be clogging up my colon. “There’s far more exciting things to talk about! Congrats on your big book success for a start! Everyone’s talking about
Kitchen
over here
.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Like duh! Of course it is! Sweetie! You are made!”

“Great,” I say, doing my best to sound thrilled. “Brilliant.”

“I’m never wrong either. And is Ollie all right with it all now?”

I pause, because is he? I know he said he’s proud of me but really? And if he’s so proud of me then why’s he off to Paris without me? I’ve done enough school trips in my time to know it’s possible to wangle an extra place for a partner.

If you want to, that is.

“He’s fine,” I say eventually. “Actually he’s off to France next week on a school trip.”

“
Ooh la la!
” giggles Frankie.

“He’s going without me. I don’t think he wants me to come.”

“You are silly! Of course he does, but if you go too then Ollie would have—” He stops mid-sentence. “Ooo look! A seagull!”

There are millions of seagulls in Tregowan. You can’t move without one trying to nick ice cream or mug you for a pasty crust, and my senses are instantly on red alert. Any teacher worth her salt knows when distraction tactics are being employed.

“Don’t change the subject when it’s just getting interesting,” I say. “What would Ollie have done?”

“Lots of paperwork,” Frankie replies quickly. “Anyway, never mind all that. I’m inviting you both to a party next week.”

“Here? You’re coming back to Cornwall?”

“Afraid not, angel. No, the party’s in New York. It’s our anniversary and Gabe’s going to throw a huge bash. We wanted you both to come but since Ollie’s off eating snails it’ll have to be just you.”

“You’re asking me to fly to New York for a party?” I laugh at the very idea. “What next? Shall I ask for your M&M’s to be sorted into colours?”

“I never eat chocolate,” Frankie shudders. “And anyway, it was Gabe who asked for colour-sorted sweets and they were jelly beans, not M&M’s. But yes! We want you there. Of course we do. You were with us practically from the beginning. You’re family, Katy. How could we celebrate without you? I insist you come.”

In spite of feeling low I can’t help but experience a little tingle of excitement. Another trip to New York. Really?

“We’ll pay for your flights of course,” Frankie continues, sensing me weakening. “And your hotel too. It’s the least we can do for throwing a party on another continent.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he nods. “Come on, Katy. Ollie’s in Paris and you’re home alone. Why not come out? It’ll be fun.”

Hang on. Did I mention Paris specifically? I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I said France.

“How do you know Ollie’s in Paris?”

“Lucky guess,” Frankie says quickly. “Anyway, where else in France would you go for a school trip? Oh look! Here’s Mufty! Say hello to Katy, Mufty!”

Another distraction, this time in the guise of a fluffy poodle held aloft and having its paw waved at me. Our eyes meet in mutual resignation as I wave back.
Just give in
, Mufty’s gaze says,
it’s easier
.

“So what do you say? Are you up for a little visit? You know you want to,” Frankie urges.

“I’ll need to run it by Ollie,” I begin, but he flaps his hand dismissively.

“He’ll be cool with it. Yay! Amazeballs! I’ll get my people to book your ticket and sort a hotel right now. It’s going to be wonderful! You’ll thank me for this!”

As he rings off, my head’s reeling. Conversations with Frankie tend to leave me feeling like I’ve been inside a washing machine on spin cycle. Have I just agreed to fly to New York for a party? And am I getting super paranoid here, or is Frankie acting just as strangely as Maddy and Guy?

I close my eyes. Of course he isn’t. My friends can’t all be having an off day. It must be me. Everything’s feeling weird and wrong, a bit like a familiar tune played in the wrong key or one of those episodes of
Doctor Who
when the Doctor and his companion rock up in a parallel universe. Of course it’s me, not them. It has to be. Maybe the stress of the past few months has got to me and I need a break?

I stay on my bench, watching the waves roll towards the beach and the white clouds scud by. My thoughts are racing too and for a while I just let them whirl. Carolyn. Ollie. Mads. Books. Holly. Naked butlers. Tansy. So much has been going on. No wonder I’m feeling a bit dazed. I think I need everything to just stop so that I can let life settle again. Ollie and I were so happy before when things were simple. I just need to figure out a way to get that back.

Perhaps a break’s exactly what I need. Ollie certainly seems pleased to be having one.

I throw the remains of my pasty to the wheeling seagulls, my mind made up. No more sitting around letting things happen to me, and no more agonising over Carolyn and Ollie and what may or may not be going on. It’s time to stop and take stock, make a few decisions and get my life back under control.

A tear slips down my cheek because this isn’t the way I want it to be, but right now it feels as though there isn’t any choice. Ollie might only be going to Paris but he couldn’t feel further away from me if it were Mars.

I’m going to go back to New York. Alone.

And I’m missing Ollie before I’ve even left.

Chapter 27

Frankie’s waiting for me in JFK’s Arrivals, holding a placard bearing my name on it and waving frantically, just in case I should miss him – which I think would be impossible seeing as he’s wearing a bright orange jumpsuit and a Stetson and is flanked by two minders who make The Rock look vertically challenged. Never mind sticking out like a sore thumb; he’s as conspicuous as an entire gangrenous hand.

“Darling! Over here!” he cries, hopping from one foot to another (although this could just be the way he has to move in his very pointy cowboy boots). “Howdy!”

I wave back, pleased to see him, if a little taken aback. I’d thought he’d be far too busy arranging his anniversary party to take time out to collect me. I’m honoured.

“Frankie!” I trundle my luggage behind me as fast as I can, so that I can throw my arms around him – but then I recoil instantly. “Ouch! That jumpsuit’s really scratchy!”“

“Rhinestones,” declares Frankie proudly. “All the country and western singers wear them, FYI. This is made by Dolly Parton’s own designer actually.”

It’s only been a couple of months since I last saw Frankie, but I seem to remember that he was reinventing himself as A Serious Artist and was wearing smart suits and Italian shoes. I know this is a lifetime in rock ’n’ roll years but I can’t say I ever foresaw Frankie’s new passion for country and western.

Anyway, hold on! He’s English! What on earth does Frankie know about country music? We don’t even
have
country music in England, unless you count Morris dancing, which I don’t really think the Americans will get.

Let’s be fair, I’m English and
I
don’t get it.

“I’ve got a house in Bucks,” Frankie says indignantly when I point out that his knowledge of country music might be a little on the sketchy side. “I go there all the time. I’m always in the country.”

Frankie so does
not
go to the country all the time. I know for a fact he gets twitchy if there isn’t a Starbucks within fifty paces. And anyway, the last time he tried to drive me to his rock-star rural pad he couldn’t find it so we gave up and went to the pub instead.

“So what do you know about country music?” I ask, while the minders divvy my luggage up between them, using a novel system of grunts and hand gestures to communicate.

“I know that Ivan and Igor like it,” Frankie says, gesturing to his minders, both of whom nod. “They listen to it all the time in the limo and I’ve got into it too. Hell yeah and yehaw! I love cows and tractors
and
I bought ten copies of the Young Farmers’ naked calendar.”

“I don’t think country music has much to do with cows and tractors,” I say doubtfully. “Isn’t it about the American way of life?”

“Well, even better because I know all about that,” says Frankie airily. “I’ve even bought a ranch.”

I goggle at him. “A ranch?”

“Yep. With horses and everything,” he says happily. “It’s got thousands of acres.”

Frankie can’t even keep the basil plant in his kitchen alive for a week. What he’ll do with thousands of acres is anyone’s guess.

“Anyway,” he carries on, “I’ve got the outfits and the ranch and I’ve listened to oodles of that country music stuff now. Seb reckons I can pull it off if I write about blue jeans, beer and being working class.”

The fact that Frankie normally wears leather trousers, drinks champagne and went to public school doesn’t seem to be an issue, which I guess is just as well.

“Seb reckons there’s a massive gap in the market, so I’ve got the gear and I’m off to Nashville tonight to record an album,” he adds. “Just you wait; I’ll be a country sensation. You’ll see.”

As we walk across the concourse, the minders lifting my cases as though they’re filled with feathers rather than all the clothes I could cram in, Frankie’s already causing a sensation. At six feet tall, reed slim and wearing high-heeled cowboy boots he couldn’t look more different from all the other smart-suited travellers. I follow him with my head spinning. I know I’m probably totally jet-lagged but surely he can’t be going to Nashville tonight. What about the anniversary party?

I must be hearing things wrong. I’m so tired and I’ve been so stressed about Ollie that I can’t even think straight. Ten hours of flying and crossing several time zones will do that to a girl.

Ollie! I must call him and let him know I’ve landed. I haven’t been able to talk to him since he left for France two days ago. He’s been on a coach and in the depths of the Channel Tunnel, which is bound to be why he hasn’t answered his phone, but we never go this long without talking. I hope he’s OK. What if he’s choked on a croque-monsieur or drowned in the Seine and I don’t know?

“Can I borrow your mobile?” I ask. “I need to call Ollie.”

“Right now, angel? Can’t it wait?”

“Not really. I haven’t spoken to him for almost two days and I want him to know I’m here safely.”

Frankie thinks for a moment. “Won’t it be night-time in France? He’ll be in bed surely? Why don’t you just wait until tomorrow rather than disturbing everyone?”