Read Online Katy Carter Wants a Hero by Ruth Saberton - Free Book Online

stack of GCSE coursework that needs grading…’
    ‘Anything!’ I promise. ‘You’ve totally saved my life.’
    ‘I have,’ Ol agrees, chucking in a handful of peppercorns. ‘But never mind that now. Stop it!’ He slaps my hand away from the pan. ‘You’re distracting me. Why don’t you go into town and buy something to wear? Then when you come back I’ll be out of here and you can pretend that you’ve done all the hard work
and
managed to make yourself look gorgeous.’
    It’s worth any amount of GCSE marking if I can make tonight a success, and blowing him a kiss, I’m only too glad to leave the cooking behind.
    I spend a happy couple of hours in Ealing Broadway, where I shove a Big Mac down my neck and spend ages in Waterstone’s perusing the romantic fiction and convincing myself there must be a market for Jake and Millandra. Then I embark on the serious task of finding a suitable outfit for tonight. What I ought to do is buy something in Laura Ashley, all flowery print and velvet trimming, but I just can’t face it. Eventually I choose a pair of green velvet flares and a soft grey off-the-shoulder sweater, which I feel is sophisticated but sexy. I then buy about half the bangles and necklaces in Accessorize and treat myself to a shampoo and blow-dry in Toni & Guy. I’m all for saving Pinchy but I don’t really fancy getting in the bath with him. There’s something about the way he looks at people’s limbs that makes me a little nervous. Thank goodness James showers at the golf club. Somehow I think he’d prefer Pinchy in a cheesy sauce rather than floating in the jacuzzi bath.
    When I finally get home at just before six o’clock I’m feeling pretty darn good about myself. My hair is all curly and bouncy, my new clothes are deliciously heavy in their carriers and for once the make-up girl at the Clinique counter has done a good job. I pause and examine my reflection in the hall mirror. Perhaps the eyes are a little Lily Savage? I lick my finger and scrub some of the greeny-gold eye shadow away. I may well be putting on a show for Julius Millward and Co. but it doesn’t do to look too theatrical. Besides, I don’t need another lecture from James about how Sophie always looks so natural and fresh. If I had an au pair, a clothing allowance and worked part time in an art gallery, I’d look fresh too. But my classroom is more like Beirut than Bayswater, so I feel I can be forgiven for looking more than a little frayed around the edges. When I try telling this to James, though, I just get sarcastic comments about all my holidays and finishing at three thirty every day. Well, I tell myself, as I hang up my coat and saunter into the kitchen, if bloody Sophie had to battle with apathy and raging hormones on a daily basis, I bet she’d look as knackered as I do. And besides, I’m the fastest texter in west London and know all the latest slang. At least I am in touch with my generation.
    OK then. The one beneath it.
    The kitchen smells divine, and what’s even better, Ollie has cleared up and every surface sparkles. On the breakfast bar is an A4 piece of paper on which he has scrawled a long list of instructions. I skim-read it quickly and check the pans to make sure I know exactly what I’m dealing with. Sure enough I find fillet steak chasseur, baby corn, mangetout and carrots sitting on the hob and a pan of fragrant rice all drained and ready to be heated. Inside the fridge, the melon and Parma ham is ready plated and a large chocolate mousse shimmers and wobbles in a silver dish. It looks so good it’s all I can do not to dig in straight away.
    I pour myself a celebration glass of white burgundy and set to following Ollie’s instructions. Soon pans are bubbling merrily, Norah Jones is crooning softly and the fat white pillar candles in the fireplace are flickering romantically. I give myself a mental pat on the back, knock the wine back and take my new clothes into the bathroom. I feel like I’m