Free Katy Carter Keeps a Secret by Ruth Saberton

walk down the beach and play stick for an hour and then do a loop around the harbour, and by the time I’m heading back through the village I feel slightly better. I’m just crossing the little bridge at the foot of the quay when my phone rings and Tansy Topham’s beaming face flashes across the screen.
    “Katy!” she squeals as I answer. “How are you? It’s been too long!”
    It’s been about three weeks but a lot can happen in three weeks if you’re Tansy. I’ve been reading in Hiya! all about her romantic Caribbean getaway with Tommy, Closer’ s just published an interview about her latest fashion fail and yesterday she popped up on Loose Women . Not that I was watching telly when I was meant to be writing; I only had it on in the background.
    “I’ve got a window in my diary for today,” Tansy carries on, not pausing for me to say “hi” back or tell her how I’ve been. “Do you fancy meeting up for some shopping and some lunch? Tommy’s training and the nanny’s got the kids and I am so bored it’s untrue! We so need a girly catch-up. There’s a really cool new wine bar on The Barbican and you’ll love it. What do you think? Have you got time?”
    I think I really should be working on my chapter, but the idea of a little bit of time out with Tansy is very appealing – as is being able to enjoy a glass of wine without constantly looking over my shoulder in case the Reverend Richard Lomax appears. For a few seconds I’m torn, before reminding myself that getting out and about and seeing the world is all part of being a writer. Visiting a new wine bar with Tansy’s practically research, isn’t it? I might find something to inspire me to write the definitive great British novel which would never happen if I just stayed at home. I’m actually doing my creativity a favour by meeting her.
    “I’d love to,” I say, and we arrange to meet in an hour. Plymouth is only forty minutes away so I should make it with acres of time to spare and, anyway, Tansy’s always late everywhere she goes.
    Back in the kitchen Ollie’s almost through his pile of marking and looking far more cheerful. Three coffee cups are lined up on the table and his hair’s all messed up where he’s been running his fingers through it, something he always does when he’s concentrating very hard. Last night it was practically standing on end as he did his best to figure out how to get our electricity back – and mine was certainly standing on end when I saw the electrician’s bill.
    His face lights up as he sees me, and my heart melts. I love him so much. There has to be a way I can make his life easier.
    “Tansy’s invited me for lunch,” I tell him, winding my arms around his neck and dropping a kiss onto his head.
    Ollie pulls me onto his lap and kisses me back. “Since when did Tansy eat?”
    It’s a good point. Tansy thinks champagne is a food group. I guess that’s why she’s a size zero and I’m… not.
    “She said she wants a girly catch-up,” I tell him.
    Ollie grimaces. “You mean she wants to moan about Tommy. Poor man. I wonder what he’s done now? Not bought her this season’s LV bag in the right colour?”
    Tansy famously rules her footballer husband with a rod of iron. She might only be a size-zero slip of a thing, but Tommy’s absolutely terrified of her. And yes, she has an amazing handbag collection in all kinds of colours and fabrics. The only person with a selection that comes anything close is Frankie.
    “I’ll come into town with you,” Ol says, tipping me off his lap and starting to gather up his work, “but I’ll give the girl talk a miss. You can drop me into school and I’ll pop this data onto the system. I may as well get ahead.”
    “On a Saturday?” I can hardly keep the horror from my voice. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Ollie Burrows?”
    He laughs. “I know; I would never have believed it either, but I might as well play catch-up while you’re busy