Katy Carter Wants a Hero by Ruth Saberton

rearrange my dress fitting and generously forgave me.
    Forgave
me
? As I sit in the kitchen and try to ignore the biscuit tin, I feel like I’m living in some weird parallel universe. Between them my fiancé and his mother have me on the emotional rack and I’m sure I don’t deserve it. Surely choosing my own wedding dress isn’t too much to ask? All my friends think it’s high time I stood up to Cordelia, but it’s OK for them to give advice they’ll never have to act on.
    As I sip my coffee I ponder why I’m such a sap when it comes to standing up to James and his mother. I’m not like this anywhere else, honestly. At work Ollie says I’m like a cross between Robocop and a sergeant major, and it’s true to say that I never have discipline issues. Six-foot Year 11 lads tremble when I roar at them, and that’s saying something. So what goes wrong when I get home? I guess I’m just too exhausted from being tough all day long to continue after three thirty. Once that bell has shrilled and Sir Bob’s kids have been let loose to terrorise the good people of West London, all I want to do is collapse with a big glass of wine, close my eyes and recover from the trauma of my day. Teaching sucks the life out of me, and after a day doing battle with teenagers I just want an easy life.
    The only problem is that I don’t seem to be getting one. Far from it.
    Has my relationship with James always been so out of balance? When I told him I’d phoned Cordelia and apologised, he nodded, poured himself an espresso and then asked me what I was going to cook for dinner. There was no hug and no apology for making me sleep on the sofa, and I felt like a naughty girl being given the stern treatment by her head teacher. I was almost expecting a report card and a stint in detention.
    I sigh and wrap my hands round the coffee mug. Last night I was so sure I was in the right, but I’m starting to doubt myself now and, as the kids at school would say, it’s doing my head in.
    ‘I’m going to play a round of golf with Julius Millward,’ James announces as he reaches for the keys to his BMW. ‘Shouldn’t you be preparing for tonight?’
    I drag my thoughts back to the present. No doubt I should be marinating, flambéing and basting by now. And I would be if I knew what all that meant. I blame Nigella Lawson. That domestic goddess stuff has totally stitched up an entire generation.
    ‘It’s all taken care of,’ I say airily. At least I bloody hope it is.
    James fixes me with a steely gaze. ‘You know how important this evening is, don’t you, Katy?’
    How can I not? He’s been going on about it for weeks.
    ‘I know we really need to show them that we’re partnership material,’ I parrot dutifully.
    James is still eyeing me suspiciously. ‘So I can count on you not to balls anything up?’
    ‘Totally!’ I tell him. ‘That promotion is in the bag.’
    ‘I hope so,’ James replies, pulling his golf clubs out from the cupboard. ‘This wedding has cleaned us out and that new BMW wasn’t cheap. And Chubs,’ he adds over his shoulder, ‘make sure you wear something suitable. Try to dress a bit more like Sophie. She always looks the part.’
    I’m practically gnashing my teeth in rage. Sophie looks like someone’s rammed a broom up her arse and put a tax on senses of humour. Sod that for a packet of biscuits.
    Talking of biscuits, I’m feeling a little peckish. I wish that misery made me want to starve and fade away, but unfortunately it has the opposite effect. Come to think of it, so does happiness, and doubt and annoyance and just about any other emotion you can name. Just my luck. I bet Millandra would starve into a delicate decline, whereas I’ll end up making Jabba the Hut look undernourished.
    Just as I’m polishing off the last of the HobNobs, and flicking a mental V at Cordelia, the doorbell rings. Peering down into the street, I see Ollie clutching a vast box and waving frantically at me, so I buzz him up