Jenny Colgan - Where Have All the Boys Gone?

‘Well?’ Harry barked, somewhat rudely. He seemed preoccupied, eating a large home-made sandwich. Derek was nowhere to be seen. Katie was starving and watched him munch away, salivating. Carelessly, he ripped off a piece of his sandwich and threw it on the floor. Before Katie had time to object, there was a lazy snapping sound. Leaning over the desk, Katie saw the most beautiful black Labrador stretched out at his feet.

‘Ooh, lovely doggie,’ said Katie, before she could help herself. Harry looked at her as if she’d just insulted his mother (which of course, she’d already managed earlier).

‘Francis isn’t a “doggie”,’ said Harry, spluttering crumbs. ‘He’s a working animal.’

Francis didn’t look anything like a working animal, unless he was a member of a particularly strong trade union. He batted his long eyelashes at her twice, then fell asleep.

‘Sorry,’ said Katie. ‘Does he bite?’

‘Yes, that’s the kind of work he does,’ said Harry scathingly. ‘He bites ditzy PR girls. Got his paws full around here.’

‘You’re a very hostile person,’ said Katie. ‘Is it the sandwich?’

For once, Harry looked nonplussed. He soon regained his sangfroid. ‘What did Kinross say?’

‘I think you may have something of an image problem,’ said Katie.

‘In English?’

‘Um, he says…’ she consulted her notebook urgently, ‘that there’s an issue with biodiversity, herons, food chain implications, blah blah blah…basically you’re killing all the trees.’

‘Typical!’ said Harry furiously. ‘I’m going to kill that little prick.’

‘And we come back to the image problem.’

‘OK,’ said Harry. ‘Now you see our problem. So, what are you going to do about that little shit?’

This was Katie’s moment. She was usually pretty good at the client pitch of how they were going to find the USP and work it to their point of view, then extend that point of view throughout the nation. Although usually facing her across the table were excited haircare product manufacturers and the implication was that she could get it about that Jennifer Aniston used their gunk. She wasn’t used to trying to convince a homicidal tree-hugger and his gently snoring dog.

‘Well, first, I think we need to have a meeting. Have a frank and fearless exchange of views. Really get to grips with what the underlying misunderstandings are. Maybe over a nice lunch somewhere. Then…’

‘Well, that’s absolutely out of the question,’ said Harry. ‘Next.’

‘There’s nowhere to get a nice lunch?’

‘Well, that too. But I hate that lying son of a bitch.’

‘Why?’

Katie was excitedly picking over the possibilities in her head. There must be a girl involved, surely? Hearts broken? Ooh, maybe they were long-lost brothers? TWINS, bitter rivals, born on the same day, to grow up to strive over the heart and soul of the town, nay, the very Highlands themselves…

‘That’s none of your business,’ said Harry, heading out of the door.

‘He’s such a grumpy bastard,’ moaned Katie later, back at their digs.

‘He really does sound like Gordon Brown. Are you sure he’s not a bit romantic and rugged?’

Louise was putting make-up on, thus intruding on Katie’s date by insinuation whilst pretending to be simply trying out new lipstick. She’d managed to find some candles with which to light their dank room, which, although flattering, was forcing them to apply lipstick in the style of Coco the Clown.

‘No, retarded. He’s clearly got some kind of big gay crush on Iain.’

‘Haven’t we all?’ Louise circled some rouge on her cheeks.

‘You’re not coming, you know.’

‘Just a quick drink. Please. I’ve seen the visitors’ lounge here.’

‘What’s it like?’

Louise shuddered. ‘There was an old man sitting in the corner watching University Challenge. He didn’t look up when I walked in. I think he was dead and ossifying. Oh, and they can’t get Channel Five.’

‘Big whoop.’

‘…or 4. And ITV is called Grampian and BBC2 is in foreign.’

‘What do you mean it’s in foreign?’

‘I don’t know, do I? It looks like Postman Pat and then they all go “Grbbrrtggtthh tht ht ht th thvvvvv ”.’

‘Interesting. But still, no.’

‘Do you love this guy?’

‘No!’

‘Do you love me?’

‘That is Very Unfair.’

‘You dragged me up here.’

‘You forced yourself on me!’

‘I did not! And…’ Louise pouted her bottom lip in a way Katie recognised both from primary school (natural) and secondary (fake and put on for boys and suggestible male teachers alike). ‘…I’m going through a difficult time. I thought you of all people would understand, seeing as it’s your sister that…’

Katie put her hands over her ears. ‘La la la, not listening! OK. Well, maybe there’ll be another man there for you to talk to.’

‘Are you serious? Are you really considering trying to get off with someone you might have to work against for the next eight months? Wow, you’re very brave.’

Katie hadn’t looked at it this way at all. In fact, ever since Iain had grasped her hand in his, her insides had been on something of a repeater track, like a scrambled record, which went ‘green eyes green eyes snog snog yum yikes snog snog green’, repeated ad infinitum. It didn’t really give her brain much room to process any other information. The practical consequences of the matter – that they were in a very small village, that he may well be married and that whatever the outcome she was almost certainly going to have to see him every day – had faded into the background of the insistent beat of her groin reminding her she hadn’t had sex for five months.

She pretended to give it serious consideration. ‘There are plenty of people who’ve slept with people they’ve worked with and it’s turned out great,’ she said decisively. ‘Don’t you think?’

Louise looked at her as if she was holding a dangerous animal. ‘Umm…’

‘Come on. What about…’ Alas, all that flooded Katie’s mind at that moment was the memory that Louise had met Max when she’d been briefly working at his office. Suddenly, she had a mental picture of her and Louise in fifty years’ time, with her still treading on eggshells all the time. It was a sad fact that Clara’s act had changed not only Katie and her relationship but Katie and Louise’s too. ‘Ouf,’ she said.

‘Come on,’ said Louise, changing the subject. ‘I hope you’re not wearing your pulling knickers.’

‘I didn’t even bring my pulling knickers,’ said Katie as they braced themselves against the wind outside the front door of Water Lane. ‘I just brought my thermal knickers.’

‘Maybe they find that sexy up here,’ said Louise. ‘Brrr.’

One would have thought, given the size of the town, that it would be easy to find one of its two pubs, but after stumbling up and down cobbled stairways for fifteen minutes in a howling gale, they had to concede this would not in fact be the case. Louise shouting ‘taxi’, and standing in the road with her hand up very quickly ceased to be amusing too. At last, panting and red-cheeked, they collapsed down a narrow stairway near the harbour and spotted a tiny doorway with light and heat and smoke exuding from the tiny open window. It looked immeasurably welcoming, and a ceramic statue of a mermaid adorned the wall, the centrepiece of a mosaic of pretty shells.

‘Ooh,’ said Louise, excited.

Katie tentatively pushed open the door into the hubbub of warmth and heat. At first it was hard to get her bearings. The pub was crammed with people, but actually it was little more than a small room. There was a roaring fire at one end, surrounded by strange-looking bellows and brass implements, red velvet stools on the wooden floor around old pitted tables, a dartboard that looked positively dangerous in such a tiny space and an old-fashioned bar, with golden bar taps gleaming, and large optics clinging to the back wall. Furious fiddle and whistle music was playing.