Where Have All the Boys Gone?(11)

Chapter Three


So you hated it and everything about it in every conceivable way. Well, glad that’s over,” said Louise. Katie hadn’t yet mentioned to Olivia she’d actually gone for an interview for the job.

“And I ruined a new pair of boots.”

“Invoice him.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Although I’d rather invoice for the ten hours of my life it took me to get back. Mind you . . .”

“Mind you what?”

“Nothing,” said Katie. “It was pretty, that’s all. You could breathe. And do you know how many people in vests stopped me on the street to annoy me for charity while I was there?”

“How many?”

“None at all.”

KATIE CLICKED HER email thoughtfully. Oh God. Another one from Clara. As usual she would have to fight with herself over whether or not to let Louise see it.

Katie thought back to the days when Louise hadn’t had her knickers permanently on a Venetian blind. Max had been so affable. He and Lou had been joined at the hip for years, it seemed. He was beefy, amiable, liked FHM magazine and, secretly, Jordan, but was never much of a one for doing anything more than having a few beers with his mates, mostly surveyors like him and Louise, or old friends from college when they were all a lot more sporty and trim than they were now; sitting on the sofa and letting Louise make him pasta for supper.

Louise thought he was great and Katie and Olivia found him inoffensive, which, in the current climate, was saying quite a lot. Louise had moved in with him, and it had started to look like they would roll gently on this way for ever. Louise had begun happily to think of engagement rings, honeymoons, joint dinner services . . .

Then Katie’s sister had come to stay at Katie’s, back in the days when she had a spare room. Twenty-two and just out of college, Clara was an imp and always had been. There were very few photographs of her as a child that didn’t show her either screaming or sticking her tongue out. She had bowled down from Manchester University with various colours in her hair, piercings, and a tiny pair of combat trousers. She ate everything in the house, weighed seven stone and stayed out all night dancing and taking drugs in mysterious nightclubs. Katie felt like her mother.

“Well, my chakra therapist would say it serves you right for always being the good child,” Olivia had said harshly. “If you’d misbehaved a bit more you’d both have balanced out a bit and she wouldn’t get away with nicking all the hummus.”

“She’s a free spirit,” said Katie uncomfortably. They’d been sitting in the kitchen trying to ignore the loud jungly banging music coming from the room next door, that had been playing nonstop for thirty-six hours, shattering the three days’ peace they’d just had while Clara was at Glastonbury. (Her birth name was Clara; she made all her hippy friends call her Honeydew.)

“She’s going to get you done for intent to supply,” said Louise, sniffing.

“What am I going to do, tell Mum on her?”

Their mother was living an extremely quiet life on her own in Blackburn—their dad had never been around very much except for the occasional Christmas pressie—and she was constantly amazed at her daughters’ ability to do anything at all—cross the road, find a job, get a mortgage—never mind be exposed to any actual horrors of the modern world.

“Hey!” Clara bounced in. She was sun-kissed from a summer of music festivals and hanging around road protests, tiny in her tie-dyed dungarees, and appeared to be growing dreadlocks.

“Your hair smells,” said Katie. She had spent the summer writing long proposals to pitch for edible flowers. Unsuccessfully.

Clara pouted. “You need to chill out. Would you like a massage?”

“No, of course I don’t want a massage. I’m not that desperate for human contact that I’ll let you stick your nails in my spine. I haven’t forgotten the havoc you wreaked with my Barbies, thanks, never mind real humans.”

“How am I ever going to get my massage business started if you won’t let me practise?”

“You’re opening a ‘massage’ business?” asked Olivia. “Do you do extras?”

“She’s got a degree in bioengineering. Of course she’s not going to open a massage business,” said Katie. The four-year age gap was meant to disappear as you got older, but she’d seen no evidence for it yet.

“Well, there you go, maybe I haven’t quite got my degree,” said Clara, poking her tongue out as usual. “But that doesn’t matter, because before I start the business, I’m going to India.”

KATIE SIGHED LOOKING back. She had been two years into her job then, working all hours, living on hardly any money. It was fun, of course, living the life of a young professional, meeting friends for drinks after work, feeling terribly grown-up and important, but she’d loved her six months travelling around India at the end of her degree. The sense of escaping; of doing something different . . . she’d loved living on coconuts and fresh air with young people from around the world. And now, here she was, jealous of her baby sister off to do the same thing. How could she feel nostalgic at twenty-nine? And really, what was she doing here anyway that was so great?

She supposed she could chuck it in any time she wanted to. People were always talking about it down here. They were off to open a vineyard in France, or start an adventure holiday business, or import silk. Nobody ever did. London seemed to exert some kind of mystical centrifugal force on everyone, that sucked all ambitions other than a corner office and a cottage in the country out of you as quickly as it sucked the money from your pockets.