Where Have All the Boys Gone?(38)

“I’m not sulking, OK? It’s personal.”

Just as she’d hoped, the very words “it’s personal” worked on Harry like a charm. He shrank back from her as if she’d said “it’s leprosy,” and put the car in gear.

Ten minutes later and Harry’s constant sidelong glances were beginning to drive her crazy, as was his furrowed expression. The road was busy, full of cars all going in the same direction.

“You know where you’re going then?” said Harry eventually.

“No I don’t,” said Katie. “I’m toddling along fine in London—well, in post-feminist terms anyway,” she added, almost to herself, “then my idiot sister runs off with my best friend’s man, then I suddenly find myself up here and now my sister is up the stick, and I have to tell my best friend.”

After a ghastly pause, she realised that Harry had been asking if she knew where they were going in the car.

“Sorry,” they both spat out at the same time.

“No, it’s my fault,” said Harry, quickly. “Didn’t grow up knowing lots of girls, you know. Don’t really understand the rules. Sorry about what I said before too.”

“Sorry, no, it’s me,” said Katie, touched. “I just got a bit of a shock this morning, that’s all.”

“From your sister?”

She nodded.

“Is she . . . ahem, happy and everything?”

“Seems to be,” said Katie. “She’s in India. Finding herself. And someone else, as it turns out. She’s probably going to have the baby there.”

“That’ll be nice,” mused Harry. “Bit like the Jungle Book—the baby can be brought up by bears and things like that.”

Katie cut him a look.

Harry looked uncomfortable. “Well, I haven’t spent that much time around babies either. Or in India, really.”

Katie smiled for the first time that morning. “What have you done?”

“I’ve done things,” said Harry. “Once I nursed a sick badger back to health, even though you’re meant to turn them in.”

Katie nodded. “Anything else?”

Harry squinted. “Nope. That’s pretty much it.”

They were drawing near to a large field that was covered in tents and stands, with as many cars parked there as Katie had seen in the entire time she had been in Scotland.

As they parked in a muddy corner, Katie made her eighteenth mental note to get Olivia to send her up some of those new pretty wellies with the flowers on them; her boots were downright clumpy.

“Where are we anyway?” she asked, getting out of the car. “Literally.”

“We’re at the county show of course,” said Harry. “They’re about to start the judging. That’s why I needed you to hurry up.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone’s here. We need to speak to as many people as possible.” He attempted to take on a wolfish expression, which failed him utterly. “Find out—subtly—if anyone’s been approached, you know, about selling off a bit of land for anything . . .”

“Anything like a two-thousand-acre golf course, you mean?”

“Subtlety, remember?”

“Harry, are you absolutely sure you want to keep this a secret? After all, won’t you just start millions of rumours by asking shifty questions like this?”

“Not if you do your job right.”

“Surely it’s better if everyone knows what’s being proposed, then rises against it, united?”

“No,” said Harry. “For the last time, I don’t want a kind of panicky free-for-all, do you understand? Just be subtle, and see what you can pick up. Ah, Laird Kennedy. How are you?”

Kennedy, more eyebrows than face, eyed Harry sternly. “Fine, Barr. When are you going to come and clear out the backwoods of my damn estate, eh? Every other bugger’s got development money pouring out their yazoos, and I want my share, do you hear me?”

“But those trees have a fully integrated eco system . . . they’re as old as your family, Laird.”

“And they don’t pay their way either.” The old man sniffed. “You tree-huggers. No idea of the financial problems of real life. Don’t know if I can get through another winter in this perishing cold.”

Harry looked pained. Katie couldn’t quite see how he could continue with the topic of selling land now, without it sounding as though he was making a much appreciated offer.

“Hello young Katie,” said Kennedy, in a distinctly less crusty tone.

“Hello Laird,” said Katie.

Harry looked at her askance and ushered her off. “You know the Laird?”

“I know lots of people,” said Katie, just to annoy him. “Getting people on our side for when you give up your daft idea of keeping it all a secret.”

“It’s not a daft idea,” said Harry, looking cross. “It’s pragmatic.”

“It’s daft,” said Katie quietly, earning herself a warning look.

In the nearest tent they found, to Katie’s delight, row upon row of home-baked sponges, lemon tarts, jam tarts, and large layered cakes, spread out as far as the eye could see, and for a second she forgot the forest, her sister, and Louise completely.