Where Have All the Boys Gone?(53)

“Well, anyway. It’s at 7:30 tonight. It’s in Ullapool—I’ll drive you if you like. Pick you up at seven?”

He picked up Katie’s ad and studied it with one eye half shut, in a way Katie correctly construed as newsroom showing-off.

“No no no!” she said. “I’ve never been on the radio before. What do I have to do?”

“Answer questions from Fergus McBroon. Ach, it’ll be easy.”

Katie was feeling panicked. The idea of speaking in front of other people—particularly people she couldn’t see but who would be sitting at home, judging her—really troubled her.

“But . . . what about if I accidentally say ‘fuck?’”

“Well, just don’t say it.”

“What about if they say I’m on air and then I panic, I say ‘cunt bollock wank wank fuck’ and I can’t help myself?”

“Well, then we’ll take you to the doctor’s,” said Iain. “But really, I’m not sure what you’re afraid of.”

Katie remembered taking a client promoting a particular form of birth control to a controversial early-morning chat show. “It’ll just be a quick chat,” the perky researcher had said. The client had been eviscerated, once by the host and once by the callers. She shivered.

“I really don’t want to do it . . .” she said, biting her tongue.

“So, who’s going to do it?” said Iain scornfully. Then he launched into a quite good imitation of Harry. “Hmm, not sure about this noo . . . what not with the golf and all . . . I say, if I don’t mention it at all, do you think it will go away . . .”

“OK, OK,” said Katie. “Pick me up tonight. But not outside Mrs. McClockerty’s—if she finds out I’ve been fraternising with the enemy, she’ll cut off our sausage supply.”

THE WEATHER COULD not make its mind up between brief patches of sun, rain, heavy rain, and hail, so Katie wore her biggest coat and hoped for the best. Her stomach was feeling heavy and ponderous, and she hadn’t even thought about dinner. She just tried to remember the advice they gave their clients—“be calm, and try to listen to the questions.” She realised now this should be, “be calm, and try not to vomit for as long as possible.”

Iain pulled up in his nice car. “Good to see you dressed up,” he said.

“It’s radio,” said Katie crossly, getting in. “What happens, they throw me out if I don’t look like a model?”

“No, they won’t have time after they make you sing the unaccompanied song . . . I’m joking. Jings, you really are nervous about this, aren’t you? I thought you city girls weren’t frightened of anything.”

“We aren’t. Just urban foxes and, um, going on the radio,” mumbled Katie.

“Don’t mumble like that! They’ll never hear you.”

“Oh God.” Katie turned her face and looked out of the window. The hail was bouncing off the wing mirrors.

Iain fiddled with the radio, and tuned in to the right station.

“And you’re listening to Radio Ullapool, and tonight we’ve got a woman who’s made a full-sized replica of Michelle McManus out of liquorice allsorts, the mother who’s raised eleven children and nineteen baby lambs side by side, and golf lover, Cady Watson. Great, I love a nice wee bit of golf. So, we’ll be discussing tee-offs and birdies in a wee bit. But first, here’s the latest from Fifty Cent . . .”

Iain turned the volume down hastily.

“Is that supposed to be me?” said Katie. “I’m the golf lover?”

“You know, they don’t have a lot of time to do their research. And Fergus McBroon, well . . .” He made swigging motions with his hand.

“He likes milk?”

“He likes something,” said Iain. “Allegedly. Anyway, don’t worry about it. Now all you have to do is explain you’re not a golf lover, in fact, you hate it and what it’s doing to our lovely environment . . .”

“What about all the golfers who’ve heard that trailer and decide to tune in and tell their mates to listen for golf tips?”

“Great,” said Iain, a desperate tone creeping into his voice. “It just means more listeners, doesn’t it? Ah, here we are!”

They swung into the parking lot of a small grey building, with a placard cheerfully proclaiming RADIO ULLAPOOL! on the wall with lots of eighties’ graphics.

The reception was completely deserted, although they could hear the station coming over the air.

“And, coming right up, we have Margaret MacNamee, who loved her idol Michelle McManus so much that she started building . . . ah, hang on there just a wee minute. No, folks, I’ve heard we’re just about to play another record. And here’s Chingy, with ‘Right Thurr.’”

As he was speaking, an extremely harassed man dressed in black with a clipboard burst out of the plain door ahead, which clearly led to the studios. He was accompanied by a very young teenager following behind him, a gigantic burst of screeching noise and, oddly, a small flock of sheep.

“I KNEW IT!” this man was shouting. “Didn’t I say that eleven children and six million liquorice allsorts were a recipe for disaster?”

“Mm,” said the teenager. As soon as the heavy door shut, all the noise ceased, except for one of the lambs, which was crying.