Where Have All the Boys Gone?(56)

“Yes, I most certainly would.”

“Well, you can write to your local MP protesting, or to the planning department, which is Mr. Willie Willson, 25 Cumberland Road, Perth, you can buy a ticket to come to our big protesting party in July, you can join our tractor sit-in or,” Katie was running a little short of ideas. “Or, erm, you can paint your arse blue and expose it as a sign of protest.”

“No, you can’t do that,” said the caller. “No arse painting.”

“You CANNOT say ARSE on the radio!” shouted Fergus suddenly, his face going puce. “I mean, that word. I’d just like to apologise to all our listeners there for ah, having to put up with that when you were hoping for a nice golf chat, and . . .”

Nigel gestured furiously from behind the glass.

“And no, we are NOT taking another call. We’re playing “Suck ’em and See” by Nelly!”

Nigel gestured on regardless. Meanwhile, Fergus started making signs to Katie to get up and leave, and started the music.

The music started quietly, and suddenly a new voice crackled into the studio.

“I’m frae Buchan, and I just wanted to say tae the lassie, that me and all the lads in the rugby team will show our arses painted blue if she’ll show us her arse first . . .”

The rugby player from Buchan was cut off as quickly as he began, and the music pushed up louder.

“I have NEVER in my born days!” raged Fergus, standing up and taking a big swig from his cup.

Katie leaped up and fumbled for her bag.

“I hope you’re happy, lassie. Now I’m going to have arses on the phone from here until Tuesday.”

“Good,” said Katie. “Maybe it will teach you to do your research.”

And she skipped out of the door.

BOTH OF THEM were hysterical and prattling all the way to the car.

“I thought his head was going to burst!” yelped Katie.

“You have no idea what Nigel was saying about him in the booth,” said Iain. “And you never want to.”

“Oh God. That was exactly as bad as I thought it was going to be.” Katie realised her hands were shaking as she got to the car.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Iain, pointing across the road to a bus shelter, where a man was holding a portable radio. He was waving at them, and as they both turned their attention on him, he turned around and started unbuttoning his trousers.

“We’ve created a monster!”

KATIE OPENED THE car window to get a little air. She felt exhilarated. OK, it hadn’t been ideal, but she’d managed to say her piece, and cause a little incident—which Iain of course would write up . . . and Harry had called in, and all in all it could just about have been called a success.

“What are you thinking?” asked Iain. “Are you thinking about how great you are and how well that went?”

“No!”

“A little bit?”

“Little bit.”

“How do you want me to describe you in the paper?”

She eyed him flirtatiously. “How about ‘gorgeous ravishing sex goddess?’”

“I was thinking more ‘arse-obsessed publicity tart.’”

“That’ll do.”

She went back to staring out of the window and a silence fell, but it was suddenly a silence that crackled with tension. She was very conscious of his presence beside her, his strong hand on the gear stick as they planed down the country lanes. Although it was after eight, it was still broad daylight.

“What do you want to do now?” Iain asked. “Not that . . . I mean, if you want to do anything.”

“Sure,” said Katie, fighting back a grin and the urge to put her hand on his knee. Hard to get, she told herself sternly. Think poise and grace. On no account think of not having had sex for months or that he’s gorgeous or that you’re wearing your best knickers, thus proving her a subconscious tart.

“Well, there’s the Mermaid or . . . no, hang on, I’m sure they’ve just opened a really cool cocktail bar.”

“Really?”

“No. Mermaid or nothing.”

Katie was about to suggest a quiet drink at her place until she remembered she shared a room, and occasionally a bed, with the stuttering banshee of Kentish Town, and lived under the roof of someone who resembled those nuns who looked tough in The Sound of Music before suddenly bursting into song and hiding car parts from the Nazis.

She then considered suggesting they go to his place, just to see the look on his face.

“What are you grinning at?” demanded Iain.

“I’m not grinning! I’m just looking forward to my vodka and tonic at the Mermaid.”

“WELL, IF IT isn’t the conquering heroes!” said Lachlan, peering over the bar and turning down the radio as they slipped in out of the wind. The rest of the occupants turned to look at them, and waved or raised a glass.

“Would you like to see our arses now, or later, then? Only, I’d have to stand up on the bar, and I just cleaned it.”

“That’s bollocks,” said Iain.

“No, no, I’d do it.”

“I mean, you never clean your bar. Two vodka and tonics please. I think I’ll leave the car here.”

“On the house,” said Lachlan. “We’re going to stop these outside bastards, and it was good to hear you sticking it to them up in the big town.”