Where Have All the Boys Gone?(58)

I’m sorry,” Iain was saying, again.

“It’s fine,” Katie was saying, again. The problem was, it was fine, until Iain started apologising over and over again, with which it was becoming less fine.

“Honestly, it’s flattering, really.”

And it was quite endearing, in a “here we all are back at university” type of a way. After all, she already knew there weren’t a lot of women up here. So. They would wait a little while and try again. She looked around at his tiny house. It was an incredibly sweet little fisherman’s cottage, painted blue, with wooden floors and only two small rooms downstairs and a little bedroom and a little bathroom upstairs. It looked out onto the bay and was perfectly charming in every way, although when she’d mentioned it, Iain had thanked her and then said that when families of eight used to live in it, it probably wasn’t quite so charming, and she’d agreed. Then they’d sipped (horrible) coffee and skirted around the issue, then he’d moved towards her and she’d looked into those huge green eyes and reciprocated as hard as she could.

But when they’d finally moved it to the bedroom things had got a little bit sticky, not helped by a long hunt for a condom (eventually found in a dusty pile in the cupboard under the sink, along with Imodium, Preparation H, and probably about a million other things Iain wasn’t quite delighted with her seeing at this particular stage in their relationship). After this, things had gone downhill, with Iain having problems first one, slightly wobbly way, then, after some anguish, and in a terrible rush, the other.

Katie’s response to this in the past had always been to ignore it completely and start again as soon as possible, but Iain was clearly not about to let it lie.

“I mean, it’s just been so long . . .”

“Shh,” said Katie. “Don’t worry about it. It’s usually crap first time round . . .”

“Was it that crap?” asked Iain, his eyes widening.

“Argh! Shh, OK? We can try again, can’t we?” She caressed his lovely face, but it looked petulant.

“Actually, I’ve got to get up really early.”

“Oh, Iain, you don’t want me to go, do you? I’ll never sneak into Mrs. McClockerty’s and it’s not like I could get a taxi.”

“Uh, no, of course not.”

They tried to settle down onto the old-fashioned wooden bed, but if there’s something more difficult than getting to sleep with a near stranger with whom you’ve just completed an unsatisfactory sexual experience, it’s probably in the Olympics.

“Goodnight then,” said Katie, desperately wishing she’d had the foresight to bring a pair of pyjamas—she hated sleeping naked.

“Goodnight,” said Iain, snuffling down beside her with his head in the opposite direction.

Well, this hadn’t gone quite as well as she had hoped, thought Katie. She contemplated going home once more, but she didn’t want to make the lad feel even worse, and it was freezing out there. Maybe just put it down to experience that just because someone is nice and charming and takes you out to dinner and makes you laugh, and cheers you up when you’re sad . . .

Iain was also lying wide-awake, cursing himself as a fucking useless idiot who couldn’t do anything without screwing it up. His dad was right, he thought, ruefully, even if his dad was usually hollering about other things; family businesses and cities and pulling himself together.

Katie lying there was just reminding him what a twat he’d been—he could just imagine her telling her stupid gobby mate tomorrow and them having a good laugh about how crap men were, just like that stupid programme where all the men had been rich useless cocksuckers and the women had just talked about shoes and eaten ice cream for half an hour. He should stop watching it, it was making him more confused than ever. Lying in the dark next to someone who thinks you’re useless is perhaps the loneliest place on earth to be. Which is why, when Katie slowly snuck a hand under his arm and around his chest, he took it. And eventually, they both fell into an uneasy slumber.

KATIE DASHED INTO the shower the next morning—dashing, she’d decided, was absolutely the best way to forestall any conversation, by pretending they were both so super busy they’d have to have it later. Unfortunately, Iain had adopted the same tactic, which was slightly tricky in the tiny house, as they kept nearly bumping heads with each other.

“Well, we must do this again some time,” said Katie, feet on the stairs. She wished immediately she’d phrased it differently, as it sounded as though she’d said, “can we meet up again for crappy sex?” whereas, what she’d actually meant was “can we have another chance, because I really like you and think this is a minor blip.”

“Yeah, really,” said Iain in a carefree tone, which sounded as though he was saying, “I’d rather eat my table,” but by which he actually meant, “if we could magically erase the night before, honestly I’d really like to see you.”

Neither meaning came across.

“Call me,” said Katie, finally, then she immediately wanted to bite her tongue off. She’d cast the evil spell on men; the two magic words that made it impossible for men ever to call you, even men out here in the wild!

KATIE SWITCHED ON her ansaphone at work; she was madly early. There were three messages. The first was from Harry, completely exultant at his brilliant disguise. She couldn’t help but smile; he was telling her it was him in case she hadn’t noticed. The second was from Louise, expressing the idea that they maybe should tell each other where they were going in future, because if she was dead in a ditch somewhere, everyone would blame her, Louise, and she’d have to besmirch the dead Katie’s name by insinuating that she was out having sex somewhere with some journalist. And the third was from Radio Scotland, asking her to come in for an interview.