Where Have All the Boys Gone?(62)

“Hello!” she said, introducing them all.

“Wow, great to meet you!” said the young girl reflexively. Katie guessed that she spent her life, unpaid, as a runner picking up people from airports and was doing her best, but Harry seemed completely charmed and fascinated.

“So, you work in telly then?” he asked. “Is it terribly exciting?”

“Oh yes,” said the girl, dully, whose name was Hortense, meaning she must be under twenty, as Katie could age the generation of Mauds, Stanleys, and Hepzibahs by crazily retro names. “It’s incredibly exciting.” She put a handful of change into the parking machine. “Sixth floor—the lift’s out, I’m afraid.”

“Where are we staying?” asked Katie. She hoped they got somewhere good, like a Marriott. She doubted they stretched to the Savoy.

The girl gave her a bored look. “Well, he’s staying in the Thistle,” she said. “We thought your PR company was London-based.”

“Well, it is . . .” said Katie. She’d planned on going home, of course, but had still secretly hoped there might be a bit of fluffy bathrobes and room service in between. It had been a while since fluffy bathrobes. Mind you, it had been a while since she’d had her own room, so she supposed she could thank heaven for small mercies.

Louise was still staring out of the window. Katie touched her knee gently, but didn’t receive much of a response.

“Ha ha ha,” said Harry. “I’ve got a hotel.”

“Yes, you’ll need it for all the groupies you get after the show,” Katie retorted, which made him blush and cough immediately.

“So, are you the siblings who want to carry their mother’s surrogate baby?” asked Hortense in a bored voice.

Harry and Katie looked at each other.

“Are we?” asked Harry.

“No,” said Katie. “He’s the man from the men-only village.”

“You don’t look gay,” said Hortense.

Having been stop-starting through the traffic at three miles an hour, they stopped at yet another traffic light. Immediately, a woman carrying a baby started banging on their window asking for money. Hortense, the driver, and Katie ignored her reflexively. Harry looked at them in consternation.

“The village where there aren’t any women living there,” prodded Katie. “Where they’re trying to save the trees!”

“Oh yes!” said the girl. She looked more closely at Harry. “Is that true? There are no girls?”

“Not many,” said Harry, going red again. “Mostly lads work around there.”

“Gosh!” said Hortense. “Well, there are NO men here. Are they all single and stuff?”

Harry nodded.

“Wow. Are there many TV shows produced there?”

“Not many, no.”

“Shame,” said the girl. Then she looked at him again, with a slightly hungry expression that Katie found annoying for some reason. Eyeing Harry objectively, she supposed girls might go for that fit, healthy, black-haired, sulky look—heck, she might have herself a few months ago. Before she got to know him of course. And met Iain . . .

“So, it’s just full of horny farmer types?”

“Actually, we’re on the show to talk about stopping a golf course,” said Katie officiously. “Have you got the brief?” And she handed over a booklet she’d spent some considerable time putting together, full of facts and information on the local wildlife, the environmental damage caused by a flurry of new building, and the superfluity of golfing in the area.

“Yes,” said Hortense, handing over her call sheet. Under “Heathrow Airport Pick-up” it just said “The Town With No Totty,” and their names.

THE FLAT LOOKED weird, in the way that any place not lived in for any length of time seems peculiar. Mail, all bills, and junk, was piled up on the floor. There was one lonely sausage in the fridge. The place smelled a little damp, and hadn’t got any bigger whilst they’d been away. In fact, if anything, it was worse. Mrs. McClockerty might not exactly run the Ritz, but it was still a huge house, with views all the way to the horizon. Whereas here, from the kitchen window, Katie could practically touch the neighbour’s bottle of Fairy. There was no horizon at all. Why had she never noticed that before?

“Come on!” she shouted to Louise. “We’re going out.”

Louise, who was wandering around not doing anything, nodded. They were going to meet Olivia at Chi, a cocktail bar so new and trendy that it was getting them excited about paying twelve quid for two centimetres of liquid with an olive in it, which would then make them cough, and, about two seconds later, fall off their stools. Katie would have secretly preferred a quiet wine bar, but couldn’t face missing out on this—Olivia had got them on the guest list, it was meant to be packed full of celebrities and was exactly what a smart girl about town like herself ought to be doing in this day and age, for goodness’ sake, not making cow eyes at local newspaper boys.

She pulled on her favourite stretchy D&G sale top and, whilst putting on her make-up in the unflattering bathroom mirror, realised she hadn’t put make-up on—at least not this much make-up—for absolutely ages. She put some glittery shadow on, just to make up for it. She didn’t trust Harry to make it through the wilds of North London by himself, so she was going to meet him at the Tube station and take him to hit London, then, after the show tomorrow, she could show him a few sights. Although she’d asked him what he wanted to see and he’d politely replied Stanfords, the travel bookshop in Covent Garden, she was sure they could do better than that, and he could see how much the capital had to offer. And tonight, of course, he could see how cool and stylish they all were and stop acting so damn superior the whole time.