Where Have All the Boys Gone?(63)

“Get ready, Louise!” she said, seeing her chum still moping around.

“Is there going to be a big queue for this and is it going to be overpriced and stuffed full of wankers shouting at each other about their bonuses?”

“Yes,” said Katie. “Everything you love.”

“OK,” said Louise. She pulled on a coat over her tattiest pair of jeans.

“Are you going like that?”

“Why, does it matter? What does any of this matter?”

Exasperated, Katie marched her in to the small bedroom. “Because, when we’re sad, we get dressed and go out and have fun, OK? And that’s what we’re doing now. So sort yourself out into something pretty or I swear, Olivia’s going to kick you from here to next Thursday. And you don’t need a coat either. We’re back down South, and it’s summertime.”

Katie went next door, put on some Donna Summer very loudly and mixed Louise a strong gin (with flat tonic).

“Drink this!” she ordered. “If you think you’re going to avoid London for the rest of your life just because some tosser behaved like a dickhead . . . well, you know, we could all do that, or we could all go out and be fabulous. So drink that, and shut it.”

Louise did as she was told.

“And THINK how much more sex than Olivia you’ve been having since you’ve been away.”

Louise momentarily brightened.

THEY CAUGHT UP with Harry at Green Park Tube, where there was already a line for the club nearly reaching around the block. He was wearing a thick fisherman’s jumper, even though it was much warmer in London, cloudy and muggy and a little unpleasant. He looked entirely out of place.

“I don’t want to come across as a rube,” he said, “but have you the faintest idea what I just paid for a taxi to get here?”

“Complaining about the taxis! Rube error number one!” said Katie. “We’re proud of having the priciest transport on planet earth.”

“Error number one, huh? OK, what’s number two?”

They both watched as an entire folded-out newspaper bounced past them on the pavement, filthy pages taking flight, only to be trodden down by somebody else walking through them. Then they looked at each other.

“The litter?” asked Harry.

“The litter,” agreed Katie. “We’re tops at that too.”

“Well, at least I catch on quickly.”

Olivia was standing at the front of the line, looking gorgeous in her usual mix of white and hippy new-age clothes.

“DARLINGS!” she screeched, causing everyone else in the queue—who were much more fashionably dressed—to turn around and eye them coldly as they walked to the front of the queue.

“This isn’t nice,” said Harry to Katie. “They’ve waited ages.”

“It’s very nice,” said Katie as Olivia signed them in at the door. “It’s called VIP.”

“Ah,” said Harry, apologising to everyone behind him, “I see.”

Inside was mobbed, heaving, with smoke wreathing the air. The bar was six deep and there was nowhere to sit except absurdly low couches that were already stuffed full of teenagers draped over each other in absurdly low trousers. Everyone else was standing or perched on stools, chattering wildly in tiny skirts and brightly coloured shoes. Katie’s heart sank. She’d wanted a quiet evening catching up with her friends, and introducing them to Harry, not a clusterfuck where you had to drink to make up for the fact that you couldn’t hear anyone’s conversation. The walls were made of jagged crystal and white velvet, and there were the most extraordinary spiralled mobiles hanging down from the ceiling that looked as though they could take somebody’s eye out.

“Isn’t this great!” Olivia was shrieking. “Damien Hirst made the ceiling.”

Katie wasn’t quite sure how great a recommendation this was, and glanced at Harry. He was staring all around him as if he’d just stepped into Wonderland.

“What do you think?” she said, nodding at Olivia who was indicating four martinis to the barman.

“Wow,” said Harry. “I can’t . . .”

Despite herself, Katie couldn’t help feeling a little pleased. Mr. Grumpy Boots did see London, after all. Well, she supposed he hadn’t seen much like this, if the only pub he’d ever been to was the Mermaid (and she hadn’t even seen him in there).

“Great, isn’t it?”

“I admit it. I’m a rube,” said Harry, “but those girls have got no clothes on!”

“They’ll catch their deaths.” She smiled at him.

“They’ll catch something,” he said. “Sorry, that was completely uncalled for. This place is freaking me out. I mean, they look like they’ve just stepped out of a fashion magazine . . . not that I ever read fashion magazines of course. They’re Derek’s.”

“Well, here they all are.”

Sure enough, there were many more women than men in the room, although there was a small complement of men in pinstriped suits looking satisfied with themselves, and a few men whose suits matched the décor. Harry’s eyes were wide.

“Follow me!” commanded Olivia, and they disappeared into a quieter side area with a large bouncer standing in front of it. Behind him were little Turkish-style seraglio booths, with embroidered cushions and pink lighting. The women were, if anything, even slimmer, and it was, thankfully, quieter.