Where Have All the Boys Gone?(69)

They were ushered off the sofa quickly, without time to say goodbye to their hosts.

Hortense was waiting for them outside. “That was great, guys, thank you so much for coming.”

“Great? Did you actually see it?” said Katie. She was shocked and mortified beyond belief at what Harry had just said. I mean, there was banter and then there was . . . well, he’d just called her a slut in front of ten million people.

“No, no, far too busy, but I’m sure you were great.”

THERE WAS A car waiting outside to take them back to the airport. Katie slammed her way into the front seat before it slowly drew out into the heavy London traffic. It was a gorgeous, heavy hot day, and the air looked golden and thick as they pulled out alongside the Thames.

Harry could have kicked himself. He was . . . he had to admit it to himself . . . he was jealous. He hadn’t thought that this would happen; hadn’t recalled that Iain always had to have things absolutely his own way. But it wasn’t just that. He definitely . . . the thought was so alien to him . . . it had been such a long time since he’d felt this way . . . that he’d completely overreacted. But the fact was, he thought he liked her. No, he definitely did. She was sparky, and he liked that. Needed it. Harry was conscious, for the first time, of how . . . how steady his life had been. For such a long time. Nothing changed, particularly. And he’d thought he liked it that way. But he didn’t. He wasn’t happy, not at all, really. Otherwise, why would he be getting himself so worked up by something this stupid? And then blowing it all . . . on television! He should never even have been on television in the first place. What was he thinking? Really, he was only trying to please her. That had been it all along. Christ, he was an idiot.

“Look,” said Harry, who was looking uncomfortably red. How could he have said that? What kind of a man was he? His face went even redder. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking ‘I’m a really horrible prick and I’m going to say something really disgusting live on television,’” said Katie. “Now, don’t talk to me.”

She stared out of the window. There were hordes of people on the South Bank promenade, sitting on benches or wandering around, looking at the second-hand bookstalls or just staring out at the river. Couples walked along hand in hand; gaggles of office girls on their way to the pub; families of all colours with little children running about enjoying the sun and the space.

Harry stared too at the passing cityscape, not really seeing it. Towns weren’t really his thing, never had been. It was completely beyond him why people would choose to live crammed one on top of the other and, worse, pay exorbitantly for the privilege. But one thing was clear to him now. He wanted . . . he wanted Katie. He actually did, and he cursed himself for not realising this fact earlier.

“Katie,” he said, leaning forward, softening his voice. This wasn’t going to be easy to explain, and he didn’t even know if he could explain it or even if she was going to be interested now—maybe her and Iain were loved up, anyway. Maybe it was too late. Maybe he’d just been too wrapped up in himself all along. Bugger bugger bugger.

“Katie,” he said again. She was talking, though, and he couldn’t quite hear what she was saying.

“Stop the car,” she was saying to the driver.

She turned to Harry, her hands visibly shaking. “I think my job’s done, don’t you? I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to the airport any more. I’m going home.”





Chapter Sixteen


Late spring, and the weather was scorching already. London automatically becomes nicer in the sunshine; people almost smile, and eat their lunch outside, or even sit at pavement cafés wearing sunglasses and drinking lattes (cuntinentals, Louise called them, but Katie liked it). This was great, Katie had decided. It was fantastic and wonderful and she wasn’t even going to moon for a second about green fields and falling-down houses and mince and tatties and friendly dogs and the way the fresh air smelled of heather, bright and pure and sweet, as the wind swept down the mountains first thing in the morning. She wasn’t thinking about that, and horrible men and stupid cobbles.

She was back into the London life and Olivia had taken pity on her, and considered her job—raising the profile of the Forestry Commission—absolutely completed, considering they’d made it to Richard and Judy, and subsequently, into various national papers and women’s magazines who’d gone in search of this mystical Brigadoon full of hunky men who walked their dogs and wished for nice old-fashioned women. “Are you absolutely sure we’re doing the right thing in telling them?” Louise had said, scandalised. “You’ll ruin it just as surely as that golf course definitely will when they definitely build it now you’re not there.” To which Katie had replied “lalallalallala” with her fingers in her ears.

She ignored it all. If she even caught the name Scotland in the papers, she quickly turned the page and concentrated on something else, like her new clients, who were trying to market a new range of alcoholic milkshakes and ice creams which were undeniably delicious but, Katie felt, possibly a little unethical. Olivia had said, don’t talk nonsense, anyone who ate dairy was already taking their life into their hands, so Katie spent her time on arranging lots of theme nights at bars, then turning up and drinking the milkshakes. It was fun, kind of, and it was uncomplicated, definitely. She got recognised once or twice for being on Richard and Judy, and was something of a minor celebrity amongst her workmates, who were constantly threatening to go off and live in the land of endless men, but that didn’t last beyond a week or so, particularly as the half-naked Star Mackintosh had garnered the lion’s share of the publicity.