Where Have All the Boys Gone?(70)

Iain—who hadn’t even called after the show—began to fade to something of a dull ache in her memory, like a not-quite-healed scab that you forgot about most of the time, until it catches on something. She wondered occasionally what his newspaper was saying, but wouldn’t let herself find out.

“I don’t miss it, do you?” she’d say to Louise when they were sitting in a nice restaurant or the back of a taxi, and Louise would do her best to shake her head stoically and say no, she didn’t miss it either.

As for Harry, well, sod him. A bit of her wondered if maybe he was jealous, but she quickly dismissed the thought. No, he was just a boor, and one she could well do without. Her mother had called to say he looked like a lovely young man, but Louise had been shocked too by his behaviour. Harry might have been grumpy and brusque, but they’d never thought him unkind.

Louise was better now too. She’d calmed down a little, and didn’t talk very much about Fairlish either; just a quiet sigh now and again when the weather grew a little too hot and oppressive and there was no breeze coming in off the hills, because there weren’t any hills. And life carried on much as before, and the three of them went to smart new clubs and bars and the occasional desultory date that didn’t seem to amount to anything much. At least Katie had started walking about the streets again. The spring sank into a muggy, warm summer, and the heat seemed to settle close to the ground, with the car fumes almost visible over the top. People became less cheerful as the sticky nights intensified until it was difficult to breathe. Although, sales of alcoholic ice cream went through the roof.

And then, out of the blue, Clara came home.

IT WAS SUNDAY, and they were around at Katie’s as usual. If you didn’t mind stretching through and handing things in and out, you could sit on top of the picture window of the downstairs apartment, which was covered in gravel. Katie wasn’t sure it was strictly legal, but it was nice, in the heat, to be outside.

They had the papers, some bacon sandwiches and good coffee and were happily sitting down to explore the tabloids, when, out of the corner of her eye, Katie caught sight of an oddly-shaped, but grimly determined-looking figure, hauling a huge misshapen rucksack up the road. There was something familiar about the walk. Katie put down her sandwich.

“What’s the matter?” said Louise. “Can I have yours? Apparently bacon sarnies are OK on the all-new celebrity bikini diet. It says so right here.”

“You’re all going to die,” said Olivia, munching on something brown she’d brought herself in a Tupperware container that smelled of old car tyres.

“I think . . .” Katie was careful not to lean out too far, in case she fell over. “Hang on here, guys.”

She went downstairs and ran into the street, conscious of the other two watching from above. It was her sister, but not the tanned, slender happy-go-lucky Clara she’d seen last year. This Clara was huge, greasy, brown and sweating from pulling her huge bag behind her.

“What . . . what . . . are you doing here?” said Katie.

Clara put her bag down and burst into tears.

Katie led her inside, as the other two came in from the window ledge.

Louise’s face was a mask; trying to look cool and unconcerned, she merely looked pale and strange and mildly homicidal. She looked at Clara’s face, which was streaked with dirt. She was wearing an old dirty poncho, which didn’t really cover her massive, wide bump.

“Hello Clara. You look great,” she said stiffly. “It really suits you. I’m off out. Anyone want anything?”

Clara’s crying redoubled. “I’m sorry, Louise,” she sobbed.

“I’m amazed you remember my name,” said Louise. “You didn’t before. Excuse me.”

And she walked out, with some dignity, Katie thought.

Olivia brought in a pot of herbal tea, which was disgusting, as usual, but Clara liked it.

“OK,” said Katie. “Tell me the whole story.”

Except there wasn’t much to the story, of course, although it took a while to come out between the choking sobs. Turns out being unmarried and pregnant in India wasn’t quite the barrel of laughs she’d thought it was going to be, with the added stress of Max suddenly getting an acute attack of the middle-class boys and wanting to go home and get a job, and realising that actually he’d always wanted a family but in fact really would have preferred it with someone a bit more down to earth, like, say, Louise, instead of a flighty free spirit, like, say, Clara.

“He just got so cold,” she sobbed. “Like, it wasn’t fun any more. So he didn’t bother.”

“How pregnant are you?” said Katie. “I thought you were only a few months along.”

“No, we got pregnant really early, but I didn’t notice for ages. I was throwing up all the time anyway, and my periods have always been all over the place, what with being so thin and stuff . . .”

Katie was internally rolling her eyes but tried not to show it. “So?”

Clara looked down. “I think, about seven and a half.”

“Months? Good God!”

Katie was pleased Louise wasn’t around to hear that; she’d have flown at her. Obviously, despite years of cautioning Louise to patience, Max had forgotten all about contraception within about fifteen seconds of meeting Clara.

“I know,” said Clara miserably. “Then the monsoon rains came, and we were staying in a little hut, because we’re nearly out of money, and Max starts kicking everything about, and swearing, and saying this is all shit and how can we bring a baby into this, and that he must have gone completely crazy when he met me, and he wished it had never bloody happened.”