Where Have All the Boys Gone?(80)

“Were you really going to punch them?” asked Katie.

“Och aye. I’d have stuck them in the industrial oven if I could have arranged it properly.”

“Ah,” said Katie. She’d hoped Kelpie hating all their guts might just be a hilarious affectation, but apparently not.

“So, what’s this money thing you mentioned, then?”

Katie explained the situation.

“You want me and Tilda and Lorna to cook for five hundred scrawny-arsed colonial bitch bags?”

Katie nodded quietly.

“Without poisoning them or putting anything in the stew or anything?”

“That’s right.”

“What about pee and spit?”

“No! I’ll report you to the Association of Master Bakers.”

“Master whats?”

“Never mind. No spit and no pee.”

Kelpie blew air out of her mouth. “I just dinnae like the sound of this.”

“Well, what about this,” said Katie. “If this ball’s a success and we make enough money, we can launch a legal bid against this golf course, then the golf course will go away. If the golf course goes away, I go away. And when I go away, all the other women go away too, because there’ll be no publicity and everyone will forget about it, and once again you will rule the town in peace.”

Kelpie’s mouth twitched. “I dinnae rule the town.”

“’Course you do,” said Katie. “You’re the best-looking here by far. All the men worship you.”

Kelpie tried to look bashful, but failed. “You’re really going to go?”

Katie thought ruefully of Iain. “Oh yes.”

“OK. We’ll do it for free.”

“SO, NOT EVERYTHING’S a disaster!” she confided to Louise, as they met up over the traditional shepherd’s pie, now without the side helping of mortal fear and terror. “And Shuggie and Margaret from the posh place are coming in to oversee it!”

“Great!” said Louise, who seemed to have got a little colour back in her pale city cheeks. “It’ll be great.” She paused for a second. “What about the auction?”

“What auction?”

“The slave auction of course. That’s all the women are talking about. You can hear them, all whispering on the street corners.”

“Are you being a misogynist?”

“No!” Louise played with her peas. “Just feeling a bit . . . you know, like our thunder’s been stolen? Although I know that’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not,” said Katie. “Now we know how Kelpie felt.”

“No, not being a paranoid psychopath, I don’t know quite how Kelpie felt.” Louise wasn’t entirely convinced of the veracity of Kelpie’s “no poisoning” pledge.

“Anyway. What’s this auction?”

“Well, it was mentioned in the paper.”

“Oh. Great. So, putting two and two together, I’m guessing this is some great plot of Iain’s to bag himself some more nooky. Well, he certainly needs the practice.”

“Don’t get old and bitter,” said Louise. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

“Hmm,” said Katie.

“So, yes, it’s just what you’re thinking. Various men of the town are going to dress in togas, and the women are going to bid for a date with them.”

“Yikes, that is so humiliating on so many levels, I can’t even . . . oh, God. Really. Togas?”

“It’s just a bit of fun,” said Louise.

“Selling sex for mercenary gain in public,” said Katie. “Well, it does sound fun.”

“And the bidding starts at ￡100.”

“You are joking. Who’s going to pay that?”

“Actually, the women are already offering pre-emptive bids. I heard them.”

“Who for?”

“By the looks of some of them, I don’t think they’re that fussy. Craig’s doing it.”

“Craig who? Craig the Vet?”

Louise nodded.

“Well, you have been having some cosy little chats. Is this turning mushy?”

Louise rolled her eyes. “I was advising him on whether or not he should put himself up for auction for a date with another woman. What do you think?”

“Clever reverse psychology?”

“No,” said Louise. “We’re just chums. Mind you, it will be interesting to see them all in togas . . .”

“Yeah,” said Katie.

“What about you and the newspaper boy . . .”

“Don’t. Don’t start me.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, bollocks, I just saw him with some other girl.”

“See,” said Louise. “We’ve ruined this place. I’m sorry petal.”

“I’m used to it,” said Katie. “Stupid blokes.”

“Stupid blokes.” They clinked their cups of tea together.

“That’s the problem with the pretty ones,” said Louise. “Flighty.”

“Whadya mean?”

Louise shrugged. “They just don’t try that hard. What you need is a real man, not a pretty boy. Someone like Harry.”