Where Have All the Boys Gone?(86)

She stared at the house. She couldn’t believe it. Someone had raked the gravel. All the windows were polished; the stones by the door straight and even. It looked . . . it looked like Katie’s dream. Her dream, attained with ludicrous amounts of work and commitment from every single person in the town. She shook her head in amazement. How could this dream come true for her when absolutely nothing else went her way? Well, thank heaven for small mercies.

“Men in skirts!” said Louise. “I’m in heaven.”

They came to a halt just to the right of a long red carpet that led to the house. There was a canopy over the top that was doing its best to keep the rain off, and it was punctuated by huge raging torches that seemed to be withstanding the whipping rain.

“Park your car fir you?” said a young boy to Katie. He looked about twelve, and scared as a whippet. Kelpie had obviously been at him.

“Thanks,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt about ever seeing the Punto again. Then she made her best effort to step out of the car gracefully, sure all the while that her shoes were going to sink into the mud up to her neck, and the beautiful dress would be ruined.

But then a strong arm reached into the car.

“May I help you?” enquired a familiar voice.





Chapter Nineteen


Katie looked up into Harry’s friendly face.

“Thanks!” She smiled gratefully and took his arm. He raised her out of the car. He was looking terribly smart, wearing a formal black jacket and a dark red cravat that went with the predominant dark reds in his kilt.

“You look swish!” she said.

Harry looked at Katie. She looked amazing, far better than he’d thought she could. The red of her dress exactly matched his kilt. He thought for a moment of his family sash—in the same tartan, used by the women in his family, then shook his head suddenly. This was a working relationship and, after a bloody eternity, it finally looked like it might shape up into a good one. He wasn’t going to fuck with it now—no matter how much he wished things could be different.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he said. “For a Sassenach.”

She did a twirl for him. “For a sausage what?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Plus, you’re needed backstage. Kelpie’s gone Gordon Ramsay on the wine waiters, and a donkey broke in and started eating the thistle centrepieces.”

“Can’t we call donkey Special Branch?” asked Katie, as Harry helped out Louise and Olivia, who were experiencing some difficulty with Katie’s two-door car.

Katie realised she’d been hoping for a little more than “not bad” as a compliment, but told herself to stop being stupid as she started to walk up the red carpet. Harry himself looked . . . OK, he looked fairly tasty, she’d admit. She smiled ruefully to herself. OK, she’d never have had a choice in the matter, and it certainly wasn’t as if she was ever going to go out with her almost-boss—but still. Mentally kicking herself, she wondered if she’d backed the wrong horse. Watching him compliment Olivia, she knew that if she were thinking straight, then she probably had.

Oh, well. He had obviously entered an endless bachelor grumpfest after that girl had left him, and it’s not as if he’d ever been anything other than her extremely rude boss . . . but then she remembered them dancing in the rain, and that drunken night in London. Quickly she put the images out of her mind. They both had far too much work to do tonight.

And, as the paparazzi took her photograph in case she was someone and they didn’t find out until later, she felt better. By the time she reached the end of the carpet and turned around for the other girls (Louise was waving and making Marilyn Monroe kisses to the photographers), something else wonderful happened—the rain, finally, after six days, stopped. It was peculiar; like getting used to a noise that wasn’t there. The battering against the tents ceased, and whilst the ground remained as squelchy as ever, an odd, evening sunshine finally burst behind the huge expanse of dissipating black cloud.

“Hurrah!” said Katie as she passed into the building.

Then, she lost her breath completely. The ballroom where she’d scared Iain so long ago was exactly as she’d dared to imagine it could be. The wooden floors were gleaming with dark walnut oil. The two great chandeliers sparkled like diamonds. Now, the ancestral portraits lining the panelled walls looked fresh and clean, an absolutely enormous fire was roaring at the far end, and a huge polished mirror reflected the scenes of people having a wonderful time, in smart suits and kilts and beautiful dresses, back into the room.

In the corner was a pretty young man playing the harp, accompanied by someone Katie recognised as the local fireman, on the fiddle. They didn’t seem to be playing any one tune, more improvising up and in and out of traditional airs; it sounded beautiful.

Scared-looking black-tied waiters were darting here and there with drinks (banners proclaiming the kind donors of the aforementioned drinks hung down from the ceiling) and, amazingly, tiny hors d’oeuvres—the most perfect miniature baked meat pies, with ketchup to dip them into. Katie couldn’t help smiling to herself; she was so amazed at how it had all come together.

The room was absolutely crammed with people everywhere, talking, laughing, and drinking champagne in the slightly nervy over-the-top way people do when they find themselves all dolled up for something. There were almost more women than men there, in the most startling interpretations of the instructions “evening wear,” ranging from matronly black and silver embroidered box jackets over magisterial bosoms, to split pink feathery fandangles more suited to Nancy Dell’Olio at a Cher concert. But there were plenty of men too, Katie was overwhelmingly relieved to note, including two obvious circles that had celebrities in them.