Where Have All the Boys Gone?(87)

“Wow,” came a voice beside her. “Roight fancy, innit?”

Katie turned around to find Star Mackintosh at her elbow. Star was wearing a spangly yellow Kyri dress that completely ignored the “either bust or legs, but not both” rule.

“Hello,” said Katie. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Great publicity, innit?” said Star. She leaned up to Katie’s ear and whispered confidentially, “I made it look for the photographers as if my boob fell out of my dress accidentally. But, actually, I did it on purpose!”

“Clever old you!” said Katie.

“Thanks!” said Star. “I’m aiming for the front of the Daily Record. I like your dress too. It looks handy for cold weather.”

Katie wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this.

“Do you think I could get a crack at Dougray Scott?” said Star, frowning and patting her gigantically over-lipsticked mouth.

“I don’t know,” said Katie. “Put your best tit forward.”

“I will!” said Star, and sashayed merrily into the throng.

Katie wished she could help this reflexive scanning of the crowd for Iain, but she just couldn’t. This was ridiculous. Stop it, stop it, stop it, she told herself. Only a minute ago she’d been mooning about Harry, and anyway he was, a) in hiding, and b) she was giving up Scottish men for ever. Cold turkey. Cold haggis. Whatever. They were done for.

Louise entered the room in her gorgeous gold dress, stood outlined in the double doors, stretched out her arms and yelled “ta dah!” Instantly, several of the men who’d been hovering around the walls made a beeline for her.

“Ah, my insecure, sad, troubled little friend,” said Katie, grabbing two glasses of champagne and taking her one.

“Isn’t this amazing?” said Louise. “Olivia’s outside answering questions about fashion designers to Hiya magazine.”

“Ladies!” said Craig the Vet, looking redfaced and bluff in a pair of dark blue tartan trews and a waistcoat. He ought to have looked ridiculous, but in fact they rather suited him.

“Are you no by far the most beautiful things in here?”

Louise sniffed the air. “Craig the Vet,” she said accusingly. “You don’t smell of cow.”

“Not unless Paul Smith for Men is made frae cows,” he said, sniffing his shoulder dubiously.

“You look nice,” decided Louise, after looking him up and down for a few more seconds. He bowed. “Are you going to chat up all the ladies?”

Craig looked a bit nonplussed. “Um, why, yes, I suppose so.”

“Good for you,” said Louise, patting him on the shoulder. “You need a good woman.”

“Actually,” said Craig the Vet, “I was wondering if you’d dance with me later.”

“For sure!” said Louise. “I know all the dances brilliantly. Katie and Olivia taught me this afternoon. Didn’t take long. I can dance with everyone!”

“OK,” said Craig.

“There’s loads of totty here,” said Louise. “You’re going to have a great night.”

“Uh, yes,” said Craig. “Well, I suppose I’d better . . .” He headed back into the crowd.

“What does that man have to do?” said Katie.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“He’s obviously nuts about you.”

“Nonsense,” said Louise. “He hasn’t tried to get into my knickers once.”

“Perhaps, Grasshopper, asking you to dance and to come to look at his lambs is a different way of trying to get into your knickers.”

“Nah,” said Louise, considering it. She looked at Katie again. “Do you really think so?”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Durr.”

Louise flushed then. “I thought . . . I mean, you know, it’s fun up here and stuff.”

“Hmm,” said Katie dubiously.

“But . . . well, Craig . . . he’s a vet.”

“I had noticed.”

“I mean . . . he couldn’t live in London, could he? What’s he going to treat, rats?”

“There are vets in London,” said Katie.

“Not real ones.”

“Yes, I’m sure they’re quite real.”

“Oh, you know what I mean . . . it’s just . . . I mean, do you think he really wants me for a proper girlfriend?”

Katie looked across at Craig the Vet, who had been cornered by a woman wearing an enormous pink corsage popping out of her considerable cleavage. He looked miserable, and kept sending glances towards Louise.

“Hello Lachlan,” said Katie, looking down. He was wearing a blue velvet frock coat and matching bow tie and sniffing a glass of wine nervously. “You look lovely.”

“I know,” said Lachlan. “I’m fighting them off with a shitty stick. Sorry—a, ehm, smeared stick.”

“You know, you never have to use that special ladies’ language with me,” said Katie. “It’s only me.”

“Oh, yeah.” He leaned closer. “Thank you again for bringing in all the chicks,” he confided.

“Not at all,” said Katie, resisting the urge to pat him on the head.