Where Have All the Boys Gone?(91)

There was a massed roar of applause, and Kelpie, looking pretty, pink, and exhausted in her chef’s whites, stepped in and made a bow. She winked at Katie, who suspected that she was having a fantastic time.

“. . . Margaret Senga McClockerty, who has been a powerhouse of organisational ability.”

Katie looked around, but she couldn’t see her. She must be here, surely.

“Olivia Li from LiWebber Associates in London, who’ve been handling the PR, and . . .” At this point Harry swallowed and really did go red. He stared at the index card, as if forcing himself to read it out. “. . . our most special thanks go to Katie Watson, who turned up out of the blue one day, and, well, it hasn’t always been plain sailing, but Katie, you’ve worked so hard for all of this to come together . . . stand up Katie . . . and, doesn’t she look beautiful?”

Katie was completely blindsided. She hadn’t realised . . . people started clapping. Slowly she stood up and found they were whooping and cheering. It was the most amazing feeling. For someone whose life was falling apart at the seams, right now, she thought she was making a pretty good show of it. She felt tears well up suddenly.

“Thank you,” she mouthed to Harry.

He shrugged. This wasn’t the way it was meant to be at all. He realised that in his head when he’d written this bit of the speech, she dashed up, flung her arms around him, and kissed him in front of everyone. That was a bit stupid when he thought about it now. He looked at her. Very stupid.

“Ehm, no, thank you,” he said back. Then they both sat down, awkwardly, together.

EWAN MCGREGOR’S SPEECH was short and sweet, along the lines of give Harry all their fucking money or he wouldn’t get his cock out. Then the central tables were cleared back and everyone started to move around the room, murmuring excitedly as a small stage was erected in the middle.

Harry was leaving the table. Katie realised she desperately had to say something to him, but she wasn’t sure what.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He paused, as if he really wished she hadn’t asked him that question. “Toga,” he mumbled finally, feeling like the biggest loser of all time.

And he left.

KATIE SQUISHED UP with Olivia and Louise over two chairs right in the middle of the front row, where they had already bagged the best view of the action. All the men had disappeared, and there was a huge buzz of perfume, smoke, coffee, wine, and giggling in the air, as the women hurried back from the toilets and checked their wallets for cash.

“How’s it going?” asked Olivia. “Everyone is here. Did you spot Richard and Judy?”

“Is he going to be in a toga?” asked Katie.

“Sadly not,” said Olivia. “But I expect Judy will be bidding. What are you grinning about?” This was directed at Louise, who was sitting with a huge smile plastered over her face.

“Nothing,” said Louise. She tried to stop smiling, but failed, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“And what about YOU?” said Olivia, turning on Katie. “We saw you waltzing in here with your fancy man! Get caught making out behind the tent did you?”

“No,” said Katie. “It wasn’t like that at all.”

She wondered whether to tell her friends about dinner, but decided against it.

“Well,” said Louise. “Here’s a quick test. ‘Iain’s a prick—true or false?’”

Katie half-smiled. “I think perhaps he’s a bit misunderstood.”

“Ooohhh,” said Olivia and Louise together, but there wasn’t time to discuss more, as the lights went down and a drum roll came from the back of the marquee.

“AND NOW,” A hugely loud female voice, that Katie thought she recognised from somewhere, came over the PA. “WELCOME TO THE FIRST FAIRLISH SLAVE AUCTION!” boomed out, as the lights came up to reveal, perched on top of the viewing platform, Mrs. McClockerty, absolutely resplendent in a sparkling huge sequinned corset, which amply demonstrated her magnificent bosom, and a long velvet skirt. She looked amazing. Katie and Louise nearly fell off their chairs, and the cheering around the room was the loudest heard so far.

Mrs. McClockerty was grinning broadly and bellowing into the microphone stand as if she was doing her last comeback on Broadway. “RIGHT! SHUT UP YOUSE! YOU’LL FIND A CARD UNDERNEATH YOUR CHAIRS WI’ A NUMBER ON IT. IF YOU WANT TO BID, HOLD UP THE NUMBER, AND YOU WILL BE HELD TO IT. DO YOUSE UNDERSTAND?”

Everyone bawled lustily.

“AH CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“WAAAAH!” screamed the crowd.

“Winning bidders will be entitled to twenty-four hours of full service from the slave on a date of their choosing, including at least one skill! All right!” said Mrs. McClockerty. “Now, lot number one . . .”

There was a noisy drum roll from the back, and the first of the techies bounced on stage, waving his arms in the air. He was wearing a sheet that didn’t quite conceal a pair of tartan boxer shorts.

“Hello!” he bellowed into the microphone, “my name is Seamus Hannigan, I’m twenty-eight years old, five feet nine inches tall and can provide many special services around the home, including computer mending, web design, technical drawing, and erotic foot massage!”

Seamus wiggled his bum provocatively to mass screams from the audience, and the numbers started going up almost immediately.