Where Have All the Boys Gone?(99)

Max looked taken aback by this new calm Louise, who was no longer phoning him drunk at three o’clock in the morning to enunciate to ten decimal places exactly how much of a wanker he was.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I’m moving.”

“You’re what?” said Katie, starting.

Louise smiled. “I . . . well, last night Craig the Vet and I got to talking.”

“I knew it!” said Katie.

“And, erm,” Louise was actually blushing. “I think I’m going to, er, maybe give up my job.”

“You did that ages ago,” said Olivia. “Trust me.”

“And, maybe go help him out for a bit.”

“Help him out how?” asked Katie.

“You know, receptionist, assistant, that kind of thing.”

“Sexual plaything?”

Louise smiled. “I wouldn’t want to talk about any of that in the presence of a baby, thanks.”

Max looked gobsmacked. “You’re moving to the country?”

Louise nodded.

“I always wanted to move to the country,” said Max.

“Ahem!” said Clara, loudly. “I’ve decided on a name.”

Clara had made a huge point of not knowing what to call her baby until she saw its face.

They crowded around.

“Please, not after a fruit,” begged Katie. “Anything but that.”

Clara shook her head imperiously. “This baby’s name is . . . Glastonbury Romany Watson Evans.”

Max’s face dropped, until he could muster a forced smile.

IT WAS SEVEN A.M. Time for home. Katie said goodbye to everyone, with promises to meet up at Clara and Max’s the next day—their mother was staying there to help with feeding (Max, not the baby).

Louise, full of nervous excitement, was going home to pack. Olivia was going to work; she had a big story on her hands.

Katie walked across Waterloo Bridge alone. At that time in the morning, the city was just waking up. It was going to be another beautiful day. The great river was already shivering with early morning sunshine, and she didn’t even care that early commuters were staring at her in her dress. To imagine, this was the first ever day in history with Glastonbury—oh God, Katie wondered if she’d settle for Toni—in it. She opened a bottle of Perrier water she’d picked up in the hospital and stared dreamily out onto the water.

She didn’t want to go home. To her empty, silent home. Even having Clara still in it would feel a bit better than nothing at all, she thought. She wondered if there was anything in the fridge. All her summer clothes were still in drawers she supposed. A coal barge passed underneath the bridge, and the man on the deck waved to her. She waved back. She was home. It was stupid to think she could choose between two men. This wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to her. And what was she going to do? Do a Louise and kick it in and move? It was dumb. The whole thing was dumb. That damn place had cast a spell on her that, in the bright light of the morning, just didn’t stack up.

If she took it in little steps, she supposed, it would be all right. First, the clothes. Get changed. Maybe have a long bath. Yes, a bath would definitely be a good plan right about now. And a nap. A long nap, on clean sheets, in a flat with nobody else in it. Then she would go and see her sister, and her niece—wow, she was an auntie. One thing at a time. Being an aunt felt like a terribly old thing to be. And then the day after that, she would go back to work, just as she had done before, and she would pick up another account and work hard and hope to meet a nice stockbroker and everything would be absolutely fine, and eventually time would go on and she would think about Scotland as if it were only a dream, a silly interlude in her life, when all the boys liked her and she had . . . well, it had had its ups and downs, but she had had fun. And she could go up and visit. She’d need to get her car at some point, and of course she’d have to visit Louise. And maybe while she was there she could see the others . . . and remember one evening when anything could have happened. And try never to think about what she could have done.

A CAR SCREECHED to a halt right behind her, but she ignored it. The traffic had been building up steadily since she’d been walking. There wasn’t a rush hour in London any more; it was all the same. She didn’t bother turning around. She knew once she turned around, the spell would be broken and she’d have to go home and start the rest of her life.

“Katie,” yelled a voice.

Katie blinked and turned around, gradually.

There, on the other side of the road, was a man doing his best to dodge through the traffic towards her.

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

Mind you, she said this only after she had literally thrown herself from the side of the bridge into his arms, and he’d held her for a long time, and she’d said, over and over again, “It was always you, and I didn’t even know, and then I did, but . . .” then she’d burst into huge racking sobs that went on for ages.

“Shh,” he’d said, stroking her hair at last. He wanted to bury his whole face in it.

“I thought I’d really pissed on my chips, with Iain and everything . . . and then just disappearing . . .”

“No,” said Harry. “No, it was really just me being a jealous idiot. I couldn’t have pissed more on my chips. I realised . . . I’m not grumpy because of my mum, or because it’s just the kind of person I am . . . it’s because I’m,” he cleared his throat, “a bit lonely. I drove a girl away once, and bloody hell, if it doesn’t seem to be becoming something of a habit.”