Where Have All the Boys Gone? (25 page)

Louise threw her little black dress on the bed. ‘I wish I’d brought something fancier now,’ she said.

Olivia looked up from where she was attempting to apply Touche Eclat at the wall-mounted sink unit. Being Olivia, of course, she had known about a divine little hippy spa only open to muesli-munching yoga freaks, in a castle down the road – ‘It’s a gorgeous place, you should see it. Only you can’t, non-believers mess up the chi lines, you see’ – and was ensconced in some splendour, after choking and spluttering at Louise and Katie’s attic.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she’d said. ‘I didn’t realise it was this bad. But surely, you could have a total life detox in here?’

‘Yes,’ Katie said, who had actually got used to the house by now, and rather liked its Presbyterian ambience, stability and deep deep quiet. ‘Total detox of everything except spiders.’

‘And dust bunnies,’ said Louise. ‘That’s a very friendly name for a very nasty thing.’

It was the day of the party. Still raining outside. Katie had done, she thought, as much as she could possibly do, and indeed, their phones had gone eerily quiet, at least for now. Harry was at the site all day, making sure marquee pegs were put in place and collecting umbrellas to help transport people from their cars across the muddy grounds. Kennedy had offered his main hall as a mingling area, which they’d accepted with relief – it looked like their fantasies of people swanning about the lawn, champers in hand, were going to have to be put on hold. Derek had got hold of a list with guests’ names on it, which should hopefully keep out the worst of the gatecrashers. Kelpie had done a forced march around the farms and the institute and recruited forty young men as waiters with a mixture of threats of sex and/or violence.

Louise was staring sadly at her dress. Katie turned back to the paper. Still no sign of Iain. She assumed he was up at the caravan park, where most of the women were staying, and she certainly wasn’t going to stalk him. She was going to anti-stalk him, in fact, and avoided the high street unless absolutely necessary.

In fact, Iain had also been avoiding town and doing a lot of walking across the moors, and a lot of thinking. If this party was a success, he could see his dad losing this one. Which would be interesting. And Katie would go. He still couldn’t believe how much he’d messed it up, what an idiot he’d been. He remembered back to college; he’d been great then. No probs, girls all over the place in a big city. But coming back to a small town…he’d lost his confidence somewhere along the way. And he had to be brave, and go for it. But, deep down, he didn’t think he was a very brave person. In fact, from the age of eleven, he’d known for a fact he wasn’t.

Katie turned to the editorial. All week it had been wonderful, bigging up the night, and the town, and never stopping from hammering home the anti-golf message. The second page today was taken over by ‘A Message from This Paper’.

It was a little floral, thought Katie. Not Iain’s style at all. Oh well, maybe he’d just got a bit overemotional – nothing wrong with that.

‘The thing is,’ Louise was saying, ‘I never really thought you’d pull it off.’

‘You are joking,’ said Katie. ‘We’ve got the cream of Scottish society coming. Plus five hundred sex-crazed maniacs from around the world.’

‘I know,’ said Louise sadly. ‘OK, put it this way – I never thought I’d have to work that hard to stand out.’

Katie thought of her own outfit – she hadn’t, subconsciously, really thought about it either, and was going to have to wear a white sheer top with her fifties’ skirt. She was slightly concerned that she’d be mistaken for one of the waitresses.

‘Fear not!’ trilled Olivia, who was still angrily twiddling with the useless little shaving light above the basin mirror. She turned around. ‘I’m far too young to be your fairy godmother, but look over there.’ She fluttered her hands towards her large Louis Vuitton travelling case. Olivia saw no conflict between wanting to bring peace to the world and rapaciously stripping it of its resources to supply herself with luxury goods.

Louise leaped to it. Inside, beautifully folded and wrapped in tissue paper, were several slinky, diaphanous dresses, in delicate, pastel jewel colours.

‘What’s this?’ asked Louise, breathlessly pulling out a twenties-influenced pale mauve creation, all layers of different coloured chiffon.

‘Oh, I’m repping London Fashion Week,’ said Olivia, carelessly. ‘So, suddenly I’m everyone’s best friend, blah blah blah, yes Stella, I’ll call you back once you take that miserable look off your face, etc etc’

‘NO!’ said Louise, pulling out another one. It was a soft gold colour, with a high waist covered in sequins, and a stiff skirt with petticoats underneath it.

‘Yes,’ said Olivia. ‘Thank God you two have been eating nothing else but those greasy sausages. You’re going to die at forty-five, but, on the bright side, you are going to fit into these dresses.’

‘Eeek.’ Louise couldn’t help it, she was squeaking with happiness. ‘Thanks Olivia!’

‘Thank Gharani Strok,’ said Olivia. ‘And you’re going to have to be very VERY careful. No eating, drinking, moving about, sitting down, dancing, that kind of thing. I know what you’re both paid, and, to be honest, you shouldn’t even be allowed to be standing in the same room as these dresses.’

Katie moved towards the bed. There, underneath the first two, was a deep cherry-red satin dress. She pulled it out of its tissue wrapping. It had a deep sloping boat neck, a tight waist and a full skirt. She looked at Olivia mutely, who waved her hands at her.

‘Oh yes, I thought that might go with your dark hair. Try it on.’

It fitted as though it had been made for her. Katie nearly went crazy trying to see it in sections in the tiny basin mirror.

‘That is definitely yours,’ said Louise admiringly. ‘It is absolutely gorgeous.’

Katie swirled around a little more, then did a couple of her new Scottish dance steps.

‘Ooh, fancy,’ said Louise, who was struggling into the gold dress, which set off her new London blonde highlights expertly.

‘There’s going to be proper dancing,’ said Katie. ‘It’s pronounced kayleigh, like that Marillion song, but it’s spelt differently.’

‘Fantastic!’ said Olivia.

‘What – you can dance it?’ said Louise suspiciously.

Katie felt a little jealous.

‘’Course,’ said Olivia. ‘You keep forgetting I’m posh really. We did it at school.’

So, between them, Katie and Olivia taught Louise some steps, causing Mrs McClockerty to bang several times on the floor with a broom handle, until the phone in Katie’s
room started ringing off the hook again and she was sidelined, double answering questions about champagne, napkins, paparazzi, fairy lights and sheeting.

‘Well?’ said Louise.

At 7.30, they were all set to go, planning to dump the Punto on site and hope it didn’t sink into the muddy quicksand.

‘I think we’re fine,’ said Katie. ‘Although I wouldn’t stand too close to the fairy lights. They sent a fire officer around, but then they gave him a bottle of whisky, so, you know, better safe than sorry.’

‘Oh God,’ said Olivia. ‘OK. Do your best with your frocks,’ she looked at them both. ‘But, you both look gorgeous. Proper city knock-outs. We’d get into Pangea without a second glance with these on.’

‘If we wanted to whore for dubious gentlemen,’ said Louise. ‘Thanks, Ol.’

‘Not at all. I can probably even figure out some kind of a tax write-off when you get trifle all down them. So, country-bound Cinders – enjoy yourselves.’

The Punto didn’t quite turn into a pumpkin, though Katie feared for it for a second or two on particularly muddy patches, and driving with heels didn’t help matters much either. Even Olivia was impressed as they drove down Kennedy’s drive towards the hall. In the twilight, with the dark clouds, it looked stern and imposing, the crenellated roof outlined starkly against the sky, and the countless mullioned windows. Katie was straining to see how it had turned out. All of the windows were lit up, even though nobody was allowed upstairs, because the walls were damp. Kennedy had got someone to put candles in every one (‘it’s too wet for anything to start a fire, for sure’), so even this early in the evening, the huge house was blazing with light.

‘Ooh!’ said Louise. ‘A proper castle! It’s so romantic!’

‘Until we get to the bunfight that’s the auction,’ said Katie. ‘Then it’s all going to get really tacky and depressing.’

But even she couldn’t quite hide her excitement as they swept around the side of the building. Behind the house was a long line of cars disgorging glamorous-looking occupants. There were a fair number of dinner suits, but on the whole, the men were in kilts; a myriad of different colours. She’d been expecting them, of course, she supposed, but she’d also thought they might look a bit stupid. They didn’t look stupid at all, they looked wonderful, and it was fantastic to see the men moving around so unselfconsciously.

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.

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.

‘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 not 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.

Katie passed through the room – Olivia appeared and dragged them around her various London friends too, and
they did get to meet Ewan McGregor, who was a delight, plus numerous slightly batty women who wanted to share with Katie their joy at finding Fairlish, as if they’d turned up to Battersea Dogs’ Home. The conversation levels were rising, punctuated by squeals of girlish laughter. It began to grate on Katie and so she followed Olivia and Louise outside onto the lawn.

Underfoot was still a morass, but the sun setting into the sea behind the hills was breathtaking. Katie stood for a while, enjoying the relative quiet after the noise and heat of the ballroom. Suddenly, she saw a strange, yet oddly familiar sight at the far end of the lawn. Seconds later she heard it – the mournful sound of bagpipes came floating up through the gloaming.

‘Oh my God!’ said Louise. ‘That’s Harry!’

Katie screwed up her eyes. Sure enough, looking very serious, there was Harry advancing towards the house, blowing a plaintive lament.

‘It
does
sound like a cat,’ she insisted.

‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,’ shouted Lachlan at the door in a surprisingly loud voice, ‘WE WILL NOW BE PIPED IN TO DINNER. PLEASE TAKE YOUR partners!’

Harry took the head of the queue at the door.

‘I can’t believe he can blow that and walk at the same time,’ said Louise. ‘Makes you wonder how talented he is in other areas.’

Behind them they could hear an anxious shuffling.

‘What did he mean,
partners?’
asked Louise, but it became increasingly obvious, as couples, most notably the larger-breasted women with the scrawnier of the techies, started lining up behind Harry and following him in through the entrance to the tent.

‘Ah,’ said Olivia. She grabbed onto a very camp PR
acquaintance of hers who’d come up from down South. ‘You’ll do.’

‘Darling, with all these gorgeous hunks here, do you really have to limpet yourself onto me?’ smiled the London chap.

‘For five seconds I do. Be quiet, it’s bad for your karma to be impolite.’

Craig the Vet materialised at Louise’s elbow. ‘Um, would you like to, er, go in to dinner?’

Louise swallowed suddenly and sought Katie’s eye. Katie nodded furiously. Heck, the two of them could sort out geography later.

Louise, blushing, nodded her head, and Craig offered her his strong arm. She took it.

That left Katie on her own. She watched everyone else filing in two by two and tried not to mind. After all, she was working here, goddamit. Suddenly, she wished she had a clipboard. That would make her feel less awkward.

The sound of the pipes grew further and further away as the procession started to leave her behind. Smoothing down her skirts, she prepared to slip in at the back, when she became aware of somebody watching her from the other side of the line. She looked up through the pink and hazy sunlight. The person was wearing a plain grey kilt without a pattern and a plain white shirt and grey tie, and had a camera around his neck. He lifted his right hand very slowly and made a waving gesture.

‘Hello, Iain,’ murmured Katie.