Where Have All the Boys Gone?

by Jenny Colgan

  At eleven, Iain came past to try and catch Katie, who he’d heard was back in town, but he saw them dancing, and reckoned she didn’t really want to be disturbed.

  The weather had broken just as they were dancing – as Harry was trying to show Katie a Dashing White Sergeant, without the benefit of the four other dancers tactically required. Katie didn’t care, however, and was so proud of the fact that she’d mastered the little twiddly step she’d always associated with Hogmanay girls in sashes who could hop over swords, she refused to stop. Soaking, they’d continued, with Derek retreating inside, until, laughing and entirely out of breath, they’d finally admitted defeat and fallen inside, drenched and giggly.

  Rain still seemed absolutely committed to dogging their every move. Despite not being over the moon about how it looked in the budget, Katie had gone ahead and approved for internal heaters. It might be a midsummer night’s ball, but they really didn’t want people getting hypothermia on their watch. Hello magazine was coming, as were many of the newspapers, so they’d decided to keep the death rate as low as possible. She’d never worked so hard in her life, chivvying, begging, making fifteen million phone calls an hour. Her clipboard was working overtime. Actually, she was loving it. Working so hard kept her mind off everything, and she didn’t think there was a single person in town she didn’t know now. And she was good at it. She juggled the newspaper access with one hand, the napkin orders in another and the techies’ amazing MIDGE-AWAY invention, a terrifying fan-like contraption designed to blow away insects, with a third.

  Kelpie, with Margaret’s help, had been amazing, popping in and out of the office with different menus for them to try. They’d settled on Scotch broth, lobster and smoked salmon paella and Eton Mess, which wasn’t particularly Scottish but was particularly easy for Kelpie to make with the vast pile of broken meringue cases she stored out at the back of the bakery. She was using them, she explained, to relieve her tension at all the English women crabbing about her shop and demanding cappuccinos and carrot cake, because if she hit another one, they were going to put that stupid ankle tag back on her, and that wasnae going to happen for anyone.

  And Mrs McClockerty was baking a large cake with printed on it, which would be available at auction for anyone who didn’t want one of the local men wrapped in a sheet. Even Katie’s to-do lists were being exhausted.

  Olivia was flying up to Inverness and taking a helicopter to Fairlish. Katie and Louise had not the slightest idea of where to put her up, but Katie was thinking of seeing if Margaret had any rooms in her lovely place. Thinking of that made her think of Iain, which made her feel sad, but defiant. The local paper had been great, but the media buzz around the whole thing had been building by the day and she’d spent all day and half the night on the telephone to the national papers – cameras and journalists (all female) were flooding in by the day, from as far away as Canada and Japan, where they seemed to find the idea of the village without any women terribly hilarious. Katie did try to get them to mention the golf course, but that didn’t seem to have quite the appeal, and by the day before, they had already arrived in town, extremely grumpy at, a) the lack of suitable accommodation, and b) the sheer numbers of women thronging the streets every day, making it hard to get a decent shot of men looking glum and lonely, particularly as the techies had enormous grins plastered all over their faces, and all the farmers had vanished.

  But the whole town had definitely developed a carnival atmosphere. Ceilidh music could be heard everywhere, as people spilled out onto the streets to practise dance steps. Some of the small shops in the high street had put up signs welcoming the visitors and saying ‘NO TO GOLF’, and within about five minutes, it seemed, there were many signs in people’s windows too.

  Couple this with the news that, yes, Ewan McGregor would be coming, as well as Hamish Clark and at least one hobbit, and the whole town had turned into one heaving hormonal mass of excitement, and shops as far away as Edinburgh were reporting their ball dresses completely sold out. Even Clara and Mum, at home, sounded envious, although Clara said she was simply envious of anyone at the moment who could walk more than two paces without collapsing in a heap and needing to go to the toilet, and warned Katie against getting involved with any of the men, even if there were any left after the locust girls had been at them. Katie assured her this was very unlikely to be the case.

  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’.

  Don’t mistake it for a moment. Every hundred years or so, an event comes along that defines a town, for ever. And this is ours. Reading between the lines, this is not just a party for us. Kind of, more the start of a whole new age. Attracting a new profile for the town. Today, Fairlish – tomorrow, the world? It’s certainly a chance to put ourselves on the map. Even if we’re not all sure we want so much change.

  I say, yes we do. Maybe some people will see change as difficult, as new to this town. I think we should embrace it with all our hearts. Some people say our little home is all right as it is. Sod them, say I! Yes, Fairlish is changing, but it’s still our place in the world, and letting other people in to share it can only be a good thing. Often in this life, people don’t act in time, or act
at all, to do the right thing. Until now – and our time is now.

  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.

  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.