Where Have All the Boys Gone?. Jenny Colgan

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СКАЧАТЬ in a tone of voice that Katie recognised was gearing up to start on about the future course of her life, involving loneliness, misery, telly and gradually slipping into obesity brought on by sadness inspired TUC-biscuit blowouts. Louise put on a good face in public, but once they were back in the flat it was a different story.

      ‘I’m having a bath,’ said Katie heavily. ‘I have a premonition it’s going to be my last one for six months that isn’t shared with goats or something.’

      ‘Do you want to go?’

      ‘Durr! No. It was just a stupid whim at the time. Which has come right around to bite me in the arse, because now, do I have a choice? No. Is everything going great guns for me here? Not, as it happens, necessarily.’

      ‘Things aren’t going that well for me either,’ said Louise, sticking her finger in the Philadelphia.

      ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’

      ‘Where is this place?’

      ‘It’s on a higher latitude than Moscow.’

      ‘Is it pretty?’

      ‘If you like that kind of thing.’

      ‘What kind of thing?’

      ‘Lambs. Fresh air. Stink. That kind of thing.’

      ‘What kind of stink?’

      ‘It might have been the fresh air. Or some cow thing.’

      ‘Does it smell worse than the litter bins on Oxford Street on a hot day?’

      ‘No. It’s in Scotland, not the devil’s anus.’

      ‘It might be fun.’

      ‘I’ve been there. It is not fun. It has no cable, no Joseph, no proper coffee, and everyone up there is horrible. I know I moan about the shallowness of London life, but I’ve kind of got used to these staples.’

      ‘How many people did you meet?’

      ‘Only one. But there’s only about twelve people there anyway, so it’s a reasonable statistical sample.’

      Louise stirred her coffee thoughtfully. ‘When do you have to leave?’

      ‘Two weeks on Monday. I don’t know if I’ll have time to knit all the waterproofs I’ll have to take.’

      ‘What’s the job involve?’

      ‘Trees. Looking after trees. Apparently trees need a PR.’

      ‘I thought they had Sting.’

      ‘He’s on tour. Anyway, he only cares about foreign trees.’

      ‘That’s bigo-tree.’

      Katie looked at Louise. ‘That’s the first joke you’ve made in about three months.’

      ‘That waiter was a joke.’

      ‘You know, I wonder if you might just be recovering.’

      ‘Huh. You know, I think it might be really interesting. It’d be great to get out of this cesspit for a while,’ Louise said wistfully.

      Katie suddenly had a great idea. ‘Do you know how long it takes to drive up there?’

      Louise shook her head.

      ‘Me neither. Wanna come?’

      Packing for three months in March was absolutely not easy. In London, the daffs were out in the public squares, and you could make it on a sunny afternoon with just a cardie. But according to www.middleofnowhere-weather.com, Fairlish still had six inches of snow and a wind-chill factor of minus ten.

      Olivia was very grumpy that Louise was going too. She had found it very easy to get leave from her employers, who were still trying to work out if her behaviour at the Christmas party constituted sexual harassment.

      ‘I can’t believe you’re leaving me alone here, desperately trying to ferret out the last good-looking, rich, kind, straight man in London,’ Olivia wailed.

      ‘You sent me on this stupid assignment!’ said Katie.

      ‘Yeah, but I didn’t want you both to go.’

      ‘I’ll be back in a couple of days!’ said Louise indignantly.

      ‘But you’re either a biscuit-strewn crumbling mess or under a waiter. You’re no use at all!’

      ‘Well, that’s nice.’

      ‘I’m just saying,’ replied Olivia gruffly, ‘good luck – I’ll miss you.’

      ‘Well, I’ll miss you too,’ said Katie. ‘Along with electric lighting, central heating, comprehensible English, Belgo, sushi, mojitos, movie theatres, wine bars, radio, fajitas…’

      ‘I’ll get the drinks in,’ interrupted Olivia.

      Katie’s Fiat Punto fought a brave fight, but it still took them twelve full hours, much circling around and two full bouts of crying (one and a half Louise’s, one half Katie’s, who felt that red eyes and a crack in the voice wasn’t quite as bad as Louise’s full-on tantrum on the subject of unmarked B roads, leading to an extremely long diatribe on Max’s inability to find his way anywhere which meant he was probably lost in the foothills of the Himalayas, which, Katie had thought, was exactly where she’d like to be right now, a thought she committed the profound error of voicing) to finally limp into Fairlish late that evening.

      To Katie’s horror, the Forestry Commission had politely turned down Olivia’s offer to organise their accommodation and said they’d sort something out. Which in practice meant that rather than automatically booking the nicest hotel in the area and billing it to the client, Katie was somewhat at the mercy of…well, the fax she was clasping in her hand. It didn’t say anything along the lines of ‘Gleneagles’. It didn’t say anything along the lines of ‘hotel’. It said, ‘4 Water Lane. Do not arrive after 8 p.m.’.

      It was 11.30 p.m. The last time they’d got out of the car, near Killiemuir, it had been so cold, Louise’s sobs had frozen in her throat. It had hurt to breathe.

      The darkness was almost complete. Louise was looking out of the window, failing to spot a single road sign, whining, ‘I can’t see a thing.’

      Katie was trying her best to be patient, but it was like travelling all day with a six-year-old.

      ‘Well, look harder. I’m just concentrating on trying not to run over any more squirrels or rats or badgers or hedgehogs or deer, OK?’

      ‘No need to get snitty,’ said Louise. ‘It’s not my fault you forgot to pack the night-vision goggles.’

      Without warning, the Fiat dropped into a huge puddle of freezing water. The girls both screamed. Katie somehow managed to push the car on through before it stalled, and they came to a shuddering halt. They looked at each other, neither wanting to get out СКАЧАТЬ