Where Have All the Boys Gone?. Jenny Colgan
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did stop, but the Punto was still having some trouble navigating the muddy roads through the thick woods. It was the first time Katie had ever driven somewhere where she could see the point of those ridiculous Land-Rover thingies, other than to transport skinny blonde women and their single children to the lycée whilst squashing cyclists in the London rush hour. Olivia, who usually cycled to work of course, always suggested that they use the bull-bars on the front of their vehicles to tie little posies of flowers to commemorate all the cyclists and pedestrians they’d killed that week whilst being too far off the ground to notice anyone and too busy doing their make-up to care.
Katie wondered how things were going to go with this Harry character. The best thing, she supposed, would be if nobody mentioned their previous encounter. After all, he had said she could have had the job if she wanted, hadn’t he? Even if grudgingly so? Maybe he wouldn’t recognise her? Surely he’d think all London girls looked the same anyway? Nervously, she smoothed down her plain black sweater and burgundy skirt. It would be fine. She would do the job and get home. Breathe fresh air. Eat…well, kippers and things, she supposed. She quickly put to the back of her mind how unhappy he would be when he found out he was paying consultancy rates rather than £24k a year.
Suddenly, she reached a clearing. As if out of nowhere, a building appeared amongst the trees. It consisted of a wood frame in a peculiar rhombus shape. The walls were sheer glass, rising diagonally outwards from the grassy forest floor. It looked exactly like what it was: the office of the forest. It was beautiful.
Katie got out of the now mud-encrusted car and took a deep breath. She could see two shadowy figures inside – presumably they could see her a lot better from the inside out. She squinted at the glass, trying to work out where the door was. She had a vision of herself walking straight into a wall and breaking her nose. Maybe she’d get sick leave and have to go straight home. And they’d give her a nose job on the NHS.
She spied the door and walked through it.
‘Hello?’ she said tentatively. There was no answer. She could hear voices, and stepped through the wood-panelled foyer.
‘Hello?’
Inside the large clean open-plan room, with a picture perfect view, two men were poring over a single newspaper.
‘Hello?’
‘PRICKWOBBLING DICKO!’ shouted one of the men suddenly. Katie recognised Harry’s voice immediately.
The other man was heavier set and his voice much more accented. ‘God, if only we had someone to deal with the bloody papers, like.’
‘Ta dah!’ exclaimed Katie.
Both the men whirled around, startled.
‘Yes?’ said Harry, his dark eyes flashing at her in a cross ‘can I help you?’ kind of a way.
She walked towards him, smiling confidently. ‘Hello, I’m Katie Watson.’
Harry stopped and looked her up and down, clearly trying to place her from somewhere.
‘Olivia at LiWebber sent me,’ she said. ‘For a temporary assignment.’
‘Hello,’ said the older man. ‘I’m…’
‘I remember you!’ said Harry. ‘You’re the girl that came up on the train!’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I think I asked them to send me somebody else. I’m sure I did. Didn’t I?’
Katie decided to ignore this, and shook hands with the other man.
‘Derek Cameron,’ he said. ‘I’m the…’ he coughed suddenly. ‘Executive assistant. Which isn’t like a secretary or anything. Nothing like it.’
‘Derek, make us both a coffee, while I sort this out,’ said Harry loftily.
‘Sure thing, boss,’ replied Derek, disappearing into the back.
‘Well,’ said Harry, sitting back in his armchair and eyeing her carefully. ‘Uh, welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ said Katie. He stared at her again, then blinked. With his dark eyes and thick curly hair, Katie suddenly realised who he reminded her of – Gordon Brown. When he was younger and thinner. Much younger and much thinner, she thought. But there was the same brooding, distracted air and lack of speaking terms with combs.
‘Find your way up all right from the big smoke?’
‘Yes,’ said Katie, ‘although we’re not staying in a very nice place.’
‘Really?’ he leaned over his desk, suddenly looking interested. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
Katie described at length the horrid food, scary demeanour and general grimness of the Water Lane guest-house. About halfway through, realising that Harry was still staring at her, she remembered suddenly that there were only about nine people living in the town and he must know all of them.
‘…so, but, actually, apart from that, it’s lovely, great and we’re very happy,’ she finished in a gush.
Harry was quiet.
‘She’s your mum, isn’t she?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Gran?’
‘Aunt, actually. Brought me up after my mum died.’
Uncharitably, Katie’s first thought was, ‘well, that explains a lot’. Her second was, ‘how annoying, having that to throw in every time you wanted to win a conversation’. Fortunately it was her third that actually came out of her mouth. ‘I’m really, really sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Harry. ‘And she couldn’t cook then either, to the best of my recollection.’
Katie stared at the floor, her face burning.
‘Well, anyway,’ said Harry finally. ‘I find it’s probably best to…buy your own sheets, stuff like that. There’s a woman in town gives you a discount if you tell her where you’re staying.’
‘Thanks,’ said Katie, thinking it best not to mention that the plans she and Louise had discussed that morning included moving out as soon as humanly possible, burning the place to the ground, then salting the land.
‘So, what’s my first assignment?’
Derek returned, bearing three cracked mugs bearing pictures of trees on the side. They said ‘Don’t commit TREEson, come see us this SEASON’.
These people need help, thought Katie.
‘The prickwobbling dicko,’ prompted Derek.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Harry. ‘Iain Kinross. Iain Kinross of the West Highland Times. Yes, yes. Iain Kinross.’
‘Our evil arch-nemesis,’ added Derek helpfully.
Harry brandished the paper and threw it down on the desk. ‘You have to sort him out.’
Katie picked up the paper.
‘He’s pursuing a vendetta against us,’ said Harry gravely. The headline read ‘Further Deciduous Cuts’. It meant nothing to Katie.
‘He writes that we’re killing all the trees.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘We start by weeding out the gay and disabled trees.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Derek.
‘No,’ said Katie, who’d come to this conclusion on her own.
‘Yes!’ said Harry indignantly. ‘Wages paid by me, both of you. Now, you –’ he pointed at Katie ‘– go into town. Introduce yourself to Kinross. Simper a bit, you know, do that girlie thing. Toss your hair a little.’
‘I will