Chapter 4

the best of times . . . the worst of times

After all the high spirits and jolly hoo-hah of the past few days, at precisely 3:00 A.M. this morning, I discovered what Mum’s been wittering on about all my life when she says: “Things always seem blackest in the middle of the night.”

Silly old me thought this was Mum stating the bleeding obvious, like durrrrrr, of course it’s dark at 3:00 A.M., or else we wouldn’t need bedside lamps, would we? And how would we know when to go to sleep? Of course, now I realize that Mum was being “deep and meaningful” and she was actually meaning: “When your worries wake you up in the middle of the night, suddenly they seem bleaker than you could ever imagine.”

This is soooo true.

I slid under my duvet last night as a funky, sassy, music-festival-organizing chick who was over the moon with what we’d achieved. But at some point during the wee small hours, the bo geyman crept in, shoveling sackfuls of self-doubt down my ear-hole.

I tossed and turned for the best part of an hour, sighing, huffing, then rearranging my pillows thirty-six times, letting Blackwell Live stew in my half-sleepy brain.

Big mistake.

Before long, I wasn’t simply terrified. Oh, no, I also became rather irate with the LBD for getting me into this mess. Especially that aggravating Claudette “Venn Diagram” Cassiera. Why can’t she just leave things alone? Why is she like a dog with a bone when she has a plan? And why does she ride rough-shod over all my concerns and insecurities? Maybe I didn’t really want to do this Blackwell Live thing . . . but now I have to!

Grrrrrr.

And as for that Fleur “Microbuns” Swan, this is all her fault too. If she wasn’t so ditzy and shallow when it comes to lads, she’d have seen Blackwell Live for the awesome failure it potentially is. And not just as “a really good chance to snog some boys.” There is more to life than lads, Fleur Swan! (I hope.)

That’s it, I thought. As of Monday I am resigning from the LBD and commencing kicking about with the Archery Society dweebs. Or I’ll be a school loner. Far less trouble.

But I’m also blaming Mr. McGraw for my worries.

It was ol’ gray chops who introduced me to imagining the worst-case-scenario outcome in every situation, including Blackwell Live. I didn’t even know what worst-case scenario meant until I began Blackwell School and learned that every single path you choose to walk in life could have a W.C.S. if you’re unlucky.

Say, for example, Blackwell enters a cross-country team in the local championships. Sure, we might win loads of medals and get our photo all over the local papers, it could be wonderful. But, wait for it; the worst-case scenario would be that we trail in last to every other school, we get our gym kits stolen by local sneak thieves, and then the minibus gets a flat tire, so we have to get towed home.

You didn’t think of that, did you?

Bummer, eh?

Or, say in geography you were learning about Jamaica, about its lush tropical climate, local carnivals and gross national productivity. Well, if Mr. McGraw was taking that lesson, he’d point out the strong potential for freak weather conditions, causing the banana harvest to shrivel and a mass typhoid outbreak.

Getting the picture? Life sucks sometimes; get used to it.

So, anyway, at 3:14 A.M. on Saturday morning, I woke up needing the loo, but somehow started contemplating just what the LBD had got themselves into.

Not only had we promised McGraw and Guinevere, as well as the whole school, that we would put on an amazing Astlebury-style music festival with live bands and cheering crowds; we’d also stuck audition posters up and posted it on the World Wide Web too! Everyone was talking about it. There really was no turning back.

Now, every time I closed my eyes, all I could imagine was a big empty playing field and a tearful, disappointed Mrs. Guinevere. Nobody would want to buy our stupid tickets. In fact, as far as I could see, no bands would offer to play our idiotic concert anyhow.

My palms were beginning to sweat.

I mean, imagine if nobody turned up at the auditions? What if it’s just the LBD sitting in the school gym on Monday, all by ourselves, playing I Spy for an hour, then doing the “walk of shame” through the streets home? We’ll never live it down! Okay, I’ll admit I wasn’t so bothered about looking like a loser in front of McGraw, sheesh, I’ve had three years’ practice doing that.

BUT WHAT ABOUT IN FRONT OF YEAR 11? What about in front of Lost Messiah (who have now started practicing in our function room so I can’t even escape their ridicule out of school hours)?

“Aaaaggghhh!” I eventually whispered out loud. “We’re going to be the laughingstock of the whole school!”

(NOTE TO SELF: Find out exactly what is “the laughingstock.” I have no idea what this means. I just know Magda often threatens people with being it and it’s a very bad thing to be.)

So, as you can see, by 3:30 A.M., I’d got myself worked up into a right pickle. In fact, by 4:00 A.M. I’d decided that my only option was to raid the Fantastic Voyage’s safe, buy a one-way ticket to Negril in Jamaica, and set up an assumed life under a false identity. (Knowing my luck, I’d get there just in time for all the shriveled banana and typhoid fun.)

How the devil did this happen?

Blackwell Live was the best idea in the world five hours ago!

I texted Claude on the off chance she was still awake (y’know, brokering a Middle East peace deal, or whatever the heck Claude Cassiera does when she stays up all night), but Little C wasn’t responding.

Eventually I decided to turn on my TV and see if there was some trashy nighttime movie to take my mind off my woes.

Big mistake.

All that was on at this stupid o’clock hour was the all-night news program on BBC, playing world headlines. They were NOT a barrel of laughs. There was a factory closing in Scotland and five thousand workers were destined to be jobless and penniless; a river had burst its bank in Russia and loads of people had been swept away . . . oh, yes, and a giant panda in Miami Zoo was refusing its meals due to its partner dying.

Grrrrreat.

I felt worse than ever then.

McGraw clearly has got a second job at the BBC producing the Worst-Case Scenario headlines.

Misery really does love company, so at about 5:00 A.M. I was pleased to hear Mum padding about the house, traipsing backward and forward to the loo about four times, then downstairs to the kitchen, where she had a good effort at waking the entire high street up making a snack. I heard a plate smash, some very loud rude words echoing up the stairs, then eventually the TV in the living room springing to life.

Excellent! Mum was up for the day.

I pulled a hooded top over my jimjams and went to tell her that my life was terrible and I needed to leave the country.

Unfortunately, Mum was having an attack of the nighttime blues herself. She was slumped on the sofa, dressed in a big chunky cardigan and tracksuit bottoms, her long brown hair scraped off her face in a high ponytail, watching the same depressing news program as I’d been. On Mum’s lap was a plate holding a huge, clumsily made sandwich. Her eyes were a bit red-rimmed, like she’d been crying.

“You’re up!” I said.

“Can’t sleep, darling. I was, er, a bit hungry,” Mum said.

I sat down beside Mum, noticing that her towering sandwich was made from both crusts of the loaf. Banana slices, salami and cucumber were escaping from the sides of her culinary creation.

Bleeeeeugh.

Mum was staring at the TV forlornly.

“Stupid panda.” Mum sniffed. “He won’t eat his bamboo.”

Mum nodded toward the screen, which showed a flurry of khaki-clad zookeepers, all shaking their heads, offering a sulky-faced panda various succulent-looking branches.

“I like bamboo shoots,” Mum continued, sounding like she was going to start sobbing. “They’re very tasty in a hoisin sauce.”

Oh, dear.

I wasn’t the only one looking for someone to make them feel better. Mum looked terrible, although it had to be said, from the noise she was making with her sandwich, it was making her feel a tad happier. (Especially the layer of marmalade.)

“Mghhhph, so what’s keeping you awake, young lady?” asked Mum, taking another big bite. “Is this you having a late late night or an early early morning?”

“I’ve been to sleep,” I said. “But I’m awake now. I’m reeeeeally stressed.”

Mum sort of laughed.

“Huh, what exactly have you got to be stressed about?” she said. “You’re only fourteen!” Then she quickly corrected herself as we’ve had, like, a hundred arguments before about how stressful it is being me sometimes. “Sorry. Sorry. I mean, what’s stressing you out now?” Mum said. “I’ve lost track of where we are. . . . Do you still hate science?”

“Yeah, I hate science.”

“But you’re trying, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m trying,” I lied.

“So it’s not that you’re stressed about?”

“No, I’m reeeeally stressed-out. Science just makes me depressed, that’s different.”

“Ahh, depressed too?” Mum chuckled. “Depressed and stressed? Well, good to see that we made the right choice sending you to Blackwell.” Mum wiped her finger across the plate, picking up the last trails of marmalade. “You do know some families actually move house to qualify their kids for your school, don’t you?”

“Mmmmm, yeah, you always say that,” I said.

Mum does always say that.

Mum and me have had some conversations so many times over, like this one about “how lucky I was to get into Blackwell,” that we’ve got this joke that we should just give them numbers and shout them out instead.

“It’s not my fault I’m old and senile,” Mum says, pretending to be upset.

True, she is quite old, she’s almost thirty-nine.

“C’mon then,” Mum said. “Tell me the whole story.” So I did. I told Mum all about how the LBD really really wanted to go to Astlebury, to which Mum said, “Well, you’re not,” to which I said, “Ha ha, I already knew that, we’re on to plan B now anyhow.”

So Mum said, “Why didn’t you ask me anyhow? You asked your dad! You think I’m an ogre, don’t you?”

So I said, “No, no, you’re not . . . you’re just a . . . It’s just that . . . Oh, God, yes, you ARE an ogre sometimes.”

This made Mum look sadder.

So then I told her all about Blackwell Live, and about Claude’s plan, and about our meeting with McGraw, then about Guinevere shouting at McGraw. This cheered Mum up loads.

“Ha ha ha . . . Rocket up his you know where!” Mum repeated. “That’s pretty terrible. You girls shouldn’t have heard that, really, y’know? Mrs. Guinevere would get into trouble. . . . Still funny, though.” She laughed.

Then I told her about the auditions and all about Lost Messiah, and the website and the tickets . . . by this point I was rabbiting away really quickly, and my palms were sweating again.

“I’m really scared, Mum,” I eventually said.

We both stared at the TV again.

When I looked at Mum next, she really was crying, vast rivers of tears flowing down her cheeks.

“I think this is all great!” Mum sniffed.

“You do?”

“Yes, it’s a wonderful idea, I’m really proud of you.”

“I’ve not done anything yet . . . and we might mess it all up,” I said.

“I’m sure you won’t,” Mum said. “This is so great. . . . I mean . . . when I had you, I was always worried that . . . well, you know, what if something bad happened to me when you were little? You, well, you’d not be able to look after yourself. And that used to upset me . . . but now I look at you, and you’re like a young woman, you’re taking the initiative to do all this great stuff . . . you know? You’re doing your own thing. That makes me really happy.”

I’d like to be able to say that this was one of those important mother-to-daughter chats, one I’ll be able to look back on in years to come, but I’ll be honest with you: I didn’t have a Scooby-Doo what Mum was blathering on about.

Mum was sitting there peering at me.

“What I’m saying is,” Mum continued, “it’s not easy being a mum, and the world is such a horrible place to bring a little girl into . . .” Sniiiiiiiiiffff. “And I used to worry all the time that sometimes I don’t make a very good job of things . . . but then I look at you, and I hear about the things you do . . . and I know that I did all right.”

Mum produced almost an entire man-size box of Kleenex from her pocket and blew her nose really loudly; in fact, so loudly that she could have blown a bit of her brain out.

“I’ve not been a bad mum, have I?” Mum said suddenly. Like my opinion at this moment really mattered.

“What? Of course you’ve not been a bad mum,” I said. What a stupid thing to ask. “Mum! You’ve been a top mum . . . hang on, you still are a top mum. What are you talking about?”

Mum continued, looking at me with her head slightly tilted: “I’ve just been wondering lately. What kind of a world is this to bring babies into? That sort of thing.”

“That’s really, er, heavy,” I say, rather uselessly.

Mum must be taking this row with Dad really to heart if she’s thinking all this crazy rubbish.

“Mum, you’re being dead silly here. I mean, you’re wrong. Totally wrong . . . I mean, I know that me and you fight a lot these days, but most of the time we have a brilliant laugh. You’re, like, the coolest mum out of my whole class.”

Mum cheered up when I said that.

“How am I cool?” she said, dabbing her eyes.

“You just are,” I said. Mum creased her brow slightly. “Right, okay . . . ,” I said. “Well, you were the only mum I knew when I was a little girl who would flambé my rice pudding at the supper table with a proper chef’s blowtorch like on TV cooking programs. Like, woooooosh! On fire!”

“Yeah, that was kind of cool,” Mum admitted, chuckling. “Probably not very safe, but cool.”

“And we used to bake loads of pies and cakes together when I was little. That was excellent . . . I mean, I know we don’t bake together that much now, cos it’s a bit, well, babyish. But, hey, we can do that sort of thing again if you want?” I said. I felt a bit bad now for always trying to be so independent. Those days were good fun.

“I’m sure we can,” Mum announced, smiling. “There’ll be more time for babyish things, I’m sure. Everything doesn’t have to be serious in this house.”

“Nah,” I said, grabbing the remote and flicking the channel on to cartoons.

“Ronnie, I really think things are going to be fine with your festival,” Mum said. “You’re a very competent young lady.”

Even though it was Mum saying it, this was still one of the best things anyone has ever said to me.

Then she stood up, announced the kitchen was opening early and padded off.

Next time I saw Mum, later on today, she was throwing around a lump of dough as big as her head and shouting at Muriel, our sous-chef. She seemed to be quite enjoying herself.

Weird.

paddy needs a chill pill

It’s now Sunday night. This weekend has totally dragged.

Both Claude and Fleur have been busy doing family stuff. Claude had to go to her cousin Gerrard’s house for her great-uncle Leonard’s birthday party (party is not the term any of the LBD would use to describe such events). Fleur, on the other hand, has had a huge row with Evil Paddy over the family phone bill. She’s been addressing this debt by polishing Paddy’s BMW and accompanying him to see her gran in the old folks’ home. Miss Swan insists she doesn’t give a hoot about Paddy and how he feels about her, like she’s so rock ’n’ roll that Paddy’s just a housemate she’d rather be rid of; likewise, Paddy treats Fleur like his evil nemesis, always on the prowl to rid him of his wages. Nice ruse, fellas, but I don’t buy this at all: They’re as thick as thieves really. They actually enjoy kicking about together, especially at the old folks’ home, which is not a barrel of laughs.

Fleur says that when she visits her gran—who is mad, blind, and has only two subjects of conversation, the Second World War and the escalating price of canned peaches—well, it’s difficult to work out who in the room wants to be dead the most.

That’s really sad, isn’t it?

I don’t want to ever get that old.

Being abandoned by the LBD sucks. I’ve tried to occupy my time usefully (I sorted my CDs into alphabetical order and made a list of other CDs I need to buy), I’ve listened to my new Spike Saunders CD To Hell and Back about twelve times and learned all the words to a few tracks, and I’ve tried my very best to keep my mind off my worries.

Somehow I’m still a heady mixture of anxious and bored rigid.

The thing is, it’s tricky trying to be bored at the Fantastic Voyage. If you make it too obvious, there’s a good chance Loz or Magda will find you something useful you could be doing. Something like hosing down the cellar, or polishing various brass fixtures and fittings in the saloon bar, or even cleaning the front windows in full view of the high street traffic jam.

You DO NOT, repeat, NOT want that.

Especially not the windows option. Believe me, so many Blackwell kids will travel past you on the bus, grinning their heads off and waving, you may as well place an advert in the school newsletter announcing you’re changing your name to Billy No-Mates.

My saving grace has been that it’s drizzled all weekend, meaning at least I could skulk alone in my room without my parents harassing me too much. Lordy, if the weekend had been sunny, it would have been a different matter entirely. I’ve noticed, over the past fourteen years, that the moment the sunshine appears, grown adults seem to become totally obsessed that young people are “making the most of the sun.” (Ah, there’s a sentence that fills me with dread.) Oh, yes, if the sun even pokes its head from behind a cloud for ten minutes above the Fantastic Voyage, rest assured my parents are straight into my room, poking me with a stick, nagging me to “go out and enjoy the heat wave” and “stop missing the best part of the day” or even “go to the shop and buy ice cream cones for me and your dad.”

But as I say, it rained this weekend anyhow and, rather ingeniously, on Saturday morning I took a can of furniture polish and a feather duster into my bedroom, then lay on my bed watching crappy TV with it close at hand. Every time Loz or Magda knocked, I jumped up and pretended to be polishing the same fifty centimeters of window ledge. This has kept them satisfied for the last forty-eight hours.

 

 

BRRRRRRR BRRRRRRRR!

Is that the house phone?

It certainly sounds like our house phone.

Well, it’s not for me, anyway.

Nobody calls me on the house-phone line, not now that I’ve got my cell phone.

Phhhh, I’m not answering it.

BRRRRRRR BRRRRRRRR!

BRRRRRRR BRRRRRRRR!

BRRRRRRR BRRRRRRRR!

I’m still not answering it. It can ring as much as it likes.

BRRRRRRR BRRRRRRRR!

BRRRRRRR BRRRRRRRR!

BRRRRRRR BRRRRRRRR!

“Ronnnnnnnnnieeee! Answer that flipping phone! We’ve got a full bar down here! I know you’re up there, you lazy little sloth,” shouts Dad.

Damn, better answer it.

“Hello,” I say. “The Fantastic Voyage Public House and Torture Chamber. Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can, Miss Ripperton, it’s Miss Swan here,” says Fleur.

“FLEUR!? Why are you calling the house phone?” I say.

“Can I put you on hold a moment?” says Fleur.

“Eh?” I say. I can hear Fleur pressing buttons on her phone.

“Hello, Ronnie, this is Claude,” says Claudette’s unmistakable voice.

“Excellent!” squeals Fleur.

“Claude, what is going on? Are you both at Fleur’s house?”

“No, I’m at my own house!!” says Claude.

“And I’m at my own house too!!” shouts Fleur. “Paddy has had a conference call service fitted to his study phone line! Now we can all talk at once!!”

“Ha ha ha—heeeeellllllllllo!!” we all shout, giggling.

This is truly a momentous occasion. I’m experiencing the full splendor of an LBD meeting from the comfort of my own living room. I need never leave the house again!

“Soooo . . . Good weekend, Ronnie?” asks Fleur.

“Sucky weekend,” I correct her.

“Oh, dear, well, what about you, Claude? Fun at Uncle Leonard’s?” Fleur asks.

“Hmmm . . . It was a family dinner,” grumbles Claude. “Everything was okay till we sat down to eat . . . when I discovered that I’d been put on a separate coffee table in the living room to eat with all the other ‘little people.’ ”

We all groan.

“I spent an hour trying to dissuade my six-year-old cousin from sticking butter beans up her nose.”

“Bummer,” I say.

“Hang on, Fleur,” interrupts Claude. “Weren’t you actually grounded this weekend because of the phone bill? Should we really be conference calling?”

“Ooooh, no, I wasn’t grounded because of how much the phone bill was,” sighs Fleur. “Well, not as such. It was something else . . .”

Fleur leaves a long pause.

“Oh, you know what my dad’s like,” she continues. “He’s a total schizoid. Actually, he’s downstairs cleaning his guns, declaring war on the Swan family right now, just cos Josh has knocked a side mirror off Mum’s Volkswagen.” Fleur tuts. “He needs to chill out.”

“So, what did you do to get grounded, then?” asks Claude.

“Oh, right, yeah, well, Paddy got this letter through from British Telecom about his private study phone bill,” says Fleur. “They said he’d been entered into a sweepstakes for a Special Sunshine Holiday in Martinique—”

“He grounded you for that?” I ask idiotically.

There’s bound to be more to it than that.

“Well, no, he was pretty psyched about that, actually. But the letter said that the holiday was for nine people: Paddy and his top eight Friends and Family Numbers,” explains Fleur.

“What a totally cool competition!” I say.

“What are Friends and Family Numbers?” asks Claude.

“Oh, something boring about you choosing the people who you spend the most money talking to,” says Fleur. “Then you register them with phone company bods and get a discount on the calls.”

“Ahhh, I get you,” says Claude.

“Well, ahem, except Paddy didn’t,” says Fleur.

“Does Paddy not like any of his friends and family?” I ask.

“Not enough to call any of them,” says Fleur. “So he didn’t register any of his numbers.”

“So, why are you in trouble?” I ask.

“Well, the stupid phone people automatically registered some for him, going by who he calls the most. So, ahem, this morning Paddy received a letter saying he could be going on a Special Sunshine Martinique Holiday with, ahem, both of you two, Junior Watson, Dion, Johnny Goodman from the lower sixth, oh, yeah, and that lad from Shrewsbury that I snogged in Rimini last year.”

“Ouch,” we both say.

“No, no, it gets worse,” says Fleur. “Also on the list was Paramount Pizza Home Delivery and Lucky House Cantonese Noodle Bar. I’ve been, ahem, sort of using his study phone when he wasn’t looking.”

“Nooooooooo!” we both squeal, cringing.

“You are so busted!” I say.

“Tell me about it,” sighs Fleur. “I’ve never seen him so angry. He couldn’t speak for about twenty minutes. Then he said I was a luxury he couldn’t afford and he was handing me over to social services.”

“What did your mum say?” asks Claude.

“She was a proper star, actually.” Fleur giggles. “She kept him in his study for about an hour and sent me off around town on some errands. Y’know? Just to calm things down. I could still hear Dad yelling at the end of the road about there being a ‘dire mix-up fourteen years ago at the maternity ward’ and that he wanted ‘his real daughter back.’ Ha ha ha!”

Paddy’s emotional breakdown has been somewhat lost on Fleur.

“Aww, I feel sorry for your poor dad,” announces Claude charitably.

“I do too,” agrees Fleur. “He’s a lunatic.”

“Maybe we should put the phone down and chat tomorrow at school?” I suggest.

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ve only been on the phone about a minute,” says Fleur. “Anyway, this is what I was calling about: Blackwell Live.”

“Yep. Auditions tomorrow!” chirps Claude. “How cool is that?”

“Really cool!” says Fleur, almost outchirping her.

“I can’t wait to see who turns up,” squeaks Fleur.

“Oh my God, I hope there’s a good turnout. Loads of people promised to come, didn’t they?” says Claude.

“Yeah, only like the whole school!” Fleur giggles. “Er, are you still there, Ronnie?”

Silence.

“Ronnie?” says Claude.

“Murrrrrr,” I sort of whimper.

“What’s up?” my LBD compadres ask.

“Nothing,” I say.

“What are you murrrring for?” asks Claude.

“I’m a bit . . . sort of . . . well, I’ve been thinking,” I begin.

“Oh, dear, what have you been thinking?” says Claude.

“Well, I’ve been worrying about the whole thing,” I say in my feeblest voice. “Maybe nobody will turn up tomorrow and . . .”

I stop my bleating just there.

I don’t want to delve into the deepest, darkest caverns of my mind and confess to the LBD what I’ve been worrying about. Some of it has been plain hideous. I mean, at one point, for example, I was worrying about a faulty speaker setting the Blackwell Live stage ablaze. Bearing in mind that we haven’t even got any performers yet, let alone speakers or stages, maybe I’m being a bit daft. I do tend to jump the gun slightly when I’m worrying.

“Oh, Ronnie,” sighs Claude. “Don’t you dare start being flaky, you know you wind me up when you do this.”

“I’m not being flaky,” I say, flakily.

“Look, don’t fret about the auditions!” says Fleur. “I haven’t told you what happened yesterday on my little jaunt down the high street, it was sooo cool, this will stop you worrying.”

“Spill it!” commands Claude.

“Well, I set off down Disraeli Road on Saturday morning. I was feeling a bit sucky, but anyway, I got as far as the corner of the high street when something cheered me right up. I saw these Blackwell lads walking toward me, I think they were about Year Seven, they were quite teeny. So, as they got closer, I noticed they were waving and smiling at me.”

“Did you know them?” I ask.

“No. But they seemed to know me. They were saying ‘All right, Fleur! See you on Monday, we’ve got something dead good to show you!’ Then they ran off laughing and singing.”

“That’s cool,” says Claude. “Ooh, I hope they meant at the auditions. All Year Seven boys usually want to show you are their nose-bogeys.”

“I know. But it gets better. So I’m walking down the high street and I spot lots more Blackwell bods like Benny Stark from Year Ten, who was just off to buy drumsticks to practice his new songs, and some Year Eleven gothy, nu-metal types that hang about with Ainsley Hammond. They asked if they could bring BOTH their steel drums to the auditions.”

“Ha ha! Did you say yes?” I ask, cheering up right away.

“I said they could bring whatever they wanted.” Fleur laughs. “So next, I popped to the dry cleaners to pick up Mum’s skirts, and ended up in a long chat with that totally gorgeous Year Eleven lad Christy Sullivan. You know? The lad who works the cash register there on a Saturday? Big eyes? The one with the kind of flared nostrils and the denim jacket?”

“Yeah, I know who you mean, his mum and dad are Irish, they come in the bar sometimes,” I say. “He is fairly lush.”

“You were talking to him?” says Claude.

“For about twenty minutes. Until that weirdo manageress with the out-of-control perm got annoyed with us. Anyway, he was telling me about how he loves doing karaoke. . . . Oh, and by the way, he was sooo flirting with me, I mean it was embarrassing how obvious he was making it. . . . But, in brief, he said he might pop down to do the Frank Sinatra song that he always does at family gatherings. . . . Cool, huh?”

“Really cool,” we both agree.

“Anyway, whatever, by the time I left the dry cleaners and had walked back through the shopping center, bumping into folk all the way along who wanted to talk about Monday, I was beginning to know what celebrities feel like! Honestly, the constant attention can be sooo exhausting.” Fleur pauses, then announces triumphantly, “Honestly, birds, EVERYBODY is talking about us!!”

“We’ll have to start signing autographs ourselves soon!” jokes Claude.

“Mmm, I know,” agrees Fleur. Not at all joking. “I’ve been having a bit of a practice on the telephone pad.”

“So it’s going to be a chaotic audition tomorrow, then . . . ,” begins Claude with a mild note of anxiety in her voice, probably reaching for her clipboard and notes to begin planning.

“I forgot the best bit!” Fleur says. “I went into the Music Box to buy some CDs!”

Ahhh, the Music Box CD and Vinyl Boutique. On Arundel Road, just behind the shopping center. Little red door, really dark inside. No shopping trip would be complete without it.

“And I saw Jimi Steele and Naz,” says Fleur. “And I spoke to them too!”

“What about?” Claude and I ask.

“About the whole Blackwell Live thing. And this really is the best bit . . . they’re coming tomorrow and they’ve written a special song. A special song for us.”

“That’s fantastic! But hang on, the song’s not really for us, though, is it?” Claude laughs, trying to establish some reality into the conversation. A tough call, as Fleur sounds about ready to hyperventilate.

“Well, okay, not ‘us,’ perhaps,” says Fleur. “More especially for Ronnie. I think it’s a song for you, Ronnie.”

“Fleur, have you been eating extra idiot pills again?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, stop me if I’m reading too much into this . . . but right at the end of the conversation, Naz said, ‘So, we’ll see you on Monday, then?’ Naz was being quite cool and acting like he was just saying it in a normal way, like he doesn’t fancy me at all. Which, to be honest, I find VERY difficult to believe, but nevertheless . . .”

Claude and I sigh. Fleur continues.

“But then Jimi Steele suddenly blurts out, as if his mouth had started working separate to his brain, ‘What about Ronnie, she’ll be there, won’t she?’ Then his face sort of flushed red, cos he realized exactly what he’d said. Y’know? Like it really mattered to him if you were going to be there?”

“Did he?!!” I say, going a bit red too.

“Yep,” says Fleur. “And then Naz kicked Jimi’s leg and said, ‘Oooh, subtle, Jimi! No one would guess you fancy her now, eh?’ ”

“He did not!” I say.

“He totally did,” argues Fleur. “Fact.”

“Then what happened?” Claude asks.

“Oh, I sort of walked off, leaving them both giving each other ‘dead arms.’ I lose interest when boys decide to have play fights. I mean, you’d think Jimi and Naz would have got over giving each other wedgies and Chinese burns by now,” sighs Fleur. “Still pretty freaking cool, huh?”

“I’m sure it means nothing,” I say (really really hoping this all means something).

“Yeah, I’m sure it means nothing too . . . ,” says Fleur, extra-sarcastically.

“You great big premier-league dweeb! OF COURSE it means something! Get off the phone this moment and go and do a face pack, you need to look like Miss Dish Delish for four P.M. tomorrow.”

“I hate face packs . . . ,” I begin to protest.

But suddenly Fleur lets out a gasp similar to someone in a horror movie who has just realized that Mr. Axe Murderer is in the building with them. “OH MY GOD, FOOTSTEPS! Gotta go! It’s Dad! Paddy’s gonnakillme. Laterz.”

Click.

Bzzzzzzzzz.

At some level, Paddy Swan might have been relieved, grateful even, to know that his new conference call line was running in perfect working order, as tested for him, very kindly, by Les Bambinos Dangereuses.

It was unsaid, but we all agreed that now wasn’t the time to inform him.