“I knew it! I knnnnnnnew it!” squeals Fleur Swan, clapping her hands and jumping around her bedroom, causing her Mega Beats and Breaks CD to skip and legions of teddies to rain down from the top of her bulging wardrobes. “I knew it!”

“So ... they’re ... for ... us?” says Claudette Cassiera slowly, with a look of total dumbfoundment, clutching the four tickets. “They’re, like, really for us?”

“Yes!” I say. “They’re for us. Reeee-ally, really all for us! Spike Saunders remembered meeting us! He sent us some tickets!”

“No ... they can’t be for us,” says Claude, wrestling with the nonlogic of the situation. “It’s probably a mail mix-up and ... it’s probably ...”

“No, Claude. Believe me,” I say. “I called the number and spoke to a girl called Jo in the Funky Monkey offices. The tick ets are totally, nonnegotiably for us! We were put on the guest list.”

“I knew it!” squeaks Fleur for the twenty-eighth time, her voice especially triumphant this time. “I knew Spike Saunders fancied me!”

Fleur pirouettes past us with a euphoric smile, then leaps up onto her bed and begins to bounce, shouting in time with each jump: “Spike ... Saunders ... fancies ... me!”

And then, in a posher, more hoity-toity accent: “Well, helllloooooo there, Ronnie and Claude! I’m Mrs. Fleur Saunders ! Soooooo terribly pleased to meet you!”

And then, eventually: “Ha, back atcha Jimi Steeeeeele! Stick that up your trouser leg and smoke it, flobberlips! The LBD are going to Astlebury!”

I shake my head, suppressing a giggle. Fleur is not making this situation any less surreal.

“So, they’re really for us!?” says Claude yet again, her hazel eyes as wide as dinner plates. “It doesn’t seem possible! This is just like the part of a totally scrummy dream when it gets so good that you wake up and realize you’re just in bed all along.” Claude looks at the tickets again, the silver holograms transforming slightly as she moves them. “It’s just .. :”

“Amazing?!” I laugh.

“It’s just ... ,” says Claude breathily, “the best thing that has ever happened to us in the whole history of the world ever! I mean, Spike Saunders must meet a zillion people every year! And those tickets are worth hundreds of pounds! It’s just incrrrrredible!”

“I knooooooow!” I laugh, and we throw our arms around each other and jump up and down. (We’d have included Fleur in this LBD hug, but she seemed just as content bouncing and squawking on her bed.)

I’ll give Fleur Swan her due here: She may be as mad as a hat stand, but she did predict that something amazing would happen if we asked our parents about Astlebury. I do love her sometimes.

“I’m going to mail Spike’s message board tomorrow and tell him we’re coming!” yells the squeaky blonde. “And go on the Astlebury website to find out where all the coolest people camp! Oh God, and I totally need my hair cut before we go, don’t I? Ooh, have I got time? Claude, pass the calendar! Hey, and we’ll have to travel down on the Friday morning, won’t we? Because that’s when the gates open! I mean, the bands aren’t beginning till Saturday, but all the cool boutiques and small stages open on Friday! And the campfire parties all start on Friday night! And ...” Fleur is just gabbling now. “Oh my Lord! I don’t fancy those festival porta-toilets, do you?! I’m not going to wee for the whole weekend! Or go to sleep! Oh my God, this is sooo great!”

I’m beginning to feel quite dizzy just watching her. There is so much to plan! When I look back at Claude, she’s slumped on Fleur’s futon, looking quite perplexed.

“What’s up, Claude?” I say. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m more than okay, Ronnie, I’m wonderful,” says Claude. “I’m just, er, thinking ... look, Fleur, get down, I think we need to talk.”

“But I’m bouncing!” says Fleur, bouncing.

“We’ve still got a glitch to sort out,” Claude says.

“Pah! Spoilsport,” chuckles Fleur, climbing down. “This is sooooo excellent, though, isn’t it?!”

“Yep!” I say. “Majorly excellent!”

You can tell that Claude would like to enjoy this moment, but I also know that two minutes’ frivolity is all her brain allows before getting logical.

“Okay, so this is all totally fantastic,” says Claude. I can hear the “but” coming here. “But we’ve still got a teensy-weensy problem that needs to be ironed out.”

“Noooo ... Our problems are over! We have tickets!” says Fleur, grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, nearly over,” says Claude. “Look, I’m not trying to wee on the LBD bonfire here by being negative, but let’s recap. None of our parents knows about these freebie tickets yet, do they?”

“Nah. Only us,” I say.

“So, despite the fact that Spike Saunders has officially invited us to a festival, we still need to get permission to go, don’t we?”

“Yeah. I suppose so,” I say.

I’ve been quietly blocking this from my mind for the past few hours. You see, the free ticket/Spike Saunders hoopla was so fabulous, I suppose I was also hoping that magic dust might make the parents vanish.

“Oh, permission, permission!” scoffs Fleur, wrinkling her tiny freckled nose. “Look, let’s ask the mumbly-grumblies, and if they all say no again, well, let’s just go anyway! Come on! We only live once, don’t we? Spike would be offended if we didn’t go!”

Claude rolls her eyes. Sometimes it’s almost like Fleur has just met Claude that very second.

“Yes, Fleur,” says Claude, “because leaving Astlebury Festival under police escort because our school pictures have been plastered all over Sky News as missing children would be totally noncringeworthy, wouldn’t it?”

Fleur stops in her tracks and goes quite, quite pale. That is exactly the sort of humiliating stunt that Paddy Swan would pull. No question about it.

“Oh, bum cracks to them all!” says Fleur. “Well, I’m not letting anything get in the way of this one. We’ll have to get the go-ahead. Somehow. Won’t we, girls?”

“Yeah. Somehow,” I say rather weakly.

Claude says nothing. But then we all know that Gloria Cassiera is the candidate most likely to balls this up with a divine decline.

“Look, if you two can go and I can’t, you’ll just have to go without me,” says Claude genuinely. “I’ll be okay. I’ll just watch the highlights on MTV and ...”

“No way, Claudette!” says Fleur. “We all go together or not at all. That’s the rule, isn’t it?”

“Yep, together or not at all,” I repeat. “That was the point of Astlebury, wasn’t it? An LBD adventure?” I grab Claudette’s tiny brown hand and squeeze it. “We’re not leaving you, C. That’s the law.”

“Cheers, birds,” says Claudette softly. A tiny little tear appears behind her spectacles, which she quickly bats away. “It’s always me, isn’t it?”

“Nah, Claude, we’re all in the same boat here,” corrects Fleur. “We’ve all got parents who think serial killers lurk behind every road corner. Paranoid androids, the lot of ’em.”

This is all heavily ironic. I cast my mind back to that time we met Spike, standing in the marquee at Blackwell Live with his perfect teeth and beautiful blue eyes. There we were, trying so hard to act cool and mature that Spike must have totally forgotten that underneath the lip gloss and the itsy-bitsy thong underwear, we were actually only fourteen years old and still under the brutal regime of parental dictators. (Okay, that’s slightly untrue. Claude and I acted cool with Spike; Fleur tried to nibble his shoulder at one point.)

“So what d’you reckon, Claude?” I say.

Claude mulls over the question a bit before speaking. “Hmmm ... well, I can’t help thinking there must be room for some sort of compromise here,” she begins. “Now, bear with me, as you might not like what I’m saying here ... but, I mean, we have got a spare ticket, haven’t we?”

We certainly have. I don’t know why Spike sent us four tickets. Maybe he just deals in even numbers. Or maybe he thought the “BDL” had another mystery member.

“Yeah, and we’re selling that extra ticket,” says Fleur. “Five hundred pounds! A hundred and sixty-six pounds each! With my cut I’m buying a leather jacket.” Fleur begins counting off fantasy purchases on her fingers. “And I can get some new modeling shots done and ...”

“Not so fast, Fleur, we might need to keep the ticket ...”

“Why?” asks Fleur.

“... and give it to someone else. Someone who can, er, escort us.”

“Escort us?” says Fleur, almost spluttering out the offending word.

“Escort us?” I repeat. I don’t like the sound of this.

“If we want to go, it might be our only option,” continues Claude.

“You mean like a grown-up?” I say nervously.

“Well, some sort of, er, ‘responsible’ person, anyhow,” says Claude.

At that moment, in my mind’s eye, I’m visualizing Magda Ripperton, in a paisley cheesecloth caftan and sandals, letting wild and loose with free-form frugging, right in front of the Hexagon Main Stage area and a 120,000-strong cheering crowd. “That’s Ronnie Ripperton’s mother!” People are jeering and pointing at me. “That girl with the brown hair over there! She’s here with her mum! Ha ha! What a dweeb!”

Gnngnngngn!!

“I feel a bit sick,” I groan, standing up and pacing about the room, finally slumping on Fleur’s wide window ledge, which looks over Disraeli Road.

“Er ... your dad’s dead into music, er, isn’t he, Ronnie?” mentions Claude ever so casually. “And he can be, sort of, quite a decent laugh ... er sometimes, can’t he?”

I know her game. “Don’t even think of it! What are you trying to do to me?” I shriek. “Stop it now! Not another word!”

Suddenly Fleur sits up straight on her bed, as if she’s got the answer. I find this rather difficult to believe, but I’m up for a surprise.

“Right. I see what you’re saying,” says Fleur. “What we’re looking for is ... and this is strictly if we have to take someone with us ... an individual who is responsible. Well, at least considered responsible by the powers that be, but also someone who can be trusted not to crucify the LBD with embarrassment in a public place and stay out of our faces when we’re having a good time?”

“Yes,” Claude and I both chorus. “Any ideas?”

“Errrrrr ...” Fleur scrunches up her face, applying every single one of her brain cells to the equation. Claude and I wait with bated breath ...

“No,” Fleur says.

“Great,” I sigh.

“Back to the drawing board,” says Claudette glumly.

At that moment, we’re provided welcome distraction by the familiar rumblings of a Swan family argument springing to life in the hallway outside Fleur’s room. The Swans love nothing better than a good argument with each other. I’m surprised any of the doors in the house are still on their hinges. However, this time it sounds like Paddy is embroiled in a furious disagreement with only himself. This is pretty good going, even for him.

“How? How?! How?” Paddy is shouting. “Please tell me how you can get halfway round the bloody world on a rickshaw, dodging killer crocodiles and flash floods, but you still can’t turn a light off when you walk out of a room! How?”

Silence.

“Oh, yes, of course, I know!” continues Paddy. “It’s because it’s my money paying the bills, isn’t it? My money that I slave blood and sweat in the coal mines every day for.”

“Isn’t your dad an investment banker?” whispers Claude.

“Yes,” affirms Fleur. “His office is down a mine shaft, apparently.”

“Because it doesn’t matter if it’s Paddy paying the bills, does it? Yes, you can survive in the Nepalese Khumbu region on two rupees a day, can’t you? But once you’re under my roof, you’re as spendthrift as your mother! Why don’t we just all go out in the garden and burn my money! Burn it all! We could call it Paddy’s Summer Money Barbecue!”

“He’s really making some headway with his anger management course, isn’t he?” I whisper to Fleur.

“He’s the star pupil,” says Fleur witheringly.

“Of course, who would care if I went bankrupt? You’d all soon find another poor cretin to sponge off of,” continues Paddy. “I’m just a walking ATM to all of you. I should have a keypad fitted to my chest!”

The voice begins to feel louder and closer.

“And where’s that other daughter of mine? Is she in or out?”

“She’s in. Her bedroom light is on,” snaps Daphne “Nepal” Swan, finally squeezing an angry word in.

“Pah. That means nothing! I mean, sure, her bedroom light’s on. I can hear the jungle drums. But does that really mean anything ? She probably went out hours ago. You’re all the same!”

“Blah, blah, blah,” says Fleur, yawning widely and miming a big mouth opening and closing with her right hand.

Finally, Daphne begins letting rip: “Oooooh, you make me sooo cross sometimes, you infuriating man!” she screams. “Listen to yourself. Going on and on about lightbulbs. You are so boring! And also totally wrong on every count. I’ll have you know that I’m a very resourceful and sensible person ...”

“Cuh, well ... ,” snortles Paddy.

“... I’m still talking! Yes, where was I? That’s it, I’m a very resourceful young, er, adult. And it’s time you began treating me like that! It’s not my fault if I occasionally forget things like light switches! I’m a free spirit! But I’ll remind you that I managed to trek from Khari Khola right through to Gorak Shep without your constant nagging, thank you very much, Dad, and I can do without it now!”

Slam, crash, thump. It sounds like all areas of the Swan household are involved in the battle.

“Oh, well, congratulations!” scoffs Paddy. “I’m over the moon about your Nepalese shindig! Meanwhile, back in the real world, I was having panic attacks imagining you leaving a curling iron plugged in, draining the Nepalese national power grid and me getting invoiced for the outbreak of civil war!”

I have to smirk at that bit, but Daphne is certainly taking this to heart. “Ooooooooh, gnnngngnn! Right, that’s it! I’m leaving!” bellows Daphne, sounding almost choked. “I can’t wait to get out of this house. And this time I’m going to go even farther away and stay away for even longer! In fact, forever! Just you wait and see!”

“Hoo-hoo! Don’t get me excited!” guffaws Paddy. “What time does your banana boat leave? I’ll help you with your rucksack!”

We don’t call him Evil Paddy for nothing.

“Excellent,” mutters Fleur, filing her nails. “If she’s going for good, I’m definitely getting her room this time.”

“Awww, Fleur!” mutters Claude. “She sounds dead upset.”

“Ooh, you’ll regret saying that when I’m gone,” Daphne warns Paddy.

“No, I won’t,” he says. “I’m not in the slightest alarmed. The more I try to get rid of you bloody people, the more you come back! That brother of yours is the same! Oh, yes, he keeps threatening to leave but oh, no, from the stench of feet and cigarette smoke billowing from under that door, he’s very much still in residence too. Oh, how I long for you all to leave me alone! How I dream of a quiet house where I can sit in peace without you bloody children!”

“You will regret being so mean to me! You huge pig!” Daphne rants. “I’m calling Mother at her Pilates workshop right now to tell her how you’ve chased me away. I’ll tell her I’m going to live in a hostel for vagrants and work in a massage parlor until I can save up for my ticket to remotest Tibet!”

Long silence.

“Seems a bit extreme,” mutters Paddy.

“I feel extreme!” shouts Daphne. “Stop telling me off like a little girl! I’m a twenty-year-old woman. I’m a responsible adult! Why can’t you just admit it!”

“Well ... hmmm ... that’s as may be,” grunts Paddy.

“Go on, then, say it!” warbles Daphne.

Another long silence.

In Fleur’s bedroom, all three sets of LBD eyes are fixed upon the bedroom door. This is better than Eastenders!

“Okay! Okay!” grumbles Paddy. “You’re a responsible young adult. Now can I go, you annoying woman? I want to watch Robot Wars!”

As Paddy crashes down the stairs into the den, Claudette sits up on the bed with a start, wearing that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed look that so often scares the pants off me.

“Noooo!” says Fleur, catching Claude’s drift immediately and springing to life.

“But this could be our only solution!” argues Claude, waving the final ticket at Fleur like a matador.

“Well, he did say she was responsible,” I say.

“Nooooooo!” shrieks Fleur again. “Nooooooo!”

It was a crazy plan, but it might just work.

And just at that instant, something I can’t really explain made me turn my head and look down upon Disraeli Road. Below, in the distance, my heart lurched as I spotted a familiar blond figure, skateboard under his arm, slowly walking away. Baggy jeans, red hoodie, shoulders slumped in a defeated manner. I’d know that silhouette anywhere, although somehow today he seemed different. The cocky swagger had all but gone.

thicker than water

Of course, Fleur kicked up a right fuss about the suggestion of inviting Daphne to Astlebury. She went totally ballistic, ranting that Daphne was a total dweeb (not really true: Daphne’s pretty cool, really, she’s into good music and is never short of a date) and an evil tyrant (also not true: she’s one of the knit-your-own-yogurt hippie-dippie brigade). Fleur also screeched that Daphne was a “proper little Princess Tippytoes,” “totally spoiled” and “always has to get her big schneck into everything.” Claude and I had to try really hard not to smirk at this point because ... oh, well, you know.

At one time, I thought having a big sister would be ace. Just like a best friend who lived with you all the time. And you could spend all your free time either gossiping about snogging or facedown in her vast makeup box or even braiding each other’s hair. Plus you’d have double the supercool wardrobe because you could steal all her hottest clothes.

Yes, I was a real dweeb when I was younger. I got more real after witnessing a row between Daphne and Fleur escalate into the sisters actually rolling around on the carpet, pulling each other’s hair and screeching.

It was over a pair of tweezers worth fifty-nine pence.

“It was the principle of the matter,” Fleur fumed as she was being grounded until just after 2012. “They were my tweezers!”

So anyway, suffice to say Fleur didn’t want Daphne cramping her style when she was on a mission to marry Spike Saunders.

But over Sunday and Monday when the LBD told our parents the stupendous news about the free tickets, it became the final card up our sleeve. Because of course our folks were ecstatic about Spike Saunders sending us tickets. And of course they all knew what a totally fantabulous once-in-a-lifetime happening this was. Of course they didn’t want to stop us having fun. No, no sirree. And of course Magda wanted me to “stop moping around over Prince Retard and enjoy being young.” And of course, Gloria Cassiera wanted to reward Claude for those eight straight A’s she got in her Year 10 exams. And extra specially, of course, Paddy wanted Fleur to stop stalking him around his own home asking him if she could go again and again like a stuck record.

But the bottom line was they just couldn’t let us.

Because we were just too young to go alone.

“We must come clean about that final ticket and invite Daphne,” Claude finally warned me and Fleur that Wednesday night. “Time’s running out. We’ve only got one week left now.”

Fleur fumed for a while, staring at her “Wall of Spike” poster montage, featuring several pictures of Spike Saunders’s naked bum, tattooed intricately with the sun rising from his bum crack. Eventually she turned to us with a pained yet stoic tone: “Okay, let’s just flipping do it then, shall we?”

Daphne and Paddy were summoned into LBD HQ, where we confessed exactly how many tickets Spike had given us. That wasn’t fun: I’ve been telling a lot of lies recently, but it never gets any easier.

Of course, all hell immediately broke loose. Daphne went absolutely wild with excitement. She even offered to drive the LBD the 600 miles round-trip to Marmaduke Orchards, where the festival is held, in her silver Mini Cooper.

“That would be like a proper road trip! Woweeee!” I grinned.

“Oh my God, that would be sooooo great, Daphne!” hooted Claude.

Fleur said nothing.

“Er, excuse me, has someone thrown my invisibility cloak over me again?” shouted Paddy, looking more than a little weary. “Can anyone actually see me here?”

“Oh, sorry, Dad,” said Daphne respectfully. “Of course, I know you’ve still got final say on this. I mean, you’re the head of the house, after all.”

“You total ass kisser,” whispered Fleur.

“Oh, why don’t you just shut your trap, knock knees,” retorted Daphne.

“I’d rather have knock knees than a wonky eye,” said Fleur, crossing her eyes cruelly.

“Shh, Fleur. Daphne’s doing us a favor here!” shouted Claude.

“Oh, go on, take her side!” huffed Fleur, crossing her arms.

And at this point I was just about to get in with my tuppence worth, when I noticed that Paddy’s eyes looked about ready to explode.

“Enoooooooough!” shouted Paddy, clutching his stubbly head. “Enough bickering! You’re all driving me insane!”

Now we’d really blown it. Not only had we lied to Mr. Swan in a bid to go to Astlebury alone, but we’d then added insult to injury by squabbling like kids in front of him. Paddy was staring at the four of us with a look of utter bamboozlement, his eyes had narrowed and his mind seemed to be racing with thoughts.

“Right. I’m going to act swiftly on these new developments,” he announced officiously, slamming the door to Fleur’s bedroom as he left. Paddy did act swiftly. He vanished into his study, plundered his Rolodex and within that very hour telephoned Loz, Magda, and Gloria, inviting them to a meeting at the Swan house the following evening.

“Oh, this will really be a night to remember, believe me!” I heard Paddy ranting down the phone line as I tiptoed to the bathroom. “I’m really ready to let off some steam.”

Back in Fleur’s bedroom, the girls let out a groan when I told them.

You should never make Paddy Swan angry. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.

“Oi bleugh,” grunts Joshua, stuffing his face with an enormous tortilla chip and mayo sandwich. “If you were a proper sister, you’d give those tickets to me.”

“Oh, go and die, Joshua,” says Fleur crossly as the LBD slump miserably around the Swans’ kitchen table, gathering our nerves to face Parent Inc., who are gathered in the den. “I’d rather drop them down the drain.”

“Oh, well, that’s charming,” says Josh. “That’s the last time I give you lot a lift anywhere.”

“You don’t give us lifts anywhere,” says Fleur.

“Well, that’s because you’re all about ten and you don’t go anywhere,” says Joshua smugly.

Fleur scowls at Josh, clearly wanting to strangle him.

“And from what I gather from Paddy,” Josh smirks, “you especially aren’t going to Astlebury Festival!”

Josh picks bread out of his back teeth, examines it, then eats it.

Yuk. How can he be so vile and still have so many women hanging about him?

“Right, anyway, girlies, can’t waste time gossiping,” Josh says. “I’m off to Wazzle’s house. We’re building a laser. See you later, eh?”

As he reaches the door, he turns and grins. “Oh, and by the way, I won’t be requiring those tickets anyway ... kind of you to offer though.”

“Why’s that?” sighs Fleur.

“ ’Cos I’m off to Amsterdam next weekend with the lads, remember ? For Fordy’s eighteenth birthday? We’re taking him to a strip joint. It’s gonna be a total riot!”

We all stare at him in varying stages of annoyance or disgust.

“Hey, but before I go,” he smiles, “Ronnie, pull my finger, will you?”

Josh holds out his hand with the little pinkie stuck out.

“Why?” I ask.

“Just pull it,” he says.

I pull the slightly nicotine-stained finger as Fleur looks on in total disbelief.

“Ronnie! Don’t!” she squeals, but it’s too late. Paaaaaaaaaaaaarp goes the unmistakable sound of Joshua’s bum letting rip. A tremendous unholy stench fills the air.

“Gahhhhhh! Josssssssh! You’re vile!” screams Fleur, running for the window.

“See ya!” says Josh, with a huge satisfied grin, exiting stage left.

“Ladies, we’re ready for you now,” announces Mr. Patrick Swan, sticking his head around the door. “Could you all make your way orderly into the interrogation chamber, er ... pardon me, I mean, the den.”

“We’re on our way,” says Fleur in defeated tones.

Paddy looks around the kitchen, wrinkling his nose. “I take it I’ve just missed my son?” he says, flapping his hand around to disperse the acrid bum fumes.

Fleur says nothing. She just scowls.

the crunch

“It was a farce, Patrick, a total farce,” mutters my mother, perched on the Swans’ pale leather sofa. “The police should never have been involved. What a waste of time!”

“Thank you, Magda! Yes, the whole fandango was a diabolical miscarriage of justice,” Paddy fumes from his leather La-Z-Boy chair.

“Everyone at my golf club agrees with me too.”

“Not everyone, darling,” says Saskia Swan, clad in flawless cream silk trousers and an elegant cream cotton blouse. “The judge who cautioned you plays a round or two down at Greenford Drive? He certainly thought you were guilty.”

Paddy’s silvery-grayish crew cut seems to bristle with fury. “Pah! That mad old goat? Well, he clearly hasn’t got teenage daughters, or he’d have sympathized with my plight! I should’ve got a medal, not a police caution!”

Poor Mr. Swan. He’s still getting over catching Fleur’s ex-boyfriend, Tarrick, climbing through her bedroom window at 3 A.M. last January.

Ouch! Fleur’s little Romeo and Juliet fantasy hadn’t included ear-shattering burglar alarms, swarms of police cars, all the neighbors out in their gardens in their pajamas and Paddy Swan being cautioned for threatening a fifteen-year-old boy with a golf club. He was in the Local Daily Mercury and everything.

POLICE TAKE DIM VIEW OF LOCAL VIGILANTE

As Paddy rants on and on, my father stares at him, trying to find noncommittal words that won’t get him into trouble with anybody. Dad’s probably feeling very much like I do when I’m summoned into the Swans’ lounge with its cream carpet, fawn curtains and masses of sandy leather furniture and luxurious objets d’art scattered precariously—that is, scared to exhale in case he leaves a grubby smear somewhere. How do they live like this? Our house has got clutter everywhere. No wonder they try to keep Josh quarantined in his bedroom.

“Cuh. Britain today, eh?” Loz eventually remarks while Paddy rambles on, ignoring him.

“I mean, for crying out loud,” splutters Paddy. “Me? Patrick Swan? Leaping around a community center with a dozen other stressed executives learning anger management!?”

Paddy shakes his rather purple face crossly. “Tell them, Saskia! I’m not an angry person, am I?”

“Of course you’re not, darling,” Saskia agrees serenely. Saskia’s the kind of woman who can wear cream trousers like that all day long without getting a blob of marmalade down the front of them. In the far corner sits Gloria Cassiera, clad in one of her scary business outfits: smart navy suit and shiny black court shoes. Claude’s mum is secretary to the best solicitor in town, so she always looks really smart. She’s one of those people who really loves her job, y’know, really embraces the whole idea of loafing about, slurping tea and hiding from their accountant. “Isn’t anyone eating the nibbles?” asks Saskia, pointing at the table of expensive-looking stuffed olives and vegetable tempura before her.

“I will in a moment,” says Gloria. Gloria’s keeping a serene silence over the whole Tarrick incident, although she knows the story better than all of us, having been the main peace negotiator in the days after the spat. Not only did she let Fleur sleep over at the Cassiera house while the dust settled, but she even swung by the Swans’ house with a bottle of rum and homemade banana bread, somehow sweet talking Paddy out of putting Fleur up for adoption. Apparently Paddy became much more affable after several cocktails. Fleur was home in time for supper.

Over by the drinks cabinet, Daphne Swan is fixing Paddy a shaken-not-stirred martini in a fancy glass with a sliver of lemon peel.

“I thought he was a bloody burglar!” Paddy says again.

Claude and I step gingerly into the room, perching on the three dining room chairs that Paddy has arranged in the middle of the den.

Fleur flounces in after us, not acting in the least humble and coy like we’d expressly requested.

“A burglar? Really, Father?” Fleur announces. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard that story. Ooh, please! Again, again!” she says, clapping her hands.

“Fleur, try not to rile Daddy,” husks Saskia rather pointlessly.

“Button it, Fleur!” hushes Claude.

“Yeah, big mouth, shut your trap!” tuts Daphne.

“No, you shut up, Daphne duck eyes!” squeals Fleur.

Paddy stares momentarily at his warring daughters with an irate look. Then his face seems to soften. He looks almost happy ... as if he’s just envisioned himself in a quieter, idyllic place.

Weird.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” says Paddy, putting down his drink. “And I’ll chair this meeting, if there are no objections.”

Paddy loosens his tie and looks to the parents. “Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll be keeping this as short as possible, as we’re all busy people. I know the Rippertons have a pub to run ... and Gloria, you have choir practice, don’t you?”

“I’m singing the lead,” says Gloria, looking at her watch with a little concern.

“Well, let’s get this one nailed quickly then,” says Paddy.

The LBD shuffle in our seats uncomfortably. This doesn’t sound good.

“So, as we all know,” begins Paddy, “our delightful daughters have come into possession of tickets for a two-day pop festival, taking place next Friday over three hundred miles away.”

“I’ve heard about nothing else,” says Magda, rolling her eyes.

“Amen to that,” says Gloria with a firm gaze.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but over the last few days I’ve formed some very strong opinions on this,” says Paddy, beginning to wag his finger.

“Here we go,” whispers Claude, so quietly only I hear.

“I’m on the edge of my seat,” says Fleur crossly.

Everyone stares at Paddy, waiting for him to begin ranting.

“I believe,” he says, “I believe that this could be a marvelous character-building opportunity for our daughters.”

Errrr what?

“In fact, under controlled circumstances, it could be a valuable life lesson that these young women will always refer to in later years,” Paddy enthuses, waving his hands.

The LBD look at one another in bewilderment. Are we hearing things?

“However, I also strongly believe,” continues Paddy, flourishing his hands like a stewardess pointing out emergency doors, “that Daphne, my eldest daughter, should accompany the girls for the four-day trip.”

Daphne bristles with pride. She begins waving her hands too. “I’ve traveled a lot, you see,” she smiles. “In fact, I’ve just got back from Nepal.”

Fleur opens her mouth, then shuts it again quickly.

“That’s right, Daphne’s just got back from Nepal,” says Paddy, nodding enthusiastically. “And she’s proven herself to be a very, er, mature and responsible young woman.”

Daphne’s head is inflating by the second.

“I feel she’d be the ideal chaperone,” continues Paddy. “With her at the helm my worries would be more than assuaged ... So, in conclusion, I’m saying yes to the girls attending this festival.”

What?

Either Paddy’s even more evil twin, who seeks to destroy him, has finally shown up at Disraeli Road, or Paddy Swan is actually fighting in the LBD’s comer. What the bejesus is going on?

The remaining parents all pause to mull over the news. Gloria Cassiera doesn’t look exactly overjoyed.

“Well ... pgghh ... that’s your opinion, Paddy,” huffs my mother. “And what do you think, Saskia?”

Saskia Swan looks rather vacantly at my mother, then pauses as though it’s the first real time she’s thought about the question.

“Mmm ... ,” she begins. “Well, I suppose I’d be happier if Fleur and Daphne were together in Holland,” Saskia pouts through cosmetically enhanced lips.

“It’s Joshua who’s going to Holland, darling,” Paddy corrects her. “The girls want to go to Astlebury.”

“Oh, right ... well, it’s not as if I’ll be here anyway,” says Saskia, patting her washboard stomach. “I’m at a yoga retreat on Friday and Saturday anyway. I’ve got to tone myself up for my trip to Antigua.”

My mother stares crossly at Saskia, clearly resisting the urge to tell her that she’s a rubbish mother who has already yoga-contorted herself into something that resembles a bag of bones, and that she should be concentrating a lot more on her wayward youngest daughter.

“Right,” Mum finally says through gritted teeth. “So you’re a yes, then, Saskia?”

Saskia looks around the room at her daughters and then at Paddy.

“Well, if they’re all at peace, then so am I,” she says in an eerily calm manner.

“And believe me, I will be extremely peaceful,” mutters Paddy, beginning to rub his hands. Then he thinks better of it and clamps them down by his side.

My mother doesn’t look too pleased at all. “Whoa! Hang on a minute here, Paddy!” she splutters. “I’m not so sure. I mean, even if Daphne chaperones the girls, they’re still flipping fifteen years old. They’re kids! There would still have to be some pretty stiff ground rules if Ronnie’s going to be out of my sight for four days.”

Mum turns to Dad. “Wouldn’t there, Loz?”

“Er, yeah! Certainly, love, ground rules,” repeats Dad, then whispers, “like what, though?”

“Like the girls have to call home every single day,” says Mum. “And they always stick together and never lose Daphne. And they don’t talk to any weirdos. And no canoodling with boys ...”

Claude, Fleur and I gaze at her angelically as if these social ills had never crossed our snow-white minds.

Mum pauses for breath, her brain whirring through a whole myriad of naughty stuff we could get up to.

“And no smoking!” she adds. “And certainly no drinking ... and no going near anyone who even looks like they’ve taken any kind of drug, and by that I mean any sort of pill, herb, powder, fungus or any other drug invented nowadays that your dad and I haven’t heard of yet.”

“Ground rules would be compulsory, Magda,” assures Paddy, sounding a lot more like his old self now. “In fact, I could draw up an official contract and the girls could sign it.”

“I’ll sign it!” beams Claude. Claude looooves contracts.

“I’m not signing any ... ,” begins Fleur as I poke her sharply in the ribs.

“We’ll sign it!” Fleur and I both say.

My mother pauses for a second. She hadn’t bargained on the LBD’s total nonquibbling compliance.

“So, Mrs. Ripperton, if all this happened,” begins Claude extra carefully, “in theory, you could say yes?”

“Hmmmph, well,” says my mother, sitting back on the sofa and taking a deep breath, “I never thought I’d hear myself say that, but ... okay, I suppose so, yes.”

“Just don’t make us eat these words, Ronnie,” says Dad, winking at me.

Oh my God. I don’t believe this. The Rippertons have caved in!

I emit what can only be described as a squeak.

“Yesssss!” hisses Fleur, leaping over and kissing Paddy smack on his stubbly head. “Thank you! You’re the best dad in the whole world ever!”

I give her one of my looks.

We promised Claude it was one for all and all for one. Didn’t we?

“Gloria?” says Paddy respectfully. “What about you?”

“Come on, Mum, let’s have it,” says Claude quietly.

Gloria Cassiera looks silently at the entire room. Everyone draws forward to hear. “Well, Claude,” she begins, her posh-British tones smattered with a Ghanaian lilt, “when you told me Daphne was willing to escort you to the festival, I did reconsider the matter. Really. I’ve thought long and hard about it, but it doesn’t change the facts: Astlebury is an adult environment.”

Claude’s face stiffens, ready for disappointment.

“Don’t look at me so crossly, Claude,” says Gloria firmly. “Look, this is a big deal for me. I don’t want to stop you having a good time, but you’re my responsibility. How would I feel if anything happened? I couldn’t ... couldn’t live with that.”

Claude stares at her mum, her eyes beginning to fill up.

“So anyway,” continues Gloria, “I brought up the matter with my prayer group.”

Claude rolls her eyes. She’s always grumbling about her mum discussing household problems with that lot.

“I told them about the great exodus of young people coming together to listen to music,” says Gloria, getting a little more animated. “We talked about the banging of drums and the all-night dancing, and we even talked about the devil and his clever ways of enticing young people ... It was a really rewarding discussion, actually.”

Gloria’s manner of speech can be very intoxicating. However, Claude’s clearly not in the mood for a sermon right now.

“Okay! Okay, Mother!” Claude cuts in with slightly exasperated tones. “And which Bible passage did you all decide was the answer to the moral dilemma this time?”

Gloria stares back at her daughter with a small twinkle in her eye. “Job,” she says.

“Job?” I mouth at my dad.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” mouths back Loz, shrugging.

Claude pauses, then begins casting her mind back through her biblical knowledge. Her nostrils begin to flare.

“Ooooh, gnnngn, Mother!” she splutters. “If that’s flipping Job twenty, verse eleven, ‘Our bones are full of the sins of our youth’ excuse again, I’m going to get really, really annoyed!”

This is definitely the most surly I have ever seen Claude be with Gloria in entire recorded LBD history.

“No, cupcake. Wrong verse, actually,” protests Gloria. “We actually found a wealth of wisdom in Job thirty-eight, verse seven.”

Claude, for once, is stumped. “Well, I don’t know that one,” she fumes.

“‘And music filled the courts of heaven’?” says Gloria, jogging her daughter’s memory. “‘As heavenly beings praised our Lord and Creator’?”

Claude looks at her mum, and a small grin seems to cross her face.

“‘And when God created the world,’ ” continues Gloria, getting a little more flamboyant, “ ‘the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy’!”

Gloria finished her quotation, giving her daughter a small sheepish smile.

Claudette deciphers the code immediately, and a huge grin sweeps over her face as she catapults across the room, throwing her arms around Gloria for a massive cuddle.

“Okay. What’s happening now?” says Paddy, shaking his head.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Paddy,” apologizes Gloria, spitting out mouthfuls of Claude’s hair. “I’ve decided to say yes. I’m going to place my trust in the girls to be sensible and to stay out of trouble. Claude should go to Astlebury ... I think there’s certainly a place in her life for praising the Holy Father through the power of music and dance.”

“Oh, hallelujah!” squeals Fleur, leaping up and pirouetting about the living room.

“Praise be,” mutters Paddy, shaking his head.

“Thank you, God!” I babble, coming over all religious momentarily.

We’ve only gone and done it!

As all the parents and Daphne dissolve into a furious hoohah about rules and restrictionzzzzzz (snore), the LBD spill out onto Fleur’s driveway, whooping and a-hollering and jumping up and down on the spot, chattering furiously.

“This is soooooo excellent, isn’t it?!” I scream, so loudly that curtains all along Disraeli Road begin twitching.

Claude is dancing about with a rather shocked expression. “That ... just really ... happened, er, right?!” she says to me.

“Huh! I knew we’d convince them! I just knew it!” remarks Fleur, grinning mischievously, then taking her voice much quieter. “Ha ha! I mean, imagine us signing a contract to say we’ll be good! Pgghh, have they never heard the old saying ‘rules are there only to be broken’?”

Claude looks so shocked, I don’t think she’s really taking in what’s been said.

“And as for that boring big sister of mine,” Fleur whispers directly to me under her breath as Claude twirls around and around, giggling into the distance, “well, let’s not worry about her, Ronnie. We’ll lose her, no bother at all, won’t we?”

ASTLEBURY BEHAVIORAL CONTRACT

SUBJECTS:

Fleur Marina Swan,

Claudette Joy Cassiera,

Veronica Iris Ripperton

We, the undersigned, agree to adhere fully and without deviation to the following specified rules.

This contract applies to the entire duration of our time outside of normal parental supervision:

1. We agree to stay within proximity of Daphne Swan as much as feasibly possible.

2. We agree to call home once a day.

3. We agree not to talk to weirdos.

4. We agree not to indulge in any form of canoodling with the opposite sex.

5. We agree not to imbibe alcoholic beverages.

6. We agree not to even so much as go near anyone who looks as if they might be under the influence of illegal substances.

7. We agree not to bring the Swan, Ripperton, or Cassiera families under newspaper or television scrutiny because of any manner of irregular activity.

Signed

Ronnie Ripperton

Claudette Cassiera

Ms. Fleur Swan xxx