Chapter 5

cometh the mailman

I tear open the small white envelope, which has my mother’s familiar swirly hieroglyphics across the front, and pull out her letter. A crisp £20 note falls upon my lap. Ha! Good old Mum. I begin to read . . .

19 July, The Fantastic Voyage

Hellooo . . . anyone there?

Earth calling Ronnie.

It’s your mother here. Remember me?

Well, lambkins, that’s two weeks you’ve been gone now. Things must be looking up, eh, kiddo? Not a peep out of you for days?

I take it you’re not coming home. Jeez, Ronnie, it was hard hearing you crying like that on the first night without jumping in the car and racing to get you. . . .

Pah! Pardon? What fantastic nonsense my mum gibbers! Me, Ronnie Ripperton? Fearless Amazonian warrior? Sobbing on the phone to Mummy like a homesick child? The woman’s clearly delirious. I mean, okay, I was a bit sniffly . . . but, well . . . cough, moving on . . .

Believe me, Ron, newbies always get lumped with the crappy shifts. That’s waitressing for you. Make sure you stand your ground and get some time off to have fun. Be assertive! Remember, you learned from the best!

Hmmm. Don’t worry, Mother, the LBD have been making time for fun. I mean, sure, the hours here at Harbinger are long, and Scrumble may well be a heinous right-angle-ridden old boot, but Siegmund, Rosco and all the other kitchen misfits always cheer me up.

Plus they announced the lineup for the Big Beach Booty Quake the next day . . . and it rrrrrocks! The whole MTV gang are staying here! And Destiny Bay is just so cool. I feel alive!

There’s always something fab happening. Like last Saturday night, Gene and Leon gave the LBD a lift in their van up onto the cliffs at midnight for a campfire party with a huge gang of their surfer buddies. And Jose, this hottie from Pamplona in Spain, said I had a bum like “two little apples,” and he gave me his e-mail address if I ever want to visit for the bull-running weekend. Fleur and Claude and I stayed out till 5 A.M. having crazy limbo dancing competitions with some New Zealand dudes. And Claude learned to walk through hot coals! We got a lift home on the back of the Harbinger Hall milk truck! And the next morning, when Fleur was doing breakfast shift, she vomited in the waste disposal, then fell fast asleep against the dishwasher with her face in a plate of porridge! Ha ha ha!

And . . . erm . . . actually, Mum, you’re never going to find out any of this. No way. Because you’d hit the roof.

But suffice to say . . . am I coming home? Of course I’m flipping not . . .

. . . Oh, yeah, Ronnie, ignore those “headless earl” stories too. Allegedly there was a “dead weeping waitress” haunting the first place I chefed at. Never saw her either, funnily enough. It’s just another classic newbie wind-up . . .

I read that last bit again, then pause to look around our apartment, which I notice is totally covered in Fleur’s clothes, makeup, plates and cups. Fleur seems to move through the apartment like a tornado of mess, shedding her belongings and making things unimaginably untidy. Sometimes I feel like her mother, walking about picking up her lipstick and stained tissues and hanging up her dresses.

I’m glad we’re living here together, though. I wouldn’t want to be here alone. The West Turret definitely has a creepy feel to it. It’s steeped in a fairly gruesome history, after all. Plus, and I might be going mad here, things keep disappearing. Biscuits, cheese, bread . . . it’s like we’ve got a bulimic poltergeist. If it is Fleur and Claude gobbling it all up, they’re flipping good actresses when questioned. And what’s that weird dragging sound in the attic? Claude says I’ve got an overactive imagination and next year I should take an A-level in “getting a grip.” Hmmph! She won’t be so smug when we’re being chased to our doom by an ax-wielding ghoul carrying a severed head spewing out cookies and stolen sausages.

There’s more . . .

Anyway, Ron, me and Dad are cool. Seth sends regards. He continues to rule the house, as ever . . . the poo never endeth. We’re all still getting back to normal after everything. I have dodgy days, but today I’m feeling pretty chipper. Every day without Nan things seem to get a little bit more back to normal, but then that makes me sad too, as I feel further away from her. It’s a no-win situation. Every little thing reminds me of her right now. I spend my days ranging from hysterical giggles to sobbing while serving pints of beer. The customers must think I’m bonkers.

Hmmm . . . more than a large twinge of homesickness there. Must fight it.

Anyway, in other news, Susan and I went shopping in Westland Mall yesterday. Susan’s doing great at Slimming World (ahem, again) and needed all new nonbaggy knickers and a new “over-the-shoulder boulder holder.” (Yes, she’s still not sick of that joke.) Guess who we bumped into in House of Frazer? That Cressida girl you were lumbered with last term!

Euuuugh! I’d almost forgotten about her.

She was with that snooty little madam with the dark hair from Larkrise Manor. Panama, is it? Anyway, they were in the fitting rooms trying on thong bikinis the size of microchips. Skinny whippets they both were too. Annoying. Saying that, they were chatty enough, asking what you were up to, etc. Don’t worry, Ron, I put them straight. I told them that you, Claude and Fleur were all at Harbinger Hall in Destiny Bay having the time of your lives! You should’ve seen their faces. Priceless!

Right, must run and catch last mail. Ring me soon! Love you loads. You may be all grown-up and living away from home now, but you’re still my little girl.

Mum xxxx

Ha ha ha! Excellent! Stick that in your caldron, Sleeth! Thought you could split the LBD up, didn’t you? Instead, we’re tighter than ever before and having triple the fun.

Friends forever!

Nothing can muck things up now.

P.S. Nearly forgot! Saw that sniveling little excuse for manhood Jimi Steele yesterday morning . . . waiting for the staff minibus for the Wacky Warehouse! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Oh my God! Ha ha ha! Today just gets better and better. Love you too, Mum!

That very second, Fleur Swan appears from the bedroom clad in a green Chinese silk kimono, kitten-heel slippers and a fluffy pink eye mask pulled up over her forehead. She walks over to the fridge, opens the door and pulls out a carton of orange juice with a yellow Post-it note attached to the spout.

“Claude’s orange juice. Keep off!” reads Fleur, taking the note off temporarily to take a long refreshing gulp. “Sheeeesh, Claude’s on fire with those Post-it notes, isn’t she?”

I roll my eyes and try not to laugh.

“Oooh, another one,” laughs Fleur, rooting about in the fridge and producing some butter. “It’s like a treasure hunt! What does this say? This is not communal butter. Ha ha!”

“Oh, and apparently we’re rationed to three sheets of toilet paper per bathroom visitation,” I announce. “There’s a Post-it note above the loo. Apparently we’re using too much.”

“I’m going to use four sheets!” laughs Fleur. “I laugh in the face of authority.”

“You’re a braver girl than me,” I mutter.

“Hey, is that the mail?” she smiles. “Is there anything for me?”

“There was one for all for us,” I say, nodding at the postcard and letter on the coffee table.

Fleur grabs her card and begins reading . . .

Where in God’s name is my Olympus XJ-216 digital camera? Can I have nothing in this house without my children relieving me of it?

You, girl, really are the absolute limit. Consider it deducted from next year’s allowance.

Yours, incandescent with rage, P. Swan (Father)

P.S. Come home soon, darling. House is utterly tedious without you. x

“Poor Paddy,” says Fleur, shaking her head slowly. “He’s a heart attack waiting to happen. He should take up Ashtanga.”

Fleur picks up the aforementioned “borrowed” digital camera from the breakfast bar. She snaps a shot of me lying on the sofa, then begins examining some snaps we took at the cliff-top party.

“Aaagggggghh! Delete! Delete!” squawks Fleur, staring aghast at the camera’s screen. “Bingo wing alert! Noooo! I’ve got flabby corned beef arms in all of these. Yuk!”

I just smile at her. I’m not playing her “oooh, I’m so ugly” game today.

“Who’s that from?” Fleur says, nodding at my letter. “Jimi Steele?”

“Noooo!” I grimace. “Mother.”

“Gossip?” says Fleur.

“Hmmm, well,” I smile, “Mum ran into Cressida and Panama, trying on bikinis in House of Frazer!”

“Did she?” says Fleur, her eyes glowing. “Did she see what size bikini Panama was? Has she put on any weight? Did she have cellulite? Oh, Ronnie, go on, tell me she had big shoals of cellulite swimming up each wibbly thigh!”

“Er . . . well,” I say.

“And a third nipple?” suggests Fleur. “Glowing in the center of her chest like an all-seeing eye?”

“Mmm . . . no,” I sigh.

“Damn it, Ronnie! What is the use in you?” chuckles Fleur. “Well, was Cressida hairy then? With rufty-tufty locks sprouting from her navel to her knees . . . like a pair of furry knickerbockers?”

“Nope,” I say.

Deep down, we both know Panama Goodyear and Cressida Sleeth are pretty much perfect. Panama’s the only girl at Blackwell who looks hot in satin hipster hot pants. (When I tried on a pair at It’s a Girl’s World, Fleur laughed so much she had to cling on to the cubicle door to steady herself.)

“Pggh . . . bet Cressida’s been invited along to Panama’s daddy’s villa in Ibiza, eh?” groans Fleur. “Panama, Abigail, Derren, the whole shower. They go every summer, don’t they?”

“Hope so,” I say. “Cressida’s allergic to sunlight, isn’t she? I hope she dissolves into a puddle of bile.”

“Me too,” agrees Fleur, double-checking the waitressing schedule pinned to our fridge. “Not that we care about them anyway. We’re having a super-fabulous time here! Plus, today’s our first full day off together.”

Fleur throws open the West Turret’s living room curtains, letting sunshine pour into the room. “Wow! Scorchio!” she hoots. “Right, Ronnie, I’m taking a long soak, then applying my sun cream. Then, we’re off to Destiny Bay to cause a rumpus.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I smile.

“And you’re in charge of waking up Claude,” says Fleur.

“Oh, thanks,” I groan. “She was working till 1 A.M.! She said not to wake . . .”

Fleur swings open the bedroom door where Claude is snuggled in her duvet, gob open, emitting noises like a broken lawn mower.

“Morning, Claudette!” screams Fleur as Claude sits up in bed with glued-shut eyes and Halloween hair. “Are you awake?”

“Shplgh gnnnn,” she growls. “Go away!”

“But you’ve got mail,” Fleur says, chucking Claude’s letter onto the end of her bed.

“Hmmm . . . It’s a mum-o-gram,” Claude mumbles, picking up her reading specs and ripping it open.

“Now then, both of you!” warns Fleur. “Find your itsy-bitsiest bikinis! All armpits and lower legs need to be defuzzed! We’re on a mission. The Argies are coming. I’m so excited I could spew!”

“The who?” I say, wrapping my sensible dressing gown a little tighter.

“The Argentinians! Santiago Marre and all his Argentinian surf buddies. They’re arriving at Destiny Bay today. Ha ha ha! Game on!” cackles Fleur, vanishing into the bathroom with a copy of Harpers and Queen and a large white bath towel under her arm, leaving me lying on the sofa with a bemused expression.

Just then, I notice something extremely unsettling. Claude appears to be slumped forward in bed with her face cupped in her hands.

She appears to be crying.

Gloria Cassiera’s letter lies discarded on the carpet beside her bed.

spill

It’s noon later that day, and the LBD are chilling on Misty Beach. Destiny Bay’s famous sandy cove is extra-specially jam-packed today with buff boys, near-naked babes, Frisbee chuckers, lush surf junkies, surf groupies and of course, several miserable-faced grown-ups with kids attempting to enjoy a fuddy-duddy day trip despite all the heaving cleavages and canoodling couples.

As the July sun beats down, a chilled-out DJ set drifts over from Cactus Jack’s roof terrace accompanied by wafts of jerk chicken sizzling on the Cactus Jack barbecue. To my left, Fleur Swan, almost dressed in her lemon thong bikini with gold ties, is noisily slurping a double-flaked 99 cone with neon sprinkles and strawberry sauce. On my right, a highly subdued Claudette Cassiera is applying SPF 6 to her voluptuous brown curves. Claude’s barely spoken since she got up three hours ago. And we’re not buying her migraine story one little bit.

Fleur catches my eye and raises an eyebrow as if to say, “What do we do?”

I take a deep breath and ask Claude for the tenth time if she’s okay.

“I’m totally fine,” says Claude, doing a fake smile. “Stop fretting! Hey, Fleur, tell us about what Siegmund knows about Booty Quake. He had gossip, didn’t he?”

“Ooh, erm, okay,” says Fleur, vanilla ice cream dribbling down her hand. “Well, word is that Psycho Killa’s people have preordered three cases of Cristal champagne. Ten thousand quid, that costs!”

“Flipping heck,” says Claude.

“I know,” nods Fleur. “And Dita Murray, lead singer with the Scandal Children, has demanded that the entire Barclay Suite get repainted ivory and lighted with white Diptique candles or else she won’t perform.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” I say. “Isn’t the Barclay Suite ivory anyway?”

“It’s eggshell,” says Fleur. “And Dita doesn’t do eggshell. Only ivory. It’s going to cost two thousand pounds to redecorate.”

“What a total waste of money,” tuts Claude, adjusting the straps on her hot-pink bikini top. “Imagine what some people could do with that . . .”

She starts to say more, but then she shuts up, folding her arms in front of her, her brow in a perfectly centered furrow.

It should be mentioned here that Claude Cassiera, despite her grouchy mood, looks unbelievably fabulous in swimwear. For a mere lumpen-bodied mortal like myself, it’s simply heart-breaking. Little wonder stripping off for summer fills me with dread. Claude’s ebony skin has a litheness, a firmness, a depth of color and shine that isn’t available in bottles. Her bottom is a perfect rounded feminine peach, her tummy cutely curved and her belly button neatly inward. Annoying. Worst of all, she has a great whopping set of boobs, which enter rooms before her, bounce perkily when she walks, and if necessary, can win arguments on her behalf.

She’s got no reason to look so glum.

“Claude, this is driving me mad,” I say. “What’s up with you?”

“Oh . . . nothing,” she says. “I just really need to chill today.”

“Cuh,” tuts Fleur. “Chill out? It’s like hanging out with my depressed aunt Enid. What’s up with you? We won’t give up, y’know. You’ll have to tell us.”

“It’s nothing,” persists Claude, folding her arms.

“Oh, c’mon, Claude, stop lying,” I say plainly. “It’s about that letter. What’s going on?”

Claude’s lip wobbles. She pulls down her oversized Top Shop sunglasses.

“What was in the letter?” probes Fleur.

Claude’s lips just become tighter.

“Are you feeling homesick?” I venture. “Are you missing Gloria?”

“Oh my God!” gasps Fleur, sitting bolt upright. “You’re homesick, so you’ve decided to go home, haven’t you?”

Claude doesn’t argue. My stomach lurches horribly.

But then Claude’s face crumples and she gives a little snort. “Of course I haven’t, you pair of total numpties!” she splutters. “I love it here! I’m having the time of my life. Just having our own apartment. No mother, no curfews, earning my own money! It’s like a dream.”

“Oh, hurray,” sighs Fleur. “You had me worried then! You can’t leave us, Claude. Can she, Ronnie? That would suck, big style.”

Claude’s lip wobbles a little. We’ve not got to the bottom of this.

“Ha!” chuckles Fleur, her candy-floss brain leaping ahead. “I’ve just had the most fantabulous idea. I’m asking Paddy if he’ll extend my bedroom at Disraeli Road out over the garage. Then we could have our own self-contained apartment! Let’s live together during Year Twelve too.”

As Fleur beams at her own ingenuity, Claude goes to speak, but something stops her. As a long involuntary sigh slips between her lips, a tiny tear trickles down her cheek.

I reach forward, grabbing her hand. Fleur stops grinning instantly.

“Right, Claude,” I say firmly. “Spill it.”

“Don’t, Ronnie,” Claude whispers. “It’ll just wreck the summer.”

“Oh, don’t be a spanner, Claude,” tuts Fleur. “Nothing can wreck summer.”

Claude stares into nowhere for a good twenty seconds. But then, she pulls the decidedly crumpled, tear-stained letter from her beach bag and hands it to me. I take a deep breath and begin to read.

19 July, Lister House

Dear Claude,

Hello, darling. Wonderful to hear you on the phone yesterday. Thank you so much also for the money you transferred into my account today. £250! Claude, you’re an angel. Dad would have been so proud of you . . .

“You sent two hundred and fifty pounds home?” gasps Fleur. “Flipping heck, Claude!? You’ve been working your butt off!”

“Tell me about it,” nods Claude.

Now, Claude, I’ve been thinking long and hard about our money problems. Please don’t be too angry at me, but I’ve some bad news. I just feel it’s illogical for us to stay at Lister House. I could cope with the mortgage and bills no problem when I worked for Mr. Rayner, but it seems all I can hope to earn around here now is half of that. Things are getting serious, darling. Today I totted all the debts up and we owe £16,869 . . .

I stop abruptly, trying to appear unhorrified.

You’re working so hard, darling, and for that I’ll always be grateful, but we’re fighting a losing battle. The only solution is to put 27 Lister House up for sale and move in with Aunty Sissy. I’m going to call the real-estate agents today. I hope you’re not too angry. Mossington is only 375 miles away, not the end of the world. This is really hard for me too. I don’t want to leave Lister House either, it’s got so many memories. (You and Mika as babies, Dad when he was well and happy. The list goes on . . .) But in times like this I just think of the sacrifice our Lord Jesus Christ made for us. God’s love and spirit pushes me through the pain.

Have a really good summer, darling. Try to make the most of your time with your friends.

God bless, Mum XXXX

I put down the letter. My hands are actually shaking.

“Hmmm,” says Claude, lying back on her sun lounger wearing a face of nigh-calm acceptance. “I particularly liked the God’s spirit pushing me through the pain bit.” She sighs. “Sometimes she sounds like she’s plugging an isotonic energy drink.”

Fleur is floundering around for words. “That . . . that whole letter was a joke, right?” she stutters.

“Erm . . . no,” I say, scanning the paragraphs through again for a hidden “P.S.: APRIL FOOL!”

“Mossington? Where the hell’s Mossington?” splutters Fleur. “Did you just say three hundred and seventy-five miles away? Is that the place you went on holiday to once that takes like sixteen squillion hours by train?”

Fleur’s voice is becoming rather shrill now. “But Claude,” she pleads. “What about your A-levels? This totally sucks! Your mum’s not thinking straight. You can’t just—”

“Apparently Mossington High School has a sixth form where the physics and chemistry departments are, sort of, well, okay,” Claude says calmly.

“Sort of okay?” I repeat. Claude was intending to be prime minister one day.

“And I can begin in September, if need be,” Claude explains. “They’ve saved me a provisional place.”

“Oh my God,” I mumble. “You knew you were going, didn’t you?” It’s all beginning to seem real now, now that the shock is wearing off.

“No, it was never certain,” sighs Claude. “Mum thought she’d find a new job that paid well. But if she didn’t, then we agreed—”

“But . . . but you can’t just leave!” butts in Fleur. “What about the LBD? What about Blackwell? What about ‘friends forever’ and all that drivel we’ve been spouting? What about . . .”

Claude sinks farther into her lounger. “We’ll stay in touch,” she says, aware of how super-lame that sounds. “I’ll be online loads . . . and we can text one another.”

“Great,” tuts Fleur, her eyes narrowing. “Yeah, ’cos that’s the same, isn’t it? Y’know something, Claude? We should have just let Cressida finish us off. And after everything I’ve done to keep us all together!”

“Oh, pipe down, Fleur,” I tut. Sometimes I just want to slap her. How’s this about her “pain” all of a sudden?

“Stop freaking out at me, Fleur!” says Claude, her lip wobbling slightly.

“Pah!” tuts Fleur. “I feel like freaking out! Why are you both so calm? Why don’t either of you care?”

As Fleur leaps to her feet in a fury, shoving aside her sun lounger, something seems to snap within Claude. She leaps up too, grabbing Fleur’s wrists and shaking them crossly.

“Of course I care! You silly moo!” she snaps, her voice cracking. “This is the end of the world! Do you think I want to be Billy-No-Mates, living in outer Bumgrape-on-the-Nowhere, receiving LBD updates by text? Well, do you?”

As Claude’s voice is becoming louder, the entire beach appears to have paused to spectate our dispute.

“Well, let’s do something then!” pleads Fleur. “We’ll make a plan! Have Ronnie and I let you down before?”

Claude shakes her head slowly. “There’s no point, Fleur. I’ve been fighting this for months,” she says, sounding defeated. “It’s over.”

The back of my throat feels sour.

“Don’t say that!” tuts Fleur, pulling her hands from Claude’s, grabbing her sarong and storming across Misty Beach in the direction of Cactus Jack’s.

“I’m only saying it because it’s true, Fleur!” Claude shouts after her.

Then she sits back down on her sun lounger and begins to cry.

a lifeline

“Are you angry at me, Ronnie?” says Claude gingerly.

Since Fleur’s departure, half an hour ago, we’ve been sitting silently on our sun loungers watching a group of surf girls having a ball in the midday sun.

They look so carefree. I feel quite jealous.

For the first time since Year 7, Claude and I are fresh out of chitchat. If Claude leaves town in September, it’ll be the end of an era. To say I’d miss her is an understatement. It’d be like having an arm removed.

I bet we look hilarious to passersby, sitting in the middle of this growing beach party, looking like case study diagrams from the textbook Recognizing Suicide.

“ ’Course I’m not angry, babe,” I say. “Neither’s Fleur. She’s just upset. This is huge.”

“Hmmm, well,” groans Claude, pointing across the beach toward the boardwalk. “If she’s not angry at me, Ronnie, she’s certainly angry about something.”

As I turn to look, around twenty meters away, Fleur Swan is stomping through the sand toward us, wearing a highly indignant expression, churlishly demolishing sand castles in her path.

“Oh, boo-hoo!” Fleur barks at two freckly brats who’ve just witnessed their sand Arc de Triomphe being trampled under her flip-flop. “It’s only sand. Get over it!”

A long shadow falls over our sun loungers.

“Hello, Fleur,” I say, gritting my teeth, noticing that she’s holding a flyer for MTV’s Big Beach Booty Quake. “You’ve come back then?”

“Well, yes,” says Fleur sheepishly. “Sorry about that last eruption. I just went schizoid for a moment. But, I’ve had time to think about stuff now, and I have in my hand the solution. Claude, you are not going to Mossington in September. I’ve saved the summer!”

“Erm . . . really?” says Claude.

“Really. Now, the MTV Big Beach Booty Quake . . . that’s three weeks away,” says Fleur, scanning through the flyer. “Broadcasting live on MTV . . . show begins at 11 A.M. . . . live performances by the Scandal Children, Velvet Cobweb, Psycho Killa . . . da da da . . . ah, here it is! Also featuring the Demonboard Surf Championships . . . and the search for Miss Ultimate Demonboard Babe!”

Fleur looks up triumphantly, displaying two rows of white teeth.

“What?” shrugs Claude. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh no. Nooooooo,” I groan, understanding immediately.

“Miss Ultimate Demonboard Babe!” repeats Fleur. “Big cash prizes are to be won!”

“But we can’t surf!” protests Claude.

“Claudette, it’s a beauty contest,” I grimace, slapping my forehead.

“It’s . . . it’s a what?” splutters Claude. “A beauty contest? Fleur! How will that help me? Are you tripping or something? Have you been at your mother’s diet pills again?”

“Nooooooo! I’m deadly serious,” snortles Fleur. “One of us could win this.”

Fleur is dancing excitedly from foot to foot now like an African tribeswoman with a bladder problem.

“Pghh! Well, it certainly won’t be me,” harrumphs Claude. “Because I . . . in fact . . . we the LBD are morally opposed to any sort of beauty pageant.”

“Are we?” says Fleur.

“Yes, we are, Fleur!” splutters Claude. “Especially ones with swimwear sections where women are paraded around like cattle on auction day!”

“Oh, shut up! No one’s forced at gunpoint to enter,” giggles Fleur, clearly about to force us both at gunpoint to enter. “Beauty contests are fun! And besides, I’m not one of those feministical thingies. What’s the problem?”

“Gnnnnnn,” groans Claude. “The problem, Fleur, my butterfly-brained amigo, is the sexist concept of girls being rewarded not for their intellect, but for looking pretty in a bikini.”

Fleur looks confused. “What, you’d have a problem with winning twenty thousand pounds?” she says.

“Pgghh!” tuts Claude. “As if money makes the whole concept any less oppressive toward women—”

Claude stops her rant abruptly. She arches one eyebrow and grabs the flyer from Fleur’s hands. “How much is first prize?” she says.

“Twenty thousand pounds,” repeats Fleur matter-of-factly. “I’m going to give it a shot. Obviously, you and Mrs. C. can have the cash if I win. Or should I say, when I win.”

Claude’s mouth drops wide open. “You’d . . . do that for me?” she whispers. “But . . . I couldn’t take . . . I mean, wow!”

Claude is utterly gobsmacked.

“Yes, you could,” says Fleur firmly. “I’m not letting you go, Claude. I’ve got to do something! You can’t go to that crappy Mossington place. And besides, you’re in charge of sleep snot and poo bums when we wash McGraw’s yucky poodles. You can’t abandon me!”

Claude’s face is an absolute picture.

It’s moments like this when I remember why Fleur Swan is a life necessity. Okay, she’s crazy as hell, totally conceited, and a liability at times, but there’s something about her that makes me and Claude feel bulletproof.

“But let’s all enter!” Fleur urges. “Let’s triple our chances!”

“Mmm . . . erm,” I say, sucking in my tummy.

“Twenty thousand pounds,” mutters Claude to herself, her eyes as wide as saucers. “That would be incredible. It would solve everything.”

“Would it really, Claude?” I ask.

“Totally,” she replies.

“Well, that’s that, then,” says Fleur, whipping her phone from her beach bag. “Let’s call the hotline now and register. Ha! And it’s broadcast live on MTV too! Everyone at Blackwell will see it.”

“Oh God,” I groan.

“And we’ll have to start working out a training schedule,” says Fleur. “Y’know, fresh fruit, exercise, exfoliation, two liters of water a day. We’ll have to detox. I’m going to buy some of those detox socks that purge the toxins out of the soles of your feet.”

As Fleur gibbers on and on and on, Claude is absolutely silent, staring ahead with a small grin spreading across her face. It seems the mere possibility of clearing her mum’s debt is making her more relaxed than I’ve seen her for a long time.

And that’s why I find myself agreeing to this whole ludicrous Miss Demonboard Babe idea. Because I’ll do anything to keep Claude at Lister House and the LBD together. Anything. No matter how daft, far-fetched or likely the scheme is to humiliate me on a nearly naked international televisual level.

Because, okay, it’s a long shot, but at least now we have a lifeline.

spooked

So here I am in the West Turret, alone.

It’s about 5 P.M. and I’m standing before a full-length mirror, wearing only my fave pink halter-neck bikini and Claude’s silver high heels. I’m having a sneaky go with them while she’s working.

Twenty-four hours have passed since I agreed to this totally shameful Miss Demonboard idea and I’m already regretting it big time.

I mean, first, my mother will flip out if she sees it. Sure, she doesn’t watch much MTV. She likes VH1 Classic, where she can watch ye olde hits from the medieval ages, but that doesn’t guarantee Seth won’t sit (or poo) on the control, filling the screen with his teenage sister jiggling her bits to a Psycho Killa track, wearing little more than pipe cleaners and diamante nipple tassles. (Fleur’s already spoken to Siegmund, who says he can locate us some sequins and fabric if we want to make bikinis. Aaaaaaagh!)

And what if Jimi and Snuff see me? Or Cressida and Panama? Panama Bogwash will laugh till she pukes. Last September, when the LBD did Triplet Day, she informed me that I “take pear shaped to a new eerie dimension of dumpy.”

She’s such a spiteful moonfaced hag.

I pinch a whole centimeter of flesh on the side of each thigh and wibble it about, pivoting around for the umpteenth time to examine my butt cheeks.

Right, that’s it. I have to get out of this competition! How easy is it to break your own arm?

Okay, I’m probably over-thinking things, as ever. I’m exhausted and a little grouchy. After the beach drama yesterday, the LBD headed over to A Land Down Under for a party thrown by a gang of gorgeous Argentinian surfers who’d just hit town. The party was fabulous! Plenty of tanned Argie muscle to ogle and an excellent grime DJ from London playing a loud, raw set that had everyone spilling out onto the beach, shakin’ their booties like mad.

A mere ten minutes after arriving, we’d lost Fleur Swan in a melee of bronzed pecs, testosterone, beer cans and processed beats . . . only for the scurrilous minx to reappear in the West Turret at 5:45 A.M., crawling into bed beside me, stinking of cider and surfboard wax, begging me to cover her breakfast shift. Apparently Fleur Swan was “unwell.”

By 6:10, I was being chased around the dining hall by Colonel Three-Minute Egg, false teeth rattling in his skeletal hand as he attempted to demonstrate he had “a delicate palate and a misformed esophagus that can’t cope with hard yolk.”

Uggghhh! Fleur Swan must die.

Back in the bedroom, in the West Turret, I adjust the straps on my bikini and let out another gut-wrenching sigh. This will not do at all.

Nan used to call me a classic beauty, but what does that mean exactly? Why didn’t I ever ask her? That’s another secret she took away that I’ll never know.

I spin around and judder my butt fat again. No one deserves to be exposed to this horror. Especially the Demonboard Babe judges. If I chucked myself down 188 stairs, surely I’d crack a rib at least?

Just then, something creaks loudly upstairs in the loft.

I stop in my tracks and glare upward.

Gnnnn, old buildings creak, Ronnie. Get over yourself, I tell myself, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a Diet Coke from the fridge. That’s weird—my leftover Chinese food is gone from the bottom drawer. Both Fleur and Claude are on strict detox plans. They totally refused even a mouthful of noodles the other night.

Who’s been in here?

Okay, I’m officially beginning to get spooked out again. This happens every time I’m in this apartment alone. I’m such a sap.

I take a deep breath and try to focus my mind elsewhere.

Grabbing one of Claude’s Mistress Minny novels, I balance it on my head and decide to try out some posture exercises, like Fleur’s been bullying me to.

“Well, hellloooo, Destiny Bay!” I announce as I sashay across the floor, practicing my “personality interview.” “My name is Ronnie Ripperton, contestant number one. My long-term goals include unifying the children of Israel and Palestine via the funky power of disco dancing . . . and, er, finding a vaccine for hemorrhoids!”

“Achoooooooooooo!” erupts a very definite sneeze somewhere above me.

Oh my God! That was totally real. I didn’t imagine it.

Clump, clump, clump thump some rather heavy footsteps.

I’m literally rooted to the spot in terror. My heart is thudding loudly against my chest.

I try to scream but only a futile squeak comes out.

The ghostly footsteps gravitate over to the loft’s trapdoor entrance just above the sofa.

I can hear heavy breathing.

Oh my God! This is it. It’s just like in the slasher movies. They’ll find me bludgeoned to death in a puddle of my own entrails. Aaaaaaaaaagh!

Just then, the loft door falls open. I can’t breathe.

Out of the dark hole in the trapdoor, a ghostly face emerges.

It’s the headless earl!

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” I screech, finding my voice and falling over backward into the sofa.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaiaaaaaaaaiaaaaaaaaai! Get out! Get out!” I yell. If this is a nightmare, let me wake up!

But as my screaming goes on and on, I begin to realize half the racket is coming from the ghost itself.

“Shut up!” the earl is shouting, looking as shocked to see me. “Stop screaming! You’re freaking me out!”

What? I’m freaking him out?

“I . . . I . . . eh? Aiiiiiiiiiii!” I screech again at the dismembered head. “Get out of my flat, you hideous ghoul! This is my home!”

“Hmmmph,” tuts the earl slightly huffily. “It was my home first.”

“That’s . . . erm,” I splutter, becoming more flummoxed by the second. “That’s irrelevant! Look, you’re clearly trapped in some sort of ghostly time stasis. Move on to the next world!”

“Are you on magic mushrooms?” asks the spectral vision rather sarcastically. His voice sounds distinctly northern.

I glare at him rather crossly. The earl appears to be about seventeen, with huge brown eyes, longish auburn curly hair and a smattering of freckles. His head, I now see, appears to be attached to a muscular pair of shoulders.

“Nice bikini, by the way,” the earl adds cheekily.

“Look, who are you?” I yell, feeling thoroughly foolish as well as rather naked. “What are you doing up there?”

“Erm, well, that’s a long story,” he says. “Look, would it be out of the question if I came down? I can explain everything.”

I fold my arms across my boobs.

“Okay,” I huff.

Quickly a pair of feet in black flip-flops dangle through the loft door, followed by a pair of toned calves, some navy knee-length surf shorts, then a toned, tanned torso with a buff chest, and finally a rather handsome yet cheeky face. His hair is matted into little occasional dreads and encrusted with bits of sand. I grab my mobile phone from the coffee table, dial 999 and place my finger on “call.”

“Hey, chill! Please!” pleads the lad. “Hey, I’m not a mad ax man or anything. Honest! I just needed somewhere to crash. I had no choice after Scrumble sacked me.”

“What?” I bark. “I don’t believe this! How long have you been up there?”

“Erm . . . ,” winces the lad. “About three weeks.”

“But that’s when we arrived!” I snap. “Hang on—were you one of the waiters Scrumble sacked for being lazy, useless good-for-nothing surf freaks?”

“That’s us,” smiles the boy proudly. “But Clem and Stevie went back to Lancashire. I decided to stay. And when Scrumble forgot to take my keys . . .”

“But . . . but how? Why? Where do you sleep?” I scream, my mind racing with questions.

“I’ve got a sleeping bag. Oh, there’s plenty of room up there,” he beams. “It’s pretty freaky, really! There’s all sorts of interesting heirlooms and knickknacks. In fact—”

“So you thought you’d just squat illegally in the loft?” I yell, interrupting him. “You thought you’d just sneak about, steal our noodles, watch our TV, and spy on us . . . like a freaky perv!”

The lad’s face goes white.

“Hey!” he shouts. “I’ve not been spying! I’m not a perv. I’m totally, er, unpervy! The anti-perv, in fact.”

“But, but, how did you manage to miss us?” I shout at him.

Then my eyes rest on the LBD’s waitressing schedule, containing our names, phone numbers and daily routine, stuck to the fridge door. “Hmmm . . . clever,” I tut.

“Well, not exactly foolproof,” says the lad sheepishly. “So which one are you then: Veronica, Claude or Fleur?”

“Veronica,” I say sternly.

“I’m Saul Parker,” he says with a small grin.

Saul holds out his hand to shake. I stare at it crossly, then back at him. Eventually, he lets his arm fall back to his side. I’m not in the habit of fraternizing with burglars.

“Look, Veronica,” Saul says, batting his long brown eyelashes, doing his best “sorry” face, “can I just express my utmost regret and complete shame about spooking you out? I totally and utterly apologize.”

Okay. He’s cute. But he’s not winning me over that easily.

“Apology unaccepted, Mr. Parker!” I say firmly. “Pack up and ship out!”

“But . . . but I’ve nowhere else to go,” he says pathetically. “It’s just for another three weeks. Until the Booty Quake. I’m entering the surf contest!”

“That’s not my problem,” I say, cold as ice.

“Aw, have a heart, Veronica!” pleads Saul. “Look, I know I’m in the wrong here. I should never have been crashing up there . . . but . . . you have to understand! Surfing is my life, Veronica. It’s an obsession. An illness even! And competing at Demonboards, well, that’s a life ambition and—”

“Can I just butt in?” I say sharply. “I’ve got three words for you, Saul: Sam’s Surf Shack. Make a reservation!”

Saul looks stunned at my bluntness. But then a broad grin sweeps over his face.

Why is it that the ruder you are to boys, the more they like you?

“Well, I suppose I could sleep on the beach,” he says pathetically. “I’m broke, y’see. Blew all my savings last summer surfing in Fuerteventura. That’s where I won my wildcard entry to the Demonboard finals. Wish I was back there now . . . least the locals were friendly.”

I narrow my eyes at him, and he stops talking.

“I’ll go and get my sleeping bag then,” he says, shuffling his feet like a little boy. The teensiest pang of guilt flickers across my face.

Then Saul turns quickly, grabbing my arm gently.

“Let me stay! Please!” he pleads. “I’ll be totally quiet! And I’ll replace all the cookies and noodles and stuff!”

“Noooo!” I shout. “Scrumble will throw all of us out. Claude will go berserk!”

“That won’t happen!” cries Saul. “Hey, and here’s a plan: what if, as a payback, I teach you to surf too?”

“What?” I gasp. Now he’s got me. I’d love to learn to surf. “Could you really teach me?” I ask.

Saul smiles broadly. His teeth are lovely and white. “Sure! I’ve still got Clem’s board,” he says. “And his suit! It’d fit you okay. He’s quite a small bloke.”

My mind is racing now.

Learning to surf is 100 percent more appetizing than being a Demonboard Babe. And if I must do this totally lame-ass bikini thing to save the LBD, then why shouldn’t I have a little fun of my own?

“You’re thinking about it,” grins Saul, flaring his cute nostrils.

“I’m . . . oooh! Gnnnnnnnnngnnn!” I groan, knowing I want this more than anything in the world.

“It’s a yes, isn’t it?” hoots Saul. “Oh, I’m stoked, man! This’ll be so great. Me and you, Veronica, riding the green monsters!”

“Eh? Errr . . . oh,” I moan, starting to giggle. “Oh, yes! Okay, yes! Teach me to surf!”

But just then we hear footsteps climbing the 188 stairs to the West Turret. It must be Claude coming back from her shift!

“Later!” yells Saul, jumping on the sofa, flipping down the loft door, then in a freaky flying-baboon-type motion, swinging his entire body up into the loft before snapping the door shut behind him.

He’s gone!

In a flurry, I kick Claude’s silver shoes beside her bed, grab my dressing gown and try to look normal.

“Yo!” grins Claude, sauntering in and grabbing the last can of Diet Coke from the fridge. “Ha! Fleur’s downstairs getting screamed at by Scrumble for swapping shifts with you this morning. Scrumble’s yelling so hard, Fleur’s hair looks like it’s in a wind tunnel.”

“Really?” I grin. “Y’know something, Claudey? Scrumble grows on me.”

Claude cracks up laughing. She lies down on the sofa, picking up the What’s On in Destiny Bay guide to find tonight’s party.

“So, any gossip?” she asks.

“Nah,” I say, wearing my best poker face. “Just a normal day really.”