Chapter 7
more tea, cressida?
“Right, everyone stay chilled,” Fleur warns us as we trek miserably to the Windsmore Suite pushing trolleys laden with tea-party treats. Scones, cream cakes, dainty little sandwiches, petits fours, gallons of Darjeeling and Lapsang souchong tea and of course we haven’t forgotten Panama’s kabbalah water. The Windsmore Suite witches have ordered the lot.
“Let’s not give them a reaction,” hisses Fleur. “Then they’ll check out and buzz off.”
“Hmmm . . . hope so,” I mutter, trudging behind, pushing a trolley bearing a large pomegranate and white chocolate cream gateau under a silver serving platter.
Claude just walks behind like a little mouse. Cressida and Panama’s arrival seems to have really floored her. She’s coped with so much of late, but this seems different somehow.
“C’mon, Claude,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulder. In one of the grand mirrors lining the main corridor, I catch sight of our little gang, traipsing along in our skanky bry-nylon green pinafores. Even Fleur, with her long legs and platinum blonde hair, struggles to look glam in these frumpy outfits.
“Okay, remember. Cool as ice,” says Fleur, knocking on the suite’s door and clearing her throat. “Hello? Room service!”
Inside the Windsmore Suite, a chorus of sniggers rings out.
“Ennnnnter!” shouts Panama Goodyear in her unmistakably nauseating tones.
“I can’t go in,” whispers Claude. Her hands are shaking.
“We have to,” I say.
With heavy hearts, we wheel the trolleys into the suite’s living area. It’s worse than I even imagined. Around the suite’s antique dining table sit Panama Goodyear and Cressida Sleeth looking glossy, well groomed and as smug as humanly possible. Euugh!
Whereas Panama’s look is a little more “bo-ho chic” than usual, Cressida’s hippie image seems a tad more dressy and blinged up. They’re both wearing red cord wristbands around their right wrists. It’s like the gruesome pair have melded into one.
Worse still, they’re accompanied by Leeza Palmer, Panama’s terrifying über-bimbo buddy. Bizarrely, they’re all far bustier than I ever remembered them. Proper D-cup whoppers. Especially Leeza, who had droopy spaniel’s ears last time I saw her, but now has DD monsters. Freaky.
“Oh, thank you, God!” grins Panama, clapping her hands together. “It’s true. They are working as servants here. Hilarious!”
Fleur takes a deep breath, announcing calmly, “Afternoon tea is served.”
I try to say a businesslike hello, but I’m too bitter to breathe.
Just then, from an adjoining bedroom appears Abigail Munro, probably Panama’s loyalest of bum kissers, also with new all-improved cleavage. She can barely contain her glee.
“Oh, girls, loving the uniforms,” she winks, sitting herself down.
As we begin to unload the plates, cups and food, the humiliation is asphyxiating me. Cressida Sleeth, clad in a pale blue floaty vintage Marc Jacobs summer smock, is peeping coyly at us from behind her blunt-cut fringe. Her face is a dictionary definition of conceited. Just like it was on the day of the last GCSE exam.
Play it cool, Ronnie, I repeat to myself. Remember what Fleur said.
“Gosh, they’re all very quiet,” Panama announces as we begin unloading the plates of cream scones and jugs of milk. “Taken a vow of silence?”
The first flicker of annoyance passes Fleur’s face.
“Maybe they’re tired?” suggests Cressida. “All this skivvying and slaving must be exhausting.” She pauses, gazing directly at Claude. “We’re so very blessed our parents aren’t dependent on us for money.”
Claude cringes with embarrassment.
“Oh, Cressy,” sighs Panama. “Don’t be mean! You know Claude’s mum is broke as a joke.”
“She’s . . . she’s not,” says Claude unconvincingly.
“Yes, she is!” chuckles Cressida. “She had an interview with my daddy at Farquar, Lime and Young last month. She was begging for work! Claiming she was a highly qualified legal secretary. Ha!”
“What?” gasps Claude.
“Sadly, all Daddy needed at that time was a toilet attendant,” Cressida smirks.
“But, we’re . . . she’s . . . ,” splutters Claude. A small tear appears in her eye.
I can’t stand this any longer. “Oh, why don’t you just leave her alone?!” I growl, as the Sisters Grim collapse into satisfied titters.
“It’s just a little joke,” smirks Abigail. “Can’t she take a joke?”
“Ha ha ha! Ronnie Ripperton speaks!” guffaws Panama, pointing at me. “Her period of mourning is over. Hurray for us!”
“Wah wah, Jimi Steele!” torments Leeza. “Let me sit on your wall, Jimi Steele! Let me hack into your Hotmail account, Jimi Steele!”
Ugh! Cressida really has told them every little LBD secret. All I can see are four faces smirking and pointing at me. I’m trying to be cool, but a red angry mist has descended.
“Okay! Enough!” Fleur yells, turning to Panama. “Listen, Panama, why are you here? Surely you’ve not driven three hundred miles just to laugh at us in our bry-nylon uniforms? Why aren’t you in Ibiza?”
Panama rolls her eyes. “Tsk. Fleur, no one goes to Ibiza anymore,” she sneers. “It’s full of fat thirty-year-old has-beens at ‘back to the nineties’ retro-house nights.”
The girls look to one another and smirk. “Anyone who’s anyone is coming down here for Booty Quake,” says Leeza patronizingly.
“Plus we all decided to enter Miss Demonboard Babe,” simpers Abigail. “Just for the hell of it.”
As Claude lets out a little whimper, I drop a teacup in horror.
“And when we found out you three little trolls were working here,” continues Panama, “well, I said to my daddy, book me a suite ASAP!”
Somehow Fleur’s face is a vision of Zen calm. I’ve never seen her so composed. “Okay, girls,” she says serenely. “You’ve had your slave/master degradation kick now, haven’t you? What more do you actually want?”
Panama ponders for a moment.
“Oooh, let me see . . . ,” she wonders aloud. Then her eyes widen. “Oooh, I know! How about a pole-dance? Do your Moulin Rouge again! In your underpants and bra! Cressida tells us that home video was hilarious!”
“What?” groans Fleur, flushing scarlet. “Oooh . . . gnnnnnngnn!”
“I’ve got an idea too,” squawks Cressida. “Maybe Fleur could tell us about the time she convinced herself she was pregnant . . . just because she’d let Baz Kauffman touch the outside of her tights!”
“Hee hee! The immaculate conception!” guffaws Panama. “I wish my mummy would buy me a Your Body, Yourself sex education textbook.”
Fleur’s mouth drops open. She’s totally lost for words.
The entire gang is in hysterics now, laughing, singing Moulin Rouge songs and waving their arms. “More tea, waitress!” shouts Cressida, waving a teacup at us antagonistically.
“Oh, serve yourself, Bilbo,” I hiss.
Cressida feigns shock. “Well, how rude!” she hisses, grabbing her mobile phone. “Y’know, ladies? I think it’s time for our first official complaint.”
I look to Fleur to calm things down, but by now her face has altered from calm composure to the crazed firecracker I know and love.
As Cressida punches in numbers on her phone, Fleur strides around the table and stands before the huge pomegranate and cream gateau, her nostrils flaring with anger.
“Oh, so you’re going to complain, are you?” says Fleur.
Cressida just smirks and carries on dialing.
“Well, then!” says Fleur, grabbing the cake with both hands. “I’d better give you something to complain about!”
“Noooo, Fleur!” I scream. “Not the cake!”
“Fleeeeur!” implores Claude. “Cool as ice, remember?”
But this is soooo the opposite of cool.
“Gateau is served!” Fleur yells with evil glee, unceremoniously splatting the entire fruity, spongy creation all over Cressida Sleeth’s head.
Oh my God!
“Spppllllgh pgghhhhgh!” splutters Cressida as cake drips all over her expensive dress.
“What do you think you’re doing?” screams Panama.
And at this point, all hell breaks loose in the Windsmore Suite.
As Claude grabs two fresh cream scones and squishes them majestically into Panama’s ears, pretty much destroying her Stella McCartney shift dress, I take leave of my senses, grab a plate of chocolate profiteroles and begin splatting them across the room at Abigail and Leeza. Cressida squeals about lawyers, legal fees and her lactose intolerance, while Panama grabs plates of jam tarts and attempts to fight back. Meanwhile Abigail and Leeza are screeching, chucking sandwiches and cream buns willy-nilly.
Within seconds the entire tea party has been reduced to a war zone of clotted cream, choux pastry and jam, and there’s not a single morsel remaining on the table to chuck. All of our VIPs look like they’ve been in the gunk tank on a Saturday morning kids’ show.
“You’ll pay for this!” screams Panama, scooping clotted cream out of her ears.
“Whatever,” says Fleur, brandishing the last remaining cream bun and taking aim at Panama’s big forehead.
But at the same time, the door to the Windsmore Suite is creaking open, and to our horror Miss Scrumble appears, wearing her fake Harbinger grin.
“Good afternoon!” she coos. “Just a courtesy call to our new VIPs. How is everything—”
“Fleur, noooo!” I cry, but it’s too late.
“Oh my Lord! What is hap—” Scrumble yells, just as trigger-happy Fleur Swan flings the final cream cake right across the suite, missing Panama, but knocking Scrumble’s glasses off her snout and dripping raspberry jam and whipped cream all over her Harris Tweed jacket.
An eerie silence descends on the room.
“Fleur Swan,” Scrumble says in a low venomous voice, removing the offending cake from her person, “go to the West Turret immediately and clear your belongings. You are dismissed!”
sacked
“Stop laughing!” Fleur is sniffling crossly into her mobile phone as she wanders around the West Turret, gathering handfuls of thongs, strappy sandals, mascaras and hair clips. “Stop it right now, you horrible man!”
“I don’t think Fleur’s dad is being too supportive about this,” I whisper to Claude as we sit side by side on the sofa, totally shell-shocked.
“Oh, so you had a bet, did you?” Fleur snaps to the phone line. “Well, I’ll have you know, Father, I’ve worked my butt off for almost a whole month, so tell that so-called mother of mine she owes you nothing!”
Fleur is storming about now, listening to Paddy’s response, slamming things about angrily. “I can’t believe this!” she is saying, clearly rising to his bait. “You’re just as bad as that Scrumble! You think you know me, but you don’t! Well, I’ve got news for you, Paddy Swan, I don’t need you laughing at me and writing me off as a total numpty. In fact I don’t need you at all! Got it? Good! Right. I’m hanging up now.”
Fleur picks up a skirt from beside her bed and throws it into her case.
“Oh, and one other thing, Daddy,” she sniffles more humbly. “You’ll pick me up at the station, won’t you? Oh, you will? Cool. See ya later.”
Fleur puts her phone down on the coffee table and dries her eyes a little, turning to speak to us. “I can’t believe this is happening, girls,” she says mournfully. “I can’t believe I’ve been sacked.”
Claude and I look at Fleur sympathetically. We can totally believe Scrumble sacked Fleur. But we just can’t believe she didn’t sack us too. But saying that, she didn’t catch us red-handed. Or cream-cake-handed, as it were.
“It’s just so dramatic,” Fleur sobs, grabbing another handful of tissues and blowing her nose. Two thick streams of blue mascara are cascading down Fleur’s pretty face. Her nose is crimson from blubbing.
“What did I do to deserve this?” she whispers, shaking her head incredulously.
“Fleur,” I say reasonably, “you assaulted one of the VIP guests with a pomegranate gateau. What did you expect? A gold star and promotion to a managerial position?”
“Hmmppgh, when you put it like that,” sighs Fleur, shoving handfuls of eye pencils and lipsticks into her vanity case. “But I think you’ll find I wasn’t the only hooligan. What about Claude? She virtually perforated Panama’s eardrum with a cream scone!”
“I know,” sighs Claude, slouching back on the sofa and folding her arms. “And it felt so good!”
Fleur wanders miserably back into the bedroom and begins removing all her teensy little dresses off their hangers. She stands by the chart on our bedroom wall where the LBD has awarded ourselves points for every boy we’ve snogged. Obviously Fleur is yards ahead—she’s even got the bonus prize for snogging a man over the age of thirty with a mustache, called Keith. Bleugh.
It feels like the party is well and truly over.
“Is Paddy angry?” I ask Fleur gently.
“Well, not really,” sighs Fleur, folding up her fave It’s a Girl’s World halter-neck rah-rah dress into the size of pocket hankie. “He was pretty sarcastic. Y’know what he’s like; he was laughing at me, saying he couldn’t believe I’d lasted so long. Mum bet him I’d be back within a week.”
Fleur looks sort of hurt.
“Mmm,” I say. “Well, you did walk out of that job at Dunkin’ Donuts after one hour because the overall shade clashed with your skin tone.”
Fleur stops folding dresses and shakes her head at me exasperatedly. “Oh, who are you, exactly?” she tuts. “Mrs. Majiko the Memory Woman? Must you catalogue all my misdemeanors?”
“Sorry, Fleur,” I mumble. I’m not making things much better, am I?
Fleur takes her framed LBD Triplet Day picture off the bedside cabinet. She looks at it for a little while. “I’m sorry I didn’t win you the Demonboard Babe money, Claudey,” she says sadly.
“Aw . . . hey,” sighs Claude, feigning a smile. “It’s not . . . I mean, it’s . . . y’know . . . look, don’t worry about all that.”
But then Claude’s voice trails to nothing.
There’s no point in saying don’t worry. With Fleur banished back home and Claude now looking even more likely to be moving to Mossington, this could very well be the last time the LBD hang out together for a long time. It feels like everything has been blown to smithereens.
Fleur packs her beloved photo into her case and closes the zip. She pulls her floppy sun hat over her blonde locks and paints hot-pink lipstick onto her lips, blotting it on a Harbinger Hall serviette.
“Okay, girls, I’m done,” she says with a brave smile. “That’s me.”
“Oh God, Fleur,” I say, walking across to her. “Give me a hug.”
Fleur moves forward and whisks me up in her arms. She smells of Supermodel Eau de Parfum and strawberry lip gloss. Big salty tears begin to fall from my eyes and splosh down her T-shirt.
“C’mon, Ronnidge,” Fleur says, hugging me. “Don’t set me off again.”
“But this sucks, man!” I sob. “I can’t believe you’re going. Psycho Killa and all the MTV people are checking in this week! I can’t be a Demonboard Babe without you! And what about that beach barbecue down at Destiny Bay tonight? It’s been in our diaries for weeks!”
Fleur lets me go. She hands me a pile of tissues. “Listen, Ronnie,” she says. “Fact is, I’ve got to be out of the West Turret by 6 P.M. or Cressida Sleeth says she wants the police to investigate her assault.”
At the mention of Cressida’s name, Claude, who’s been sitting with her face in her hands, deep in contemplation, leaps up and begins to pace about the apartment. “You can’t go home,” she says vehemently.
“But . . . ,” begins Fleur.
“But nothing,” says Claude. “Look, when I told you about Mossington that day on the beach, Fleur, I was about to give up. But you kept strong. You believed that we could overcome it.”
“I know I did,” smiles Fleur. “But now . . .”
“It’s just the same,” says Claude, folding her arms. “It’s just another obstacle. We’ve got over worse than this!”
“But . . . ,” says Fleur.
“Look, you’ve been psyched about Booty Quake for months,” Claude says. “You’ve been doing salsa-cise and butt-blast classes for a fortnight for your appearance on MTV. We’re not letting Squarepants, Bogwash or Slime ruin everything. It’s time for the LBD to get devious!”
“But Claude, I’m homeless!” cries Fleur. “What can I do? Sleep on Misty Beach? Beg Paddy for cash so I can sleep eight to a room at the Banana Hostel? Scrumble doesn’t want to see my face ever again!”
Fleur and Claude stand staring at each other, willing each other to think.
Suddenly, the solution thwacks me between the eyes. I know the most perfect Fleur Swan hiding hole.
I take a deep breath, knowing the can of worms I’m about to open.
“Well . . . maybe Scrumble doesn’t have to see your face,” I begin, peering up toward the trapdoor to Saul Parker’s secret kingdom.
When I hooked up with Saul on the beach this morning, he said he’d be out for the rest of the day. (Well, if you want me to be specific, he actually said he’d be thinking about me 24/7 because I’m the hottest girl he’s ever known. Gnnnnnngn . . . he is so lush!) But how would Saul feel about his squat being squatted?
“Maybe, Fleur,” I say, slowly, “you could stay here, but be invisible, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” says Fleur, shaking her head. “You’ve lost me.”
“That’s two of us,” says Claude.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath, praying my secret will be well received. “Now, no one freak out too much, but there’s something I need to tell you about the West Turret.”
exits
“Oooh, Fleur, these bags are soooo heavy,” I complain in my loudest voice as Claude and I pack what appears to be all of Fleur’s worldly goods into a taxi waiting at Harbinger Hall’s back door. Miss Scrumble, who’s watching Fleur’s departure from the doorstep, gives us all a little wave before ticking something off on her clipboard. Little does Scrumble realize that Fleur’s bags are actually stuffed with newspapers. The blonde bombshell hasn’t the slightest intention of leaving Harbinger Hall.
A devious LBD plan is afoot.
As our taxi driver tuts and points at his watch, Fleur cranks up an Oscar-worthy performance, puffing, panting and tossing her hair about in dismay.
“I can’t believe I have to go!” Fleur snivels, forcing out her best crocodile tears.
“I know, Fleur. It’s so hard,” I say, putting an arm around her shoulder. “But you must be strong.”
Fleur opens the taxi door and pretends to take one last look at the West Turret. “Farewell, Harbinger!” she cries. “You were a good friend. Parting is such sweet sorrow!”
Then Fleur begins to fake-sob really hard, actually forcing snot down her nostrils. If she’d done this in the school play auditions last year, she might have got a bigger role than “third tree on the left.”
“Shh, don’t overdo it,” whispers Claude, fighting to keep a straight face.
“We’ll escort Fleur down to the railway station,” Claude tells Scrumble. “She’s very upset.”
Scrumble nods, as if to say “very well.” But then as we all hop into the taxi, myself in the front, Claude and Fleur in the back, Scrumble scurries across, commanding Fleur to roll down the window. For a crazy moment I think she’s going to wish Fleur well for the future.
“Good riddance, Fleur Swan!” grumps Scrumble, hoisting her bosom with one arm as she talks. “You’ve brought this all upon yourself. I’ve no sympathy for you.”
“Come on, driver,” sighs Claude. “Destiny Bay station, please.”
But Scrumble wants a final word. “Summer’s over for you, Swan!” she cackles as the car pulls away. “Over!”
Fleur buries her face in her hands and gives a little moan. But then, as we pass through Harbinger Hall’s main gates, Fleur sits up, chucks back her head and laughs before leaning forward to speak to the taxi driver. “Change of plan, driver,” Fleur chortles. “We don’t really want to go to the station. Could you take us to A Land Down Under on Destiny Bay beach, please?”
“And quick as you like,” laughs Claude. “We’ve somebody important we need to meet!”
As we reach A Land Down Under at dusk, the barbecue is well under way. The sand outside the small bar is packed with surf dudes and bikini-clad girls flirting, dancing and giggling, or lining up for shrimp, chicken or pitchers of cocktails. All around the DJ booth, the crowd begins to sway and swell as Norris Noise, the resident DJ, cranks up an R&B set. Kids are already starting to jump up onto the podiums and chuck some shapes. One extremely happy young woman is boogying on the bar in a red bikini while the bartenders serve martinis around her silver stilettos.
Claude, Fleur and I must look highly overdressed as we fight our way through the crowds carrying suitcases and bags.
“Wait,” laughs Fleur, stopping for a second to whip off her T-shirt, displaying a hot-pink bikini top. “So summer is over, is it? Huh! I reckon it’s just taken a new lease on life!”
And that’s when I see him, standing in the corner of A Land Down Under, surrounded by a posse of bedraggled-looking boys all dressed in shorts and Rip Curl T-shirts, each of them sporting trademark Destiny Bay shaggy surf hair.
Saul Parker looks totally incredible. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt, which shows off his pecs, with long camouflage shorts. Saul’s hair is looking extra-specially, gloriously unkempt, like he’s spent the day wrestling fifty-foot waves and alligators.
It seems like all the girls are trying to dance close to Saul’s gang. I feel a tiny stab of jealousy just seeing girls near him. Ugh, I’ve got it bad! I pause for a second and watch as one tiny peroxide-blonde girl in a silver bikini and miniskirt tries desperately to chat in Saul’s ear. As Saul rolls his eyes, then looks at his watch, peroxide girl resorts to dancing lewdly in front of him, wiggling her bum and jiggling her boobs. Saul just looks past her and checks the door again. Then he spots me. His face lights up.
“Veronica!” Saul whoops, running over to me. “You made it!”
“Just!” I laugh as he twirls me around. “Hey, I’m not, erm, interrupting anything, am I?”
Saul looks at me oddly; then he rolls his eyes and lets out a little snort. “What? You mean . . . her?” he smirks, nodding at his blonde admirer, who has resorted to doing weird star jumps beside him. “Are you serious?”
“Well,” I blush, “I didn’t know. I mean . . .”
“I’ve been watching that door for the best part of two hours,” groans Saul. “The lads have been laughing their heads off at me.”
Just then I look over Saul’s shoulder and realize we’ve got quite an audience. There are about six lads all watching and laughing.
“Coooooooo-ey, Saul!” waves one lad, before making a kissy-kissy sound with his mouth. Then they all begin cracking up.
“Aw, shut up!” moans Saul. “Hey, Veronica, I need to apologize about my friends. They can be a bit unruly.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I smile. “Actually, that reminds me . . . you know I said on the phone before that I needed to tell you something important?”
“Sure,” says Saul. “Is everything okay?”
“Well, the thing is . . . ,” I begin.
Just then Fleur and Claude appear over either shoulder.
“Ah, hello, hello, we meet at last!” giggles Claude. “So you must be the mystery guest.”
Saul looks at Claude and lets out a little groan of embarrassment.
“Claude,” I say. “Can I introduce my er, friend, Saul Parker.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Claude,” grins Saul, holding out his hand.
“And I’m Fleur Swan,” announces Fleur, eyeing Saul up and down. “Now, Saul, don’t worry at all. We’re going to get along just fine. I’m moving into your loft space from today onward. I’m your new roommate! Isn’t that great?”
“Oooh . . . Erm, well, okay,” stutters Saul. “I mean, I suppose, erm . . .”
“I’m psyched too!” yells Fleur as the music cranks up another notch. “And don’t fret. ’Cos I’m a quiet little thing. You’ll hardly even notice I’m there! Will he, girls?”
Saul is looking a little bewildered. I owe him a serious explanation here. But just as I try to begin, Fleur spots Saul’s gang of surf buddies, who are all standing behind us, trying to catch my friends’ eyes.
“Oooh, Saul, are these your friends?” beams Fleur, waving at them. “I must introduce myself. Hello, boys, I’m Fleur! Hey, do any of you guys like dancing?”
“I’m Stevo,” chirps up one lad, not missing a chance. “I’ll dance with you.”
“Oooh, great,” smiles Fleur. “Hey, Ronnie, watch my suitcases!”
“And I’m Danny,” says another, grabbing Claude’s hand. “Let’s dance to this track, then I’ll buy you both a drink.”
Within seconds Fleur and Claude have disappeared into the party, leaving Saul and I standing on the dance floor, surrounded by Fleur’s luggage. I wrap my arms around Saul’s waist and look up into his eyes.
Saul shakes his head and we both begin giggling. “Okay. Start from the beginning,” he chuckles, kissing the top of my head.
arrivals
“That’s odd,” I say to Claude.
It’s 8:45 A.M., three days later, and I’m peering out of the West Turret’s lounge window down onto the gardens.
“What?” says Claude, fixing her hair into perfect asymmetric bunches.
“Mr. Greenhall,” I say. “The gardener dude—he’s mowing a big square into the Tatershall Memorial Lawn.”
“Really?” says Claude distractedly. “Maybe Carbzilla and Three-Minute Egg are going to play cricket. They’re unhinged enough.”
Claude grabs her lip gloss and vanity mirror. She refuses to turn up for work looking anything less than perfect. “Hey! Are you ready?” she nags. “Scrumble wants us down there in ten minutes.”
“Yeah, coming,” I say, as a girl wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard hurries over the grass to Mr. Greenhall. She’s shouting at him to make the square bigger.
“It looks like a landing pad,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Claude stops preening abruptly. “A landing pad?” she repeats. “You know what that means!” she grins, hopping up and down.
“They’re preparing for an alien visitation?” I suggest.
“Noooo! More exciting than that,” Claude squeaks. “For helicopters!”
“Eh?” I say, being slow on the uptake.
“Psycho Killa!” grins Claude, jumping up and down. “Psycho Killa is coming! All the Booty Quake people must have started checking in!”
In a flurry of arms and legs, Claude runs for the door. “Gonna carve ya up! Gonna bury you!” Claude chants, singing Psycho Killa’s international platinum-selling hit “Graveyard Time” from the Grammy Award-winning album Body Bag Holiday.
“Gonna hide yer body where they won’t find ya!” hums Claude, disappearing out the door.
“Bag you up! Bag you up!” I sing, chasing Claude as fast as my feet will take me down the spiral staircase and into the hotel reception lobby.
Wow! Harbinger’s lobby is in total chaos.
Everywhere you look there are huge scary hip-hop blokes clad in baseball caps, massive padded jackets, random wonky sports headbands, jeans so baggy they’re probably a safety hazard, imported limited edition Reebok sneakers and oodles of bling. Everyone seems to be wearing a huge diamond cross or diamond-encrusted dog tags. Cartier watches and diamondstudded teeth are de rigueur as well.
“It’s . . . it’s the Mortuary Team! Psycho Killa’s crew!” gasps Claude. “They’re really here!”
“Unreal!” I say, turning to tell Fleur, then realizing she’s not here. “But there’s about a hundred of them!”
“Some of them must be Psycho Killa’s staff,” says Claude. “ ’Cos I know he travels with two chefs—a sushi chef and another guy who specializes in fried chicken. Oh, and he’s got a braid technician who does his hair. And a hip-hop accountant on call 24/7 to talk him out of buying things like Lear jets and nightclubs!”
“I thought Fleur was high maintenance,” I mutter.
Outside on the drive, streams of fabulous vehicles are arriving: Cadillac Escalades, Lamborghinis, Porsches and SUVs with blackened windows, as dozens more hip-hop dudes pour out, throwing their car keys to Cedric, Harbinger’s geriatric car valet.
“Watch the rims, man!” shouts one hulking guy, dressed bizarrely in a customized orange prison jumpsuit, flipping Cedric a £50 tip. “Just had those twenty-inch babies fixed up.”
“Man, can I get a coffee around here?” sighs his friend, an exhausted-looking, equally huge hip-hop man-mountain, wandering over and taking a seat on the lobby’s leather couches.
“Ronnie! That’s Freaky Death Squad and Detonator from the Mortuary Team!” says Claude, nudging me. “And, oh my God! Here’s Knucklehead coming in now!”
Detonator appears to be wearing a jewel-encrusted bomber jacket made from an entire Friesian cow.
“They’re even scarier than they look on MTV!” I say as the three hulking hoods crouch around a coffee table in the lobby, clearly plotting a sinister gangland hit on a rival hip-hop syndicate.
In the midst of the chaos, poor overworked Precious the receptionist is attempting to allocate rooms to the hip-hop fraternity.
“Er, attention, please!” Precious yells, typing away furiously on the hotel reservation system. “Do we have a Mr., erm, Freaky Death Squad?”
“S’up!” says Freaky D, jumping up, his crisscross braids bouncing as he moves. “That’s me, ma’am.”
“Ah, good!” smiles Precious. “Now then, Mr. Death Squad, you prerequested a nonsmoking room with a garden view? But are you the gentleman who is allergic to goose down?”
“Sure am,” says Freaky D bashfully. “Makes me itchy.”
“Worry not, sir,” smiles Precious. “Housekeeping has located you a man-made-fiber pillow for sensitive skin. Sign here, please. Now, Mr. Knucklehead and Mr. Detonator? You’re sharing the deluxe twin room, aren’t you?”
Claude and I look at each other and dissolve into giggles.
“Right, guys. Psycho Killa ETA in forty-five minutes!” shouts Kelsey, Psycho Killa’s personal assistant, whom I saw in the garden this morning. “His helicopter has just left Canary Wharf in London. We’ll be leaving for the sound check in one hour!”
As the Mortuary Team begin to disperse to their rooms, three more bodies arrive in reception: a small Japanese guy wearing vast dark glasses accompanied by a leggy, vacant-looking teenage lap-dancer type with her hair in ringlets carrying a small fluffy-faced Pekinese dog wearing a pink collar with a diamond-encrusted name tag, and behind them, a rotund bloke with a skinhead struggling with two large solid-steel record boxes.
“Claude, that’s Warren Acapulco!” I say in my very, very worst stage whisper, managing to attract the attention of the whole trio.
“Oh, hi there,” smiles Warren graciously, flipping his sunglasses up and giving me and Claude a big showbiz smile. Warren’s girlfriend just rolls her eyes and begins shouting at Precious about dog-minding facilities.
“This is Trixiebelle Frou Frou!” the woman is shouting, pointing at the dog. “And she moves her bowels at 6 P.M. each day precisely. I’ll need someone with a poop scoop who understands Pekinese behavior at my suite by 5:45. Is that a problem?”
“So anyway,” Warren Acapulco continues, smiling at me and Claude, “how long have you been waiting to meet us?”
“Erm, oooh, well,” I smile, flushing pink. “We weren’t. We were waiting for Psycho Killa.”
Warren’s face remains poker straight. He produces a photo from his pocket and a pen, signing the picture, before handing it to me and walking away.
Let the beat play on . . . Warren Acapulco xxx
“From now on,” giggles Claude, “let me talk to the celebrities.”
“But I didn’t even ask for an autograph!” I laugh, staring at the cheesy publicity shot.
“Never mind,” laughs Claude. “Stick it on eBay. Some fool will buy it.”
This is turning out to be the best day ever!
But just then, a face in the crowd spoils my happy mood. “You girls!” shouts Scrumble. “Come here!”
“Quick, look busy!” says Claude as Scrumble storms toward us, ignoring us and grabbing at two Harbinger Hall cleaners pushing a trolley of mops, brooms and bleach through the lobby.
“Where are you going?” Scrumble shouts at the older of the two girls, clad in a green cleaner’s pinafore.
“Er, we’re, erm, going to clean the Edelweiss Suite,” the girl stutters.
“Oh, really?” tuts Scrumble. “Can I see your ID cards?”
The girls begin to flap.
“I’ve lost mine!” claims the younger girl.
“Run for it!” shouts the older girl.
But now Scrumble has a walkie-talkie in her hand, barking orders. “Security! We have a situation here,” she’s flapping. “More intruders have infiltrated the building en route to God Created Man’s suite!”
“We’re not intruders!” squeals the older girl as her overall falls open to reveal a God Created Man tour T-shirt and a digital camera hanging from her neck.
“Tell that to the judge!” shouts Scrumble.
“Claude, God Created Man are here!” I gasp. “Phwooooar!”
“Oh my God, they are so lush,” grins Claude.
“And they’re right here in this hotel!” I laugh.
“Well, you can’t snog any of them,” winks Claude. “Don’t think Saul would like that!”
“Hmmm, good point,” I blush, thinking of the very lovely Saul Parker for the zillionth time that day. Blimey O’Reilly, I have totally lost my marbles over that boy. And he’s not exactly remaining sane about me either. In fact, last night, after a moonlight walk down on the private beach, Saul even said he’s been considering getting a little V tattooed on the bottom of his back so he’ll always remember this summer. Serious stuff, eh?
Agh, I cannot stop thinking about Saul Parker! It’s like a form of wonderful insanity. I’m like a different person ever since he came into my life. More confident. More alive.
“Ronnie, stop dreaming,” says Claude, nudging me back to the real world as the two fake cleaners are marched past me by security personnel. “You keep drifting off. You’ve got it bad, you have.”
“I soooo have not,” I blush.
“But we only wanted an autograph,” pleads one of the girls.
“Trespassers must be prosecuted,” huffs Scrumble, looking very proud of herself indeed. And then her eyes rest upon Claude and me and she looks even smugger.
“Ah, Veronica and Claudette,” she smiles. “And three become two.”
“Good morning, Miss Scrumble,” says Claude.
“It certainly is,” she replies, “now that we’ve trimmed the deadwood from our waitressing workforce.”
Claude and I say nothing. It’s for the best.
“Miss Swan arrived home safely, I take it?” Scrumble says.
“I spoke to her this morning,” says Claude. “She’s fine.”
“Good riddance to her,” mumbles Scrumble under her breath. “I shall be forwarding her the dry-cleaning bill for my jacket.”
At this point a small giggle tries to surface on my mouth. It happens every time I think of the satisfying thwack the cake made colliding with her forehead.
“Now,” continues Scrumble, checking her clipboard, “I have it here that several weeks ago you both booked tomorrow off for this beach party affair.” She wrinkles her nose as she says “beach party.”
“That’s correct,” says Claude. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m not sure yet,” goads Scrumble, waddling away. “Let’s see how hard you work today.”
room service
And work hard we do.
Delivering room service orders, running messages, serving cocktails and clearing away plates. Scrumble tries to break our spirit with a mind-boggling list of demands, but she can’t. We’re on cloud nine. Behind every Harbinger Hall hotel room door lies another pop star, rapper or MTV presenter! Standing there live in the flesh!
In Room 307 MTV presenter Lonny Larson begs for hot lemon and honey after he’s been up all night partying with God Created Man and feels like hell. Lonny still looks totally gorgeous with his huge green eyes and rich Belfast accent. He signs Claude’s and my order books and even lets us snap camera-phone pics of him in his fluffy terry-cloth bathrobe!
Upstairs in Room 404, the Mortuary Team’s Freaky Death Squad calls up requesting Harbinger Hall stationery, pens and vanilla ice cream with extra chocolate sauce, as the calm ambience of the hotel, the regency antiques and the regal chandeliers have inspired him to finish his new track, “Gonna Chop You Up, Sucka!”
Our next delivery, at the newly painted Barclay Suite, is for Dita Murray from the Scandal Children, who flew in at 3 A.M. from Singapore. Dita is a tiny little thing with blonde braids and a white pale complexion, much frailer than she looks in her videos. When we arrive with her herbal teas, Dita is with some flouncy guy in a pirate-inspired outfit who is holding up swaths of fabric to her face and muttering “fabulous” and “bella” again and again while a dozen personal assistants flurry around, asking her if the room is ivory enough for her. Weird.
But probably the best job of the day comes from the Edelweiss Suite. Cathy, long-suffering personal assistant to internationally successful boy band God Created Man, calls up begging Rosco to whip up some late brunch for her three pop stars. Siegmund asks if we want to deliver it. Try to stop us!
After a lot of swearing on Rosco’s part, Claude and I set off to the Edelweiss Suite with a trolley laden with eggs Benedict, coffee and croissants, only to be met at the door by the one, the only, international sex god Jenson Carter! He’s wearing nothing but a cheeky smile and small hand towel covering his dangly bits.
Gnnnnnnngnnnn! Claude and I nearly faint with glee.
“Come in! Come in, ladies!” Jenson smiles, beckoning us into the suite.
Claude just stands there opening and closing her gob. “But . . . but . . . you’re nak—” she burbles.
“Move it, sister!” I hiss, dragging Claude into the suite.
The band checked into Harbinger Hall only at 1 A.M. that morning, but the place already looks like a herd of wildebeest stampeded through it. The place smells of feet, farts and pot noodles—the smell of all boys’ bedrooms since the beginning of time. Everywhere you look there are clothes, shoes, plates, discarded bottles of booze and dirty glasses.
“Sorry ’bout the mess, girls,” apologizes Jenson. “Me, Lonny Larson and the boys had a little poker game going last night. Things got a little wild.”
Next door in the main master bedroom, lying zonked out on his front, in the middle of a four-poster bed, is a totally unconscious Sebastian Porlock, the second gorgeous member of the shirt-phobic triumvirate.
This really throws me. I almost burst into tears with happiness. I’ve had a poster of Sebastian on my bedroom wall since I was fourteen. I mean, okay, he’s not as swoonsome as Spike Saunders, Duke of Pop, but he’s still a tasty dish all the same. My mother once caught me crying inconsolably into my pillow one night because I’d finally figured out Sebastian would never be mine.
I’ve grown up a lot since then.
To our amazement, Sebastian Porlock is also totally and utterly stark naked. His small, pert tanned bottom cheeks greet us as we tumble into the bedroom to serve his eggs Benedict.
Sigh. It’s such a perfectly formed, soft and blemish-free bottom, I want to bite it.
“Oooh! Er . . . aaaagh!” stutters Claude, covering her eyes.
“Good morning, er, afternoon . . . Mr. Porlock!” I shout. “We’ve brought breakfast.”
“Sppghhhllgh,” snores Sebastian, stretching a little before turning over on his back to reveal . . . well, to reveal more than I really wanted to see.
Euuuuuuugh!
“Oh, please!” squeals Claude as Sebastian snores like a trooper, legs akimbo. “My eyes! My eyes are burning! Cover him up! Aaaagggggh!”
But neither of us can pull the cover up for laughing.
“And a snorer too?” tuts Claude. “I can’t stand that! So inconsiderate.”
“Yes, Claude,” I say, drying my eyes. “So inconsiderate. Hey, have you got your phone?” I chortle. “Let’s send Fleur a picture!”
“Let’s hope she’s finished lunch,” Claude laughs, snapping away.
Of course there are some guests Claude and I aren’t exactly over the moon to see. Downstairs in the indoor tropical spa area, Cressida Sleeth and Panama Goodyear are relaxing by the pool in their teensy-tiniest bikinis. Neither of them has a single lump, bump or ounce of spare flab, and both are a gorgeous honey color from head to toe and all over their disconcertingly plentiful cleavages.
“Claude,” I groan, as we approach with their drinks order, “have you noticed something different about Cress—”
“The boobs, right?” says Claude.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“It’s not just Cressida,” Claude says. “They’ve all gone up three cup sizes at least.”
“Have they had surgery?” I whisper.
“Dunno,” says Claude, furrowing her brow. “I shall have to investigate.”
“How are you going to—” I begin, but then Cressida spots us.
“Oh, wonderful,” she says through gritted teeth. “It’s the phantom flan flingers. Still slaving away, I see, girls? Well done, Claude; you’ll stay off the streets yet.”
Claude narrows her eyes, then serves Cressida her elder-flower infusion.
“Tsk. Ignore them, Cressida,” Panama sneers. “It’s so totally déclassé to chitchat with staff. My mother won’t even make eye contact with our cleaner.”
Yards away, Abigail and Leeza are splashing about in the whirlpool, Leeza’s ginormous boobs acting as her own flotation system. At a nearby table a group of MTV producers are holding an impromptu meeting to discuss tomorrow’s Booty Quake.
“Oh, Abigail,” Panama yells across the spa, intentionally loud enough for everyone to hear, “being surrounded by all these music industry types really takes me back. It puts me in mind of when we almost signed that recording contract.”
Abigail cringes a little. Panama, Abigail and Leeza did once have an amateur pop band. Catwalk, they were called. It was the closest thing you could get to audible excrement.
“Well, it was more of a hobby,” blushes Abigail. “We weren’t very good.”
“Rubbish!” squawks Panama. “We were far hotter than half of these losers playing tomorrow.”
Several of the MTV crew and assorted Mortuary Team members stop what they are doing and stare crossly over at Panama.
“Shh, Panama,” hushes Cressida, visibly shrinking into her lounger. “Everybody will hear!”
“I want them to hear!” storms Panama. “I happen to know that I’ve got star quality. If you’re hanging with me, you better fasten your seat belt, because I’m going places fast. I’m going to be a famous singer one day, mark my words. Listen!”
Panama clears her throat, then scrunches her face up and begins to sing. “Oooooh, I’m floating in the sky!” she squeals. “Like a big love pie! I’m running to your love. Oh meeeee! Oh my!”
Panama sounds like she has her bottom caught in a paper shredder. She’s using that excruciating singing technique bad singers always use, taking a perfectly normal song, then making it last fifty-five minutes longer by doing wibbly-wobbly key changes on every note. The MTV staff are actually running out of the room clutching their ears.
“They’re off to call their managers,” says Panama, nudging Cressida proudly. “Tell them there’s a new star in town.”
them upstairs
At 8 P.M. I stagger back to the West Turret, through the crowds of pop stars, journalists and assorted hangers-on in the hotel lobby, feeling utterly exhausted. There’s no way Scrumble can stop us from going to Booty Quake tomorrow. We’ve worked our butts off.
In the flurry of orders I managed to lose Claude entirely. I last saw her chatting with a journalist from the The Mirror in the day spa area. He was giving her his card in case she had any inside scoops. Then, when it was time for us to clock off, Gene and Leon told me Claude had been sent by Scrumble to the Windsmore Suite to clear dirty plates away from Panama and Co.’s rooms.
I am a little worried about her, actually. It sucks facing that lot alone.
The second I enter our apartment, I grab a dining chair, pull down the trapdoor and climb up into the loft, where Fleur is sitting on a blanket on the dusty floor surrounded by swaths of material, glitter and sequins.
“Hurray, you’re back,” she smiles. “How’s it going?”
“Veronica!” smiles Saul, who is lying on his sleeping bag on the other side of the loft about twenty meters away. Saul chucks down his Ripboard Monthly magazine, rushes across and proceeds to wrap his arms around my waist and give me a big snog.
“Eeeuuuuuuh, get a room,” groans Fleur, covering her eyes.
“Ha! Sorry,” I laugh, pushing Saul away gently. “So what have you two layabouts been doing all day?”
“Well, when the coast was clear downstairs,” Fleur says, “Saul crept down and went off surfing. Apparently he’s got some surf thingy to do tomorrow . . .”
“Fleur,” I tut, “Saul’s one of the Demonboard Surf contestants tomorrow.”
“What? Are you?” coughs Fleur, looking at Saul. “Oh! That’s what you were wibbling on about. I heard something about, y’know, surfboards or something, then I sort of switched off. Sorry, Saul.”
We can’t help laughing at her.
“Anyway, back to me,” Fleur says. “So once Saul had gone, I spent the day preparing. Y’know, having a bath, exfoliating, pedicure, manicure, eyelash tint, that sort of thing.”
“And then I got back from the beach,” Saul interrupts. “And I thought I’d been followed.”
“So we thought we’d better hide,” says Fleur, who’s loving her new “Secret Squirrel” lifestyle, “which gave me time to make this!”
Fleur proudly holds up a black halter-neck bikini with small silver stars and pink bows on it. The bottom section has tiny little pink ties.
“That’s amazing!” I say. “You did that yourself?”
“Not just a pretty face, huh?” she smiles.
“You’ll look great in that tomorrow,” I nod enthusiastically.
“No, I won’t,” Fleur says. “I’m wearing my fabulous cerise polka-dot bikini from It’s a Girl’s World. You’re wearing this one!”
“Oh . . . hmmm,” I groan, staring at the bikini, which now appears to have shrunk to the size of a snowflake. “Wonderful.”
“Ronnie, you’re not flaking out on me, are you now?” says Fleur.
“No, I’m not. It’s just . . . ,” I mutter.
“Saul, tell her,” commands Fleur.
“I don’t need to tell her,” says Saul, wrapping his arms around me again and nuzzling my neck. “She knows she’s a babe.”
“Yak!” sneers Fleur, looking physically sick. “Not like that!”
Saul and I both start blushing.
“Now then, Ronnie Ripperton,” says Fleur, “this is the eleventh hour. I know I’m going to try my hardest to win that money tomorrow. And you are too. All you need to do is smile, prance about a bit and don’t say anything nincompoopish when the cameras start rolling.”
Fleur pauses. She shakes her head.
“Okay, scrap that,” she says. “Just don’t fall over or insult any of the judges.”
“Gotcha,” I nod.
Just then we hear movement downstairs. We all freeze.
“It’s just meeeeeeeeeeee,” shouts Claude. The trapdoor opens and Claude’s face appears through the hole. “I’m coming up.”
After a small struggle, Claude Cassiera is up in the loft, looking around in amazement.
“Wow! It’s soooo much nicer up here now,” says Claude, wrinkling her nose playfully at Saul. “That terrible smell of underpants has gone.”
“Oh, don’t start,” groans Saul. “Look, I didn’t ask you three to invade my penthouse. This was my home, can I remind you?”
“Saul, Saul, Saul,” sighs Claude, shaking her head. “Don’t even start me on the legal impossibility of that. Now, anyway, everyone be quiet, because I need to tell you about my afternoon.”
“Go on,” I say.
“Well, after I left you, I had the pleasure of taking Warren Acapulco’s dog Trixiebelle Frou Frou for a whoopsie in the garden.”
“Euuuuuh, gross,” sniffs Fleur.
“And I got a hundred-pound tip for my trouble,” says Claude.
“Hot dang,” chuckles Saul, shaking his head. “It’ll need a dump tomorrow too, won’t it? Can I take it?”
“No way,” laughs Claude. “That dog is the gift that keeps on giving. I’m going to pop up later and give it extra dinner. Oh, and listen to this: guess who just saw Psycho Killa, in the flesh, right in front of her eyes?”
Claude pauses dramatically, then points at herself. “Meeee!” she giggles.
“What does he look like?” I ask.
“Mmm, to be honest, small and quite camp,” says Claude, shaking her head. “He was wearing this blue Lycra jumpsuit with silver buttons. Actually, he put me in mind of your aunty Susan’s godson.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling slightly disappointed. I half expected him to be holding a severed human head, just like on the cover of Body Bag Holiday.
“And finally,” says Claude, looking rather mischievous, “I’ve just been up to the Windsmore Suite. I was sent to collect all of Panama and Cressida’s filthy plates and cups. And let their putrid bathwater out. Yuk. They don’t call them filthy rich for nothing.”
“Oh dear. Are you okay?” I say. “Were they being nasty?”
“No,” says Claude. “They weren’t there. They’d gone into Destiny Bay. They were having dinner with some pro surfers—well, according to hotel gossip.”
A small crafty smirk sweeps across Claude’s face. “So I had a little snoop around in their vanity cases,” she says.
“Naughty,” I giggle.
“And,” she says, slowly, “I think I’ve got to the bottom of their collective boob growth.”
“Spill it!” I gasp, moving closer.
“It’s so gross,” says Claude. “They’ve been taking some weird hormone boob-grow pills. And far too many of them, by the looks of it.”
“What?” gasps Fleur. “Noooo! There’s no such thing! You can’t take pills to make your boobs swell up four cup sizes. I should know—I asked my doctor about it when I was thirteen.”
“She’s right,” I say sensibly. “You can’t get a hold of such a thing.”
“You can if your father is head of chemical research at a major pharmaceutical firm,” Claude says. “You can get a hold of whatever you want. Tested or untested.”
“Noooo,” squeals Fleur. “That’s terrible! It’s illegal. And dangerous too!”
The LBD stand looking at each other in total shock.
“Well, thank God they didn’t catch you snooping,” I say eventually. “That was lucky.”
“Lucky for me,” Claude says, but then under her breath she mutters, “but for them, rather unfortunate.”