It’s the day the LBD has been dreaming about for months.

Destiny Bay, which is hectic at the best of times, is absolute bedlam. Kids are flocking in from miles around, pouring off trains and jumping off buses, road-blocking the surrounding streets with their cars, each one reverberating with pumping bass lines and loud hip-hop. It’s 11 A.M. and the sun’s already blazing down. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky, nor on the horizon, which means most of the kids flooding down onto the sand are already in states of undress, revealing their skimpiest bikinis and pumped abs.

Down on Misty Beach several huge outside broadcast vehicles and dozens of stressed-out staff are working away on today’s live TV show, which is beaming out on MTV, the Extreme Sports Channel and Entertainment News Europe. Everywhere you look, hairy, sweaty technicians are fiddling with TV cameras, speakers and lighting rigs or congregating around the various marquees and soundstages, checking clipboards and barking into walkie-talkies. Meanwhile researchers are dispensing green VIP wristbands to various important bods as they enter the front gate.

In the midst of this chaos, Claude and I are running as fast as we can, apologizing to Fleur on my phone for being so very, very late.

“But you were meant to be here two hours ago! The Demonboard competition has started,” Fleur screeches into her mobile phone. “You’ve missed Round One! Saul’s just paddling out for his second now.”

“It’s not our fault! Scrumble made us do breakfast!” I cry, feeling terribly guilty as we battle our way through the crowd. “Then we hitched a lift from Harbinger Hall with Raw-T, Psycho Killa’s sushi chef. But one of the tires blew coming down the coast road. We’ve had to run the last mile!”

“Well, you’re here now anyway, so just . . . hurry up . . . ,” shouts Fleur, suddenly sounding rather distracted. “Oooh . . . oh noooo . . . Oh, bad luck, Saul! Never mind.”

“What’s happening?” I gasp.

“Errr . . . it doesn’t matter,” Fleur shouts. “Just get down here now! The Extreme Channel cameras keep floating past, filming crowd shots. Paddy has just called. He says he’s already spotted me on Channel 214 wearing next to nothing and chatting up surfers! He says if I don’t put a cardigan on immediately, he’s going to drive down and take me home. Ha ha ha!”

“We’re coming!” we yell.

Eventually, among the melee of oily bodies we spot Fleur’s fuchsia sun hat, blonde locks and huge aviator sunglasses. She looks totally radiant in an emerald bikini top and black hot pants, standing beside the Demonboard Surf Championship judges’ marquee. Her ruby lip gloss is glinting in the sun.

“Fleuuuur,” we shout. “We’re here!”

“Hurray!” she smiles.

“Where’s Saul?” I say. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s over there in the competitors’ enclosure,” says Fleur. “Those gorillas dressed as security guards over there say I’ve not got a green VIP wristband to get in.”

Over in the enclosure, I can just about make out Saul Parker’s crazy brown dreads among the nine other competitors. Saul looks really unhappy. Almost like he might cry.

Just then, rapturous applause sweeps through the crowd as Finn Talbot, a blond shaved-headed guy with huge pecs from New Zealand catches a perfect wave and begins ripping along it, right on the end of his board for well over twenty seconds. Saul’s shoulders slump farther.

Right at that moment, I’m filled with an urge to run across the sand, hug Saul and tell him that this whole daft surf contest just doesn’t matter, but I know that would go down like a cup of cold vomit. Surf gods must look macho at all times, you see. There’s a lot of testosterone splashing about among these extreme sports guys. I mean, some of them are even having arm-wrestling competitions while waiting for their round.

Sad, I know.

“Okay, so things aren’t so good,” Fleur says. “Santiago Marre, the Argentinian dude, is in the lead—he’s surfed two great waves. Then Finn Talbot, that blond guy with the shaved head, is in second place. And y’see that dark-haired lad over there with the ponytail and the huge shark bite on his back? He’s in third.”

“And Saul?” I ask.

“Sixth,” winces Fleur. “His first wave was pretty good, but on the second he wiped out after about five seconds.”

Saul looks rather awkward as we all stare silently toward the enclosure. All the other competitors look totally at home there. They all have more expensive surfboards than Saul and high-tech wet suits with their sponsors’ names splashed across the chests. None of them look like they’ve spent a month living in a loft, existing on stolen biscuits.

Inside the competitors’ enclosure, a gaggle of beautiful models in tiny bikinis with huge boobs are frothing around, fawning over the surfers. “Oh, good luck, Sandybago darling!” shouts one plummy-mouthed brunette girl. “You can do it!”

“Accchhhoooo,” sneezes another of the girls. “Will somebody fetch me a parasol, please? This direct sunlight is making me sneeze. I’m a photophobic, don’t you know.”

Ugh! I don’t believe it. Cressida, Panama and the other witches are in the competitors’ enclosure.

“Noooo!” I groan. “It’s them! They’ve got green wristbands.”

“Oh God,” sighs Fleur. “The Argentinians must have sorted them out with VIP passes. That’s who they must have been having dinner with last night.”

Claude says nothing. She just rolls her eyes, then ignores them.

“That’s totally unfair,” tuts Fleur, as Panama purrs and bats her eyelashes at Santiago and he struts around in front of her like a caveman flexing his muscles. They make a hilarious couple. “I’ve been giving Santiago the full Fleur Swan flirty-flirt treatment for more than two weeks now,” she moans. “And I’ve got nowhere! It’s illogical!”

As Saul paces around, nervously watching the other surfers’ performances, he spots me in the crowd. He nods toward the scoreboards and looks sort of embarrassed.

“You can still do it,” I mouth.

“Thanks, babe,” Saul mouths back, looking rather unconvinced.

“Hang on. I’ve been thinking: This isn’t as bad as it looks,” announces Claude, pointing at the scores. “Quite a few of the contestants have had a terrible third round so far. So if Santiago really messes up his last wave, and Saul can pull off something special, then logically Saul can still take third position.”

“And there’s prize money for third, isn’t there?” says Fleur.

“Yeah,” I say, as the announcer calls for Santiago Marre to come down for Round Three.

Santiago Marre, who looks as conceited as a human face would physically allow, quickly begins paddling out for his third and final wave. Once he’s out, floating where the set waves are crashing down, the Argie heartthrob bobs around for a while searching for the perfect break. On the shore, the Windsmore Suite witches are leading the encouragement.

“Oh, get on with it, Sarabongo!” shouts Panama helpfully.

“Oh, this is so boring,” moans Cressida. “Is it time to get ready for the beauty contest yet?”

But then things began to go awry for Santiago. The surf appears to be dying down dramatically. In fact, for the next long five minutes, dozens of little ripple waves proceed to wash past him, doing nothing except sweep the surf god back to the shore. And with the pressure growing to perform, the Argentinian appears to be losing his nerve.

Eventually, Santiago springs to life, catches a wave and jumps up . . . before losing his footing and crashing back into the water headfirst.

Santiago Marre has wiped out after two seconds!

“Oh, bad luck,” says Fleur as Santiago grabs his board and staggers sulkily back to the shore, swearing loudly at anyone who commiserates with him. Panama immediately runs up and wraps herself around his salty torso like a giant limpet, trying to nibble his shoulder.

“Does that kick Santiago off first place?” mutters Fleur.

“I’m not sure,” I say, squinting at the scoreboard and trying to do the math. I look for Claude to help me, but she’s vanished.

“Next up, third round, is Saul Parker,” announces the compere.

I can barely bring myself to watch.

“Oh, come on, Saul!” I will him, half covering my eyes as Saul walks to the water looking terrified. What’s up with him? I know he’s more than capable of beating any of these surfers. Only last night, I’d slipped down to the private beach and watched him tackle far bigger, crazier waves than these. I know he’s more than capable of impressing the judges. I mean, sure, Saul may be of no fixed abode, with no firm plans for the future, no qualifications, and in fact may be as wild as wild can be, but the one absolute certainty about him is that he can surf like a professional.

If only he can do that now.

As Saul paddles out, the waves are whipping up again, crashing hard and fast around him. Without time to hesitate, Saul chooses a wave and goes with it, quickly leaping up onto his board with total confidence.

“Yesssssss! Come on, Saul!” I shout, beginning to roar loudly.

Quick as a flash, Saul is ripping along the crest of the wave, stepping right to the end of his board and hanging ten toes over the edge. As the crowd goes wild, the surf judges begin scribbling furiously on their pads.

“That’s my friend’s boyfriend!” Fleur is shouting proudly to anyone who will listen. “I know him! My best friend Ronnie is his girlfriend!”

“Fleur!” I blush as Saul wades proudly back up onto the beach, giving me a big wave. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Pardon?” laughs Fleur. “Well, he certainly thinks he is.”

“He does?” I gasp, tingles rushing all over my body.

“Totally!” chuckles Fleur. “He never stops talking about you. I’ve spent the last few days in a flipping attic with him. I felt like putting cotton wool in my ears!”

“Oooh!” I grin, going gooier by the second. “Really? He really thinks he’s going out with me?”

“Yes!” splutters Fleur, shaking her head. “You total berk.”

Down on the beach Finn Talbot is heading down to the water’s edge to surf the final wave of the contest. I’m a little distracted now, though. I’m thinking about being Saul’s girlfriend and what that actually means. My stomach is doing backward somersaults. I know I’m meant to be deliriously happy, and I am, but it’s accompanied by all sorts of little anxieties. You see, I’ve started to think about Saul Parker all the time lately. Day and night. Night and day. And I feel like puking every time I see him, which appears to be the requisite side effect of finding someone you really fancy.

“Aw, just go with the flow, Ronnie. Have some fun!” laughs Fleur as we watch Finn jump up onto his board and rip along for about ten seconds to wild applause. As Finn washes up on the shore, the judges begin totting up their final scores.

“But I didn’t plan to get another boyfriend so soon,” I say. “Or feel this way so quickly. I mean, I hardly know him and—”

“Look, the main thing,” interrupts Fleur, “is that you’re soooo over Jimi Steele. How cool is that? You’re dating again. You never have to cry about that pigeon-toed, dog-breath buttmunch ever again!”

Fleur has a point here. A smile sweeps across my face.

“Hey!” I grin, flapping my hands. “That’s true. I’ve not even thought once about Jimi and Suzette Laws for over a fortnight. I’m cured!”

“Hosannah in the highest!” cries Fleur, flapping her hands in the air.

“Jesus saves!” I cheer.

“Alan is good!” cries Fleur.

“You mean Allah,” I correct her.

“Praise him too!” laughs Fleur.

And suddenly a massive cheer erupts.

“Look! Look!” shouts Fleur, pointing at the scoreboards. “There are the final scores. Saul’s got third! He’s come in third! That’s excellent! He wins ten thousand pounds!”

I watch proudly as Saul staggers up the beach, spots the scoreboard and lets out a huge yelp. Then things get a little crazy. Finn Talbot, the winner, jumps on Saul and begins hugging him while jumping up and down. Nearby, Santiago Marre, who has ended up in second place, begins flipping out and threatening to kill the judges.

Suddenly, the crowd around the enclosure surges forward, knocking down the flimsy wooden barriers, as all the TV crews, sponsors and well-wishers clamor to be near the surfers. As security tries to lead away Santiago, who’s in the midst of surf rage, people are popping corks on bottles of champagne and spraying it over Saul and Finn while the TV cameras beam the pictures out live on the Extreme Sports Channel and MTV.

Then Saul spots me, breaks free of the huddle and runs in my direction. “Veronica!” he shouts. “Ten thousand pounds! Not bad for a wildcard entry, eh?”

“I knew you’d do it!” I laugh, hugging him. Saul whisks me up and swings me around and around.

“Excuse me, Saul Parker,” butts in a man, thrusting a microphone under both of our noses. A full TV camera crew is now surrounding us.

“You’re live on Extreme Sports Channel!” says the man. “Now, Saul Parker, you were an unknown wildcard in the Demonboard contest and you’ve managed to grab third place and a hefty check. You must be ecstatic!”

Saul hugs me tight into his chest. “I’m stoked, man!” he tells the interviewer. “And can I just say I couldn’t have done it without my girl, Veronica Ripperton! She put a roof over my head for the last few weeks while I was in training. She’s a total star.”

I try to look cool, but all I can do is grin and give a big involuntary “thumbs-up” to the camera. Uggghhh! That does it: I’m cutting my thumbs off as soon as I get home. It’s not as if I ever hitchhike anywhere. They have to go.

“That was Saul Parker, viewers,” says the presenter to the camera. “A sure surf star of the future.”

“Saul? Can we interview you for a moment?” shouts MTV’s Chloe Kissimy, whisking Saul away to the press enclosure.

As the camera crew follows him, Fleur grabs my arm. “Hey, Miss TV Star,” she laughs. “Have you seen Claude?”

“Not for ages,” I say, looking at my watch, suddenly remembering what we’d promised to do this afternoon.

“It’s time to get ready for Miss Demonboard Babe,” says Fleur, clearly relishing the horror.

“Okay, okay,” I say, feeling nervous again. “Let’s go and win Claude some money.”

“That’s the plan,” says Fleur as we make our way toward the Demonboard Babe marquee where the dressing rooms are. “Hey, and that reminds me, what’s Saul going to do with his ten thousand pounds? Is he going to buy you something nice? Diamonds? A new bass guitar?”

“Oh, that cash is all spoken for,” I smile, proudly thinking of my surf-hero “boyfriend.”

But then I stop dead in my tracks remembering what Saul is really spending his money on.

He’s going to Australia.

game on

“Okay, ladies, can I have your attention, please?” begins Candice, the Miss Demonboard Babe organizer, shouting above the brewing girly chaos. In the backstage dressing room, fifteen girls are attempting to share two wall mirrors, two electrical sockets and one loo. You need extremely sharp elbows and a warrior instinct if you want some mirror time with your lipstick.

“Don’t touch my hair straighteners!” Leeza Palmer is yelling at Tina, a drippy Icelandic chick who has mistakenly picked them up. “I’ll have you prosecuted for theft.”

“Girls, girls!” shouts Candice. “This is supposed to be a fun competition. There are no prizes for being a bitch.”

“Nonsense,” tuts Panama Goodyear, examining her manicured talons. “There’s always a prize for that.”

As Tina ducks out of the way, looking rather wobbly lipped, Panama’s friend Abigail adjusts the straps on her gold Miu Miu frock, wearing a rather perturbed expression. Elsewhere, in the far left corner of the room, Svetlana Varninka from Vladivostok is buttoning up her tiny black silk shift dress, muttering something crossly under her breath. Even when Svetlana’s content, she looks just on the brink of killing someone with a Bruce Lee one-inch punch.

“Are you okay over there, Miss Varninka?” shouts Candice. “Happy?”

“Extremely happy,” scowls Svetlana.

“Excellent,” says Candice. “So, ladies, the show will be broadcasting live on MTV and Extreme Sports. Has everybody signed their legal waivers to say they agree to be on TV?”

“I have!” Fleur yells happily, rubbing light-reflecting moisturizer into her brown legs.

“Fleur, you look amazing!” I say as Fleur stands up, then spins around, showing off her hot-pink halter-neck Latino-style dress, whooshing her hair about with her hands.

“Cheers, Ronnidge!” Fleur laughs, pausing to help me zip up my favorite lucky strappy black dress. There’s something about the way this dress hangs on my body that always gives me extra confidence.This dress has seen so many fabulous LBD nights out.

But as Fleur and I chat and giggle, Panama and Cressida are glowering at us both across the room. “Oh, hello there, Ronnie,” Panama yells across, pointing at my dress. “I see we’re going down the old tried-and-tested route, are we?”

I put my head down, pretending to be deaf.

“Awww, I love that old dress,” coos Cressida, who’s clutching a bunch of tissues in her hand. Her voice sounds croaky.

“I never get tired of seeing it,” snipes Panama.

“Right, ladies,” interrupts Candice. “The plan is really straightforward. Round One will be judged by the clap-o-meter. That’s where five of you will be eliminated. Next round, we move on to swimwear, where the judges will vote off another five ladies. Then the remaining five girls will come back in daywear—that is, jeans, T-shirts, whatever you like—and have a little talk to Lonny Larson about why they’re the perfect Demonboard Babe . . . blah blah blah . . . and then the judges vote. All clear?”

“Yes!” we yell.

“And I’m sure you know,” smiles Candice, “that first prize is twenty thousand pounds in cash? Well, I can also say that the check is available to take away today as soon as the winner is announced.”

Claude takes a sharp intake of breath.

“Second prize is a holiday for two in Barbados,” continues Candice, “and third prize is a five-thousand-pound shopping expedition to It’s a Girl’s World at Emerald Park Shopping City.”

The LBD look at each other nervously. We have to get first prize. Nothing less will do.

“Any questions?” asks Candice.

“Me!” says Panama, looking slightly drag-queenish in her purple Dolce and Gabbana dress. “When I win, can I get the money transferred directly into my account? Because I don’t handle money.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” sighs Candice. “Any other questions?”

“Is anyone in the bathroom right now?” blurts out Abigail before walking briskly to the loo, clenching her bum cheeks together, slamming the door behind her.

“Anything else?” asks Candice.

“Accccchhhhoooooo! I’ve gotsh a queshtion?” sniffs Cressida, whose eyes are now becoming rather red-rimmed. “Doesh anyone have a pet in here? I’ve already taken two antihistamine pills, and I still feel very sneezy! I have a pet hair allergy, you see, and . . .”

Everybody just ignores her and carries on getting ready.

“Okay, eight minutes till showtime!” shouts Candice. “Good luck, ladies.”

At the side of the room, Claude sits quietly in front of a mirror, looking totally exquisite in her favorite black vintage dress with silver strappy sandals and a fake-diamond necklace. When Fleur and I had reached the dressing room, we’d found Claude already there, practically ready to rock. She told us she knew how busy it was going to be, so she’d got down here early.

As Claude sits there, painting on a layer of lip gloss, she looks rather distracted. I know she spoke to her mum earlier today and Gloria felt sure they had a buyer for Lister House. A young couple had looked around just that morning remarking that “with a lot of work” the flat would be their “perfect starter home.”

“A lot of work?” Claude had repeated to me crossly, imagining all her Lister House memories being torn out and wallpapered over by a pair of newly marrieds. “But that place is perfect! It’s my home. What are they going to do to it?”

I look across at Claude. We have to keep the faith that one of us can win this thing. We have to stay strong.

“Four minutes,” shouts Candice as the entire room erupts into a frenzy of last-minute titivation. “Start making your way to the stage wings now.”

“Hey, Ronnie, is that your phone ringing?” yells Fleur, spraying her hair and pointing at my makeup bag, which is vibrating and playing a tune.

“Yeah!” I shout, trying to fix a rose hair clip into place. “Have I got time?”

“Hurry up. We’re going!” shouts Fleur.

“Got it,” I yell, grabbing the handset. It has to be Saul wishing me good luck.

“Hellooooo!” I yell above the girly din.

“Ronnie?” shouts the voice. “Are you there, Ronnie?”

“Mum!” I yell. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. The woman time forgot!” Mum chuckles, sounding much more like her old feisty self. “Hang on, speak to your brother for a second.” There’s a muffled sound and then a soft squelchy raspberry noise on the line that sounds like “Wonnnnnopghhhl.”

My heart melts. Suddenly it hits me how much I have missed them all.

“Hear that?” laughs Mum, bringing the phone back to her. “That was poor Little Lord Fauntleroy asking why he’s been abandoned.”

“Aw, tell him I’m sorry. I’ve been busy!” I shout, dearly hoping that my voice is drowning out a heated exchange between Svetlana and Leeza over a tube of false eyelash glue.

“Anyway, Ronnie, Paddy Swan just called me,” shouts Mum. “He says you’re going to be on telly or something? Fleur told him to watch MTV this afternoon!”

“Erm, well, oooh,” I cringe. This is totally the opposite of what I wanted!

“This sounds very exciting!” says Mum. “Are you being interviewed about Destiny Bay?”

“Well, erm . . . something like that,” I mumble.

“ ’Cos I’m out today, you see. I’m at the wholesaler’s,” shouts Mum. “So I’ve rung Aunty Susan and Aunty Cath and Gloria Cassiera and they’re going to tape it for me. And I’ve just seen Mr. McGraw in the post office, so I told him to watch out for it too. And your dad says he’ll put it on the wide-screen in the pub downstairs.”

“Well, you don’t have to go to all that bother . . . ,” I mumble, beginning to feel bilious.

“Oooh, my little girl, eh?” shouts Mum. “A TV travel expert? I’m going to be so proud!”

“Er, I don’t think so,” I mumble, feeling faint.

“Break a leg, darling!” yells Mum.

“Thanks, Mum,” I say, hanging up, not knowing whether she’ll see the funny side of this one within the next decade.

“Girls, I need you outside now!” shouts Candice. “There must be at least two thousand people waiting for you, and they’re getting impatient!”

“C’mon, Ronnie,” Claude shouts, grabbing my arm and whisking me out of the dressing room. “Let’s go and smile nicely for the judges.”

“Hey, who are the judges, by the way?” asks Fleur, tagging along behind, taking one last look in the mirror. “That was the one thing I could never find out.”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” says Candice, who’s chivvying us all along. “There are four. There’s Finn Talbot, the guy who won Demonboards. Then Freaky Death Squad from the Mortuary Team, Sebastian Porlock from God Created Man . . . and finally . . . ,” Candice checks her clipboard again. “We’ve got local dignitary Lord Vanderloo, owner of Harbinger Hall. No, hang on, he canceled at the last minute with a golfing injury . . . so we’ve got another head honcho from Harbinger Hall. Helga, erm, Scrumble? That name ring any bells?”

“Oh yes,” the LBD say, marching intrepidly toward the stage. “Ding dong.”

showtime

It’s 3 P.M. and the sun is blazing down on the Demonboard Babe marquee as Warren Acapulco plays out a loud mix of R & B and hip-hop to the hectic party crowd marauding all over the entire beach. As far as the eye can see, thousands of kids are winding their waists and quaking their booties, trying to get their faces in front of the MTV cameras.

Meanwhile, waiting in the wings of the stage stand the Demonboard Babes. Well, everyone aside from Abigail Munro, who’s mysteriously vanished.

“Oh, where is she?” tuts Panama, her face suggesting she’s not overly bothered.

“Shhhpgh, she’s in the toilet,” sniffles Cressida, mopping her dripping nostrils.

Eventually, after a lot of banging on the cubicle door by Candice, Abigail appears, stepping precariously toward the stage with a highly contorted face. It’s as if she’s concentrating really hard on carrying a ten-pence piece between her butt cheeks or something.

Then, as she draws parallel with Claude and I, she pauses and throws both perfectly manicured hands over her mouth. A loud rumble erupts from her tummy, followed by a high-pitched squeakity-squeak of the bottom variety!

Did I just hear what I think I heard?

“Claude,” I hiss, shooing away a growing stench. “I don’t think Abigail’s feeling very well!”

“Hmmm,” smiles Claude, wearing a highly angelic expression as she cups her arm around my waist and pulls me close to her. “Well, Ronnie, I’d advise you to keep your eye on Abigail Munro. She may have inadvertently swallowed laxatives, mistaking them for boob-grow pills.”

“What?” I gasp. “How?”

“Oh, it’s just a little joke,” smiles Claude, repeating Abigail’s phrase from the Windsmore Suite tea party. “I mean, can’t she take a joke?”

“Hello, Destiny Bay!” screams Lonny Larson as the crowd goes crazy, whistling, clapping and letting off Klaxon horns. “I wanna hear you make some noise for the one, the only, the legendary, Miss Demonboard Babe contest!”

As Fleur, Claude and I stand nervously awaiting our cue, the judges are taking their seats. We can see Freaky D from the Mortuary Team, wearing a green plastic body bag with armholes slashed in each side and a wonky Gucci headband, flipping peace-out signs at the TV camera. Next to him sit Finn Talbot and Sebastian Porlock, both looking dangerously snoggable. Then beside them, not looking in the slightest bit snoggable—in fact, more slappable—sits Helga Scrumble, who is a vision of frumpiness in her horn-rimmed glasses and stiff Harris Tweed.

Scrumble is staring directly at me, so I give her my best amiable grin, which she reciprocates with her trademark Scrumble death glare. It’s at this point that I remember Saul announcing to the whole of Europe on live TV that I gave him “a roof over his head” for the past month. Oh no. Busted!

And just when I think Scrumble can’t look any more irate, she spots Fleur Swan, pirouetting about beside me giddily in a pink dress. Yes, the very same Fleur Swan I promised I’d loaded aboard the 4:38 P.M. train out of Destiny Bay more than a week ago. Scrumble whips off her specs and polishes them furiously, quite clearly hoping she’s seeing things.

“And now, with no further ado, can we get a big cheer for the Demonboard Babes?” yells Lonny. “Bring on the girls!”

Aaaaaghhh! There’s no going back now!

Panama Bogwash goes first, sashaying onto the stage with a smug smile, throwing kisses to her awaiting public, with Cressida trotting behind her sneezing and coughing with every step, followed by Leeza, then Svetlana, then me, Claude, Fleur, Tina and then six other girls. As the crowd spots us all, the roar almost knocks me off my feet. And to my utmost pleasure, there seems to be a crowd of gorgeous surf dudes right on the front, hanging over the safety barrier, wolf-whistling and yelling my name!

“Veronnnnnnica!” yells Saul, as we all take our first circuit around the stage before lining up along the back wall. “Hey, lads, that’s her! That’s my woman!”

Okay, normally I’d be totally opposed to any bloke saying I was his possession. But darn it, when Saul Parker says it, it sounds kind of primitive mannish and cool. I am Saul’s woman!

“Oh, where’s Abigail gone to now, Leeza?” tuts Panama. “I thought she was with us.”

“I’m here, don’t worry,” says Abigail, appearing from the wings, walking very slowly with her knees locked together, clearly determined to make an appearance. However, as she crosses the stage, passing the judges’ table, Freaky D’s nose wrinkles. He turns to Finn Talbot and raises an eyebrow.

“Man, did you squeeze cheese?” Freaky D laughs, nudging Finn with his elbow.

“What?” laughs Finn, shaking his head, then pointing at Sebastian. “Nah, not me! It must have been Mr. Boy Band here.”

By this point Sebastian has his nose cupped in his hands, looking like the toxic fumes are poisoning him. “Not guilty!” moans Sebastian. “But whoever let that one go better get themselves to a doctor. They’re clearly unwell.”

As the male judges roar with laughter, Scrumble takes a small bottle of smelling salts out of her bag and inhales deeply. Meanwhile Abigail carries on with her promenade of the stage, walking like she’s fractured her bottom.

“What’s up with you?” hisses Panama. “Stop walking like a freak!”

“I can’t help it,” mumbles Abigail. “I’ve got a bad stomach.”

With all fifteen contestants now lined up at the back of the stage, the MTV cameras sweep up and down the line, filming us. I try to do my best noncheesy smile and wave, knowing that everyone at the Fantastic Voyage is watching. Claude does a dainty wave, while Fleur begins pulling rock ’n’ roll devil horns with both hands and doing a fancy “jump and wind” dance move. Okay, she looks pretty daft, but at least she’s happy.

“Aren’t they all gorgeous?” yells Lonny. “But sadly, now it’s time to eliminate some lovelies. So let’s make some noise for the Demonboard Babe clap-o-meter machine!”

“Good luck, girls,” shouts Fleur, crossing her fingers and jumping up and down even more.

“You’re bound to be safe, Ronnie,” whispers Claude, nudging me and pointing down at Saul’s gang, who are whistling and cheering. “Your fan club has been going wild down on the front row.”

“Yeah, Ron,” laughs Fleur, “you’ll walk away with this one!”

But just as I begin to beam with joy, I spot the clap-o-meter. Or the crap-o-meter, as it should have been called. It’s not a scientific noise-level meter at all—in fact it’s just a rubbish box with “clap-o-meter” written on the side in red crayon, and some milk-bottle tops and old egg cartons stuck on to it by a crowd of preschoolers. My heart groans as Lonny walks along the line shouting names out and pointing at us, with the crowd cheering equally wildly every time. Suddenly I realize that the first round is a complete joke—anyone can be kicked out.

After a few minutes of total bedlam, Lonny fiddles with his earpiece and calls for silence.

“I have the results!” Lonny shouts. “And that was a really tough one to decide, but I can tell you now that the five girls we’re saying good-bye to in Round One are Amy Harding, Tatiana Winehouse, Gail Winters . . .”

“What!?” huffs Amy Harding, a tiny slip of a girl in a dress so indecent she’s clearly wearing it only for legal reasons. “You’re getting rid of me? Are you insane? I’m the only one you’d even look twice at in the street.”

“But . . . I . . . I . . . ooooooooooh!” begins Tatiana Winehouse, dissolving into tears as her friend Gail Winters wraps an arm around her shoulder and blubs in unison.

Meanwhile, poor Lonny is trying to continue with the list. “Also leaving in this round,” he shouts, “is Abigail Munro!”

“Now there’s a shock,” says Panama, holding her nose and elbowing Abigail, who is standing beside her. Abigail simply shrugs in acceptance as some security guards elbow past us all, trying to remove Amy Harding, who is up at the judges’ desk squaring up to Freaky D and calling him a “blinkered fool.”

“And, erm, finally this round,” shouts Lonny above the racket. “We’re saying good-bye to . . . Fleur Swan! Give them all a big hand now, everyone!”

Oh my God! Fleur is out!

Our trump card has been eliminated.

Claude and I glare at each other in total horror.

This is terrible, but worse still, Fleur clearly hasn’t heard that her name has been called. As Candice begins to chivvy all of us girls off the stage, back to the dressing rooms, our blonde friend is still clapping and smiling, blissfully ignorant of her fate.

“Fleur!” shouts Claude. “Fleur, come here.”

Fleur looks directly at Claude, stopping clapping for a second to give us both a big thumbs-up.

“Oh no,” Claude groans, sidling over to Fleur and whispering something discreetly into her ear.

Fleur looks at her curiously, then asks her to say it again, which Claude does. Then Fleur’s face crumples. I feel a sting in the back of my throat.

“C’mon, Fleur,” whispers Claude, taking Fleur’s hand and walking her off the stage, back toward the dressing room. “Don’t take it personally. That clap-o-meter thing is a piece of garbage. It was totally random! You should have won. You’re beautiful.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly, walking behind them, realizing that while Fleur is now history as a Demonboard Babe, Panama Goodyear, Cressida Sleeth and Leeza Palmer have all lived to fight another round.

Right, I think. This is war.

judgment day

Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere has turned decidedly belligerent.

“Oh, stop sniveling, Abigail,” growls Panama, looking annoyingly sublime in a purple Gucci bikini with gold clasps. “I’ll have the prize money in my hands within half an hour. We’ll grab Sandybongo and the other Argies and go out and buy some bubbly to celebrate.”

Abigail lets out a little sniffle.

“Look, keep on being a pain in the butt,” Panama warns Abigail, “and I’ll send you back to the Windsmore Suite.”

Meanwhile, beside them, Leeza is beginning to boil over. “Right, who’s got my bikini top?” she snarls, rifling through her Louis Vuitton carryall. “Hey you! Fake blonde with the bedraggled mop! Precious, is it? Where’s my top?”

“Who, me?” whimpers Precious. “I’ve not touched your bag.”

As Claude and I change into our swimwear, trying to ignore the fuss, Leeza becomes noisier and more personal.

“Somebody in here has stolen my bikini top! I can find the bottoms, but not the top!” Leeza fumes, her huge boobs juddering under her dressing gown. “Hey, Ruskie!”

“Ja?” replies Svetlana Varninka, throwing an icy glare.

“I know you’ve got it,” Leeza bitches. “I mean, that bikini top would keep your peasant clan back home in potato vodka for a year.”

“What did she say?” gasps Svetlana, pulling herself up at least two inches taller than I remembered her. “She called my family what?”

As the rest of the room winces, waiting for the inevitable bloodbath, Abigail begins to weep even louder. “Oh, borrow mine, Leeza!” Abigail cries, throwing her bikini top at her friend. “I won’t need it now anyway.”

“Cuh, that won’t fit,” tuts Leeza. “I had to preorder a doubleD cup from Gucci in New York. It was the biggest one available! I packed it into my carryall to bring here last night. And now it’s gone!”

Leeza simmers silently for a second before swiveling around to where Fleur is sitting sadly with her face in her hands, totally devastated about her Round One ejection.

“Oi, Swan!” shouts Leeza. “Want to give me my bikini top back? Now. Or else.”

Fleur glares at Leeza with total revulsion in her eyes before throwing her head back, somehow finding the energy to defend herself. “Oh, my turn now, is it?” she yells. “Well, I’ve not touched your bikini top! In fact, what would I do with it anyway? Throw it over my dad’s car in cold weather, you mega-boobed mutant?”

“Well said!” shouts Precious.

“Oh, shut it, thunderhips,” snarls Panama, jabbing Precious in the chest and sending her flying backward into her makeup bag.

“Achhhhhooooooo!” splutters Cressida, standing meekly in her magenta bikini, rifling through her Miu Miu vanity case. Cressida’s eyes are puffed up like golf balls. She’s getting sneezier by the second.

“Leave Precious alone,” roars Svetlana, waving her finger menacingly at Leeza, “or I’ll paint you all over that wall!”

And with that, a tremendous fight erupts between Svetlana, Panama, Fleur, Leeza, Precious and almost every other female in the room. Makeup brushes are hurled, girls are shoving each other, all sorts of insults and accusations are being thrown. And all the while, one little Miss Claude Cassiera is calmly painting strawberry lip gloss onto her full lips and adjusting the straps on her camouflage bikini.

“Claude,” I whisper as Svetlana begins to drag Leeza around the room with her hands gripping each of her earlobes, replicating some sort of World Wrestling Entertainment tackle, “what exactly have you done with Leeza’s bikini?”

“I beg your pardon?” says Claude innocently, with just a soupçon of minx in her voice. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Claude,” I say, shaking my head slowly, trying not to smirk. “The truth, now.”

“Look, Ronnie,” says Claude quietly. “If Leeza packed the bikini into her bag last night, then surely it must be there. Well, unless somebody went in her suite and moved it.”

“Claude!” I gasp, looking around the room at the growing carnage. “And . . . and . . . what about Cressida? Is that your work too?”

“Who?” says Claude mischievously, powdering her nose.

“Cressida Sleeth,” I repeat.

“Oh, her. Well, you know what Cressida’s like,” smiles Claude. “The slightest thing sets her off, doesn’t it? Dust, detergents, dog hair. She’s so fortunate that she doesn’t need to work near them every day. Like I do.”

Claude pauses for a second to stare across at the one-woman snot mountain. Cressida is waving something in the air that looks like a necklace while simultaneously shouting and sneezing.

“But then,” continues Claude, looking at me and winking, “Cressida’s so blessed her mother isn’t dependent on her for money.”

But by this point Claude’s voice is being drowned out by Cressida’s wailing. “Who is Trixiebelle Frou Frou? Is it a dog?” she squeals, standing beside her vanity case, waving what we can now see is a pink dog collar with a diamond-encrusted name tag. “Why is there a dog collar in my vanity case? Achooooooo! This is an outrage! I’m very, very highly allergic, you know!”

Just that moment Candice appears.

“Girls?” she yells. “What’s going on? I could hear the shouting down the hallway. Is everything okay?”

“I’m unwell,” bleats Cressida, brandishing the dog collar.

“Oh dear,” says Candice. “Well, would you like to give Round Two a miss?”

“Yes,” sniffs Cressida pitifully. “There’s terrible negative energy around here. The marquee needs to be cleansed of its heavy aura. Do you have a shaman on staff?”

“Listen, Candice,” butts in Leeza, “some thieving scumbag has stolen my bikini top from my bag. I’m going to have to go out topless. Okay?”

“Noooo!” howls Candice. “It’s not that sort of contest.”

“Tsk,” tuts Claude, watching the brewing chaos. “All that money. No class.”

“Well, this is just wonderful!” shouts Leeza, pointing at Fleur, Claude and me. “Just because I’m in a different league of beauty from these ugly hounds, someone’s sabotaged my chances of winning.”

Candice rolls her eyes and looks at her wristwatch. “So Leeza, are you telling me you’re not competing in the swimwear round? Because I need you to be ready, right now.”

“I’m ready,” smiles Panama, checking her perfect reflection in the mirror and heading for the door. “I was born ready. Catch you later, losers.”

“Well, I’m ready too then,” quacks Leeza. “Abigail, give me that bikini top. I’m wearing it in this round.”

“But I thought it was too small,” Abigail says.

“Shut up,” huffs Leeza, flinging off her dressing gown and beginning to wrestle herself into the groaning top. Leeza’s boobs look like they’re being strangled to death. The left one keeps making a bid for escape, but Leeza keeps pushing it back in while nagging Abigail to tie the clasps tighter around the back. If that bikini top manages to survive one whole round without exploding, it will be miraculous.

“See?” says Leeza, checking herself in the mirror. “Not too shoddy, huh?”

“No, Leeza,” winces Abigail. “You look great!”

“Oh, and incidentally,” says Leeza, as she heads toward the door, “good luck, everyone. Especially you, Ronnie—you’re going to need it.” Leeza nods at my less ample cleavage with a little smirk. “Huh! No prizes for guessing what you’d spend your prize money on.”

But as Leeza passes by, I spot something very, very wonderful indeed. Unbeknown to her, there’s a large patch of brown goo smeared all over the back of her bikini bottom. It smells exactly like chocolate, but it looks like something very, very different.

“Oh my God,” Fleur gasps. “Look! Look at Leeza’s bikini briefs!”

“Ugh,” I howl, laughing till tears ran down my face. “That’s chocolate sauce, right?”

“Right,” winks Claude, with a small self-satisfied grin.

So, okay, “Round Two: Swimwear” is a bit embarrassing.

But not a fraction as embarrassing as it is for Leeza.

Because with the entire crowd cheering and the TV cameras rolling, Leeza trots out onto the stage, sucking in her cheeks like a supermodel, with one hand on her hip and her nose aloft, totally oblivious to the large chocolate stain all over her cream bikini bottoms. As Leeza reaches the photo pit at the front of the stage, where snappers from the Daily Mirror, The Sun, The Star and NME are all gathered, they begin to snigger and point. Rapidly, the news spreads throughout the crowd. Then a slow handclap starts and some comedians begin to shout some rather uncharitable stuff.

“Hey, lady,” yells one lad, as the entire crowd cracks up, “maybe that chicken vindaloo last night was a mistake!”

Leeza blows him an extra-special kiss.

“Hoo hoo!” squeals another girl. “Don’t think your whites would pass any doorstep challenge. Think you need a better detergent!”

“Ha!” beams Leeza, turning to Panama, who’s frantically signaling to her to get the heck off the stage. “See? They love me!”

“Keep the cameras rolling! This is priceless!” yells the MTV director to his cameraman as Leeza proceeds to strut to the front of the stage. She turns around and wiggles her bum suggestively at the camera, sending the crowd wild with glee. But suddenly, Miss Scrumble, who’s been watching this whole pantomime with a thunderous expression, can’t bear the agony a moment longer. She leaps up from behind the judges’ table, whips off her Harris Tweed jacket and scurries toward Leeza, intending to wrap it around the offending chocolate stain.

“Unhand me, you mad old hag!” Leeza squeals, batting her away. Then, somehow in the ensuing tussle, Scrumble manages to garble something into Leeza’s ear, making her stop dead in her tracks. Leeza slowly turns and examines her rear end with a look of growing horror.

The entire crowd falls silent, waiting for Leeza’s reaction. Eventually a deafening scream pierces the air.

“Nooooooo,” Leeza bawls. “Nooooooo! It’s not what it looks like! It can’t be!”

And with the crowd now in fits of hysterics, there’s nothing left for Leeza to do but turn and leg it, trying to cover her bum with both hands as she runs.

After Leeza’s humiliation, walking about in a bikini is a piece of cake by comparison. Claude and I simply throw our shoulders back and laugh our way through the whole thing. And when the judges’ scores come back, Leeza and her chocolate bum have been eliminated . . . and me, Claude and Panama Goodyear have made it through to the final five.

little miss personality

It’s crunch time.

The final “Interview” round.

First up with Lonny is Harbinger Hall’s very own Precious, who, although sickeningly pretty and bodily perfect, is a tad, well, dull. Precious’s interests seem to consist of aerobics, aqua-aerobics, yoga, going to the hairdresser’s and most riveting of all, “collecting teapots.” Thank God someone has a Klaxon horn in the crowd or else we’d all have fallen asleep.

“That was Precious, everyone, give her a big hand!” shouts Lonny, rubbing his eyes. “And next up, let’s hear it for Claude!”

Claude is a different matter entirely, waltzing onto the stage in black hipsters and a hot-pink boob tube, shaking things up by announcing that one day she fully intends to be Claudette Cassiera: prime minister. The crowd really loves that. Especially when Claude announces her parliamentary manifesto, which includes banning balding men from combing their last hairs horizontally across the bald patch; government grants for sparkly lip gloss and nail extensions; and last but not least banning family members over the age of thirty from disco dancing or playing air guitar at weddings!

“Wooooooo! I hear you, sister!” yells one girl while the crowd roars with delight. As Claude totters offstage, we all know she’s made a huge hit.

Next along is Tina from Iceland, who floats onstage in a Hessian smock, carrying some sort of piccolo under her arm, only to tell Lonny that her Demonboard Babe prize money would be donated to War Moggy, a charity that rescues kittens with sore paws from war zones. Tina then grabs the microphone and starts singing “a song for peace” called “Whiskers Across the World.” It isn’t very good. Despite Freaky D and Sebastian Porlock trying to clap their hands supportively, the crowd appears to be turning on her.

“Look out, Tina!” yells Claude as something whizzes a fraction of a millimeter past Tina’s ear and splats all over the stage.

I didn’t realize people could be so accurate when flinging plastic cups of beer. I hope it was beer anyhow.

As Tina shuffles off, Lonny announces the next contestant, Panama Goodyear, who strides onto the stage snapping the straps of her purple bikini, then doing a little pirouette, wiggling her bottom, all to rapturous applause. Even some of Saul’s gang on the front row are cheering wildly.

But that’s the thing with Panama Goodyear—until she opens her big nasty mouth, you never know the hideousness that lies within.

“Hello, Panama,” says Lonny. “And can I just say, you look gorgeous today.”

“Yes, I do, don’t I?” agrees Panama matter-of-factly.

Lonny starts giggling. He thinks she’s being kooky.

“Now, there’s some big prize money up for grabs,” continues Lonny. “What will you do if you win the money?”

“Oh, well,” Panama says, looking slightly distracted. “Don’t know really. How much is it again?”

“It’s twenty thousand pounds,” Lonny reminds her.

“Oh. Not that much then,” shrugs Panama. “I’ll probably pay off my AmEx with it. It took quite a battering last month when Leeza and I did lunch, then hit Bond Street.”

“Ha ha!” laughs Lonny, trying to cup Panama’s waist. “Isn’t she great? Such a dry sense of humor!”

“I don’t like being touched,” says Panama, picking Lonny’s hands off her.

While most of the boys in the crowd are giggling, the girls are simply staring at her, not quite believing she’s real.

“Anyway, Panama, you’re a big hit with the lads today,” says Lonny. “I just wonder, if a normal, everyday boy in the crowd wanted to ask you out, what chat-up line would win your heart?”

Panama looks at Lonny like he’s berserk.

“A normal everyday boy,” repeats Panama. “You’re joking, yeah?”

“Er, no, not really,” stutters Lonny.

“You know who I go out with, right?” coughs Panama. “I’m with Santiago Marre, the international king of pro surfing. I’ve got a green VIP wristband, for God’s sake. I’m a VIP!”

“Oh, whoopie do!” jeers a female voice in the crowd.

“Hey, Panama,” yells a male voice in the front row. “I’m a VIP too! Look!”

When we all look down, all we can see is a pair of bum cheeks mooning Panama from the front row. They appear to belong to Saul’s friend Danny.

“Ugh!” squeaks Panama. “Put that away, you horrible, unwashed pig! See, Lonny, that’s why I don’t mix with commoners.”

And with that Panama turns on her heel and storms offstage, winning the most rapturous applause of the day.

“Just relax, Ronnie,” Fleur tells me as I wait nervously in the wings. “Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, as the crowd cheers and my name is called. “I’ll just be myself, eh?”

“Erm, yeah,” yells Fleur. “Just, y’know, not too much. Good luck!”

Five seconds later, I’m back out onstage, in front of the crowd, as well as millions of people worldwide, with a TV camera almost stuck up my nose.

“Well, hello there, Miss Ronnie Ripperton,” smiles Lonny, wrapping his arm around my waist.

“Oooh, er, howdy!” I laugh, doing a weird military salute.

Noooo! My evil hand, which seeks to destroy me, is coming to life again!

“Having a good time today?” Lonny asks.

“Everything’s just wonderful, thanks!” I beam, my thumb twitching to be held aloft beside my face in a wacky manner.

It won’t get the better of me.

“So, Ronnie,” says Lonny. “What do you do in your spare time? Any hobbies? Sports?”

Hobbies or sports? Errrrrrrm. My mind suddenly goes blank. I used to play a bit of swingball with my dad when I was seven. Noooo! Don’t say that! What do I do in my spare time? Think, Ronnie, think.

“Oooh . . . erm,” I mutter, examining my fingernails. “I’ve not got . . . I mean . . . er . . .”

“She surfs!” shouts a lad’s voice in the front row. It’s Saul! I look down, and all I can see is his crazy brown hair and impish eyes waving back at me.

“Oooh yeah, I go surfing!” I smile, suddenly finding my tongue. “And I play bass guitar. And I love hip-hop and metal. I try to get to a lot of gigs. And I’m into partying and just having a laugh really. Y’know?”

“Wow, Ronnie,” tuts Lonny, “you sound like the perfect woman. You’ll be telling us your dad owns a pub next!”

“Er, he does, actually,” I reply, feeling slightly confused.

“And can I ask what you’d do if you won the Demonboard Babe money?” asks Lonny.

That’s easy. I know that one. “I’m giving it all to my best friend,” I tell him.

“Ha ha! Good one,” laughs Lonny, throwing his head back with a chuckle. The crowd laughs along politely at my little joke.

“No, seriously,” Lonny smirks. “What would you blow it on?”

“I am being serious,” I say, feeling a little indignant. “I’ll give it to my best friend. ’Cos . . . well, she sort of really needs it right now.”

I look to the wings of the stage where Claude and Fleur are standing. Claude winks at me. She looks a little bit emotional.

“Blimey,” says Lonny. “You must be the world’s best mate.”

“Well, I try my best,” I say, feeling a bit puzzled again. “I mean, isn’t that what friends are for? To help each other out when there’s a crisis?”

The crowd isn’t cheering now, though. They’re sort of mumbling among themselves. They obviously think I’m some sort of freak.

I’ve totally blown it.

As I walk off stage, Scrumble, Freaky D and the rest of the judges are in a huddle, arguing furiously. I even hear my name being mentioned a few times, mostly by Scrumble, who doesn’t exactly sound like she’s my biggest cheerleader. She’s obviously telling them what a dishonest, work-shy employee I am, just for good measure.

Eventually, after what seems like forever, Candice passes a gold envelope with the results to Lonny Larson. “And we’re back!” shouts Lonny, signaling to the sound deck to turn down the music. All the original Demonboard contestants are gathered on stage now, Cressida, Abigail and Leeza included.

As Fleur wraps her arms around Claude and my shoulders, my heart’s beginning to thump harder and faster. “Get on with it!” I mutter as Lonny stalls for time, pretending to be having trouble with the envelope.

Finally, he begins to read. “And in third place, winning the It’s a Girl’s World voucher worth five thousand pounds is . . . Precious Elton!”

Precious lets out a huge eardrum-piercing scream, clearly imagining blowing £5000 on Lycra aerobics thongs.

Claude and I look at each other fearfully.

“And in second place,” reads Lonny, “winning a fabulous holiday for two to Barbados is . . . Tina Gunttersdorf!”

What? Miss Save the Kittens has won second place?

As Tina bursts into tears and begins to crank up a song of thanks on her piccolo, Panama swivels around and looks at the LBD with a large grin.

She’s won and everyone knows it. It’s Panama Goodyear, for crying out loud. As if I ever had a chance against her.

“And the Demonboard Babe first prize goes to . . . ,” says Lonny, “with a three-versus-one judge decision . . . Ronnie Ripperton!”

Pardon?

Have we heard that right?

Suddenly everything seems to move in slow motion. Fleur is jumping on me, hugging me and squawking. Panama is jabbing Lonny in the chest and demanding to see his “superior.” Claude is standing by herself in the middle of the stage sobbing. The crowd is cheering and dancing to Warren Acapulco, who’s stuck on his hit track “Undercover Lover” and cranked up the volume on the decks. And somehow in all the bedlam, I’ve ended up clutching a vast five-foot-long cardboard check made out for £20,000.

“Here, Cassiera,” I smile, walking over to my friend and placing it in her arms. Claude looks at me; her face is stained with happy tears. She slowly shakes her head, like she can’t believe what’s happening.

“Thank you, Ronnie,” she says. “Thank you so much.”

“Hey,” I smile. “Told you we wouldn’t let you down.”

party time

It’s time to celebrate!

With Psycho Killa and the entire Mortuary Team just about to hit the stage for a live performance, Saul, Finn Talbot, Claude, Fleur, a dozen of Saul’s surfer buddies and I are trying to exit the Demonboard Babe marquee and follow the crowd to the main soundstage. As our little gang makes its way through the throng, kids are stopping me, wanting their picture taken, hugging me and asking me to record voice-mail messages on their mobile phones. I sign an autograph for some girls from Wales while Claude scoots off to give an “exclusive” to her journalist friend from The Mirror whom she met at the pool yesterday. Apparently, he wants the LBD lowdown on our fight to stop her move to Mossington.

We reach the main stage area, and it’s absolute bedlam, with thousands of kids jumping and yelling to the familiar opening bars of Psycho Killa’s “Graveyard Time.” As some loud samples of machine-gun fire boom out, the entire crowd begins chanting Psycho Killa’s catchphrase “Bag you up! Bag you up!” while the rest of the Mortuary Team leaps onto the stage, clutching mikes and shouting all sorts of hilarious nonsense.

We reach the outer fringes of the main crowds, and I turn to make sure Fleur is still with us. Behind me, my blonde chum is standing looking rather perplexed, examining a small white piece of cardboard in her hand.

“You okay, Fleur?” I shout above the din.

“Yeah, think so,” Fleur replies, looking at the card again before passing it to me.

The card reads

CATRIONA LEESON

BOOKER, NEW FACES DIVISION
MILLION DOLLAR MODELS (LONDON)
TELEPHONE: 020 7 323 766665

“Where did you get this?” I shout.

“This girl came up to me backstage, when I was waiting for you guys,” yells Fleur. “She asked me to stand in front of the dressing room door, with a white background behind me, snapped a Polaroid of me and then gave me this. Says I’ve got to ring her.”

“Fleur!” I laugh. “That’s amazing!”

“Is it?” asks Fleur, looking a little puzzled. “I mean, does that mean I’ve been, like, scouted? ’Cos I thought it would be more, y’know, official . . . or something.”

Fleur stands for a few more seconds, reexamining the card with a small look of growing excitement on her face.

“Yes!” I scream, almost drowning out Freaky D, who appears to be throwing around a vial of fake blood and doing a little war dance with an ax. “That’s what happens when you’ve been scouted, you great nork!”

Fleur’s mouth falls open as I throw myself upon her for a hug. “I knew it!” she chortles, folding up the card and sticking it into her jeans pocket before dancing off into the crowd. “I knew it, Ronnie! My time has come!”

“C’mon, Veronica,” yells Saul, taking my hand and trying to pull me farther into the crowd where all the rest of our group are standing. But in my jeans pocket, I can feel my phone vibrating. Probably Mum, I think, wanting to congratulate me. I gesture to Saul to give me five, before wandering off outside the marquee.

“Helloooo?” I shout, sticking my finger in my other ear, battling my way through the crowd.

“Ronnie?” says a male voice.

“That’s me,” I say. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Jimi,” he says. “Jimi Steele.”

I freeze.

I feel like you must four seconds after jumping from an airplane.

“Errrr . . . what . . . erm . . . what do you want, Jimi?” I say, wandering behind a hot-dog stand where it’s quieter.

“I just called to say hi,” he says in an odd voice I barely recognize. “My mate Naz rang, says he saw you on TV this morning, with your, erm, friend.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a little winded.

There’s an awkward silence. What am I supposed to say now?

“So, how . . . er, are you?” I ask.

“Not so good,” he says drably. “It’s been one pretty lame summer. As I’m sure you’ll agree.”

No, I don’t agree, actually. It has been the best summer of my entire life.

Something in Jimi’s voice sounds like he’s inviting a deep, heavy conversation. The same one I ached for when I sat on his garden wall all those months ago feeling sick with heartache. But now that it’s available, it just seems futile. I’m cured.

“So, Jimi, how’s Suzette?” I say, allowing a soupçon of bitterness to creep into my voice.

“Er . . . oh,” stutters Jimi, sounding put on the spot. “That sort of fizzled out. She’s been training loads for this charity half marathon with Miles Boon, y’know . . . they’ve been spending weekends together while I was working at Wacky Warehouse and . . .”

Jimi’s voice trails off. A small grin creeps across my face. “She dumped you for Miles Boon,” I say plainly.

“No! I wasn’t dumped,” argues Jimi. “It’s more that—”

“She dumped you for Miles Boon,” I repeat. Then I throw my head back and laugh, rather more cruelly than my normal persona would allow, but heck, this feels so good.

“I’m glad I amuse you, Ronnie,” Jimi mumbles crossly.

I want to tell him exactly why this is so amusing, but it really is time for me to go. In the distance, I can see Saul’s silhouette at the door of the marquee, beckoning for me to hurry up and watch Psycho Killa’s final track.

“Look, Jimi, what did you call for?” I say rather brusquely. “Was there a point?”

“Oh . . . erm,” he stutters, floundering for words. “Okay. Well, I called because I’ve been thinking about me and you.”

“Thinking what exactly?” I say.

“Thinking about what we threw away,” Jimi says, without a hint of irony. “ ’Cos, y’know, we really loved each other, didn’t we, Ronnie? And, well, I just think we could work through this rough patch. I mean, all those annoying things you do, I can turn a blind eye to them. ’Cos that’s what love’s about, isn’t it?”

By this point, I can’t really think of a fitting, succinct reply to Jimi that would communicate how I feel about that last remark. And besides, he’s wasted too much of my time already.

“Jimi, I’m putting the phone down now,” I tell him calmly. “Will you do me a huge favor?”

“Anything,” Jimi says.

“I’d like you to erase my number from your phone,” I say, “and never call me again. Ever.”

“But Ronnie, I—” he begins to yell as I turn off my phone and place it into the pocket of my jeans. I think this could be what writers talk about in those serious Cosmopolitan magazine relationship articles when they talk about “having closure.”

“You’re a total one-off, you are,” Saul tells me as we stand on the sand right at the back of the crowd, watching Dita Murray and the Scandal Children’s set. It’s dusk and the Booty Quake crowd is growing even larger as people finish work and flock down to join the beach party.

“What do you mean?” I ask, blushing slightly.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he tells me. “You get your heart set on something and you just do it. Y’know, all that business with Claude? And learning to surf? And taking a chance on me when you found me in your attic? You’ve just got spirit, y’know?”

I look at Saul. Not only is he utterly gorgeous, but stuff drops out of his mouth quite naturally that no one has ever said to me before but I’ve always dreamed of.

He really is the most perfect creature I’ve ever met.

And he’s moving to the total opposite side of the hemisphere.

I take a deep breath and decide to say what’s really on my mind. “Look, can I ask you a serious question?” I say.

“Go on,” he says.

I pause for a while, wanting to wimp out.

“Do you think we can stay in touch when you go to Australia?” I ask. This is me being very brave. I know full well that “being free” is Saul Parker’s life philosophy. It’s risky to make any demands.

Saul is silent for a while. Then he sighs and looks down at his feet. “Long-distance relationships suck, Veronica,” he says quietly.

“Mmm, yeah, I know,” I nod, doing my best unbothered face.

Then Saul turns and looks at me oddly. He smooths his hand over my hair and looks me right in the eyes.

“Look, Veronica,” he says, “I’ve got a ten-thousand-pound check here in my pocket. It’s the most money I’m ever likely to have in my entire life. All I want to do is buy a ticket to Australia, then buy a VW camper. Then I’m going to roam about the world surfing and going to beach parties.”

“Yeah,” I smile, feeling a tiny lump growing in my throat. “I always knew that. Don’t worry.”

It sounds like a marvelous plan. I can’t begrudge him for not wanting to get involved.

Saul grabs my hand and wraps his fingers around it tightly. “So come with me?” he asks.