Live and Fabulous! (8 page)

“What do you mean,
all over,
Fleur? What's all over?” shouts Claudette, trying to catch up with the blonde bombshell as she clip-clops rather briskly along Lacey Avenue, school bag swinging in the breeze. After the bell, we'd found our chum in the I.T. lab, frantically typing an e-mail to an address I didn't recognize with red-rimmed eyes and a mascara river trickling down her cheek.

“Look, calm down a second, petal,” says Claude, cupping an ebony arm around Fleur's willowy waist. “Tell Auntie Claudette and Uncle Ron what the matter is.”

I draw along beside them and pull out a packet of pocket tissues, passing one to Claude, who begins dabbing Fleur's face as if she were three.

“Fleur Swan ... ,” I begin patiently, “please tell me you've not been posting your photo on that ‘Am I a Hottie or Not?' website again.”

“Oh, surely not!” groans Claude.

Last time Fleur played this game, posting one fairly flattering snapshot of herself on the information superhighway, some anonymous cybergeek in Michigan USA kindly pointed out she was “gawky,” “wore too much lip gloss” and “was probably a total airhead.” We didn't hear the end of it for a week. Of course the eighty-five other voters who gave Fleur the 9/10 “Total Babelicious Minx” rating were totally forgotten in a cybersecond. Sometimes I don't envy Fleur's beauty. She sets herself some fairly high standards.

“No, of course I've not been on that site,” mumbles Fleur. “It's a stupid site anyhow.”

“So what's up?” I ask.

“Hmmm ... It's pretty bad,” sniffs Fleur. “Well ... very bad.”

“Hit us with it,” I say. I prefer my bad news in one quick “punch to the stomach” bulletin. I can't stand waiting about.

“Oh, poo,” sighs Claude, shutting her eyes. “I know what you're going to say. It is all over, isn't it?”

“Yup,” says Fleur. They both stand still, staring at each other. “They're all gone. The Astlebury tickets are completely one hundred percent sold out.”

“Wah! How?” I cry. “What? Like, sold out from the official ticket office?”

Fleur turns to me, wiping her eyes on her school shirt.

“No, like sold out
absolutely everywhere.
It was posted officially on the website at three-thirty P.M. I logged on in I.T. I've been ringing around other box offices ever since, but even then, tickets were vanishing as quickly as I could find them.”

“There has to be another way!” Claude says vehemently, putting her hands on her shapely hips.

“Well, I can't see one, Claudey,” says Fleur. “I mean, I even went on eBay and found this guy called Dave in London who had tickets he wanted to get rid of ... but then loads of other eBay bods began bidding too, and it all got really out of control.”

“How much were they?” I ask gingerly.

Fleur looks at me, and her eyes well up again. “Five hundred and twenty pounds each by the end of school. Oh, and he's got only two.” She sighs. “Well, he did have two. Someone bought them.”

After a period of staring blankly at one another, we carry on meandering along the street. No one knows what to say.

Suddenly, I've got this horrible, panicky feeling that I've no direction in my world anymore.

I've got no school to go to tomorrow.

I've got no Jimi Steele as my boyfriend.

I've got no fantabulous rock 'n' roll LBD adventure to chuck myself wholeheartedly into.

I've got no clue what I'm going to do with the rest of my summer.

Ditto my entire life.

In fact, all I have right now is the LBD ... and neither of them are the feisty, foxy, fighting force that I know so well. They look like wounded soldiers staggering home from battle.

Aaaaaaaagh,
I'm free-falling!

And right that instant, a horridly familiar plummy voice, as soothing as nails scratching a blackboard, splats me back to Earth. “What?” the girl's voice is squealing into her mobile phone. “Her skirt? Oh my God! I know! Did you see that hideous creation she had on in the dining hall today? How cheap and nasty? Jeez, the only label Stacey Hislop wears is ‘non-flame retardant.' Ha ha! What a complete pauper, eh?”

“Uggggh,” I groan.

Fleur jumps slightly, steadying herself quickly and pulling her shoulders back to greet the delightful vision of Panama Bogwash, sashaying home to Goodyear Mansions. Panama hasn't spotted us yet; she's far too engrossed slagging off poor Stacey, a really meek lower sixth girl who always eats by herself, reading a book at lunch. Eventually she sees us all standing in a row, staring at her, and visibly blanches. It's almost as if Panama is terrified that some of the LBD's grubbiness may leap the gap and infect her.

“Afternoon, Panama,” nods Claude bravely.

“Oh, hello, er, Maud ... and er, Ronnie,” says Panama, totally ignoring Fleur as she clips by. Today Panama is wearing an indigo Japanese silk kimono-style blouse, black leggings and pristine white pumps; her trademark auburn bob glistens in the late afternoon sun. Much as I loathe Panama, she probably possesses the most perfect slim figure I've ever seen in real life.

(I told my dad about this once, around the time that Panama snogged Jimi.
Gnnnngnnn,
I can't even think about that time now. Anyway, Dad said I was talking utter pig swill. He said men like women “with a bit of meat on their bones” and not ones like Panama who look like they'd have to run around in the shower to get wet. He also pointed out that Panama has slightly too many teeth for her mouth. “Well, I wouldn't give her a bite of my apple, that's all I'm saying,” Dad shuddered. “It'd be like sharing it with a racehorse.” My dad's totally brilliant sometimes.)

“So anyway,” Panama continues to bark into her phone, snub nose aloft, “if you want to swing by later, Leeza, please do. My mother's manicurist is calling between six and eight, and I'm having the full French works and tips ... Actually, now that I think about it, you definitely should too. You've got hands like a Russian dockworker at the moment. Abigail and I were laughing about it earlier.”

Panama seems to raise her voice slightly at this point, as if she really wants us all to hear her as she walks away.

“Oh, and best of all, if you round up the gang, I can give out the Astlebury tickets too! Daddy says they arrived today!”

Claude, Fleur and I all gaze at one another glumly. In an instant Panama Goodyear vanishes, leaving a sickening waft of Coco Chanel eau de parfum in her wake, as well as a macabre silence.

“Well, all this really messes up my chances of meeting Spike Saunders again and marrying him,” mutters Fleur eventually, with a forced smile.

She's only half joking here.

“I think I'm the most gutted about missing the Kings of Kong,” I say to no one in particular. “They confirmed they're playing this week. They're totally amazing.”

I suppose I'll just be listening to them in my bedroom now.

“It's not just missing the bands that I'm upset about,” says Claude. “And if Panama wants to go, well, good bleeding luck to her ... I'm narked about not going away to Astlebury with you two. This was just going to be like the most fabulous LBD fandango ever ... wasn't it?”

“Yup,” I say.

“Yeah,” whispers Fleur. “Look, don't, Claude, you'll make me cry again.”

Sometimes Fleur's a bit like one of those fey female characters in a Victorian period drama; once she's tearful, the slightest maudlin word can open the floodgates.

“Okay, let's try to snap out of this,” says Claude, clapping her hands as if to signify the end of feeling sorry for ourselves.

And failing miserably.

“So ... anyone fancy coming to mine for coffee and cake? My mum made a Victoria sponge yesterday that's about as big as a castle.”

Fleur and I look a bit shell-shocked. That's the power of Panama.

“Oh, c'mon,” says Claude. “Mum would love to see you. Hey, and Mika bought that new Carmella Dupris remix album on Saturday. You've got to hear track two—it's excellent!”

I shake my head, “No ta, Claude. Gonna go home.”

“Nah, thanks,” says Fleur grumpily, walking off. “Gotta get home and do my chores, haven't I? Oh, and of course, I've got to listen to Daphne yaddering on about her wonderful fun-filled existence. I mean, why do I need a life when I can hear all about hers?”

“Oh ... okay then,” says Claude disappointedly. “Well ... see ya both, er, soon, eh?”

“Yeah, see you, er ... later,” I say, turning the corner alone to the Fantastic Voyage and commencing my trudge toward ... well, now I come to think about it ... toward absolutely nothing.

It was just my luck, Chuckles and Co. were upstairs in the kitchen when I got home. Both Mum and Dad were taking a breather, Dad bouncing Seth on top of his denim-clad knee, while Mum leafed through a
Brewers Trade
magazine, making uncharitable remarks about other local bartenders.

“She's got a face like a ferret peering through jelly, that woman at the King's Head, hasn't she, Loz?” says Mum, pointing at a woman with a huge pair of bazonkas, clad in a skintight, low-cut top.

“Ha ha! You're not wrong, love. But who looks at her face?” laughs Dad.

“True, Lawrence,” agrees Mum, slurping her tea.

“Oooh, who's this? I think this might be our number one daughter home to see us!” announces Dad, noticing me standing glumly in the doorway.

“Aha! It is!” He laughs. “And look, she's full of the joys of summer already!”

I gaze at them, then sigh deeply.

“Well, Loz,” laughs Mum, looking at her watch. “She's been on her summer break for over half an hour now. She'll no doubt be bored.”

“Bored and broke,” adds Dad, checking his back pocket for his wallet.

“Every time I see her at the moment, I feel like I've been mugged.”

Believe me, they really can be this funny all day long. I don't know how I get anything done.

“Oh, pumpkin,” Mum says to me, rearranging the neckline on her very trendy off-the-shoulder vertical print top, “how is my little ray of sunshine? How was your last day?”

“Hmmm, okay-ish. ‘T'sovernowanyhow,” I mumble.

“Huh. I bet that McGraw's got a big clean-up job to do,” chuckles Dad. “I saw loads of egg-splattered kids running down high street.”

“Hmmm. S'pose so,” I say.

Dad's dress sense is much more predictable. Mottled jeans, old T-shirts, smelly sneakers, sandy hair sticking up in flyaway points—he's actually genetically incapable of looking smart. Even when Dad wears a suit and tie, he just looks like a tramp making an effort for a court appearance.

“So, any big plans for the summer?” asks Dad.

“Gnngn,
mmm ... not now,” I huff, opening food cupboards and staring into them. I do this every night. Mum calls it “the cupboard ritual.”

“Ooh, brace yourself, Loz,” says Mum. “Looks like we're in the midst of a word shortage. She's playing that teenager game again. The longer our sentences are, the shorter hers become!”

“Oh, I like this one!” chuckles Dad, warming to the theme. “Sooooo, Ronnie ... any word from that boyfriend of yours?”

“
Pghhhgh
,” I grunt, opening the fridge and staring at a yogurt.

“That wasn't even a word!” says Dad. “She's good at this, isn't she, love?”

“She's the best,” says Mum quite genuinely. “A real chip off the old block.”

Eventually, the will to speak is too strong. “Y'know, you two really get on my nerves!” I tell them. “I mean, has it ever occurred to you that I can't get a word in edgewise for your incessant wittering?”

“Hurray, Magda! She spoke! We rule!!” cheers Dad, high-fiving Mum.

“Fogies one, teenager zero!”

I can't help laughing at them now.

Mum looks at me, realizing I'm genuinely upset tonight. “Awww ... what's up, my little precious?” she says soppily. “Tell us what's troubling you.”

“I'm okay, really,” I tell them. “Just a bit, er, melancholy.”

“Cool word,” says Dad, spooning mushed banana into Seth's gob. “What's that mean?”

“I don't know exactly,” I confess. “I think it means sort of thoughtful, but in a kind of sad way. It was in a poem I learned at school. By Keats.”

“Didn't he kill himself?” says Mum, drawing fangs on the King's Head bartender's photograph.

“Mmm, no, he died of ...”