Live and Fabulous!

by Grace Dent

  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.

  comedy night

  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 ...”

  “Oooh, they all kill themselves, those artistic sorts,” Mum says. “I can’t be doing with sensitive types.”

  “No, I don’t think he ...”

  “Anyway, enough about suicide,” says Dad, picking up a copy of the Local Daily Mercury newspaper and opening it theatrically at the local sports pages at the back. “Now you’re here, you can point out to your mum and me where you’re standing in this group photo!”

  “Eh?” I say.

  “The Blackwell End-of-Year Sporting Achievements Round-up!” smirks Dad, reading the caption beneath a nauseating group shot of jocks and glossy-haired girls holding balls and bats.

  “Ugggghh,” I sigh, tossing my hair moodily.

  “Yeah! Where are you, love?” giggles Mum. “We’ve looked and looked! Which prize did you get?”

  “Prize for invisibility!” guffaws Dad, holding the page up really close to his face. My mother’s laughing so heartily by this point, she has to hold on to the kitchen table to steady herself.

  “Shuttttup,” I groan.

  “Special commendation for sulking!” Mum finally catches her breath to say, before collapsing in fits again.

  “Right! That’s it! I’m going to my boudoir,” I snap. “And I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Oh, well, nice chatting,” says Dad, wiping his eyes. “See ya when you next surface.”

  “Oh, and no writing poetry while you’re in there,” shouts Mum after me. “It’s the slippery slope!”

  “I won’t, don’t worry,” I assure her, flouncing away.

  “Ooh, and Ronnie, before I forget,” says Dad, sticking his head around the kitchen door as I head for my room, “you got a letter today. Dunno who it’s from.”

  “Ooh, we never got that one steamed open, did we?” mutters Mum in the other room.

  Dad winks, then begins searching about on the telephone table, passing me a package.

  “Eh?” I say, looking at the bright red thick envelope with its glamorous London postmark.

  “Oooh, come on then,” says Dad. “Open it!”

  I grab the envelope and scurry into my lair.

  there’s nothing as queer as Polk.

  After putting on my new Kings of Kong CD, I sit down on the bed and begin opening the letter. This is very irregular. Nobody writes to me, ever. As I tear open the outer package, I notice that inside the first large red envelope is a smaller, pale yellow envelope. Upon the yellow envelope, in ink, is written:

  Ronníe Rípperton +3

  Weird. The yellow envelope feels as though it may have something chunky inside it. I put it to one side and concentrate on the piece of white paper. A letter! As I begin reading, my breathing becomes unsteady and my heart begins to beat a big hole thro
ugh my chest. It says.

  WITH COMPLIMENTS OF FUNKY MONKEY MANAGEMENT:

  Hi there, Ronnie! Kari from Funky Monkey Management here!

  Er ... what? Who!? I carry on ...

  Sorry these are so Late. we’re all mad busy over here at the moment and shamefully behind with the passes. Hope these are still of use? I’ve just been going through guest Lists with spike for the August date and he told me about you having hassle getting to his gig Last summer. Spike says he had a great time with the BDL and hopes these make up for it. Also—thank Fleur for tipping him, off about PRIZE being hosted illegally.

  He’s got his Lawyers on the case. Any problems with the passes, just give me a call. see ya soon.

  Kari XXX

  Errrrrrr, eh? What on earth is going on?

  Kari who?! And Spike who?

  Spike?

  SPPPPPPIKE! !

  OH MY GOD! SPIKE SAUNDERS!

  Nooooooo, she can’t possibly mean the Spike Saunders!? I read the letter again, then another time looking for any evidence that this might be a hoax from Liam Gelding or some other satanic being.

  But the letter looks very, very genuine.

  I grab the yellow envelope and carefully rip it open, reaching inside, suddenly feeling a strong urge to go to the toilet.

  Is it possibly possible, even in a parallel wonky universe, that Spike “so beautiful it actually hurts, multimillionaire, Duke of Pop” Saunders actually remembers meeting the LBD (or the BDL, as he puts it) last year, and has got his personal assistant to send us something?

  Surely not.

  From the yellow envelope, I pull out four, thick, shiny gilt-edged pieces of paper with a silver hologram of a tent perched upon a hill glittering on each one. And then I gaze at them, totally spellbound by their majestic beauty.

  Four Astlebury Festival tickets!

  In my hands!

  Four “with compliments of Spike Saunders” Astlebury Festival tickets!!!

  I look at them and begin to laugh.

  And then I begin to really roar.

  And then I lie back on my bed and laugh so flipping much, I actually begin to cry.

  Chapter 3

  full house

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Amazing?!” I laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yep!” I say. “Majorly excellent!”

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

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

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

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

  “Nah. Only us,” I say.

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

  “Yeah. I suppose so,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yeah. Somehow,” I say rather weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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