Live and Fabulous!

by Grace Dent

  Paddy’s silvery-grayish crew cut seems to bristle with fury. “Pah! That mad old goat? Well, he clearly hasn’t got teenage daughters, or he’d have sympathized with my plight! I should’ve got a medal, not a police caution!”

  Poor Mr. Swan. He’s still getting over catching Fleur’s ex-boyfriend, Tarrick, climbing through her bedroom window at 3 A.M. last January.

  Ouch! Fleur’s little Romeo and Juliet fantasy hadn’t included ear-shattering burglar alarms, swarms of police cars, all the neighbors out in their gardens in their pajamas and Paddy Swan being cautioned for threatening a fifteen-year-old boy with a golf club. He was in the Local Daily Mercury and everything.

  POLICE TAKE DIM VIEW OF LOCAL VIGILANTE

  As Paddy rants on and on, my father stares at him, trying to find noncommittal words that won’t get him into trouble with anybody. Dad’s probably feeling very much like I do when I’m summoned into the Swans’ lounge with its cream carpet, fawn curtains and masses of sandy leather furniture and luxurious objets d’art scattered precariously—that is, scared to exhale in case he leaves a grubby smear somewhere. How do they live like this? Our house has got clutter everywhere. No wonder they try to keep Josh quarantined in his bedroom.

  “Cuh. Britain today, eh?” Loz eventually remarks while Paddy rambles on, ignoring him.

  “I mean, for crying out loud,” splutters Paddy. “Me? Patrick Swan? Leaping around a community center with a dozen other stressed executives learning anger management!?”

  Paddy shakes his rather purple face crossly. “Tell them, Saskia! I’m not an angry person, am I?”

  “Of course you’re not, darling,” Saskia agrees serenely. Saskia’s the kind of woman who can wear cream trousers like that all day long without getting a blob of marmalade down the front of them. In the far corner sits Gloria Cassiera, clad in one of her scary business outfits: smart navy suit and shiny black court shoes. Claude’s mum is secretary to the best solicitor in town, so she always looks really smart. She’s one of those people who really loves her job, y’know, really embraces the whole idea of loafing about, slurping tea and hiding from their accountant. “Isn’t anyone eating the nibbles?” asks Saskia, pointing at the table of expensive-looking stuffed olives and vegetable tempura before her.

  “I will in a moment,” says Gloria. Gloria’s keeping a serene silence over the whole Tarrick incident, although she knows the story better than all of us, having been the main peace negotiator in the days after the spat. Not only did she let Fleur sleep over at the Cassiera house while the dust settled, but she even swung by the Swans’ house with a bottle of rum and homemade banana bread, somehow sweet talking Paddy out of putting Fleur up for adoption. Apparently Paddy became much more affable after several cocktails. Fleur was home in time for supper.

  Over by the drinks cabinet, Daphne Swan is fixing Paddy a shaken-not-stirred martini in a fancy glass with a sliver of lemon peel.

  “I thought he was a bloody burglar!” Paddy says again.

  Claude and I step gingerly into the room, perching on the three dining room chairs that Paddy has arranged in the middle of the den.

  Fleur flounces in after us, not acting in the least humble and coy like we’d expressly requested.

  “A burglar? Really, Father?” Fleur announces. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard that story. Ooh, please! Again, again!” she says, clapping her hands.

  “Fleur, try not to rile Daddy,” husks Saskia rather pointlessly.

  “Button it, Fleur!” hushes Claude.

  “Yeah, big mouth, shut your trap!” tuts Daphne.

  “No, you shut up, Daphne duck eyes!” squeals Fleur.

  Paddy stares momentarily at his warring daughters with an irate look. Then his face seems to soften. He looks almost happy ... as if he’s just envisioned himself in a quieter, idyllic place.

  Weird.

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” says Paddy, putting down his drink. “And I’ll chair this meeting, if there are no objections.”

  Paddy loosens his tie and looks to the parents. “Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll be keeping this as short as possible, as we’re all busy people. I know the Rippertons have a pub to run ... and Gloria, you have choir practice, don’t you?”

  “I’m singing the lead,” says Gloria, looking at her watch with a little concern.

  “Well, let’s get this one nailed quickly then,” says Paddy.

  The LBD shuffle in our seats uncomfortably. This doesn’t sound good.

  “So, as we all know,” begins Paddy, “our delightful daughters have come into possession of tickets for a two-day pop festival, taking place next Friday over three hundred miles away.”

  “I’ve heard about nothing else,” says Magda, rolling her eyes.

  “Amen to that,” says Gloria with a firm gaze.

  “Now, I don’t know about you, but over the last few days I’ve formed some very strong opinions on this,” says Paddy, beginning to wag his finger.

  “Here we go,” whispers Claude, so quietly only I hear.

  “I’m on the edge of my seat,” says Fleur crossly.

  Everyone stares at Paddy, waiting for him to begin ranting.

  “I believe,” he says, “I believe that this could be a marvelous character-building opportunity for our daughters.”

  Errrr what?

  “In fact, under controlled circumstances, it could be a valuable life lesson that these young women will always refer to in later years,” Paddy enthuses, waving his hands.

  The LBD look at one another in bewilderment. Are we hearing things?

  “However, I also strongly believe,” continues Paddy, flourishing his hands like a stewardess pointing out emergency doors, “that Daphne, my eldest daughter, should accompany the girls for the four-day trip.”

  Daphne bristles with pride. She begins waving her hands too. “I’ve traveled a lot, you see,” she smiles. “In fact, I’ve just got back from Nepal.”

  Fleur opens her mouth, then shuts it again quickly.

  “That’s right, Daphne’s just got back from Nepal,” says Paddy, nodding enthusiastically. “And she’s proven herself to be a very, er, mature and responsible young woman.”

  Daphne’s head is inflating by the second.

  “I feel she’d be the ideal chaperone,” continues Paddy. “With her at the helm my worries would be more than assuaged ... So, in conclusion, I’m saying yes to the girls attending this festival.”

  What?

  Either Paddy’s even more evil twin, who seeks to destroy him, has finally shown up at Disraeli Road, or Paddy Swan is actually fighting in the LBD’s comer. What the bejesus is going on?

  The remaining parents all pause to mull over the news. Gloria Cassiera doesn’t look exactly overjoyed.

  “Well ... pgghh ... that’s your opinion, Paddy,” huffs my mother. “And what do you think, Saskia?”

  Saskia Swan looks rather vacantly at my mother, then pauses as though it’s the first real time she’s thought about the question.

  “Mmm ... ,” she begins. “Well, I suppose I’d be happier if Fleur and Daphne were together in Holland,” Saskia pouts through cosmetically enhanced lips.

  “It’s Joshua who’s going to Holland, darling,” Paddy corrects her. “The girls want to go to Astlebury.”

  “Oh, right ... well, it’s not as if I’ll be here anyway,” says Saskia, patting her washboard stomach. “I’m at a yoga retreat on Friday and Saturday anyway. I’ve got to tone myself up for my trip to Antigua.”

  My mother stares crossly at Saskia, clearly resisting the urge to tell her that she’s a rubbish mother who has already yoga-contorted herself into something that resembles a bag of bones, and that she should be concentrating a lot more on her wayward youngest daughter.

  “Right,” Mum finally says through gritted teeth. “So you’re a yes, then, Saskia?”

  Saskia looks around the room at her daughters and then at Paddy.

  “Well, if they’re all a
t peace, then so am I,” she says in an eerily calm manner.

  “And believe me, I will be extremely peaceful,” mutters Paddy, beginning to rub his hands. Then he thinks better of it and clamps them down by his side.

  My mother doesn’t look too pleased at all. “Whoa! Hang on a minute here, Paddy!” she splutters. “I’m not so sure. I mean, even if Daphne chaperones the girls, they’re still flipping fifteen years old. They’re kids! There would still have to be some pretty stiff ground rules if Ronnie’s going to be out of my sight for four days.”

  Mum turns to Dad. “Wouldn’t there, Loz?”

  “Er, yeah! Certainly, love, ground rules,” repeats Dad, then whispers, “like what, though?”

  “Like the girls have to call home every single day,” says Mum. “And they always stick together and never lose Daphne. And they don’t talk to any weirdos. And no canoodling with boys ...”

  Claude, Fleur and I gaze at her angelically as if these social ills had never crossed our snow-white minds.

  Mum pauses for breath, her brain whirring through a whole myriad of naughty stuff we could get up to.

  “And no smoking!” she adds. “And certainly no drinking ... and no going near anyone who even looks like they’ve taken any kind of drug, and by that I mean any sort of pill, herb, powder, fungus or any other drug invented nowadays that your dad and I haven’t heard of yet.”

  “Ground rules would be compulsory, Magda,” assures Paddy, sounding a lot more like his old self now. “In fact, I could draw up an official contract and the girls could sign it.”

  “I’ll sign it!” beams Claude. Claude looooves contracts.

  “I’m not signing any ... ,” begins Fleur as I poke her sharply in the ribs.

  “We’ll sign it!” Fleur and I both say.

  My mother pauses for a second. She hadn’t bargained on the LBD’s total nonquibbling compliance.

  “So, Mrs. Ripperton, if all this happened,” begins Claude extra carefully, “in theory, you could say yes?”

  “Hmmmph, well,” says my mother, sitting back on the sofa and taking a deep breath, “I never thought I’d hear myself say that, but ... okay, I suppose so, yes.”

  “Just don’t make us eat these words, Ronnie,” says Dad, winking at me.

  Oh my God. I don’t believe this. The Rippertons have caved in!

  I emit what can only be described as a squeak.

  “Yesssss!” hisses Fleur, leaping over and kissing Paddy smack on his stubbly head. “Thank you! You’re the best dad in the whole world ever!”

  I give her one of my looks.

  We promised Claude it was one for all and all for one. Didn’t we?

  “Gloria?” says Paddy respectfully. “What about you?”

  “Come on, Mum, let’s have it,” says Claude quietly.

  Gloria Cassiera looks silently at the entire room. Everyone draws forward to hear. “Well, Claude,” she begins, her posh-British tones smattered with a Ghanaian lilt, “when you told me Daphne was willing to escort you to the festival, I did reconsider the matter. Really. I’ve thought long and hard about it, but it doesn’t change the facts: Astlebury is an adult environment.”

  Claude’s face stiffens, ready for disappointment.

  “Don’t look at me so crossly, Claude,” says Gloria firmly. “Look, this is a big deal for me. I don’t want to stop you having a good time, but you’re my responsibility. How would I feel if anything happened? I couldn’t ... couldn’t live with that.”

  Claude stares at her mum, her eyes beginning to fill up.

  “So anyway,” continues Gloria, “I brought up the matter with my prayer group.”

  Claude rolls her eyes. She’s always grumbling about her mum discussing household problems with that lot.

  “I told them about the great exodus of young people coming together to listen to music,” says Gloria, getting a little more animated. “We talked about the banging of drums and the all-night dancing, and we even talked about the devil and his clever ways of enticing young people ... It was a really rewarding discussion, actually.”

  Gloria’s manner of speech can be very intoxicating. However, Claude’s clearly not in the mood for a sermon right now.

  “Okay! Okay, Mother!” Claude cuts in with slightly exasperated tones. “And which Bible passage did you all decide was the answer to the moral dilemma this time?”

  Gloria stares back at her daughter with a small twinkle in her eye. “Job,” she says.

  “Job?” I mouth at my dad.

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” mouths back Loz, shrugging.

  Claude pauses, then begins casting her mind back through her biblical knowledge. Her nostrils begin to flare.

  “Ooooh, gnnngn, Mother!” she splutters. “If that’s flipping Job twenty, verse eleven, ‘Our bones are full of the sins of our youth’ excuse again, I’m going to get really, really annoyed!”

  This is definitely the most surly I have ever seen Claude be with Gloria in entire recorded LBD history.

  “No, cupcake. Wrong verse, actually,” protests Gloria. “We actually found a wealth of wisdom in Job thirty-eight, verse seven.”

  Claude, for once, is stumped. “Well, I don’t know that one,” she fumes.

  “‘And music filled the courts of heaven’?” says Gloria, jogging her daughter’s memory. “‘As heavenly beings praised our Lord and Creator’?”

  Claude looks at her mum, and a small grin seems to cross her face.

  “‘And when God created the world,’ ” continues Gloria, getting a little more flamboyant, “ ‘the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy’!”

  Gloria finished her quotation, giving her daughter a small sheepish smile.

  Claudette deciphers the code immediately, and a huge grin sweeps over her face as she catapults across the room, throwing her arms around Gloria for a massive cuddle.

  “Okay. What’s happening now?” says Paddy, shaking his head.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Paddy,” apologizes Gloria, spitting out mouthfuls of Claude’s hair. “I’ve decided to say yes. I’m going to place my trust in the girls to be sensible and to stay out of trouble. Claude should go to Astlebury ... I think there’s certainly a place in her life for praising the Holy Father through the power of music and dance.”

  “Oh, hallelujah!” squeals Fleur, leaping up and pirouetting about the living room.

  “Praise be,” mutters Paddy, shaking his head.

  “Thank you, God!” I babble, coming over all religious momentarily.

  We’ve only gone and done it!

  As all the parents and Daphne dissolve into a furious hoohah about rules and restrictionzzzzzz (snore), the LBD spill out onto Fleur’s driveway, whooping and a-hollering and jumping up and down on the spot, chattering furiously.

  “This is soooooo excellent, isn’t it?!” I scream, so loudly that curtains all along Disraeli Road begin twitching.

  Claude is dancing about with a rather shocked expression. “That ... just really ... happened, er, right?!” she says to me.

  “Huh! I knew we’d convince them! I just knew it!” remarks Fleur, grinning mischievously, then taking her voice much quieter. “Ha ha! I mean, imagine us signing a contract to say we’ll be good! Pgghh, have they never heard the old saying ‘rules are there only to be broken’?”

  Claude looks so shocked, I don’t think she’s really taking in what’s been said.

  “And as for that boring big sister of mine,” Fleur whispers directly to me under her breath as Claude twirls around and around, giggling into the distance, “well, let’s not worry about her, Ronnie. We’ll lose her, no bother at all, won’t we?”

  ASTLEBURY BEHAVIORAL CONTRACT

  SUBJECTS:

  Fleur Marina Swan,

  Claudette Joy Cassiera,

  Veronica Iris Ripperton

  We, the undersigned, agree to adhere fully and without deviation to the following specified rules.

  This contract applies to the enti
re duration of our time outside of normal parental supervision:

  1. We agree to stay within proximity of Daphne Swan as much as feasibly possible.

  2. We agree to call home once a day.

  3. We agree not to talk to weirdos.

  4. We agree not to indulge in any form of canoodling with the opposite sex.

  5. We agree not to imbibe alcoholic beverages.

  6. We agree not to even so much as go near anyone who looks as if they might be under the influence of illegal substances.

  7. We agree not to bring the Swan, Ripperton, or Cassiera families under newspaper or television scrutiny because of any manner of irregular activity.

  Signed

  Ronnie Ripperton

  Claudette Cassiera

  Ms. Fleur Swan xxx

  Chapter 4

  packing light

  Of course, once the euphoric, so-psyched-I-could-spew stage subsided, I quickly began stage two: the nail-biting worry phase. I suppose I’ve a tendency to overthink certain situations, especially monumentally ginormous ones like this. My parents can never understand why I get so antsy about stuff like discos and parties. They say stuff like, “You’re only happy when you’ve got something to worry about” and even, “You could find the winning lottery ticket and still have a face like a bulldog eating wasps.”

  But what do parents know, anyway? They have no grasp whatsoever how stressful being fifteen really is. I mean, for crying out loud, I’m on my way to a forty-eight-hour rock ’n’ pop, living-in-a-field, partying-all-night LBD extravaganza ... and I have to be prepared! It’s an absolute minefield of problems. I mean, do I pack all my coolest clothes? Or will they all get stolen from my tent by marauding hooligans? And do I need my full makeup bag? (Executive decision: Yes. I look so hideous when I first wake up, I practically have to draw my face on with a variety of pencils.) And are there proper bathrooms or just yucky porta-toilets? And will the weather be rainy or sunny? Or rainy and sunny? It’s Britain in August, it could do anything. And how is it possible to look cool in a rain suit if a flash flood begins? And should I re-dye my hair deep auburn before we set off, risking a repeat of events on the geography field trip when it leaked down my face during light rain, making me look like an ax attack? And why does every practical item of clothing I own make me resemble a frumpy troll en route to ensnare the Billy Goats Gruff? Sigh.