Live and Fabulous!

by Grace Dent

  “But I was fine! I was partying with the Kings of Kong in here!” Fleur says.

  “Oh, you were fine, were you?” growls Claude. “Well, while you’ve been being fine, we’ve had police sniffer dogs looking for you! Oh, and Sky News has been showing your Year Seven Blackwell school photo since six A.M.!”

  Fleur’s face turns green. “Not the one where I’ve got a wonky fringe and a sweaty forehead!” she whispers.

  Claude glares at her, torturing her for a few seconds.

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” says Fleur anxiously. “You didn’t call the police really, did you? Or Paddy?”

  Claude flares her nostrils a little, making her sweat a tad longer.

  “Okay, Fleur, we didn’t,” she says. “But we very nearly did. We covered for you instead. We’ve even lied to Daphne and that’s not on!”

  “Oh, mmm, yeah ... Daphne,” Fleur says sheepishly, as if it’s beginning to dawn on her what she’s put us through. Fleur’s eyes begin to fill up a little. “Look, I’m really, really sorry, girls,” she says. “Truly, I am. I got a bit carried away, you know, once I got in here and met everyone. And the phone network’s broken so I couldn’t call anyone. And then I met the Kings and ...”

  “Oh, just button it, bimbo, and give me a hug,” tuts Claude, fighting to suppress a small smile. “I’m so flipping relieved you’re alive, Fleur!”

  Fleur gives Claude a big warm hug and a kiss.

  Thank God they’ve made up—that was going to be one long, silent car journey home.

  “So anyway,” says Fleur, untangling herself from Claude’s muddy raincoat. “I take it we don’t have to rush right back to Daphne, do we?”

  Claude and I look to each other for consent.

  “Well, maybe we could stay just a little while longer,” I suggest, eyeing the buffet. “I’m famished.”

  “Me too,” says Claude, licking her lips.

  “Hurray!” says Fleur. “But, er, before that, I was just thinking maybe you two could fit in a quick restyle.”

  “A restyle? What do you mean? What’s wrong with us?” says Claude awkwardly.

  “Er ... not much,” begins Fleur. “It’s just that right now you remind me of that old lady who used to live in the hedge behind the tennis courts. And, well, we all know what happened to her, don’t we?”

  “No,” says Claude.

  “She got locked up, Claude,” says Fleur seriously.

  i’m ready for my close-up

  In less than an hour, I barely recognize the Veronica Iris Ripperton standing before me in the mirror.

  Trust Fleur to have not only ingratiated herself with the Kings of Kong and all of their girlfriends, who seem to view her as a tiny protégé, but to have infiltrated the enemy camp too, becoming all chummy with the fashion stylist Hazel Valenski. Hazel, who’s been flown over to the UK by the Kings of Kong’s New York record label to style them for tonight’s gig, is hiding away from her enemies in the wardrobe marquee next door to where we found Fleur. Hazel was surrounded by racks of expensive designer dresses, astounding hats, fabulous shoes and handbags you’d probably slit your own throat for. As Fleur dragged us into Hazel’s lair, the fashion legend was sucking a jujube and echinacea smoothie through a twirly straw and grumbling about the “demented skeleton” Tabitha Lovelace, who she’d heard was in the VIP “bustin’ her chops about Curtis Leith.”

  “Jesus! I am so over her freakin’ ugly boyfriend!” Hazel yelled to a passing makeup artist. “The papers just made all that rubbish up anyway!” she moaned. “But hey, if Tabitha pops in for a touch-up, you better get that antiseptic concealer stick out. Her acne looks set for another flare-up. That’s quite an unfortunate situation for the face of La Rivess cosmetics, don’t you think?”

  The makeup artist cracked up, laughing at Hazel’s bitchiness.

  “Hey, Hazel!” shouted Fleur.

  “Hey, Lost Girl! What’s new?” smiled Hazel, the platinum blonde streak in her curly brown Afro reverberating as she spoke.

  “Ooh, I’m not lost anymore!” laughed Fleur. “I found my friends! This is Ronnie and Claude. They sort of need a bit of Hazel magic on their look though. Could you help them out too?”

  Hazel stared at our bedraggled clothes, raised an eyebrow, then began to roar. “I’m a stylist, not a magician!” she hooted, standing up and browsing through a nearby rail. “But I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Great!” smiled Claude.

  “But first of all, you both need showers,” Hazel said, throwing us towels. “I don’t even put trash that smells like you two outside my apartment, because it lowers the tone of the neighborhood.”

  Claude and I blushed furiously.

  “Hey, and you girls better bring this stuff back! Or I’m gonna be in trouble! If I lose any more clothes, Venus Records will fly me back to New York cattle class. And Hazel Valenski does not do cattle class! What does Hazel not do?”

  “Cattle class!” we all yelled as Hazel began passing us armfuls of incredible outfits. I had my eye on some black Dolce and Gabbana trousers with silver studs and an emerald green Gucci vest with a silver butterfly on the shoulder, verypopstarrish.com!

  After a hot shower (bliss!) and a snuggle in some extra-fluffy dressing gowns, the LBD grabbed our outfits and moved into the makeup area, where tons of dancers, backing singers and TV presenters were begging the makeup girls and boys to disguise last night’s partying with under-eye concealer gloop and light-enhancing lotions.

  We grabbed seats and waited our turn on the beauty conveyer belt, bristling with glee as first one lady dabbed us with foundation, then shooshed us with a massive brush festooned with shimmery glitter. Then a hairstylist appeared, back combing and straightening various sections of our hair. My hair was titivated into a sort of 1950s quiff with funky bunches!

  It looked totally marvelous! I’d never be able to do this myself at home!

  And while all this went on, a manicurist gave me a neat French nail transformation with a tiny red heart inset into each cuticle!

  So when I finally reach a full-length mirror, I can barely believe my eyes.

  I look really... WOW!

  Not that I’m one to blow my own trumpet but ... hang on just one moment ...

  (gets out LBD trumpet)

  HONNNNNK HONNNNNK!

  I look flipping marvelous! We all do!

  Claude resembles a mini Carmella Dupris, clad in black suede trousers, coordinated snakeskin ankle boots and a fitted purple top, while Fleur’s made another costume change because she’s fallen in love with a pale pink, sparkly girlie frock with a lacy skirt and spaghetti straps.

  Of course, all the way through our restyle, Fleur nattered away, filling us in on “the lost hours” about how she tumbled off a biker dude’s shoulders headfirst during Color Me Wonderful’s set and nearly got trampled to death in the mosh pit. Apparently, the crowds seemed to rally together and pass her over the safety barrier, where she wound up in the VIP medical area with Zander Parr, who was getting burn treatments on his nether regions. Finally, after the nurse certified her well, Fleur found herself in the VIP marquee, where she sat quietly for ages (no, I didn’t believe that part either), waiting to be forcefully ejected. But nobody threw her out. In fact, everyone was really friendly! “So then I started chatting with some executives from Big Benson Records in L.A.,” Fleur told us, “and I confessed to them that I was an intruder, because, like, they were all big and tough and gangster-rap and I felt like a bit of a wuss. But they said I wasn’t an intruder at all! I had a VIP pass like everyone else! I was a VIP, for crying out loud! That’s when I realized what Spike had done.”

  “And did it occur to you at any point, you great twit, to come and find us!?” nagged Claude.

  “Of course!” sighed Fleur. “I planned to! But then things got really, really crazy. I mean, first Carmella Dupris had a little private after-show party right here in the marquee. And Million Dollar Mark DJ’d!”

  Claude scowled at Fl
eur.

  “And then there was a huge rumpus because some boring bods from the Astlebury Parish Council in tweed jackets with corduroy patches on the elbows tried to have Zander Parr arrested for being nude on stage. We all had to argue with them to let Zander stay.”

  “Oh, that’s fine then,” grumped Claude.

  “Claude, stop sulking!” protested Fleur. “I was just about to leave right then. But then the Kings of Kong’s Winnebago showed up and the whole entourage piled out and the party really kicked off!”

  I had to laugh. Fleur was really trying hard to do “humble” and “regretful.”

  It was not working.

  “Anyway, what did I have to come back for?” Fleur scoffed. “Claude, you were copping off with Damon. And Ronnie! You were with that Joel. I was a total gooseberry!”

  Ouch ... I knew that was coming.

  “Hah! Well, you soon put a stop to that, didn’t you?” snapped Claude, slightly guiltily.

  “And I wasn’t with Joel,” I protested. “I didn’t even snog him!”

  “What ... really?” gasped Fleur. “You haven’t snogged him? Well, you should have by now, you total clot! He’s totally gorgeous and obviously fancies you like mad!”

  I wanted to argue with her, but I couldn’t. Joel is totally gorgeous.

  “For heaven’s sake, Ronnie!” squealed Fleur, shaking her head. “How have you not snogged him yet? What is wrong with you, woman?”

  I pondered Fleur’s words for a second, but the truth is, I don’t really know.

  vera the fearless

  A tremendous buzz is growing in the VIP enclosure.

  Makeup artists and stylists are jittering around, whispering and giggling. Dancers and singers are ladling on extra lip gloss and perfecting their man-catching pouts. Everyone’s nudging each other, eyes as wide as saucers, ogling the door expectantly.

  “He’s here!” gibbers a young waitress excitedly to her pal.

  “He’s walking in now!” barks an MTV producer to Chloe Kissimy. “Make sure you get that exclusive!”

  “Yes, it’s definitely him getting out of the helicopter!” shouts a Midnight Mayhem columnist to her colleague. “Which supermodel flew down with him, Fifi or Lily? We need it for tomorrow’s headline!”

  “Talent walking through!” yells a burly security guard into his mouthpiece.

  “Hee hee!” beams Fleur, grabbing our hands tightly. “Spike Saunders is here!”

  Claude and I freeze.

  Spike Saunders, the guy who is responsible for us being here, is going to be in this very room any second. We hadn’t bargained on having to actually meet him again!

  We haven’t planned our “spontaneous” small talk!

  Aggggghhhh!

  And we’re not going to get a chance either, because right that second, a plethora of pretty people, most of whom are regulars in Red Hot Celebs magazine, roll into the marquee. There’s Fenella Tack, Spike’s hard-as-nails manager; Tasha, his makeup artist; Krafty, his hairstylist; Bobby Bean, Spike’s wardrobe mistress; and more than a dozen different bouncers. Walking behind them is Spike’s little brother Caleb (who played one of the lead zombies in Zombie Killer IV). Caleb’s chatting with Spike’s personal assistant, Lewis, and Spike’s personal helicopter chauffeur, Parker Hendry. Somewhere in the middle of the madness, moving far more slowly and with strikingly less self-importance than his staff, is Mr. Spike Saunders, looking even more fabulously scrummy and swoonsome than last time we met him!

  “Oh, wow!” says Fleur, 101 percent bedazzled.

  “Ahhhhh!” sighs Claude as Spike’s entourage flounces snootily past.

  Security guards are busying themselves ejecting lesser mortals from the sofas, claiming that it’s all reserved for Spike’s crew. Lewis, Spike’s P.A., slumps down on one, clicking his fingers at a waitress. “We need water here! Now!” he says, brimming with arrogance. “Not sparkling or still, mind. I need gently carbonated Peruvian mountain water. It was on Spike’s hospitality prerequest form. And make sure it’s chilled to no less than ten degrees!”

  Lewis roots around in his ... well, it’s a handbag, to be honest. “Here, take my thermometer!” he says.

  The waitress scurries away as a Midnight Mayhem girl sidles closer to the sofas, attempting to have a word with Spike, who’s sitting quietly, playing a game of Snake on his mobile phone.

  “Er, excuse me, Spike,” begins the reporter, brandishing her notepad, “how was the helicopter flight down here today?”

  “Don’t crowd the artist!” screams Spike’s manager, Fenella. “And no unsolicited questions! All press requests must be faxed to Spike’s management in Los Angeles and approved by Selena Kanchelskis, head of artist relations at Silver Shard Records! Move away, please!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, he’s sitting right there!” huffs the columnist, stomping off.

  Spike gazes upward, sees the altercation and slumps farther down into his seat. The whole room is pretending not to stare, as it’s sooo uncool to rubberneck, but frankly, it’s dead fascinating watching him breathe. The bloke sells out 100,000-seat stadiums from London to L.A. to Sydney. So why does he look so depressed? He must have more money than he knows what to do with!

  Just then an additional figure staggers into the VIP room, shedding some light on Spike’s sad countenance.

  “It’s Twiggy Starr,” says Claude behind her hand, “and he looks absolutely wrecked.”

  If gossip columns are to be believed, Twiggy, Spike’s lead guitarist and childhood friend, is on the brink of being fired. Red Hot Celebs ran a story only last week saying he’s been cutting sound checks, arguing with Spike and showing up for gigs so inebriated he’s unsure which end of the guitar to strum. And now that I’ve seen him, it’s pretty believable.

  “Kari, where’s the bar?” slurs Twiggy to the blonde-haired American girl propping him up. Not only does Twiggy have cornflakes and chocolate sauce in his curly black hair, but his nose is bright red. Kari, who sent us the tickets, seems to be supervising him.

  “Sorry, Spike,” mouths Kari. “I took my eyes off him for ten seconds and he did a runner. I’ll get him some coffee. Lots of coffee.”

  “It’s not your fault, Kari,” sighs Spike. “You’re doing your best.”

  Spike’s manager, Fenella, eyes Twiggy with a glare of unadulterated revulsion.

  “Hey, we should go and say hello to Spike!” says Fleur, gleefully missing the palpable tension.

  “Nooooo, Fleur!” I tut. “Leave it! Let’s just be glad we’re here. We don’t need to hassle him.”

  “Ronnie’s right, Fleur,” agrees Claude, as Twiggy crashes backward from his spot at the bar, taking out two coffee tables behind him with a tremendous crash. The Midnight Mayhem girls grin deviously, grabbing their notebooks.

  “Pick him up now!” Fenella barks at the security guards.

  In the ensuing chaos, Fleur shoots through the fortress of Spike’s staff, pitching up right in front of the pop star with her hands on her hips.

  “Spike!” she says. “It’s me, Fleur! Do you remember me?”

  Spike Saunders looks up and squints at Fleur. He looks a little confused.

  Claude and I hold our breath, bracing ourselves for the most humiliating knock-back of all knock-backs.

  Gnnnngnnn!

  He stares for a few excruciating moments longer, then chucks back his head and howls. “Ha ha! It’s you! The BDL girl, isn’t it?” he roars.

  “The LBD! That’s right! You remember us, don’t you?!” laughs Fleur.

  “Do you want me to remove her?” barks a security mutant. “I’ll have her thrown out.”

  “No, I don’t want you to remove her. I want you to find her friends!” laughs Spike. “You’ve brought the other two trouble-makers, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, Ronnie and Claude! They’re over there!” points Fleur.

  Hurray!

  In a show-biz blink, we’re on the sofas, sitting with the Spike Saunders! Everyone in the room s
eems to be whispering, “Who are they? Are they a girl band? Who are the LBD?”

  Hee hee hee!

  “Well, helloooo, young ladies,” chortles Spike Saunders. “Long time no see!”

  “It’s been a whole year,” I giggle.

  “A whole year already?” he laughs, displaying rows of freakishly perfect white teeth. “We toured America all winter and the Far East all spring, so the time’s just really flown by for me.”

  “Wow! So have you not been home at all?” says Claude.

  “No. Not really,” he says a tiny bit sadly.

  “Like, not even to change your pants?”

  Spike laughs heartily. “Well, I’ve got an underwear roadie,” he winks, “so don’t worry. Even if I get hit by a truck in Arlington, Virginia, my underwear will be fresh for the emergency room staff.”

  “So, are you, like, still nervous about stuff like the gig tonight?” I ask, trying to think of a sensible question not involving Spike’s pants.

  Spike glances apprehensively at Twiggy, sighing a little. “Well, not about my role in it, Ronnie,” he says. “It’s the random factors I worry about. We’re playing all of our new tracks for the first time tonight, you see.”

  “Oh,” we all say.

  Does Spike really think that Twiggy is fit to headline Astlebury?

  “So how’s school going, then?” says Spike mischievously. “Did things ever get back to normal after that summer fête you had? That was pretty, er, wild, wasn’t it?”

  “Our principal’s still on medication over it all,” says Fleur. “He’s still really mad about the police needing to be called.”

  Spike meets thousands of people every year. I can’t believe he actually remembers any of this stuff. Maybe he doesn’t meet many people he can chat to.

  The next thing Spike says, however, absolutely floors me:

  “And what about that Jonny, Jimi, Timmy bloke?”

  “Jimi Steele?” I squeak. “How do you know about him?”

  “Er, because Fleur sends e-mails to my fan club telling me what you’re all up to.” Spike laughs.