Love and Other Drama-Ramas!

by Sarah Webb

  After school I take the DART to Pearse Street and nip into the loo to change out of my uniform and into skinny jeans, Converse, and the soft gray leather jacket Clover bequeathed to me on Monday night (which was why she’d called over in the first place). “Extended loan,” she’d told me. “I’m bored of it. I’m hoping seeing it on you will give me clothes envy and I’ll want it back again.”

  There is this weird ice-blue light in the loos that makes everything glow like Casper the Friendly Ghost, and I can’t get out of there fast enough, so I have to stop outside the college and make Clover hold my tiny makeup mirror while I dab on some lip gloss and mascara. (I met her just outside the train station, and she’s jitterbug nervous.)

  “Don’t know why you’re bothering with the gloop, Beanie,” she says. “Hate to say it, but you’re far too young for most college guys.”

  “I’m not interested in college guys; it’s my confidence spell,” I say. “Humor me.”

  “In that case, hold still” — she whips out her cute Benefit makeup case —“and shut your eyes.” Sticking one of the mini eyeshadow brushes in her mouth, she prepares to get to work with the other. I close my eyes, and she starts tickling my lids with the brushes.

  “What do you think?” she asks when she’s done. I examine her work in the mirror.

  “Smokin’,” I say with a grin.

  She smiles. “Smoky eyes I can do. Taught by the master herself — Saffron Cleaver.”

  “Saffron Cleaver?”

  “Saffy. You know, my editor. Scary but awesome. She’s part of the reason I’ve had enough gumption to be here today. I asked her about Trinity Tatler, and she had some brilliant ideas about how to revitalize the magazine. She told me to get myself in gear and to start sending them feature ideas, pronto, or she’d whip my behind.” (Good for Saffy, I think.) “And speaking of awesome, there’s Paddy. Hey, Paddser!”

  He waves and starts walking toward us. Today he’s wearing tartan shorts teamed with a sunny yellow T-shirt and emerald-green high-tops. The guy must live in shorts — whatever the weather.

  “How did the basketball game go?” Clover asks him. “Did you win?”

  “Sure did. Annihilated UCD.” He pretends to dribble a ball with his hand and score a basket.

  Basketball! No wonder he has such strong-looking legs.

  “You remember Paddy, Amy?”

  “How could I forget?” I smile.

  He smiles back, his dark eyes shining. “And I certainly haven’t forgotten you, my sweet petunia.” He takes my hand and kisses it while I giggle. “Now, Clover,” he continues, “please tell me you’ve changed your mind about the magazine and are down at this end of Trinity seeking me out.”

  “Let’s just say I’m considering your offer,” Clover says. “But I don’t do pen names — it’s Clover Wildgust or nothing — so I have to talk to Cliona first.”

  “Angels in the heavens be praised.” Paddy grins. “I don’t know what’s changed your mind, tooty fruit, but frankly I don’t care. I have so many ideas, and it’ll be great to have someone on the team to share them with. I’m itching to get started.”

  “Chickens and hatching and eggs, and all that,” Clover says. “I’d better get this over with. Is Cliona in the office?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I’ll escort you ladies. But I’ve got to warn you: Miss Bang isn’t in the best of moods. This way.”

  Clover hangs back and grabs my arm. Panic is dancing all over her face. “Amy, I don’t think I can go through with this,” she whispers. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “You most certainly can,” I say. “Remember Bailey, Clover.”

  “Yes.” She takes a deep breath. “OK. If I don’t do this now, I never will.”

  We follow Paddy toward the Tatler’s glass-fronted office nestled under the railway arches. At the door, Paddy looks back at Clover. “Coming in, sweet cakes?”

  “I need a second to steel my nerves,” she tells him. “You go ahead.”

  He walks in, leaving the door ajar for her. I wait while she twists her butterfly ring round and round her finger and takes several deep breaths: collecting herself. She’s still standing on the threshold when a voice from inside yells, “For heaven’s sake, Paddy, it’s not our fault she tripped at the Model of the Future competition, is it?”

  It’s Cliona in full swing.

  “Fine, but I’m not writing about the poor girl’s crying jag onstage,” Paddy says. “And do we have to do a whole two pages on the event? Can’t we cover some of the gigs instead? Several people submitted reviews, and some of them are pretty good.”

  Cliona sighs. “No, we can’t. The modeling competition is important. And the fall is what makes the story interesting: gives it edge. Models are always falling off their heels. It comes with the territory. Look at Naomi Campbell and Agyness Deyn — they both picked themselves up and carried on as if nothing had happened. True professionals. Ramona Yong sat on the stage and cried like a baby, and yet she still won the blasted modeling contract! There’s no justice in this world.”

  “She was the best girl by miles,” Paddy says. “And she had to stop; she’d broken her ankle!”

  “And? The show must go on. I typed up a whole edition with a broken finger last year.”

  Paddy laughs wryly. “Cliona, you bruised it trying to pinch Brian O’Driscoll’s buttocks in a nightclub. Hardly the same thing. Look, I’m really not comfortable—”

  “I’ll give the piece to somebody else if it bothers you.” Cliona snatches a piece of paper off Paddy’s desk and hands it to the D4 from registration day, Amber Horsefell.

  “Write my notes up as a news piece, please, Amber,” Cliona says. “And make sure you include the bit about Ramona crying.”

  Amber blinks a few times and looks at Paddy nervously from under her eyelashes. Cliona was always bossy, but being editor seems to have really gone to her head. I don’t remember her being so stroppy.

  “Now, please!” Cliona says. “We have a deadline, guys. Everything has to be ready by five today, or we’ll miss our printing slot.”

  “It’s OK,” Paddy tells Amber kindly. “I’ll finish typing up the editorial for you.”

  “Leave it. I’ll do it myself in a few minutes.” Cliona rolls her eyes and looks around the room. Finally she notices Clover lingering in the doorway.

  “In or out?” she asks. “Don’t just hover there like an eejit, Clover. I’ve changed my mind. I could do with a writer who isn’t afraid to tell the truth.” She looks pointedly at Paddy.

  “I’d like to write for the magazine,” Clover says, her voice quivering with nerves. “But I need to talk to you first. In private.”

  Cliona glares at her and then gives a nervy laugh. “OK, but let’s make it quick. Deadlines — you know how it is.” As she walks outside to join Clover, I move quickly toward a bike a few yards away. Crouching over, I pretend to fiddle with the gearbox. Luckily, Cliona hasn’t spotted me yet — I don’t want her to tease Clover about bringing me with her. Right at this second, Clover needs all the gumption she can muster.

  “Well?” Cliona folds her arms across her chest.

  Clover sucks in her breath loudly and then says in a whoosh, “I want to work on the magazine — but on my terms. I want to generate ideas, write features: be properly involved.”

  Cliona shakes her head. “Not going to happen, Clover, sorry. You can type up the listings and some of my pieces, but that’s all that’s on offer at the moment.”

  “But why? You know I can write. And I have some brilliant suggestions for making the magazine even better. Ideas to help boost the readership numbers and bring in more advertising.”

  Cliona snorts. “Modest too.”

  “Modest smodest. You know I’m good, Cliona.”

  Cliona smiles, and for a second I see a glimmer of their old friendship. They always loved verbal sparring.

  Clover sighs. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this. But let’s face it, you owe me.�
��

  “Owe you? Why exactly?”

  “Hello? You know exactly why. Besides, you have to give me a chance. Paddy checked the magazine’s submission policy. You have to consider articles and reviews sent in by any Trinity student; it’s in the rules.”

  Cliona puts her hands on her hips. “I’ve just offered you a perfectly acceptable role on the mag, it’s not my problem if you don’t want to take it. The Trinity Tatler is fine just the way it is — we don’t need new ideas or any new writers.”

  “That’s exactly what we need,” Paddy says, appearing in the doorway. “Cliona, I hate to point it out, but under your guidance, the magazine is on its knees. Our grant will be pulled unless we find more readers, and fast. We have to make changes. For a start, I’d like a chance to make some proper editorial decisions. You’ve been running the magazine like a dictatorship, and it’s not right.”

  Then surprisingly, Amber joins in. “I’m with Paddy on this one. I think we need a good shake-up. I say we make Paddy your coeditor. And,” she adds sheepishly, “I have some ideas too.”

  “And me,” another girl says, coming outside to stand beside Amber.

  Within seconds, the whole Tatler office is outside. Clover moves to stand among the staff. She faces Cliona. “Are you going to join us?” she asks. “Please? Together we can make the Trinity Tatler the best college magazine in Ireland.”

  Cliona shakes her head. “It won’t work. I know what you’re like, Clover. You’ll only try to take over. Make everyone do things your way.”

  “You’re wrong, Cliona,” Clover says firmly. “Magazines work best when everyone works together as a team. I’ve learned that from experience.”

  “I’m not working with you. My mind’s made up.” Cliona looks at Paddy. “But yes, you can be coeditor, OK, Paddy? I could do with some help.”

  “I’ll only do it if Clover’s on the editorial team too,” Paddy says firmly. “In fact, if you don’t instate her immediately, I’ll resign.”

  Cliona’s face falls — I don’t think she was expecting that. “You can’t resign. I need you. Look, this is ridiculous. If you’re all so worried about the magazine, why didn’t you say something to me before? You can’t just land it on me now.”

  “Believe me, we’ve tried, Cliona,” Paddy says. “You’re not the easiest person to talk to. Look, why don’t we set up a proper editorial panel? Share the responsibility. You can still be overall editor if it makes you happy, so long as the rest of us get to make some of the decisions too — and I want Clover on board as features editor. I’m not budging on that.”

  “But what about Amber?” Cliona says. “She’s the features editor.”

  “I’m happy to do the listings,” Amber says, “if I can also submit some fashion pieces. I’m way out of my depth at the moment, and it would be a relief to hand it over, to be honest.”

  Clover smiles at Amber. “If you’re sure? It sounds like a plan. What do you think, Cliona?”

  Cliona knows she’s beaten. “We can give it a go, but I’ll blame you and Paddy, Clover, if it doesn’t work.” She claps her hands. “Now back to work, everyone. Chop, chop. We have a magazine to put to bed.”

  Everyone except Cliona and Clover starts to move back inside. Paddy puts his hand on Clover’s arm. “Welcome aboard, doll face. See you inside. I’ll clear you a desk.”

  Once he’s gone, Cliona leans in toward Clover. “For the record, I’m sorry about . . . everything. Kendall was never right for you — in your heart you know that.”

  “You hurt me, Cliona,” Clover says simply. “We were supposed to be best friends.”

  Cliona’s eyes are softer now. “I know, but all’s fair in love and war, eh? For the record, I miss you. All the time.”

  I watch them, wondering if they’ll hug and make up, but then someone calls, “Cloves? Cloves?”

  Lucas Kendall is walking toward them, looking as god-like as ever. I study Clover’s face, expecting the worst, but she looks calm and collected. She’s just standing there, looking at him a little curiously, as if he was just someone she used to know a long time ago, not the boy who crushed her heart.

  “Hey, Cloves,” he says awkwardly, and gives a long whistle. “It’s been a . . . long time.”

  “Hi, Kendall,” she replies. “And, yes, it has.”

  “So . . . everything OK now? I mean, you and Cliona have finally buried the hatchet, yeah?”

  “Everything’s fine, Kendall,” Clover says coldly. “As you say, it’s been a long time.”

  “And Clover’s joining the Tatler,” Cliona tells him. “She’s going to be the new features editor.”

  “Cool,” Kendall says, avoiding eye contact.

  Cliona digs him in the ribs. “I’ll meet you in the Arts Building in an hour,” she says firmly. “I have a few more things to do here first. And I want to talk to Clover. Alone.”

  He seems keen to get away. Clover’s eyes follow him as he heads across campus, but then she turns back to Cliona and sticks out her hand. “Colleagues, then,” she says.

  Cliona shakes it. “I guess so. And for what it’s worth, I really am sorry. Is there any chance—”

  Clover cuts her off. “No. Too much water under the bridge. You made your choice a long time ago. We’ve both moved on since then. Let’s just forget about it, all right?”

  Cliona nods a little sadly and walks back into the Tatler office.

  When she’s disappeared inside, Clover looks around. She then spots me — I’m still loitering beside the bike — and walks over to me, smiling.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  She smiles. “Surprisingly good. I was dreading speaking to Cliona, but in the end it wasn’t so bad. And let’s be honest, Kendall’s not a patch on Brains, is he? And what’s with that weird Crombie accent?”

  I smile and put on his voice: “I know. Mega out there, babes, yeah?”

  She laughs. “Thanks for coming with me today. Knowing you were there, rooting for me, made all the difference.”

  “You’re most welcome.” I give her a hug. “Hey, I can’t wait to read your new improved Trinity Tatler. Don’t suppose you have room for a cub reporter?”

  “Amy Green, hiring your own relations is highly irregular — nepotism, it’s called. But . . . stranger things have happened.” And then she gives me a mega-watt grin and a big wink. Clover Wildgust is back!

  “Explain again why I have to be Miranda?” Clover moans. “’Cause I really wanted to be Samantha, and I’m not a happy camper in this suit. Where did you find it anyway? It’s hideous.” She hitches up the orange tweed skirt — even though she’s doctored it with safety pins, it keeps sniggling down her hips.

  I smile. “It used to be Sue’s, from her school secretary days. She said I was welcome to it — it hasn’t fit her in ten years.”

  “But it’s still in her wardrobe?” Clover whistles. “She needs a serious spring cleaning.” She glances at her watch. “What time do you have?”

  “Twelve ten.”

  “Everyone’s late.”

  What with all the Bailey drama-rama, I’d almost forgotten about Mum’s bachelorette party. But here I am standing in front of the wooden gazebo in Saint Stephen’s Green Park in Dublin’s city center beside a very impatient Clover. I can’t wait to see Mum’s face when she realizes how much effort we’ve all put in.

  “Where are they?” Clover mutters. “Come on, Monique.”

  On the other side of the gazebo, Russ, one of Dave’s musician friends, is perched on a fold-up stool, guitar on his knee. (Russ and Dave used to be in a band together — the Colts, they were called — and today Russ is providing our background music.)

  “Russ, could you play something calming to soothe Clover’s twanging nerves?” I ask.

  “Sure thing,” he says, his eyes kind. I can’t stop staring at them — they’re dark hazel: the color of leaves turning in autumn. If it wasn’t for his big woolly beard, he’d be quite cute for an old. He starts to strum
on his guitar, and gentle, silky music ripples from his fingers and floats around our pop-up restaurant. Clover sits down at the table and rests her palms on the perfect linen tablecloth. (It’s so stiff and crisp with starch that it crackled when the waiter Monique hired shook it out earlier.) She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Pooey,” she says, opening her eyes again. “That pond stinks. Hope the scented candles start kicking in soon.”

  She’s right — there is something damp and rotten lingering in the air. After lighting another of the posh orange-blossom candles, I take a second to admire our handiwork. Our cardboard sign, hand-painted with the words “THE BOATHOUSE,” is hanging over the entrance to the gazebo. Two bay trees stand in pots, as though guarding the entrance; their trunks are decorated with red-ribbon bows, making them look like birthday presents. There are tea lights hanging in special jars from the white-planked roof, and huge scented candles stand in each corner. And, finally, the pièce de résistance, the perfectly laid table, complete with five golden chairs, each with a plush red-velvet seat, sparkling cutlery that you can see your face in, and three twinkling glasses at each setting.

  In the center of each plate is a gold necklace. Not real gold — that would have cost a fortune — but gold-plated. Four of the necklaces have a single curling initial hanging from the chain: “M” for Miranda, “S” for Samantha, “B” for Big, and “C” for Charlotte. The fifth is an exact replica of Carrie’s original necklace from the show. (Clover found it on the Internet.) That one is for Mum. It’s her party, so she gets to play Ms. Bradshaw herself. We haven’t told her a thing about what we’ve got planned. Her “Carrie” costume — a white dress with an oversize silk flower corsage on one shoulder and a pair of Clover’s high-heeled sandals — is sitting in a bag awaiting her arrival.

  I sigh proudly and adjust the prissy cream “Charlotte” twinset I borrowed from Mills.

  It wasn’t easy putting the party together — Saffy had to apply for a special event’s license to allow us to set up a “fashion shoot” in Saint Stephen’s Green Park. Monique then begged her friend who runs a catering company to deliver the table and chairs, organize the food, and find us a waiter for the afternoon. It all came together in the end, though, with Clover and I coming up with the finishing touches — the red petals to scatter over the table, the tea lights, the scented candles, and the necklaces. (Even Dave helped by asking Russ to provide the live music.) Now the scene is set — the food is sitting in three large coolers, waiting to be served. All we need is Mum.