Friends Forever!

by Grace Dent

  Twenty-four hours have passed since I agreed to this totally shameful Miss Demonboard idea and I’m already regretting it big time.

  I mean, first, my mother will flip out if she sees it. Sure, she doesn’t watch much MTV. She likes VH1 Classic, where she can watch ye olde hits from the medieval ages, but that doesn’t guarantee Seth won’t sit (or poo) on the control, filling the screen with his teenage sister jiggling her bits to a Psycho Killa track, wearing little more than pipe cleaners and diamante nipple tassles. (Fleur’s already spoken to Siegmund, who says he can locate us some sequins and fabric if we want to make bikinis. Aaaaaaagh!)

  And what if Jimi and Snuff see me? Or Cressida and Panama? Panama Bogwash will laugh till she pukes. Last September, when the LBD did Triplet Day, she informed me that I “take pear shaped to a new eerie dimension of dumpy.”

  She’s such a spiteful moonfaced hag.

  I pinch a whole centimeter of flesh on the side of each thigh and wibble it about, pivoting around for the umpteenth time to examine my butt cheeks.

  Right, that’s it. I have to get out of this competition! How easy is it to break your own arm?

  Okay, I’m probably over-thinking things, as ever. I’m exhausted and a little grouchy. After the beach drama yesterday, the LBD headed over to A Land Down Under for a party thrown by a gang of gorgeous Argentinian surfers who’d just hit town. The party was fabulous! Plenty of tanned Argie muscle to ogle and an excellent grime DJ from London playing a loud, raw set that had everyone spilling out onto the beach, shakin’ their booties like mad.

  A mere ten minutes after arriving, we’d lost Fleur Swan in a melee of bronzed pecs, testosterone, beer cans and processed beats . . . only for the scurrilous minx to reappear in the West Turret at 5:45 A.M., crawling into bed beside me, stinking of cider and surfboard wax, begging me to cover her breakfast shift. Apparently Fleur Swan was “unwell.”

  By 6:10, I was being chased around the dining hall by Colonel Three-Minute Egg, false teeth rattling in his skeletal hand as he attempted to demonstrate he had “a delicate palate and a misformed esophagus that can’t cope with hard yolk.”

  Uggghhh! Fleur Swan must die.

  Back in the bedroom, in the West Turret, I adjust the straps on my bikini and let out another gut-wrenching sigh. This will not do at all.

  Nan used to call me a classic beauty, but what does that mean exactly? Why didn’t I ever ask her? That’s another secret she took away that I’ll never know.

  I spin around and judder my butt fat again. No one deserves to be exposed to this horror. Especially the Demonboard Babe judges. If I chucked myself down 188 stairs, surely I’d crack a rib at least?

  Just then, something creaks loudly upstairs in the loft.

  I stop in my tracks and glare upward.

  Gnnnn, old buildings creak, Ronnie. Get over yourself, I tell myself, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a Diet Coke from the fridge. That’s weird—my leftover Chinese food is gone from the bottom drawer. Both Fleur and Claude are on strict detox plans. They totally refused even a mouthful of noodles the other night.

  Who’s been in here?

  Okay, I’m officially beginning to get spooked out again. This happens every time I’m in this apartment alone. I’m such a sap.

  I take a deep breath and try to focus my mind elsewhere.

  Grabbing one of Claude’s Mistress Minny novels, I balance it on my head and decide to try out some posture exercises, like Fleur’s been bullying me to.

  “Well, hellloooo, Destiny Bay!” I announce as I sashay across the floor, practicing my “personality interview.” “My name is Ronnie Ripperton, contestant number one. My long-term goals include unifying the children of Israel and Palestine via the funky power of disco dancing . . . and, er, finding a vaccine for hemorrhoids!”

  “Achoooooooooooo!” erupts a very definite sneeze somewhere above me.

  Oh my God! That was totally real. I didn’t imagine it.

  Clump, clump, clump thump some rather heavy footsteps.

  I’m literally rooted to the spot in terror. My heart is thudding loudly against my chest.

  I try to scream but only a futile squeak comes out.

  The ghostly footsteps gravitate over to the loft’s trapdoor entrance just above the sofa.

  I can hear heavy breathing.

  Oh my God! This is it. It’s just like in the slasher movies. They’ll find me bludgeoned to death in a puddle of my own entrails. Aaaaaaaaaagh!

  Just then, the loft door falls open. I can’t breathe.

  Out of the dark hole in the trapdoor, a ghostly face emerges.

  It’s the headless earl!

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” I screech, finding my voice and falling over backward into the sofa.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaiaaaaaaaaiaaaaaaaaai! Get out! Get out!” I yell. If this is a nightmare, let me wake up!

  But as my screaming goes on and on, I begin to realize half the racket is coming from the ghost itself.

  “Shut up!” the earl is shouting, looking as shocked to see me. “Stop screaming! You’re freaking me out!”

  What? I’m freaking him out?

  “I . . . I . . . eh? Aiiiiiiiiiii!” I screech again at the dismembered head. “Get out of my flat, you hideous ghoul! This is my home!”

  “Hmmmph,” tuts the earl slightly huffily. “It was my home first.”

  “That’s . . . erm,” I splutter, becoming more flummoxed by the second. “That’s irrelevant! Look, you’re clearly trapped in some sort of ghostly time stasis. Move on to the next world!”

  “Are you on magic mushrooms?” asks the spectral vision rather sarcastically. His voice sounds distinctly northern.

  I glare at him rather crossly. The earl appears to be about seventeen, with huge brown eyes, longish auburn curly hair and a smattering of freckles. His head, I now see, appears to be attached to a muscular pair of shoulders.

  “Nice bikini, by the way,” the earl adds cheekily.

  “Look, who are you?” I yell, feeling thoroughly foolish as well as rather naked. “What are you doing up there?”

  “Erm, well, that’s a long story,” he says. “Look, would it be out of the question if I came down? I can explain everything.”

  I fold my arms across my boobs.

  “Okay,” I huff.

  Quickly a pair of feet in black flip-flops dangle through the loft door, followed by a pair of toned calves, some navy knee-length surf shorts, then a toned, tanned torso with a buff chest, and finally a rather handsome yet cheeky face. His hair is matted into little occasional dreads and encrusted with bits of sand. I grab my mobile phone from the coffee table, dial 999 and place my finger on “call.”

  “Hey, chill! Please!” pleads the lad. “Hey, I’m not a mad ax man or anything. Honest! I just needed somewhere to crash. I had no choice after Scrumble sacked me.”

  “What?” I bark. “I don’t believe this! How long have you been up there?”

  “Erm . . . ,” winces the lad. “About three weeks.”

  “But that’s when we arrived!” I snap. “Hang on—were you one of the waiters Scrumble sacked for being lazy, useless good-for-nothing surf freaks?”

  “That’s us,” smiles the boy proudly. “But Clem and Stevie went back to Lancashire. I decided to stay. And when Scrumble forgot to take my keys . . .”

  “But . . . but how? Why? Where do you sleep?” I scream, my mind racing with questions.

  “I’ve got a sleeping bag. Oh, there’s plenty of room up there,” he beams. “It’s pretty freaky, really! There’s all sorts of interesting heirlooms and knickknacks. In fact—”

  “So you thought you’d just squat illegally in the loft?” I yell, interrupting him. “You thought you’d just sneak about, steal our noodles, watch our TV, and spy on us . . . like a freaky perv!”

  The lad’s face goes white.

  “Hey!” he shouts. “I’ve not been spying! I’m not a perv. I’m totally, er, unpervy! The anti-perv, in fact.”
/>   “But, but, how did you manage to miss us?” I shout at him.

  Then my eyes rest on the LBD’s waitressing schedule, containing our names, phone numbers and daily routine, stuck to the fridge door. “Hmmm . . . clever,” I tut.

  “Well, not exactly foolproof,” says the lad sheepishly. “So which one are you then: Veronica, Claude or Fleur?”

  “Veronica,” I say sternly.

  “I’m Saul Parker,” he says with a small grin.

  Saul holds out his hand to shake. I stare at it crossly, then back at him. Eventually, he lets his arm fall back to his side. I’m not in the habit of fraternizing with burglars.

  “Look, Veronica,” Saul says, batting his long brown eyelashes, doing his best “sorry” face, “can I just express my utmost regret and complete shame about spooking you out? I totally and utterly apologize.”

  Okay. He’s cute. But he’s not winning me over that easily.

  “Apology unaccepted, Mr. Parker!” I say firmly. “Pack up and ship out!”

  “But . . . but I’ve nowhere else to go,” he says pathetically. “It’s just for another three weeks. Until the Booty Quake. I’m entering the surf contest!”

  “That’s not my problem,” I say, cold as ice.

  “Aw, have a heart, Veronica!” pleads Saul. “Look, I know I’m in the wrong here. I should never have been crashing up there . . . but . . . you have to understand! Surfing is my life, Veronica. It’s an obsession. An illness even! And competing at Demonboards, well, that’s a life ambition and—”

  “Can I just butt in?” I say sharply. “I’ve got three words for you, Saul: Sam’s Surf Shack. Make a reservation!”

  Saul looks stunned at my bluntness. But then a broad grin sweeps over his face.

  Why is it that the ruder you are to boys, the more they like you?

  “Well, I suppose I could sleep on the beach,” he says pathetically. “I’m broke, y’see. Blew all my savings last summer surfing in Fuerteventura. That’s where I won my wildcard entry to the Demonboard finals. Wish I was back there now . . . least the locals were friendly.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, and he stops talking.

  “I’ll go and get my sleeping bag then,” he says, shuffling his feet like a little boy. The teensiest pang of guilt flickers across my face.

  Then Saul turns quickly, grabbing my arm gently.

  “Let me stay! Please!” he pleads. “I’ll be totally quiet! And I’ll replace all the cookies and noodles and stuff!”

  “Noooo!” I shout. “Scrumble will throw all of us out. Claude will go berserk!”

  “That won’t happen!” cries Saul. “Hey, and here’s a plan: what if, as a payback, I teach you to surf too?”

  “What?” I gasp. Now he’s got me. I’d love to learn to surf. “Could you really teach me?” I ask.

  Saul smiles broadly. His teeth are lovely and white. “Sure! I’ve still got Clem’s board,” he says. “And his suit! It’d fit you okay. He’s quite a small bloke.”

  My mind is racing now.

  Learning to surf is 100 percent more appetizing than being a Demonboard Babe. And if I must do this totally lame-ass bikini thing to save the LBD, then why shouldn’t I have a little fun of my own?

  “You’re thinking about it,” grins Saul, flaring his cute nostrils.

  “I’m . . . oooh! Gnnnnnnnnngnnn!” I groan, knowing I want this more than anything in the world.

  “It’s a yes, isn’t it?” hoots Saul. “Oh, I’m stoked, man! This’ll be so great. Me and you, Veronica, riding the green monsters!”

  “Eh? Errr . . . oh,” I moan, starting to giggle. “Oh, yes! Okay, yes! Teach me to surf!”

  But just then we hear footsteps climbing the 188 stairs to the West Turret. It must be Claude coming back from her shift!

  “Later!” yells Saul, jumping on the sofa, flipping down the loft door, then in a freaky flying-baboon-type motion, swinging his entire body up into the loft before snapping the door shut behind him.

  He’s gone!

  In a flurry, I kick Claude’s silver shoes beside her bed, grab my dressing gown and try to look normal.

  “Yo!” grins Claude, sauntering in and grabbing the last can of Diet Coke from the fridge. “Ha! Fleur’s downstairs getting screamed at by Scrumble for swapping shifts with you this morning. Scrumble’s yelling so hard, Fleur’s hair looks like it’s in a wind tunnel.”

  “Really?” I grin. “Y’know something, Claudey? Scrumble grows on me.”

  Claude cracks up laughing. She lies down on the sofa, picking up the What’s On in Destiny Bay guide to find tonight’s party.

  “So, any gossip?” she asks.

  “Nah,” I say, wearing my best poker face. “Just a normal day really.”

  Chapter 6

  booty camp

  Six entire days pass, and I don’t hear another peep from Saul Parker. Or a thump, sneeze, cough or chuckle, for that matter.

  When we girls aren’t out waitressing, partying, chasing Argie sex gods or at the beach, and I have a moment alone, I try banging on the loft door with a broom, shouting Saul’s name and even luring him down with the aroma of sizzling bacon. Nothing.

  Have I imagined the entire episode? Or has he moved on? Found himself a less grumpy landlady? Or hitched back to Wigan with his surfboard under his arm?

  It would probably make things a lot simpler if he has. I mean, if Scrumble does one of her “spot checks,” finds him and kicks us all out just before Booty Quake, well, Claude and Fleur will blank me till 2047.

  So, yeah, it’s all for the best. I just wish I didn’t feel so . . . so stupidly disappointed.

  But learning to surf would have rrrocked.

  And, if I’m being completely honest, Saul Parker, despite being a talented cat burglar and looking like the shock of a good deep hair-conditioning treatment might kill him, seems like a pretty wild kind of lad to kick about with for a few weeks.

  Not that I fancy him or anything. He just seems sort of, cool, y’know? A bit of a wrong’un. Precisely the sort of lad my mother warns me to steer clear of (usually before attempting to hook me up with Aunty Susan’s Scottish country-dancing godson).

  “Think sexalicious! Think va-voom! Think curves!” Fleur Swan cries breathily, waving her arms, while Claude Cassiera fiddles with the wiring on a laptop computer.

  “Wah?” I say, crashing back to earth, totally forgetting about Saul Parker’s neat smattering of freckles and broad shoulders.

  The LBD are in the conference room of Harbinger Hall’s Business Suite, sitting around a magnificent oval oak table.

  “I was giving you runway tips for the contest,” tuts Fleur. “I don’t need to remind you how important scooping this twenty thousand pounds is, do I, Ronnie?”

  “No, Fleur,” I say through very tight lips.

  I wish she’d move to Mossington.

  “Hey,” interrupts Claude, flicking a switch on the side of the overhead projector. “That’s it, it’s hooked up. Can we hurry this along, please? I’m working in twenty minutes. I’m helping get the Windsmore Suite ready. We’ve got VIP guests arriving tomorrow!”

  “No problem,” says Fleur, tapping a key on the laptop. “So, let me introduce you to Miss Demonboard Babe contestant number one: Svetlana Varninka.”

  On the far screen, a huge image appears of a stunning, sullen, athletic brunette with a geometric bob. She’s dressed in a black bustier, French knickers and green high heels. It looks like an underwear shot from an expensive catalogue, but the girl’s face is weirdly familiar.

  “Svetlana?” I gasp, feeling dwarfish, rotund and sausagelike. “That’s Svetlana the Russian waitress. Miss Flipping Premature Menopause with whom I serve coffee each morning! She’s entering Miss Demonboard Babe?”

  “She certainly is,” Fleur says firmly.

  “Fleur Swan!” says Claude. “Where did you get this photo?”

  “Hmmm, well, I’d heard a rumor Svetlana used to model part time in Russia,” says Fleur matter-
of-factly. “So I, er, borrowed her portfolio from the East Turret and scanned some shots.”

  “You stole it!” Claude gasps.

  “Look, let’s not get bogged down in details,” tuts Fleur. “Do you want to see what we’re up against or what? It took me hours of arduous flirting to get the lowdown on who the other contestants are.”

  “Flirting? Who with?” I say. “Who told you all this?”

  “Oh, I called Demonboard’s head office in London and targeted their office assistant,” Fleur says. “Julian, he was called. Bit dim. Putty in my hands!”

  “Fleur, that’s immoral,” says Claude, her eyes alive with excitement. “And normally, y’know, I’d be outraged. But in this case, I’m going to say well done! Right, let’s get on with it. Show me the pictures. Bring it on!”

  Fleur taps the keyboard. The next slide shows a curvy blonde girl with long shiny hair, clad in tiny red sports shorts, long funky hockey socks and a cropped gym top, sweating it out on the Harbinger Hall treadmill.

  “Wow!” says Claude. “Is that Precious Elton from reception?”

  “Snapped two hours ago on my camera phone,” says Fleur, raising an eyebrow. “According to Carbzilla, Precious has been doing two hours of Hatha yoga each day for a fortnight and eating only fruit, vegetables, seeds and grilled meat. Oh, and she’s just had her hair colored three shades blonder. She’s looking pretty buff, eh?”

  “Amazing!” coos Claude.

  I retrieve a packet of Chocky Wocky Doo-Dahs out of my handbag and stuff one in my gob defiantly.

  “What about Carbzilla?” I ask dryly. “She’s not entering too, is she?”

  “Goodness no!” says Fleur. “She still weighs a cubic ton. I just served her a midmorning banana daiquiri in the Jacuzzi.”

  “Damn it,” I mutter. “She was my one hope of not coming in last.”

  “Ronnie,” tuts Claude.

  “Now, what’s interesting,” says Fleur, ignoring me and pointing at the screen, “is that none of these girls is an anorexic bone bag. Look!”

  Fleur clicks through another ten slides of equally stunning barmaids, waitresses and surf instructors from around Destiny Bay. Small doe-eyed brunettes, tall Amazonian blondes, quirky-looking indie girls, chicks with bunches, brown-skinned babes, pale-skinned honeys, girls with faces like angels. Each girl possibly prettier than the last.