Friends Forever!

by Grace Dent

  Fleur stops folding dresses and shakes her head at me exasperatedly. “Oh, who are you, exactly?” she tuts. “Mrs. Majiko the Memory Woman? Must you catalogue all my misdemeanors?”

  “Sorry, Fleur,” I mumble. I’m not making things much better, am I?

  Fleur takes her framed LBD Triplet Day picture off the bedside cabinet. She looks at it for a little while. “I’m sorry I didn’t win you the Demonboard Babe money, Claudey,” she says sadly.

  “Aw . . . hey,” sighs Claude, feigning a smile. “It’s not . . . I mean, it’s . . . y’know . . . look, don’t worry about all that.”

  But then Claude’s voice trails to nothing.

  There’s no point in saying don’t worry. With Fleur banished back home and Claude now looking even more likely to be moving to Mossington, this could very well be the last time the LBD hang out together for a long time. It feels like everything has been blown to smithereens.

  Fleur packs her beloved photo into her case and closes the zip. She pulls her floppy sun hat over her blonde locks and paints hot-pink lipstick onto her lips, blotting it on a Harbinger Hall serviette.

  “Okay, girls, I’m done,” she says with a brave smile. “That’s me.”

  “Oh God, Fleur,” I say, walking across to her. “Give me a hug.”

  Fleur moves forward and whisks me up in her arms. She smells of Supermodel Eau de Parfum and strawberry lip gloss. Big salty tears begin to fall from my eyes and splosh down her T-shirt.

  “C’mon, Ronnidge,” Fleur says, hugging me. “Don’t set me off again.”

  “But this sucks, man!” I sob. “I can’t believe you’re going. Psycho Killa and all the MTV people are checking in this week! I can’t be a Demonboard Babe without you! And what about that beach barbecue down at Destiny Bay tonight? It’s been in our diaries for weeks!”

  Fleur lets me go. She hands me a pile of tissues. “Listen, Ronnie,” she says. “Fact is, I’ve got to be out of the West Turret by 6 P.M. or Cressida Sleeth says she wants the police to investigate her assault.”

  At the mention of Cressida’s name, Claude, who’s been sitting with her face in her hands, deep in contemplation, leaps up and begins to pace about the apartment. “You can’t go home,” she says vehemently.

  “But . . . ,” begins Fleur.

  “But nothing,” says Claude. “Look, when I told you about Mossington that day on the beach, Fleur, I was about to give up. But you kept strong. You believed that we could overcome it.”

  “I know I did,” smiles Fleur. “But now . . .”

  “It’s just the same,” says Claude, folding her arms. “It’s just another obstacle. We’ve got over worse than this!”

  “But . . . ,” says Fleur.

  “Look, you’ve been psyched about Booty Quake for months,” Claude says. “You’ve been doing salsa-cise and butt-blast classes for a fortnight for your appearance on MTV. We’re not letting Squarepants, Bogwash or Slime ruin everything. It’s time for the LBD to get devious!”

  “But Claude, I’m homeless!” cries Fleur. “What can I do? Sleep on Misty Beach? Beg Paddy for cash so I can sleep eight to a room at the Banana Hostel? Scrumble doesn’t want to see my face ever again!”

  Fleur and Claude stand staring at each other, willing each other to think.

  Suddenly, the solution thwacks me between the eyes. I know the most perfect Fleur Swan hiding hole.

  I take a deep breath, knowing the can of worms I’m about to open.

  “Well . . . maybe Scrumble doesn’t have to see your face,” I begin, peering up toward the trapdoor to Saul Parker’s secret kingdom.

  When I hooked up with Saul on the beach this morning, he said he’d be out for the rest of the day. (Well, if you want me to be specific, he actually said he’d be thinking about me 24/7 because I’m the hottest girl he’s ever known. Gnnnnnngn . . . he is so lush!) But how would Saul feel about his squat being squatted?

  “Maybe, Fleur,” I say, slowly, “you could stay here, but be invisible, if you know what I mean.”

  “No,” says Fleur, shaking her head. “You’ve lost me.”

  “That’s two of us,” says Claude.

  “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath, praying my secret will be well received. “Now, no one freak out too much, but there’s something I need to tell you about the West Turret.”

  exits

  “Oooh, Fleur, these bags are soooo heavy,” I complain in my loudest voice as Claude and I pack what appears to be all of Fleur’s worldly goods into a taxi waiting at Harbinger Hall’s back door. Miss Scrumble, who’s watching Fleur’s departure from the doorstep, gives us all a little wave before ticking something off on her clipboard. Little does Scrumble realize that Fleur’s bags are actually stuffed with newspapers. The blonde bombshell hasn’t the slightest intention of leaving Harbinger Hall.

  A devious LBD plan is afoot.

  As our taxi driver tuts and points at his watch, Fleur cranks up an Oscar-worthy performance, puffing, panting and tossing her hair about in dismay.

  “I can’t believe I have to go!” Fleur snivels, forcing out her best crocodile tears.

  “I know, Fleur. It’s so hard,” I say, putting an arm around her shoulder. “But you must be strong.”

  Fleur opens the taxi door and pretends to take one last look at the West Turret. “Farewell, Harbinger!” she cries. “You were a good friend. Parting is such sweet sorrow!”

  Then Fleur begins to fake-sob really hard, actually forcing snot down her nostrils. If she’d done this in the school play auditions last year, she might have got a bigger role than “third tree on the left.”

  “Shh, don’t overdo it,” whispers Claude, fighting to keep a straight face.

  “We’ll escort Fleur down to the railway station,” Claude tells Scrumble. “She’s very upset.”

  Scrumble nods, as if to say “very well.” But then as we all hop into the taxi, myself in the front, Claude and Fleur in the back, Scrumble scurries across, commanding Fleur to roll down the window. For a crazy moment I think she’s going to wish Fleur well for the future.

  “Good riddance, Fleur Swan!” grumps Scrumble, hoisting her bosom with one arm as she talks. “You’ve brought this all upon yourself. I’ve no sympathy for you.”

  “Come on, driver,” sighs Claude. “Destiny Bay station, please.”

  But Scrumble wants a final word. “Summer’s over for you, Swan!” she cackles as the car pulls away. “Over!”

  Fleur buries her face in her hands and gives a little moan. But then, as we pass through Harbinger Hall’s main gates, Fleur sits up, chucks back her head and laughs before leaning forward to speak to the taxi driver. “Change of plan, driver,” Fleur chortles. “We don’t really want to go to the station. Could you take us to A Land Down Under on Destiny Bay beach, please?”

  “And quick as you like,” laughs Claude. “We’ve somebody important we need to meet!”

  As we reach A Land Down Under at dusk, the barbecue is well under way. The sand outside the small bar is packed with surf dudes and bikini-clad girls flirting, dancing and giggling, or lining up for shrimp, chicken or pitchers of cocktails. All around the DJ booth, the crowd begins to sway and swell as Norris Noise, the resident DJ, cranks up an R&B set. Kids are already starting to jump up onto the podiums and chuck some shapes. One extremely happy young woman is boogying on the bar in a red bikini while the bartenders serve martinis around her silver stilettos.

  Claude, Fleur and I must look highly overdressed as we fight our way through the crowds carrying suitcases and bags.

  “Wait,” laughs Fleur, stopping for a second to whip off her T-shirt, displaying a hot-pink bikini top. “So summer is over, is it? Huh! I reckon it’s just taken a new lease on life!”

  And that’s when I see him, standing in the corner of A Land Down Under, surrounded by a posse of bedraggled-looking boys all dressed in shorts and Rip Curl T-shirts, each of them sporting trademark Destiny Bay shaggy surf hair.

  Saul Parker looks
totally incredible. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt, which shows off his pecs, with long camouflage shorts. Saul’s hair is looking extra-specially, gloriously unkempt, like he’s spent the day wrestling fifty-foot waves and alligators.

  It seems like all the girls are trying to dance close to Saul’s gang. I feel a tiny stab of jealousy just seeing girls near him. Ugh, I’ve got it bad! I pause for a second and watch as one tiny peroxide-blonde girl in a silver bikini and miniskirt tries desperately to chat in Saul’s ear. As Saul rolls his eyes, then looks at his watch, peroxide girl resorts to dancing lewdly in front of him, wiggling her bum and jiggling her boobs. Saul just looks past her and checks the door again. Then he spots me. His face lights up.

  “Veronica!” Saul whoops, running over to me. “You made it!”

  “Just!” I laugh as he twirls me around. “Hey, I’m not, erm, interrupting anything, am I?”

  Saul looks at me oddly; then he rolls his eyes and lets out a little snort. “What? You mean . . . her?” he smirks, nodding at his blonde admirer, who has resorted to doing weird star jumps beside him. “Are you serious?”

  “Well,” I blush, “I didn’t know. I mean . . .”

  “I’ve been watching that door for the best part of two hours,” groans Saul. “The lads have been laughing their heads off at me.”

  Just then I look over Saul’s shoulder and realize we’ve got quite an audience. There are about six lads all watching and laughing.

  “Coooooooo-ey, Saul!” waves one lad, before making a kissy-kissy sound with his mouth. Then they all begin cracking up.

  “Aw, shut up!” moans Saul. “Hey, Veronica, I need to apologize about my friends. They can be a bit unruly.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I smile. “Actually, that reminds me . . . you know I said on the phone before that I needed to tell you something important?”

  “Sure,” says Saul. “Is everything okay?”

  “Well, the thing is . . . ,” I begin.

  Just then Fleur and Claude appear over either shoulder.

  “Ah, hello, hello, we meet at last!” giggles Claude. “So you must be the mystery guest.”

  Saul looks at Claude and lets out a little groan of embarrassment.

  “Claude,” I say. “Can I introduce my er, friend, Saul Parker.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Claude,” grins Saul, holding out his hand.

  “And I’m Fleur Swan,” announces Fleur, eyeing Saul up and down. “Now, Saul, don’t worry at all. We’re going to get along just fine. I’m moving into your loft space from today onward. I’m your new roommate! Isn’t that great?”

  “Oooh . . . Erm, well, okay,” stutters Saul. “I mean, I suppose, erm . . .”

  “I’m psyched too!” yells Fleur as the music cranks up another notch. “And don’t fret. ’Cos I’m a quiet little thing. You’ll hardly even notice I’m there! Will he, girls?”

  Saul is looking a little bewildered. I owe him a serious explanation here. But just as I try to begin, Fleur spots Saul’s gang of surf buddies, who are all standing behind us, trying to catch my friends’ eyes.

  “Oooh, Saul, are these your friends?” beams Fleur, waving at them. “I must introduce myself. Hello, boys, I’m Fleur! Hey, do any of you guys like dancing?”

  “I’m Stevo,” chirps up one lad, not missing a chance. “I’ll dance with you.”

  “Oooh, great,” smiles Fleur. “Hey, Ronnie, watch my suitcases!”

  “And I’m Danny,” says another, grabbing Claude’s hand. “Let’s dance to this track, then I’ll buy you both a drink.”

  Within seconds Fleur and Claude have disappeared into the party, leaving Saul and I standing on the dance floor, surrounded by Fleur’s luggage. I wrap my arms around Saul’s waist and look up into his eyes.

  Saul shakes his head and we both begin giggling. “Okay. Start from the beginning,” he chuckles, kissing the top of my head.

  arrivals

  “That’s odd,” I say to Claude.

  It’s 8:45 A.M., three days later, and I’m peering out of the West Turret’s lounge window down onto the gardens.

  “What?” says Claude, fixing her hair into perfect asymmetric bunches.

  “Mr. Greenhall,” I say. “The gardener dude—he’s mowing a big square into the Tatershall Memorial Lawn.”

  “Really?” says Claude distractedly. “Maybe Carbzilla and Three-Minute Egg are going to play cricket. They’re unhinged enough.”

  Claude grabs her lip gloss and vanity mirror. She refuses to turn up for work looking anything less than perfect. “Hey! Are you ready?” she nags. “Scrumble wants us down there in ten minutes.”

  “Yeah, coming,” I say, as a girl wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard hurries over the grass to Mr. Greenhall. She’s shouting at him to make the square bigger.

  “It looks like a landing pad,” I mutter, shaking my head.

  Claude stops preening abruptly. “A landing pad?” she repeats. “You know what that means!” she grins, hopping up and down.

  “They’re preparing for an alien visitation?” I suggest.

  “Noooo! More exciting than that,” Claude squeaks. “For helicopters!”

  “Eh?” I say, being slow on the uptake.

  “Psycho Killa!” grins Claude, jumping up and down. “Psycho Killa is coming! All the Booty Quake people must have started checking in!”

  In a flurry of arms and legs, Claude runs for the door. “Gonna carve ya up! Gonna bury you!” Claude chants, singing Psycho Killa’s international platinum-selling hit “Graveyard Time” from the Grammy Award-winning album Body Bag Holiday.

  “Gonna hide yer body where they won’t find ya!” hums Claude, disappearing out the door.

  “Bag you up! Bag you up!” I sing, chasing Claude as fast as my feet will take me down the spiral staircase and into the hotel reception lobby.

  Wow! Harbinger’s lobby is in total chaos.

  Everywhere you look there are huge scary hip-hop blokes clad in baseball caps, massive padded jackets, random wonky sports headbands, jeans so baggy they’re probably a safety hazard, imported limited edition Reebok sneakers and oodles of bling. Everyone seems to be wearing a huge diamond cross or diamond-encrusted dog tags. Cartier watches and diamondstudded teeth are de rigueur as well.

  “It’s . . . it’s the Mortuary Team! Psycho Killa’s crew!” gasps Claude. “They’re really here!”

  “Unreal!” I say, turning to tell Fleur, then realizing she’s not here. “But there’s about a hundred of them!”

  “Some of them must be Psycho Killa’s staff,” says Claude. “ ’Cos I know he travels with two chefs—a sushi chef and another guy who specializes in fried chicken. Oh, and he’s got a braid technician who does his hair. And a hip-hop accountant on call 24/7 to talk him out of buying things like Lear jets and nightclubs!”

  “I thought Fleur was high maintenance,” I mutter.

  Outside on the drive, streams of fabulous vehicles are arriving: Cadillac Escalades, Lamborghinis, Porsches and SUVs with blackened windows, as dozens more hip-hop dudes pour out, throwing their car keys to Cedric, Harbinger’s geriatric car valet.

  “Watch the rims, man!” shouts one hulking guy, dressed bizarrely in a customized orange prison jumpsuit, flipping Cedric a £50 tip. “Just had those twenty-inch babies fixed up.”

  “Man, can I get a coffee around here?” sighs his friend, an exhausted-looking, equally huge hip-hop man-mountain, wandering over and taking a seat on the lobby’s leather couches.

  “Ronnie! That’s Freaky Death Squad and Detonator from the Mortuary Team!” says Claude, nudging me. “And, oh my God! Here’s Knucklehead coming in now!”

  Detonator appears to be wearing a jewel-encrusted bomber jacket made from an entire Friesian cow.

  “They’re even scarier than they look on MTV!” I say as the three hulking hoods crouch around a coffee table in the lobby, clearly plotting a sinister gangland hit on a rival hip-hop syndicate.

  In the midst of the c
haos, poor overworked Precious the receptionist is attempting to allocate rooms to the hip-hop fraternity.

  “Er, attention, please!” Precious yells, typing away furiously on the hotel reservation system. “Do we have a Mr., erm, Freaky Death Squad?”

  “S’up!” says Freaky D, jumping up, his crisscross braids bouncing as he moves. “That’s me, ma’am.”

  “Ah, good!” smiles Precious. “Now then, Mr. Death Squad, you prerequested a nonsmoking room with a garden view? But are you the gentleman who is allergic to goose down?”

  “Sure am,” says Freaky D bashfully. “Makes me itchy.”

  “Worry not, sir,” smiles Precious. “Housekeeping has located you a man-made-fiber pillow for sensitive skin. Sign here, please. Now, Mr. Knucklehead and Mr. Detonator? You’re sharing the deluxe twin room, aren’t you?”

  Claude and I look at each other and dissolve into giggles.

  “Right, guys. Psycho Killa ETA in forty-five minutes!” shouts Kelsey, Psycho Killa’s personal assistant, whom I saw in the garden this morning. “His helicopter has just left Canary Wharf in London. We’ll be leaving for the sound check in one hour!”

  As the Mortuary Team begin to disperse to their rooms, three more bodies arrive in reception: a small Japanese guy wearing vast dark glasses accompanied by a leggy, vacant-looking teenage lap-dancer type with her hair in ringlets carrying a small fluffy-faced Pekinese dog wearing a pink collar with a diamond-encrusted name tag, and behind them, a rotund bloke with a skinhead struggling with two large solid-steel record boxes.

  “Claude, that’s Warren Acapulco!” I say in my very, very worst stage whisper, managing to attract the attention of the whole trio.

  “Oh, hi there,” smiles Warren graciously, flipping his sunglasses up and giving me and Claude a big showbiz smile. Warren’s girlfriend just rolls her eyes and begins shouting at Precious about dog-minding facilities.

  “This is Trixiebelle Frou Frou!” the woman is shouting, pointing at the dog. “And she moves her bowels at 6 P.M. each day precisely. I’ll need someone with a poop scoop who understands Pekinese behavior at my suite by 5:45. Is that a problem?”