by Grace Dent
“Are you okay over there, Miss Varninka?” shouts Candice. “Happy?”
“Extremely happy,” scowls Svetlana.
“Excellent,” says Candice. “So, ladies, the show will be broadcasting live on MTV and Extreme Sports. Has everybody signed their legal waivers to say they agree to be on TV?”
“I have!” Fleur yells happily, rubbing light-reflecting moisturizer into her brown legs.
“Fleur, you look amazing!” I say as Fleur stands up, then spins around, showing off her hot-pink halter-neck Latino-style dress, whooshing her hair about with her hands.
“Cheers, Ronnidge!” Fleur laughs, pausing to help me zip up my favorite lucky strappy black dress. There’s something about the way this dress hangs on my body that always gives me extra confidence.This dress has seen so many fabulous LBD nights out.
But as Fleur and I chat and giggle, Panama and Cressida are glowering at us both across the room. “Oh, hello there, Ronnie,” Panama yells across, pointing at my dress. “I see we’re going down the old tried-and-tested route, are we?”
I put my head down, pretending to be deaf.
“Awww, I love that old dress,” coos Cressida, who’s clutching a bunch of tissues in her hand. Her voice sounds croaky.
“I never get tired of seeing it,” snipes Panama.
“Right, ladies,” interrupts Candice. “The plan is really straightforward. Round One will be judged by the clap-o-meter. That’s where five of you will be eliminated. Next round, we move on to swimwear, where the judges will vote off another five ladies. Then the remaining five girls will come back in daywear—that is, jeans, T-shirts, whatever you like—and have a little talk to Lonny Larson about why they’re the perfect Demonboard Babe . . . blah blah blah . . . and then the judges vote. All clear?”
“Yes!” we yell.
“And I’m sure you know,” smiles Candice, “that first prize is twenty thousand pounds in cash? Well, I can also say that the check is available to take away today as soon as the winner is announced.”
Claude takes a sharp intake of breath.
“Second prize is a holiday for two in Barbados,” continues Candice, “and third prize is a five-thousand-pound shopping expedition to It’s a Girl’s World at Emerald Park Shopping City.”
The LBD look at each other nervously. We have to get first prize. Nothing less will do.
“Any questions?” asks Candice.
“Me!” says Panama, looking slightly drag-queenish in her purple Dolce and Gabbana dress. “When I win, can I get the money transferred directly into my account? Because I don’t handle money.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” sighs Candice. “Any other questions?”
“Is anyone in the bathroom right now?” blurts out Abigail before walking briskly to the loo, clenching her bum cheeks together, slamming the door behind her.
“Anything else?” asks Candice.
“Accccchhhhoooooo! I’ve gotsh a queshtion?” sniffs Cressida, whose eyes are now becoming rather red-rimmed. “Doesh anyone have a pet in here? I’ve already taken two antihistamine pills, and I still feel very sneezy! I have a pet hair allergy, you see, and . . .”
Everybody just ignores her and carries on getting ready.
“Okay, eight minutes till showtime!” shouts Candice. “Good luck, ladies.”
At the side of the room, Claude sits quietly in front of a mirror, looking totally exquisite in her favorite black vintage dress with silver strappy sandals and a fake-diamond necklace. When Fleur and I had reached the dressing room, we’d found Claude already there, practically ready to rock. She told us she knew how busy it was going to be, so she’d got down here early.
As Claude sits there, painting on a layer of lip gloss, she looks rather distracted. I know she spoke to her mum earlier today and Gloria felt sure they had a buyer for Lister House. A young couple had looked around just that morning remarking that “with a lot of work” the flat would be their “perfect starter home.”
“A lot of work?” Claude had repeated to me crossly, imagining all her Lister House memories being torn out and wallpapered over by a pair of newly marrieds. “But that place is perfect! It’s my home. What are they going to do to it?”
I look across at Claude. We have to keep the faith that one of us can win this thing. We have to stay strong.
“Four minutes,” shouts Candice as the entire room erupts into a frenzy of last-minute titivation. “Start making your way to the stage wings now.”
“Hey, Ronnie, is that your phone ringing?” yells Fleur, spraying her hair and pointing at my makeup bag, which is vibrating and playing a tune.
“Yeah!” I shout, trying to fix a rose hair clip into place. “Have I got time?”
“Hurry up. We’re going!” shouts Fleur.
“Got it,” I yell, grabbing the handset. It has to be Saul wishing me good luck.
“Hellooooo!” I yell above the girly din.
“Ronnie?” shouts the voice. “Are you there, Ronnie?”
“Mum!” I yell. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. The woman time forgot!” Mum chuckles, sounding much more like her old feisty self. “Hang on, speak to your brother for a second.” There’s a muffled sound and then a soft squelchy raspberry noise on the line that sounds like “Wonnnnnopghhhl.”
My heart melts. Suddenly it hits me how much I have missed them all.
“Hear that?” laughs Mum, bringing the phone back to her. “That was poor Little Lord Fauntleroy asking why he’s been abandoned.”
“Aw, tell him I’m sorry. I’ve been busy!” I shout, dearly hoping that my voice is drowning out a heated exchange between Svetlana and Leeza over a tube of false eyelash glue.
“Anyway, Ronnie, Paddy Swan just called me,” shouts Mum. “He says you’re going to be on telly or something? Fleur told him to watch MTV this afternoon!”
“Erm, well, oooh,” I cringe. This is totally the opposite of what I wanted!
“This sounds very exciting!” says Mum. “Are you being interviewed about Destiny Bay?”
“Well, erm . . . something like that,” I mumble.
“ ’Cos I’m out today, you see. I’m at the wholesaler’s,” shouts Mum. “So I’ve rung Aunty Susan and Aunty Cath and Gloria Cassiera and they’re going to tape it for me. And I’ve just seen Mr. McGraw in the post office, so I told him to watch out for it too. And your dad says he’ll put it on the wide-screen in the pub downstairs.”
“Well, you don’t have to go to all that bother . . . ,” I mumble, beginning to feel bilious.
“Oooh, my little girl, eh?” shouts Mum. “A TV travel expert? I’m going to be so proud!”
“Er, I don’t think so,” I mumble, feeling faint.
“Break a leg, darling!” yells Mum.
“Thanks, Mum,” I say, hanging up, not knowing whether she’ll see the funny side of this one within the next decade.
“Girls, I need you outside now!” shouts Candice. “There must be at least two thousand people waiting for you, and they’re getting impatient!”
“C’mon, Ronnie,” Claude shouts, grabbing my arm and whisking me out of the dressing room. “Let’s go and smile nicely for the judges.”
“Hey, who are the judges, by the way?” asks Fleur, tagging along behind, taking one last look in the mirror. “That was the one thing I could never find out.”
“Oh, I can tell you that,” says Candice, who’s chivvying us all along. “There are four. There’s Finn Talbot, the guy who won Demonboards. Then Freaky Death Squad from the Mortuary Team, Sebastian Porlock from God Created Man . . . and finally . . . ,” Candice checks her clipboard again. “We’ve got local dignitary Lord Vanderloo, owner of Harbinger Hall. No, hang on, he canceled at the last minute with a golfing injury . . . so we’ve got another head honcho from Harbinger Hall. Helga, erm, Scrumble? That name ring any bells?”
“Oh yes,” the LBD say, marching intrepidly toward the stage. “Ding dong.”
s
howtime
It’s 3 P.M. and the sun is blazing down on the Demonboard Babe marquee as Warren Acapulco plays out a loud mix of R & B and hip-hop to the hectic party crowd marauding all over the entire beach. As far as the eye can see, thousands of kids are winding their waists and quaking their booties, trying to get their faces in front of the MTV cameras.
Meanwhile, waiting in the wings of the stage stand the Demonboard Babes. Well, everyone aside from Abigail Munro, who’s mysteriously vanished.
“Oh, where is she?” tuts Panama, her face suggesting she’s not overly bothered.
“Shhhpgh, she’s in the toilet,” sniffles Cressida, mopping her dripping nostrils.
Eventually, after a lot of banging on the cubicle door by Candice, Abigail appears, stepping precariously toward the stage with a highly contorted face. It’s as if she’s concentrating really hard on carrying a ten-pence piece between her butt cheeks or something.
Then, as she draws parallel with Claude and I, she pauses and throws both perfectly manicured hands over her mouth. A loud rumble erupts from her tummy, followed by a high-pitched squeakity-squeak of the bottom variety!
Did I just hear what I think I heard?
“Claude,” I hiss, shooing away a growing stench. “I don’t think Abigail’s feeling very well!”
“Hmmm,” smiles Claude, wearing a highly angelic expression as she cups her arm around my waist and pulls me close to her. “Well, Ronnie, I’d advise you to keep your eye on Abigail Munro. She may have inadvertently swallowed laxatives, mistaking them for boob-grow pills.”
“What?” I gasp. “How?”
“Oh, it’s just a little joke,” smiles Claude, repeating Abigail’s phrase from the Windsmore Suite tea party. “I mean, can’t she take a joke?”
“Hello, Destiny Bay!” screams Lonny Larson as the crowd goes crazy, whistling, clapping and letting off Klaxon horns. “I wanna hear you make some noise for the one, the only, the legendary, Miss Demonboard Babe contest!”
As Fleur, Claude and I stand nervously awaiting our cue, the judges are taking their seats. We can see Freaky D from the Mortuary Team, wearing a green plastic body bag with armholes slashed in each side and a wonky Gucci headband, flipping peace-out signs at the TV camera. Next to him sit Finn Talbot and Sebastian Porlock, both looking dangerously snoggable. Then beside them, not looking in the slightest bit snoggable—in fact, more slappable—sits Helga Scrumble, who is a vision of frumpiness in her horn-rimmed glasses and stiff Harris Tweed.
Scrumble is staring directly at me, so I give her my best amiable grin, which she reciprocates with her trademark Scrumble death glare. It’s at this point that I remember Saul announcing to the whole of Europe on live TV that I gave him “a roof over his head” for the past month. Oh no. Busted!
And just when I think Scrumble can’t look any more irate, she spots Fleur Swan, pirouetting about beside me giddily in a pink dress. Yes, the very same Fleur Swan I promised I’d loaded aboard the 4:38 P.M. train out of Destiny Bay more than a week ago. Scrumble whips off her specs and polishes them furiously, quite clearly hoping she’s seeing things.
“And now, with no further ado, can we get a big cheer for the Demonboard Babes?” yells Lonny. “Bring on the girls!”
Aaaaaghhh! There’s no going back now!
Panama Bogwash goes first, sashaying onto the stage with a smug smile, throwing kisses to her awaiting public, with Cressida trotting behind her sneezing and coughing with every step, followed by Leeza, then Svetlana, then me, Claude, Fleur, Tina and then six other girls. As the crowd spots us all, the roar almost knocks me off my feet. And to my utmost pleasure, there seems to be a crowd of gorgeous surf dudes right on the front, hanging over the safety barrier, wolf-whistling and yelling my name!
“Veronnnnnnica!” yells Saul, as we all take our first circuit around the stage before lining up along the back wall. “Hey, lads, that’s her! That’s my woman!”
Okay, normally I’d be totally opposed to any bloke saying I was his possession. But darn it, when Saul Parker says it, it sounds kind of primitive mannish and cool. I am Saul’s woman!
“Oh, where’s Abigail gone to now, Leeza?” tuts Panama. “I thought she was with us.”
“I’m here, don’t worry,” says Abigail, appearing from the wings, walking very slowly with her knees locked together, clearly determined to make an appearance. However, as she crosses the stage, passing the judges’ table, Freaky D’s nose wrinkles. He turns to Finn Talbot and raises an eyebrow.
“Man, did you squeeze cheese?” Freaky D laughs, nudging Finn with his elbow.
“What?” laughs Finn, shaking his head, then pointing at Sebastian. “Nah, not me! It must have been Mr. Boy Band here.”
By this point Sebastian has his nose cupped in his hands, looking like the toxic fumes are poisoning him. “Not guilty!” moans Sebastian. “But whoever let that one go better get themselves to a doctor. They’re clearly unwell.”
As the male judges roar with laughter, Scrumble takes a small bottle of smelling salts out of her bag and inhales deeply. Meanwhile Abigail carries on with her promenade of the stage, walking like she’s fractured her bottom.
“What’s up with you?” hisses Panama. “Stop walking like a freak!”
“I can’t help it,” mumbles Abigail. “I’ve got a bad stomach.”
With all fifteen contestants now lined up at the back of the stage, the MTV cameras sweep up and down the line, filming us. I try to do my best noncheesy smile and wave, knowing that everyone at the Fantastic Voyage is watching. Claude does a dainty wave, while Fleur begins pulling rock ’n’ roll devil horns with both hands and doing a fancy “jump and wind” dance move. Okay, she looks pretty daft, but at least she’s happy.
“Aren’t they all gorgeous?” yells Lonny. “But sadly, now it’s time to eliminate some lovelies. So let’s make some noise for the Demonboard Babe clap-o-meter machine!”
“Good luck, girls,” shouts Fleur, crossing her fingers and jumping up and down even more.
“You’re bound to be safe, Ronnie,” whispers Claude, nudging me and pointing down at Saul’s gang, who are whistling and cheering. “Your fan club has been going wild down on the front row.”
“Yeah, Ron,” laughs Fleur, “you’ll walk away with this one!”
But just as I begin to beam with joy, I spot the clap-o-meter. Or the crap-o-meter, as it should have been called. It’s not a scientific noise-level meter at all—in fact it’s just a rubbish box with “clap-o-meter” written on the side in red crayon, and some milk-bottle tops and old egg cartons stuck on to it by a crowd of preschoolers. My heart groans as Lonny walks along the line shouting names out and pointing at us, with the crowd cheering equally wildly every time. Suddenly I realize that the first round is a complete joke—anyone can be kicked out.
After a few minutes of total bedlam, Lonny fiddles with his earpiece and calls for silence.
“I have the results!” Lonny shouts. “And that was a really tough one to decide, but I can tell you now that the five girls we’re saying good-bye to in Round One are Amy Harding, Tatiana Winehouse, Gail Winters . . .”
“What!?” huffs Amy Harding, a tiny slip of a girl in a dress so indecent she’s clearly wearing it only for legal reasons. “You’re getting rid of me? Are you insane? I’m the only one you’d even look twice at in the street.”
“But . . . I . . . I . . . ooooooooooh!” begins Tatiana Winehouse, dissolving into tears as her friend Gail Winters wraps an arm around her shoulder and blubs in unison.
Meanwhile, poor Lonny is trying to continue with the list. “Also leaving in this round,” he shouts, “is Abigail Munro!”
“Now there’s a shock,” says Panama, holding her nose and elbowing Abigail, who is standing beside her. Abigail simply shrugs in acceptance as some security guards elbow past us all, trying to remove Amy Harding, who is up at the judges’ desk squaring up to Freaky D and calling him a “blinkered fool.”
“And, erm, finally this r
ound,” shouts Lonny above the racket. “We’re saying good-bye to . . . Fleur Swan! Give them all a big hand now, everyone!”
Oh my God! Fleur is out!
Our trump card has been eliminated.
Claude and I glare at each other in total horror.
This is terrible, but worse still, Fleur clearly hasn’t heard that her name has been called. As Candice begins to chivvy all of us girls off the stage, back to the dressing rooms, our blonde friend is still clapping and smiling, blissfully ignorant of her fate.
“Fleur!” shouts Claude. “Fleur, come here.”
Fleur looks directly at Claude, stopping clapping for a second to give us both a big thumbs-up.
“Oh no,” Claude groans, sidling over to Fleur and whispering something discreetly into her ear.
Fleur looks at her curiously, then asks her to say it again, which Claude does. Then Fleur’s face crumples. I feel a sting in the back of my throat.
“C’mon, Fleur,” whispers Claude, taking Fleur’s hand and walking her off the stage, back toward the dressing room. “Don’t take it personally. That clap-o-meter thing is a piece of garbage. It was totally random! You should have won. You’re beautiful.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, walking behind them, realizing that while Fleur is now history as a Demonboard Babe, Panama Goodyear, Cressida Sleeth and Leeza Palmer have all lived to fight another round.
Right, I think. This is war.
judgment day
Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere has turned decidedly belligerent.
“Oh, stop sniveling, Abigail,” growls Panama, looking annoyingly sublime in a purple Gucci bikini with gold clasps. “I’ll have the prize money in my hands within half an hour. We’ll grab Sandybongo and the other Argies and go out and buy some bubbly to celebrate.”
Abigail lets out a little sniffle.
“Look, keep on being a pain in the butt,” Panama warns Abigail, “and I’ll send you back to the Windsmore Suite.”