I wasn’t the only one gaping that day either. Over sixty wildly fit boys dressed in cool, ultra-anti-Sloane gear had assembled on the bridge in front of the castle town of Windsor. They looked, like, well, they looked like extras for a really well-lit independent film, actually. And they attracted a great deal of attention from locals and tourists alike.
Indie, Star, Georgina, Clems, Portia, Honey, Arabella, Fen, Perdita and – well, I won’t go on listing them. But just picture forty-two Year Elevens, done up like catwalk models, climbing out of a fleet of taxis and minivans. And then picture those same girls coming face-to-face with the fittest boys Eades had to offer.
There was quite a kafuffle, I can tell you.
It was like a social without teachers. A capital VIP ball without bouncers – although personal security guards were everywhere, obviously. Siddhartha, in his flowing orange robes and revolving prayer wheel, stood apart from the other buzz cuts in their sharp suits and earpieces. I don’t think the other security guys fully accepted him as one of their own. You could sort of sense their collective scorn for his monkish robes and peaceful demeanour.
As the boys came towards us like a tray of delicious walking sweets, tongues were lolling. That paragon of fitness, Lord Orlando Hunte, whom I’d met last Saturday, was using a video camera to film the two groups as they approached one another. We must have looked magnificently arty. It was one of those lights-camera-action moments that only comes around once in a lifetime –unless you’re an It Girl or a Hollywood Star.
Malcolm was holding a megaphone, but sadly he didn’t use it when he said, ‘May I say, you look absolutely stunning this afternoon, Calypso?’
I didn’t blush, but that was only because it was so cold and I couldn’t feel my face. My heart did a little summersault, though. I was really touched, not just by his compliment, but by what he’d done for me. I mean, this whole dazzling show was all for me. And now that I knew he wasn’t seeing Indie …
‘Yes, Malcolm, you may tell me I look absolutely stunning this afternoon as long as I can thank you for, well, arranging all this,’ I told him as I gestured at his posse.
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that,’ he said grimly.
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but I didn’t get a chance to ask because he put the megaphone to his lips and shouted, ‘I want to say on behalf of the Eades Film Society gathered here today that we are honoured to act as your decoys. Be assured, stunning creatures of Saint Augustine’s, most of these gentlemen have dramatic experience of some sort, and everyone assembled here is one hundred percent on board with your, erm, Counter Dump situation. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?’ he asked his entourage.
I have to admit, I was finding him quite masterful and impressive. It didn’t matter to me that most of the boys had ignored Malcolm’s speech and continued chatting amongst themselves (apart from a few like Tarquin and Billy, who had wandered into the Saint Augustine’s crowd to chat with girls they knew). On the other hand, the tourists and general public on the other hand, were openly gawking at this magnifique gathering.
Malcolm acted as if they’d all cheered him like the Romans cheered Mark Antony when he came to bury Caesar, not to praise him. I quite admired him for that.
‘Right,’ he said to the preoccupied crowd. ‘So the plan is for Pyke elder to call Pyke younger and give him the signal to lead our quarry into the trap.’
I didn’t like to interrupt his speech, but I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘What quarry might that be?’
Malcolm looked confused. Then again, Malcolm always looked a little baffled. I think it’s because his mind’s always on a trillion things at once.
‘Freddie,’ Billy – otherwise known as Pyke elder –explained.
‘Oh right, of course,’ I said.
‘You’ve got it.’ I think Billy was finding the whole situation the apex of madness. ‘So all set for Florence tomorrow?’
All this dumping and counter dumping had rather distracted me from my Big Dream, but I could hardly admit that to Billy, so I just nodded. Which is mad, because long before Freddie came into my life, all I thought about was being an international sabre champion. And now that the chance to make my mark was in my grasp, I was boy obsessing just as Star had warned.
Malcolm passed the megaphone to one of his entourage and asked Billy to make the call to Kev. He began to look around vaguely. Maybe he was searching for his director’s chair.
Billy went over to the bridge so he could make the call to his brother in semi-privacy. When he came back, he gave Malcolm the nod. It was all very conspiratorial and exciting. I began to feel quite giddy.
Malcolm grabbed the megaphone back and told his film society, ‘Right, gentlemen, this is it. You’re having a jolly good time with this collection of stunningly fit girls. Just remember your roles. You’re happy. You’re relaxed. These are your salad days, chaps. Into character, move into the set, flirt with feeling and, action!’
With that, something miraculous happened. Suddenly, every boy was in animated conversation with the girls. I don’t just mean the obvious suspects like Billy chatting to Portia, or Tarquin to Indie, but everyone seemed paired up even though there were about twenty more boys than girls. Though if you ask me, three to one is the perfect boy-girl ratio for any social situation. I even spotted Star flirting outrageously with Orlando. She was using that très obvious touching-the-buttons-of-his-shirt-as-she-spoke trick. Orlando looked bedazzled.
Next, Malcolm threw the full strength of his personality at me. He told me he’d fancied me from the moment he’d discovered me clinging to the wisteria vine outside his room like a wet rat. He told me that ever since that night he’d been distracted by thoughts of me. ‘You see, the reason I kept on filing my DVDs and pretended not to take the least bit of notice of you was because I was terrified that I’d expose myself as an infatuated idiot. And that you’d despise me and think me pathetic.’
My jaw dropped for a bit as I tried to fathom whether he meant any of this stuff or was just acting ‘in character.’ All I could think of to say was, ‘Oh fiddlesticks!’ Honestly, I don’t know where these hopeless blurtings come from.
‘The plain truth of the matter, Calypso,’ he said as he brushed his hand across my jaw line and down my neck, which made me feel all wobbly and faint, ‘is that I’ve never actually met anyone as funny or as diverse as you.’
‘Gosh,’ I blurted, staring up into his eyes. It was quite a change flirting with a boy who was miles taller than me. It does become quite tiresome flirting with the top of a boy’s head – even if it does have really cool sticky-outy hair on it.
‘You never cease to surprise me, Calypso. Sometimes after I’ve seen you or spoken to you, I have to hide in a cupboard and chortle myself sick.’
‘Gosh!’ I repeated. I can’t remember all the things he said, but then I’m not such a loon that I actually believed him. I knew he was just trying to create the right dramatic effect. He was a director after all, and his role was to flirt. So in response to his speech to me, I rewarded him with one of my own flirtastic speeches.
‘Oh Malcolm, I was mesmerised by you the moment I saw your head poke out of the window,’ I told him as I twirled a tentacle of hair between my fingers. ‘And I thought you were wildly sophisticated when you told me I could dry my wet clothes on your radiator. Actually, I was feverishly impressed that your radiator was warm; ours are only really there to give the idea of warmth. Oh, and also when you came to stay at the Clap House, I was ultra, ultra, ultra impressed by the way you dealt with those Gandalfs on the Landor Road. What was it, a Glasgow …?’
‘Kiss,’ he said. It was probably my imagination, but he seemed so close at that moment I thought I could feel his breath on my lips.
‘That’s it, kiss, I agreed. ‘Glasgow kiss.’ And then for some unfathomable reason I did a Honey and batted my eyelashes and touched a button on his shirt. I suppose saying the word ‘kiss’ repeatedly to an older fit
boy is enough to make any girl blush.
I was so giddy with my faux flirtarama, that I didn’t notice Kev and Freds approach.
TWENTY-TWO
When Good Plans Go Bad
Freds was right by my shoulder when I finally felt his presence. I turned around and there he was. God he was soooo gorgeous. Soooo maddeningly fit, and he was standing so close I could smell that lovely lemony smell that was Freds. It was all I could do not to dribble.
‘So what’s all this, McHamish?’ Freds asked cheerfully. He waved his arm at the gathered crew without even looking at me.
He was bloody smiling, in fact. He didn’t look in the least bit heartbroken to see me – even in my stunning outfit! So I stared right into the centre of his soul. At least this forced him to notice me, but all he said was, ‘How’s it going, Calypso?’
I think ‘flabbergasted’ is the word – or is it ‘flabber-dashery’? Anyway, I was totally flabberdasheried, so I blurted, ‘Fine, thank you very muchly,’ in the most blank-ety blank way I could. I was still boring my eyes into his soul, but then he went and looked over my shoulder –quite a feat in itself given my height – and addressed Malcolm. It was as if I didn’t even exist. ‘Another film, McHamish, is it?’ he asked.
Oh, this was brilliant. After all the effort my friends and I had put into my outfit. After all my careful non-application of makeup and Star’s elaborate plans for The Counter Dump, not to mention her success at getting all these gods, I mean boys, together, this was how it was going to end. Freds was meant to realise what a fool he’d been to dump me, fall on his knees and beg me to take him back so I could dump him.
Instead, he appeared to be more interested in what a pack of boys he saw every day of the week was up to. I looked around at everyone. Couldn’t he see they were all there for moi? For the sake of my dignity, in fact. But there was Freds, totally oblivious to all the organisation that had gone into creating the perfect circumstances for a Counter Dump.
It was a Waterloo if ever there was one. After all our careful strategising, Freds and Malcolm were going to have a nice little chat about the film society and my dignity would be forgotten. Talk about double Latin with knobs on.
That was when Malcolm kissed me. Not an air-kiss, or a peck on the cheek like your beardy aunt might give you after a few too many sherries. No, a proper snog-age. A proper grown-up, swoony woony, wobbly-kneed snog-age.
Ooh-la-la and va-va-va-voom! Malcolm knew a thing or two (or three, or four, or five) about this kissing business. He could run one of those kissing booths at county fairs when he grew up and positively rake in the cash. Though I don’t suppose parents send their sons to the most prestigious boarding school in the world to have them setting up kissing booths.
It was such a mind-blowing kiss that even my brain stopped working. All I could do was feel and smell, and Malcolm felt and smelt lovely. Not like Freds, who always smelt of lemons. No, Malcolm smelt of boy, only in a nice way. If you could bottle Malcolm’s smell you’d make trillions, I promise you.
I had the most alarming wobbly feeling in my tummy and disorientation of my little grey cells. I even started raising my left foot off the ground without any sort of cognitive instruction whatsoever.
And then he dipped me.
Yes, I swear, he dipped me! All I could think was ooh-la-la, this is just like in the movies. And then I remembered. This was a movie – well, sort of like a movie. Malcolm was playing the part of the gallant selfless hero making the idiot ex-boyfriend jealous.
Malcolm lifted me from the dip and I opened my eyes, which I hadn’t even realised were closed. I knew boys liked you to close your eyes when they kissed you, but, well, I usually couldn’t help looking at their scrunched-up little faces. Star says it’s one of the few moments in life you get to see a boy vulnerable.
So anyway, I came to from my ooh-la-la moment and looked at Malcolm and realised for the first time how green his eyes were. Obviously, I already knew he had green eyes. A lot of these strawberry-blonde types with ivory skin are prone to green eyes. Malcolm’s eyes were the colour of grass after the rain when all the positive (or is it negative?) ions are running rampant.
Then I looked around me like a blinking rabbit and saw everyone was staring at us. Everyone but Freds that is. He wasn’t behind me anymore. Typical, I thought. I get dipped by an older fit boy, right under his stuck-up nose, and he wanders off. We couldn’t afford to lose the evil prince at this delicate stage of The Counter Dump. So I asked the crowd at large, ‘Where’s Freds gone?’
Malcolm was still looking at me. He touched my chin and kissed me lightly on the lips.
‘Where’s who gone?’ he asked.
‘Freds!’ I repeated. ‘He’s legged it.’
Malcolm looked around then as if coming to from a dream, but by that stage I’d already spotted Freds. He was only a few yards away, but there were lots of boys and girls between him and me, all flirting outrageously with one another, so he was sort of hidden from view. As I got a glimpse of his face, though, he looked distressed rather than bored. Also, he was sort of wobbling near the edge of the bridge.
For a moment it crossed my mind that maybe he had witnessed our snog-age after all and really was jealous and upset! And that made me feel even more confused.
Malcolm looked rather magnificent and powerful and superhero-ish as he moved towards Freds, especially when he shoved a few of the film society guys aside. I followed in his slipstream.
Malcolm cried out, ‘He’s not falling off the bridge, is he?’
The next thing I saw was my prince disappearing.
Then we all heard an almighty splash as he hit the Thames.
TWENTY-THREE
The Drowning Dreams of a Teenage Egoist
Malcolm yelled into his megaphone, ‘Boy down!’ and panic ensued as the security guys went loopity loopy loo. It was like a game of skittles gone wrong, the way they were all bumping into one another. Because a grave and terrible accident had befallen the heir to the throne, no one was laughing at their mad rush to get down the tiny cobbled steps with their enormous fat feet. But there was something vaudevillian about it all.
By the time they had descended one set of stairs, Freds had been washed to the other side of the bridge, so they had to rush in the other direction to mount their chaotic rescue mission.
It wasn’t just Freddie’s security on the case either. All of the other buzz cuts were falling over one another in their eagerness to rescue the drowning prince. You could hear their brains thinking, I swear! They were saying, ‘Oh let me be the one to save His Majesty, please, Lord, let it be me!’
I say drowning because I’m prone to exaggeration, but actually, it must have been freezing in the Thames. The swans looked pretty chilly, and even outside the water, my legs were blue. I know people swim the Channel, but then they rub themselves with goose fat first, don’t they? I was fairly sure Freds hadn’t taken any such precaution.
The Eades Film Society and my own friends were all hanging off the bridge, yelling out, ‘Freddie! Are you okay?’
As if anyone flailing about in a Thames swill in January could possibly be okay.
Just the same I joined them, dashing from one side of the bridge railings to the other as we watched our liege being helplessly washed downstream. Tourists were taking pictures of him. It was très, très tasteless and made me feel sick to the core. Sometimes I really have to question the morals of my fellow humans.
Eventually, I pushed my way through to the front of the crowd, spotted Freds and yelled out something not very useful to him like ‘hang on!’
I don’t think he heard me, though. He was focusing on trying to swim in subzero temperatures, against the current.
There was a woman on the bridge calling out to a gaggle – or is that a signature? – of swans. She’s a bit of a Windsor fixture, actually. Mad as a pack of socks. She was wearing a big old grubby mac and bobble hat with earflaps, and as usual she was chucking chunks of bread to the swans.
So while the heir to the throne was drowning and the security guys were being pointless, the mad old woman continued to lob lumps of bread at her swans until one of the wretched bits hit poor Freds on the head.
Within a microsecond he was being mobbed by hundreds of frenzied swans. It was a horrifying sight! I’m normally quite fond of swans. I’ve spent many a happy moment watching the Windsor swans glide serenely down the Thames. But there was nothing serene about the way they were mobbing Freds. Seriously, they were all over him, wings and beaks lashing out in all directions in their feverish attempt to retrieve the lump of bread, which must have become wedged under Fred’s collar.
He was utterly helpless to escape the ferocious force of flapping, hissing swans dragging their prince down into the depths of the current. I’m sure the irony wasn’t lost on him either. It was just so wrong to see the monarch’s own birds – which no one else is allowed to touch or eat apart from some odd college up at Oxford or something – attacking the future king.
A Royal Mess Page 30