A Royal Match (19 page)

Billy cried, ‘Ow!’ and the president called, ‘Stop.’

We began again – only this time Billy waited for me to make the first attack, probably because he was still in pain and a bit unsure of what I might do. Like Professor Sullivan was always reminding us, fencing was a physical form of chess.

I decided to unnerve him further by not moving from the
en garde
line for ages. When I did move, I scored a
straight hit to the torso. After that, the bout was mine, five hits to nil.

After the game was called, Billy took off his mask and shook my hand. ‘You’re everything I’d heard you were and more.’ He was laughing as he said it.

I was going really red, but I took off my mask, revealing my fluffy horns in all their embarrassing glory.

We shook hands again. ‘Billy,’ he said. ‘I think you know my brother, Kevin?’

‘Calypso,’ I said, smiling. A fuzzy warm feeling started tingling through my body. I don’t know how much time passed before I realised we were still shaking hands and everyone around us who wasn’t fencing was looking at us.

The best thing was, it wasn’t just me that couldn’t stop shaking hands and staring. He was staring at me too, not letting go, and smiling.

Eventually, we both got a grip. I even rescued a slight chink of dignity by pulling my hand away first.

‘Calypso,’ he repeated.

‘Uh-huh.’ Here we go, I thought … my name again.

‘She who causes men to be diverted from their goals?’ he teased, referring to Calypso in Homer’s
Odyssey
, who held Odysseus captive on her island until the gods petitioned her to let him go.

Normally I would have started digging a verbal hole to bury myself in, but something about Billy made me feel … well … like
me
, really, and instead I teased him back. ‘Some men need a good diversion.’

To which he replied, ‘
Touché
,’ and bowed in this mad, regal sort of way.

That was when Freddie came up to us.

‘Hey man, how’s it going?’ Billy said.

‘I think I’m up against Portia next,’ Freddie replied – only he was looking at me as he said it, and he was looking sad.

I surprised myself by acting really cool. ‘Hi, Freddie. Portia’s quite good, actually.’

Freddie said, ‘Only not as good as you,’ in a meaningful sort of way, which made me blush.

Billy said, ‘If she is as good as Calypso, all I can say is, watch the back of your neck, man.’

Freddie looked confused, having not seen our bout.

‘Anyway, I’d better get going,’ Billy said. ‘My next bout’s with Star. But listen, Calypso, great to have the shit sabreured out of me by you.’

I must have grimaced with embarrassment because he winked.

‘Kidding – the pleasure was all mine. Catch you later, I hope,’ he added pointedly.

‘What’s up with you guys?’ Freddie enquired, obviously jealous.

Even though one part of me wanted to kiss him, another part of me was still too humiliated by the way he’d treated me. Either way, something inside me just snapped and I let out a heavy sigh.

Then he said, ‘We need to talk. That is … I have some explaining to do, I think.’

Suddenly all my pent-up confusion, my anger over his letter, and my longing for more of his kisses just sort of exploded out of me.

‘I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.’

Then I turned to leave, aware by now that
everyone
in the salle who was not in a bout was watching us.

‘Wait, Calypso,’ he said, grabbing my arm.

I looked at his hand gripping my elbow and my mind flashed back to the night of the social as he’d helped me climb out of the library window. I looked up into his ink-blue eyes and he let go, which was probably for the best because a part of me suddenly wanted to kiss him again and we know how that ended up last time, don’t we?

‘You don’t understand, actually,’ he said.

‘Actually,’ I said, moving into motor-mouth mode, ‘I understand just perfectly … you and your wretched royalty and all the ghastly people like me you’re so paranoid about trading on it!’

‘It’s not like that.’

But I wasn’t to be swayed. ‘Who do you think you are?’ I demanded, my hands on my hips. ‘I mean, apart from heir to the throne and master of the nation or whatever other fancy titles you have, and … well, erm, that sort of thing?’

He looked shocked, so I really went for it. ‘And anyway, another thing – even if I
had
sold all your bloody messages for like a thousand pounds a listen, it still wouldn’t have been worth all the trouble you’ve caused me! Well, would it?’

He shook his head. He tried to say something, but I
didn’t give him a chance.

‘To hell with your royal status. What about me? Do you think it’s some sort of royal privilege for me to be labelled as the Prince’s Rough-and-Tumble?’

He opened and closed his mouth for a bit so I told him he could shove his wretched royalty and elitist behaviour anywhere it would fit, as long as it wasn’t anywhere near my life.

I think I said a lot of other things too, because I was quite red-faced and croaky by the time I finished.

‘I think you were just called,’ was all he said in the end.

‘What?’

‘You’ve got a bout – they just called your name.’

‘Oh, right. OK then, well, goodbye.’ I turned on my heel and walked towards the piste, trying to gather myself together in the manner befitting the Captain of the Saint Augustine sabreurs.

Then I heard him calling out my name again.

I turned around. ‘Good luck!’ he called and gave me a little wave.

‘I don’t need luck,’ I replied haughtily, because I felt wrong-footed by his unexpected kindness. Still, I was sounding almost like Honey and I wished I could take it back.

I won all my bouts, but I was still shaking over my exchange with Freddie when we finally clambered into the minibus for the journey back to Saint Augustine’s.

Everyone immediately started going on about me giving Freddie a Right Royal Dressing Down, but I felt sick inside
and didn’t rise to the bait. I hardly said a word. I couldn’t quite believe the things I’d said. I had been like a mad, erupting volcano and I hadn’t even given him a chance.

Should I have given him a chance?

I didn’t ask any of my friends because I knew what they’d say. ‘No way. You were brilliant, Calypso … blah, blah, blah.’

Thank God it was an exeat weekend and we all got straight off the minibus with only half an hour to get ready for the coach that took us to London.

Star had invited me to spend the weekend at her place in Chelsea. This time her parents were there. That is, her parents and their roadies and their rock-star friends and their hangers-on – and, of course, their drugs.

That night there was a big party with loads of models and It-Girls and really ancient rock stars, all of them acting like they thought they were sixteen or something. What is it with adults who can’t grow up? They reminded me of Sarah and Bob.

Star and I wandered through the party, sipping on our Jack Daniels and Coke, which tasted ghastly, but Star insisted it was the only drink one could drink at a rock-star party.

I suppose it was quite cool, not the yucky drink, but seeing all these famous people being really happy to see Star and talking to us like we were real adults, even though we were about a hundred years younger than they were.

The best part was when Elsa, a really famous super-model-turned-writer, hung out with us in the cupboard
under the stairs and we talked about school and friends and make-up. We told her about our magazine. She was really impressed and asked if she could come to the launch. She said she was writing a book, which made me worship her even more.

The party went on all through the night and when we went downstairs for breakfast the next morning there were loads of sleeping bodies everywhere. Mostly they were Tiger’s roadies, but as Star said, even really famous people look totally gross when they are sleeping and there is no one to airbrush them.

They were sprawled on sofas and the floor, and Star and I were quite wicked and put Coco Pops in their mouths and then ran off and hid.

All in all it was a weekend free of worry. Feeding sleeping rock stars Coco Pops turned out to be the perfect antidote to all my dilemmas, but on the coach back to Saint Augustine’s they all came flooding back. I discovered a text on my phone, which had been sent on Friday.

I hadn’t even looked at my phone all weekend.

PLEASE DON’T H8 ME. I DON’T H8 U. ACTUALLY …
QUITE THE OPPOSITE. CAN I CALL YOU TO XPLAIN?
F

I immediately texted him back.

I DON’T HATE YOU. C X

Then I immediately regretted the
x
.

A week later, on the morning of the launch party for
Nun of Your Business
, I woke up pre-gong, which put Miss Cribbe into a bit of a mood. Honey was back at school, no longer in Coventry, ensconced in her role as Queen B (that’s B for Bitch), but in a weird sort of way, it was actually quite fun having her back. There was too much going on for me to be bothered holding a grudge.

Honey had had a complete makeover. She’d had ringlets put into her hair, which was now blonder than ever, and Rystaline injected into her smile lines (even though she didn’t have any). She’d also had her navel pierced and as a punishment/reward her mother had given her a diamond navel ring for it. Duchess had a real Tiffany diamond collar, with a white gold bell, so she could drive the other pets bananas.

‘It’s barbaric. Hilda is terrified!’ Star had complained.
‘She’s so stressed out by that bell, she’s constantly on her wheel now. I’m scared she’s going to have a heart attack if she keeps this up.’

On this occasion even I felt quite sorry for Hilda (and all the other pets in the pet shed – especially Dorothy Parker). I mean, imagine having a bell sounding every time the horrible Duchess moved! It would be like Miss Cribbe banging on her gong all the time.

‘I’m actually quite bored with her anyway,’ Honey yawned when Star complained about her rabbit’s bell. ‘I’m thinking that the diamond collar would look so much more stylish on a white rabbit. Perhaps I’ll give Duchess to Poppy.’

None of us said anything. I guess the makeover hadn’t been that complete.

We had far more important things on our minds – making sure everything was in place for the launch. All day long, girls kept coming up to us and saying, Is Jono (famous rock star) really coming to the launch? and stuff like that. No one could pay attention in classes that day.

The nuns had volunteered to supervise everything (i.e., to wander around the hall oppressively, making sure no one had an iota of a chance of pulling any of the boys).

We had a plan, though.

My plan went like this. After sending Freddie the
x
on my text, I decided to go for gold, i.e., march straight up to him, grab him by the hand, and lead him to the secret passage under the stage and, while Star and Georgina
diverted any nuns nearby, we would nip in the secret door and tongue-fence like mad. All the complications between us – whether to ‘
x
’ or not – had made me think that some things are better said with tongues than words.

It was Clemmie’s idea, actually. All term it had been clear that she’d been heading this way, but since the Eades social she had officially gone Boy Crazy. All she could talk about was who she was going to pull at the launch – she had a list with five names on it:

Kevin
.

Kevin
.

Kevin
.

Kevin
.

Kevin
.

Georgina had a list too. Her list had thirty-six names on it (all different) but only twenty-four of the names on the list attended Eades. But Georgina could pull boys effortlessly (eighteen was her record so far), whereas Clemmie was a bit more like me – single-minded (or as Georgina called us, dramatic).

Star was back on with Rupert, who’d had his braces taken off and was now a realistic pulling option. She was hoping to pull a few older, fit boys as well, just in case Rupert was as hopeless a kisser without braces as with.

Arabella was keeping her pulling list open, but she had sworn that she was determined to pull at least six boys before the night was out.

Thank goodness our nuns were so old and innocent.

The painting that the kids from the village in Africa had sent us was hanging above the stage, next to the DJ’s station. The nuns had really gone to town with decorations. The main hall was lit with multicoloured flashing lights and the standard disco ball hanging in the centre.

Sisters Hillary and Veronica were manning the
Nun of Your Business
desk at the entrance. Everyone who had bought a ticket to the launch was given a free copy as they came in, but we were also selling a limited edition of two hundred copies signed by the editors, that is us, the five Lit Chick Salon girls (Arabella, Clemmie, Georgina, Star and me) for ten pounds each.

All the Eades boys were arriving by coaches, and I tried to loiter nonchalantly around the entrance, looking out for Freddie as coach after coach arrived. Our hall was already at capacity by the time Kevin ambled in, laughing and chatting away with a few of his mates. I sidled up to him very casually/desperately and said, ‘Hiya.’