A Royal Mess (25 page)

Malcolm elaborated with fanciful tales of ambassadors and caviar, which made Indie giggle. But I could tell by the looks passing between the security guys that they wanted to throttle Malcolm and Honey and quite possibly the rest of us.

As I sat there watching Honey going along with our ruse to keep the fight from Sarah, I was impressed. Could this be a new side of Honey?

‘So you caught up with lots of friends, then?’ Sarah enquired directly of Honey.

‘Oh yes, Sarah,’ Honey agreed gleefully. ‘And some of your neighbours,’ she added.

Everyone glared at her, imagining she was about to blow our cover.

‘Air kisses all round,’ Honey simpered. ‘In fact, Glasgow kisses for some, wasn’t it, Malcolm?’ she added just to make us squirm, I think.

‘Oh, Malcolm, what are you like?’ Sarah teased, completely oblivious to the undertones of the conversation and probably ignorant of what a Glasgow kiss even was.

‘Been to Glasgow, then, have you, Honey?’ Malcolm asked – obviously joking.

‘Darling?
Moi
go north of the M25?’ Then she did that horrible laugh she does where her collagen lips bubble up. And like everyone, I breathed a sigh of relief. Honey had definitely saved our butts on the street and she was even playing along to protect Sarah from the truth. Yet deep down she was still the Honey we knew and love/hated and, funnily enough, I took an odd sort of comfort in that.

I could tell Star was thinking the same thing because she winked, first at me and then at Georgina, Portia and even Tobias while Sarah explained the games she’d set up all over the floor: Twister, Cluedo, Hungry Hungry Hippos – a whole variety of babyish games. Bless, I thought, determined not to be embarrassed.

‘I thought we might all play some games?’ she suggested excitedly.

‘Cool,’ agreed Malcolm. ‘I love Hungry Hungry Hippos.’

And it
was
cool. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard
as when Freds’ and Indie’s security guys fell into a tangled Twister heap.

The only downside of the whole weekend was that I didn’t get to kiss Freds – well, not nearly enough.

TWENTY-FOUR
Bob’s Big Bombshell

After such a wonderful weekend with Sarah, I felt the need to write to Bob. Sarah had gone from a reverting infant to a brilliantly independent woman (with a bit of help from Bunny, whom I heard her speaking to on the phone). Despite all her reverting and madness, I was really proud of my mother for managing to set up a house, land a job in a country where she had no professional history, get fired and land another job which had transformed her into a minor celebrity. And all the way through she’d been there for me, taking me to lunch, supporting my fencing and impressing my friends and boyfriend.

And where was Bob during this transformation? Swanning around like an eighteenth-century dandy, draped over his wretched script, all thoughts of family responsibility forgotten. Even Freds hinted that he thought Bob was a loser.

And I couldn’t have that.

Either Bob was going to have to sort himself out, or I was
going to give Sarah my full support. Which meant giving Bob the boot. I think writing my essay had helped to stimulate my sense of injustice. Every night at prep after I’d done my course work, I tackled the edits Ms Topler had suggested for my essay. I think it was when I was writing about Bob humiliating me at the navel-piercing shop in Beverly Hills that I realised I had to confront him properly. Face-to-face, even. The arrogance of the man knew no bounds, and he needed to be brought down a peg or two.

Dear Father,
Enough is enough. The only good thing you had going for you [Sarah] has set up a lovely home in a rapidly gentrifying area of London and is presenting a really cool show and is admired by teenage boys everywhere as the hottest woman on television. I plan to advise Sarah to divorce you because you suck and Sarah rocks. Put that in your script! Yours sincerely, Calypso

PS: Not that you’d care, but I won the regionals and this Saturday I intend to win the Nationals at the Crystal Palace Sports Centre, which happens to be where the British Olympic team trains and Sarah will be there supporting me. She has been cheering me on at every match since she moved over here while you’ve been self-absorbed and unfeeling.

I studied my expertly crafted email for some time, making a few minor adjustments. Bob had an eagle eye when it came to lapses in grammar. He could bang on for hours about the imperfect past participle as used in England. He should have married Ms Topler – she would have given him a run for his money. When I was sure it was just right, I pressed ‘Send,’ revelling in the note of defiance as the mouse clicked.

I was about to go back to my essay about the great tragedy that was my life when I got a response from Bob.

Congratulations darling,
[Darling indeed, if he thought he could sweeten me up with darlings he had a huh and a half coming his way!]
I am thrilled that both you and Sarah are flourishing in England. I am so thrilled in fact that I have just decided to come to the tournament on Saturday to see my little girl trounce the competition.
Your loving father,
XXX Bob

Oh bugger. How dare he abuse my stern, reprimanding e-mail, which was meant to make him
tres
remorseful and depressed, and use it as an excuse to inflict himself on poor Sarah and stress her out just as she was starting to enjoy herself again. Bob’s presence at the Nationals could be catastrophic. Stupid, stupid Calypso, for even mentioning
the tournament, I scolded myself. If Bob did carry out his threat and come to the tournament and distress Sarah, it would be all my fault. I had to do something! I had to stop this.

But first I had to write a lot of really mean things about him in my essay. My fingers moved like a righteous gale over the keyboard as day after day I poured my feelings into the essay. When it was finished, I was quite proud. Any guilt I may once have harboured over my exposing my family as dysfunctional had dissolved. Just like my enthusiasm for the Nationals, I realised. After all, how could I face the Nationals with Bob there upsetting Sarah?

If Bob turned up, I was going to have to keep him away from Sarah at all costs. I decided to enlist the General to fight the good fight. Bell End was a man who didn’t flinch in battle and, more importantly, he loved a paranoid delusion like no one else.

That night, while Honey was visiting her horrid sister, Poppy, I shared my fear with Portia about Bob coming to the Nationals.

Portia was more circumspect than I about the Bob thing. ‘If he’s so broke, how can he afford to fly out here? And where would he stay? I doubt Sarah is going to take him back. She strikes me as being an extremely determined woman.’

‘But how can I risk it? I can’t focus on my fencing knowing my father and mother are involved in their own field of combat across the arena somewhere. And Sister Regina is too tiny to help.’

‘Darling, you’re being silly. Don’t you recall what Sister did to Fred’s security guards? One of them was still wearing a plaster on his nose last weekend.’

I giggled at the memory. This isn’t funny,’ I told her.

She giggled too. ‘It is, really.’

‘I’m thinking of telling Bell End tomorrow.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she advised as Honey returned to our room.

I knew I was right to tell Bell End, though.

‘It’s the bloody BFA!’ he hissed. They’ve put him up to it, I’ll be damned. They’ve been trying to bring me down since I won this silver,’ he snarled, brandishing his medal at me.

‘No, actually I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to explain, sir. I mean General. Bob, that’s my father, and Major Sarah, well, we can’t let them meet at the Nationals! It will traumatise not just Sarah but, well, everyone actually.’
Me especially,
I wanted to say.

‘Bloody fine little woman, your mother. No, you leave it to me, Kelly. This goes deeper than some petty marital dispute. I’ve seen this sort of thing before, girl. Subversion on an impressive scale. You’re still a neophyte to the ways of the BFA.’

‘A what?’

‘A kindergartener.’

He was insane.

Portia was right. I shouldn’t have told him about Bob. He patted me on my head – no mean feat, as I towered a
good six inches above him. You let me look after little Sarah. I’ll keep this bastard Bob at bay.’

Portia came into the salle then, so our conversation was cut short, but I don’t think prolonging it would have made me feel more confident.

‘Right, get changed and we’ll begin the drill. I can feel the spirit of Jerzy Pawlowski in the salle today, girlies.’

As we dashed towards the changing rooms, Portia joked, ‘How many ways of moving forward do you have?’

But I couldn’t even pretend to joke that day. The usual good humour a girl feels during the last week of Christmas term was noticeably absent for me. Not even the ebullient mood of Ms Topler as I handed in my completed essay on the last day of term had lightened my mood.

Apart from the overseas students, all the other girls had already left for the Christmas break – Portia and I had been given special permission to stay over Friday night due to the Nationals. The school felt eerily empty by Friday evening as Portia and I helped Bell End load the mini-bus, so we all jumped when Ms Topler came running out side.

‘Dear child, dear, dear Miss Kelly! I wept.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I told her, wondering what I’d done to upset her.

‘No no no, I wept tears of sorrow!’ She insisted, as if this were a good thing. ‘I wept tears of helplessness. I wept tears of horror.’

I knew she was referring to the essay now, but horror?
Maybe I had over-egged the pudding of my tragic life a little too much.

‘Yes, and finally I wept tears of pride at the tribute to literature that you placed in my hands this morning,’ Ms Topler praised.

‘Stand away from the bus!’ Bell End yelled as he manoeuvred our fencing kits in. Then he muttered something about saboteurs being everywhere. ‘Only authorised fencers, Ms Topler.’

‘Oh, I see. Well I’ll bid you good night, then,’ she replied awkwardly. ‘But thank you, Calypso. I just wanted to praise your work and to assure you that I know brilliance when I read it, and what’s more, I know you’re going to win this competition.’

‘Of course she’s going to win. Haven’t bin training her up to lose, yer silly woman!’ Bell End yelled at my poor English literature teacher.

‘Thank you, Ms Topler,’ I called out as she ran towards the safety of the school.

TWENTY-FIVE
Bob at Bay

Sister Regina sat up front with Bell End on the short drive to Crystal Palace sport’s centre in London. Sarah was going to meet us there, as it wasn’t that far, coming from Clapham. I wished now that I hadn’t been so specific about where the Nationals were being held.

As we drove past the long rows of suburban houses under Heathrow’s busy flight path, I wondered if Bob had already flown in. Maybe he was already here, lurking in London somewhere?