A Royal Mess (28 page)

This is fantastic, the intrigue and dynamics behind a typical middle-class American family,’ Malcolm glowed. ‘Are Americans always so against their parents’ reconciling?’

‘Shut up, Malcolm,’ Sarah said. ‘He did offer to get a job, Calypso, and quite genuinely, but I couldn’t let him. Not after all the time I’d put into supporting him to pursue his dream. Marriage is all about supporting one another through thick and thin, good times and bad. Bob had a dream and I wanted to support him in his creative endeavours,’ Sarah explained as I stood there pressing my sabre deeper and deeper into the ground with all the force of my fury. The blade was bent to snapping point as I glared at my parents in teenage defiance.

‘You’ve changed your tune,’ I muttered.

‘I knew he needed to finish it. I was just sick and tired of being neglected. It was complicated. I was conflicted. We both were, but relationships are full of misunderstandings. Bunny is a brilliant marriage therapist,’ Sarah enthused.

‘Bunny is a marriage therapist!’ I cried in anguish.

‘Who’s Bunny?’ asked Malcolm. ‘She sounds fun.’ But everyone ignored him.

‘I know I vented some of my anger with Bob on you, darling,’ Sarah admitted, patting my fencing mask, which was still tucked under my arm. ‘It was wrong of me, but I was so angry about the sacrifices I’d made even though they were sacrifices I chose to make. I was conflicted.’

‘So basically you used me? I was your emotional dart-board?’

‘Oh no, I love your father, really. I never stopped loving him. You must know that. We made love all night last night, Calypso. It was just like the first time,’ Sarah elaborated for me and anyone else in earshot.

Freds looked as horrified as Malcolm looked intrigued. Portia distracted Sister by launching into an animated discussion with her about her knitting. Bell End went puce in the face. Thank God that was when I was called to accept my cup.

Later, Adidas and Leon Paul marketing reps came to offer me sponsorship deals for the new kit I’d need to fence internationally and to cover my transport costs. Then Bell End started yakking on proudly and loudly about how I was a real GBR now and not a Great Badger Rapist. But even then all I could think of was Bob and Sarah, having sex.

‘Thanks for sharing your sex forensics, Mom,’ I said later when the reps had left. I was hoping to put her in her proper parental place. Why do ’rents always have to make everything about them? Why do they always have to spoil their children’s triumphs? This should have been
my
day, but now it was poisoned by an image that would be tattooed on my brain for the rest of my life. Okay, so I was a bit pleased that they were sorting things out together, but I wished I hadn’t already submitted that essay. Imagining my parents doing it, now that was
real
trauma.

Things got even worse after all the fanfare quieted down and we were leaving the building. Bob tweaked my cheek in front of everyone. ‘See, my little Queen of the Doomsday Prophesies, didn’t I tell you it would all work out?’

‘Ah, let me think. No! You let me deal with Sarah’s breakdown all on my own while you selfishly pursued your Big One. Then you swan in here, ruin my day and expect me to cheer because you’ve finally sold your script and can pay attention to your wife again.’

Bob ruffled my hair the way he knows I hate. ‘Hey, don’t underestimate Sarah. That slot she’s been doing over here interviewing celebrities has been picked up at home by NBC. Besides, maybe one day when you ask me for a car you’ll think differently,’ he joked.

‘I am not that materialistic,’ I told him sharply, while secretly wondering what sort of car he’d let me have.

‘Hey, give your old man a break. I knew I was almost done when Sarah said she’d had enough. I was working on the last scene. And she’d made sacrifices for the script as well. I couldn’t let her down. And don’t forget, love is all about supporting one another’s creative endeavours, Calypso.’

I shrugged him off as he tried to cuddle me, but he pulled me under his arm. ‘I do give Sarah credit. In fact the script is called
To Sarah, with Love.’

‘They’ll never let you keep that,’ I told him, trying to suppress a smile. I could feel myself beginning to soften.

‘It’s written in the contract, Boojie.’ Oh this was great, now they were both reverting and referring to me in baby names.

Maybe Sister, Billy, Portia and Freds were right. Maybe one day I would forgive them. One thing was for sure, Bell End never would. Freds and Malcolm both tried to convince me that Sarah and Bob looked sweet together, but I know that was just because Bob had worked his charm on Freds by slapping him on the back and calling him ‘buddy.’ Buddy? Talk about sickening, but Freds seemed delighted with the term.

The worst of it came when they enveloped me in one of those gross family hugs Bob and Sarah have always insisted on.

‘Isn’t it marvellous,’ Sister twittered. ‘Marriage is a holy sacrament, after all. And two lovely people like you with a sweet little girl like Calypso for a daughter. Why, you’re the perfect family.’

And that’s when it hit me. I had just written an essay about my suffering at the hands of this perfect family. An essay that had made Ms Topler weep with horror and wail with sorrow at the pain, pathos, torment and misery I had endured as an American girl packed off to a boarding school in England by the cruel Bob and self-involved Sarah. An essay, more importantly, that Ms Topler was convinced would win the competition and be plastered all over the pages of Britain’s best-selling newspaper.

An essay that Bob and Sarah must absolutely never, ever
read, because if they did, they would disown me and my happy family would be shot to smithereens. Passages I had written, which had seemed so poetic, inspired and heartfelt at the time I had written them, now seemed vitriolic and self-serving. Thank goodness Ms Topler was such a lousy English teacher and wouldn’t know literature if it came and bit her on the nose. There was no way my miserable essay of personal suffering would have any chance of winning. Would it? Besides, I had other far more pleasant things to dwell on.

‘Freds loves me, Freds loves me,’ I chanted to myself. And as if on cue, he put his arms around me. ‘So, Princess Jelly Bean,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘I noticed there’s nothing much going on behind the scoreboard … care to investigate?’

Acknowledgements

I am always fully aware how fortunate I am to have such a sensational and perspicacious agent as Laura Dail and an editor of the calibre and genius of Melanie Cecka. My only regret is that you are both on the other side of the Atlantic – although that provides me with the perfect excuse to visit New York more often.

When I first conjured up the fictional world of Saint Augustine’s, I was inspired by my school experiences and those of my children, especially Cordelia and her friends. Then Eric Hewitson drew me a map, to make sure my characters and I wouldn’t get lost in this imaginary world. But if I did lose my way around the school grounds of Saint Augustine’s, I’d definitely want to be with girls like the gang at Bloomsbury USA – Melanie Cecka, Victoria Arms, Deb Shapiro, Rachel Wasdyke, Kate Kubert, Heather Scott, Stacy Cantor and my agent, Laura Dail – because it would be such a laugh.

Thanks again to Mike Storrings for his cover design. And as ever, thank you, thank you, thank you to my extended family (including your increasing assortment of odd pets, SP).

Last but never least, coronets and shout-outs to all Calypso’s readers!

DUMPING PRINCES

• • •

Not every frog who wears a crown turns
out to be a prince …

ONE
Sound the Alert! Americans Are Storming the Castle!

According to my darling ’rentals, I lack a sense of proportion. Oh, and I thrive on melodrama. They base this on something that happened in the Beverly Centre shopping mall when I was three years old, which was henceforth referred to as ‘The Incident.’

Whenever the ‘rents want to back up their claims of my lack of proportion and need for drama, they mention The Incident. Allegedly, it involved a Christmas tree, a pair of black lace knickers and a police report.

The padre usually adds something daft like, ‘One day you’ll go too far, Calypso Kelly.’ To which my madre will nod sagely and say, ‘All right, well, I think we’ve made our point. Let’s not go
there
again.’

The mad ’rents, who insist I call them Sarah and Bob, are not going to win any prizes for their own sense of
proportion or lack of drama. And as for going
too far,
well, they crossed that line years ago when they named me Calypso and packed me off to boarding school in England so I wouldn’t become ‘too Hollywood’ – whatever that means.

No, Sarah and Bob are the very apex of dramarama. They tell lies. Yes, whopping great porkies – and I’m not just talking about the alleged Incident in the mall or the Tooth Fairy. They also told me I was the cleverest, prettiest, most talented girl in all the world. That’s what I mean. They’re sweet, but daft as socks.

Anyway, on this particular day, I was over the moon-arama for an indisputably good reason! I was off to stay with Their Royal Majesties. But every silver lining has a cloud: my parents were driving me and staying for luncheon.

Absolutely nothing was going to spoil my excitement over going to visit my fit prince in his Scottish castle, that enormous grey stony one with the fairy-tale turrets, where kilt-ish carryons such as reeling, haggis eating, grouse shooting and jigs like the Gay Gordons are
de rigueur.
They often show the royal family standing outside their castle on television and in magazines. It is très, très divine.

All I had to say to anyone who doubted our love would last was, eat your knickers. I was still – pinch yourselves – pulling Prince Freddie, as regularly as I reasonably could. I mean, heirs to the throne do spend a lot of time in training to be king, which was tedious. But I never complained.
No, I was determined not to be a tragic, clingy-type girlfriend. My wildly independent American streak still thrived!

You’d think any normal parents might be proud that their daughter was dating the heir to the crown, but no, no, no, no, no. That would be too sensible for Bob and Sarah. ‘You don’t think you’re being a bit melodramatic about this relationship with Freddie, do you, Calypso?’ Bob suggested as we hit the Ml motorway. ‘I mean, you’ve only just turned fifteen last week and you’re acting like you’re going to marry the boy.’