A Royal Mess (44 page)

But other people’s opinion wasn’t my major concern. Freds was. I had to make sure he was okay. I needed to talk to him, to explain. But Eades had closed ranks like a rugby scrum or Fort Knox, or is that the CIA? The point is, they weren’t leaking any news about the prince. Notice my use of the article, ‘the’ prince, not ‘my’ prince. He wasn’t my
prince anymore, and even though he was a wicked girl-dumping boy, I still cared for him. You don’t just switch your feelings off for someone because they’ve dumped you by txt.

I spent the first part of the evening ringing/txting/e-mailing him to make sure he was okay. Then Star pointed out that his phone probably wasn’t working if it was wet. I would have sent a carrier pigeon if I could have laid my hands on one. I even considered sending Dorothy. I mean, surely it would have melted the coldest heart to see little Dorothy hoppity hopping along with one of those little scrolls attached to her collar. Unfortunately, she has as much sense of direction (and intelligence) as a fig. Even amongst her fellow rabbits, she’s known as the Queen of Daftness.

After all my energetic attempts at contacting Freds, I felt overcome by exhaustion and threw myself on my bed like Ophelia in that painting by Millais. Okay, so Ophelia threw herself in some reeds, but where was I supposed to find reeds at that time of night? I couldn’t even bring myself to go down to supper to face the buggery grey slops even if it did mean being marked down as a suspected anorexic. Nothing seemed to matter now. I was in the grip of a powerful bout of ennui.

Star tried to drag me out of my ennui (also known as my pillow), but I shunned her.

‘Come on, darling, you have to eat,’ she pleaded, pulling at my limp body. You’re flying to Florence tomorrow, and you’ll need the energy to rinse the Italians.’

‘Bring back something in your pocket for me,’ I told her, punching my pillow in a vain attempt to make it more comfortable. Sarah hasn’t bought me a new pillow since Year Seven, which means it is now as hard and thin as cardboard. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to go to Florence.’

‘Don’t be daft, all this will be forgotten once you get to Italy, and I can’t bring back mash and chops in my pocket. Besides, I’m so ravenous I’ll probably woof down everything I can get my lips around.’

‘Oh well, if you can eat with a half-drowned boy on your conscience, don’t let me stop you,’ I told her.

‘Darling, I am sure he’s fine. If you’re really worried, ring Malcolm and find out what’s going on.’

‘Ring Malcolm?’ I shrieked, pulling my face out of my pillow. ‘Are you mad? I can’t ring Malcolm after our circus of snog-age! Can’t you see, my nutty little friend, I’m the reason Freds fell in the Thames and almost drowned.’

‘No, you’re not. It was a loose cobble, that’s all. Could have happened to anyone.’

‘A loose cobble?’ I repeated, remembering how careful you have to be, especially at the end of the bridge heading to Windsor Castle. There was a large gap in the railing at the end where people tether their bikes and the cobbles slip down into the Thames.

‘Yes, a loose cobble. I told you it wasn’t your fault. Now stop being morbid and come down to supper.’

I was in a dense and confusing soup of emotions. I mean, of course I didn’t like feeling guilty, but at least guilt
made me feel central to the tragedy. ‘So, he
wasn’t
overcome by jealousy?’

Star shrugged.

I sighed. ‘Well, cobble or no cobble, he still fell in the Thames because of our stupid attempt at honour saving. Admit it, the entire Counter Dump plan was an exercise in madness from start to finish.’

Star tutted.

‘It’s true. I mean Freds has practically grown up in Windsor Castle and he’s never fallen in the Thames before, has he?’ With that, I pressed my face into my cardboard pillow again, striking a moving pose of
mea culpa
if ever there was one. Although I wasn’t certain how long I could keep it up. It’s not easy to breathe through cardboard.

‘Well, I hate to say I told you so, but I did tell you to dump Freds at the start of term. If only you’d listened to me, none of this would have happened.’ Before I could reply Star flounced out of my room. Only then she came back and asked, ‘So, what was it like? Kissing Malcolm, I mean.’

I threw a purple cushion at her.

There was no way I was calling Malcolm. I was never going to think of him or speak to him again. In fact, I would never so much as look at him. If I passed him on the streets of Windsor, I resolved to avert my eyes and pretend to be absorbed in something else.

Unfortunately, my subconscious refused to cooperate.
Once Star was off to feed from the refractory slops trough, I fell asleep and dreamed of kissing Malcolm again. It was très, très distressing, especially when I woke up and discovered I had two missed calls from him – but he hadn’t left a message. Typical boys.

When the others came back from supper, they were really sweet. Indie, Clems, Arabella, Portia, Star and even Honey had all smuggled something back for me. Unfortunately, it was covered in pocket lint, so it wasn’t all that appetising, but I was grateful for the thought.

Everyone tried to chivvy me out of my attack of the
mea culpaisms,
apart from Honey, who kept shaking her head and saying things like, ‘You must feel awfully responsible, darling.’

But everyone ignored Honey.

Portia reminded me that we were flying to Italy the next day for our first outing with the national team. Poor naive child, she probably thought that a trip to Italy was all it would take to lift my spirits.

‘I won’t be able to go now,’ I told her sorrowfully.

‘Darling, I know you feel bad about the way things worked out today, but you have to put it from your mind now. Apart from anything else, you have an obligation to the team.’

I lifted my face millimetres from the pillow and inhaled some air. Then I said, ‘I honestly can’t see how I’ll be much use to the team when I’m paralysed with shame and
misery.’ Then I pushed my face back into my pillow of shame to demonstrate my point.

Georgina held the face of Tobias up to me so that his nose was rubbing against my cheek. ‘Darling, please pull yourself together. You know Tobias can’t bear defeatist attitudes, and no one will remember the failed Counter Dump if you come back with a cup.’

‘And Bell End will run you through with his sabre if you don’t regain your focus,’ Portia pointed out. ‘And there’s the rest of the team to consider, not to mention your nemesis, Jenny Frogmorten. What will toilet-mouth Jenny say? She’ll say you’re a chicken and make mad clucking sounds. You can’t give her the satisfaction. Come on, darling, let’s pack.’

The thought of Jenny galvanised me into immediate action. Portia was right,
mea culpa
or no
mea culpa,
I wasn’t going to have Jenny Frogmorten make clucking noises about me.

After we packed, we unpacked.

And then we packed and unpacked and packed some more because The Rules dictated that we were only allowed one piece of hand luggage for our three-night stay in the Style Central Paradise of Italy. Oh, the bally merdeness of it all.

‘How can a girl be expected to squeeze hair dryers, straightening tongs, makeup bag and a don’t-I-look-effortlessly-fabulous wardrobe into one piece of hand luggage? It defies the laws of physics and nature!’ I said.

Portia was as frantic and frustrated as me. We were putting things in and taking them out all night long. Now I knew how Sisyphus felt, rolling his wretched stone up and down the hill night and day.

Still, at least it took my mind off my shame … and kissing Malcolm. I checked my mobile one more time before entrusting it to Indie. It was a wrench being parted from my mobile, I can tell you. But as it didn’t have roaming, I wouldn’t have a signal in Italy anyway.

TWENTY-FIVE
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

By all accounts, the battle in the convent over who would act as our chaperones was bitterly fought. Sister Regina and Sister Bethlehem were the elected winners. The rancour amongst the other nuns was palpable when we knocked on the door the next morning. I suspected Sister Regina of rigging the Hail Mary competition, or whatever other mad nun method they used to decide the vote.

Heaven knows how Sister Bethlehem landed herself a trip to Italy, though. I mean, I don’t want to be disrespectful about old nuns or anything, but she is over one hundred years old and rapidly slipping into her peaceful end via sleep. If she’d been awake for more than an hour in any one day in the past decade, I’d eat my knickers.

Bell End had to carry her to the van.

And he dropped her.

But not even that woke her up.

The other chaperone was Sister Regina, who had done us proud at the Nationals. I was quite pleased to see her little four-foot frame sitting proudly alongside Bell End on her cushion in the van. She tooted the horn she was so excited, which woke up Sister Bethlehem, who rambled off a decade of the rosary before falling back into a deep sleep. How these two nuns were going to protect us from bottom-pinching Italians was anyone’s guess.

As we drove towards Gatwick, I couldn’t help reflecting on last term’s trips to tournaments when Sarah had accompanied us. Now all I warranted was a last-minute phone call. I suppose she was too busy snog-aging Bob these days to bother with my fencing competitions. Actually, on second thought, it was better they didn’t come to Italy. Those two certainly didn’t need to fan the flames of their romance in Florence, one of the world’s most romantic cities.

The plan was that Portia, Bell End, the nuns and I would meet the rest of the national team at Gatwick, three hours before the flight. Yes, you heard correctly, three hours!

‘Why three hours?’ I asked, because to be honest, I could have used the extra sleep. Clems’ snoring was not improving despite the rather stylish nose clip Indie and I had manufactured for her out of duct tape and hair clips.

‘To avoid delays, Kelly. Put your brain into gear, girl,’ Bell End turned around and yelled at me. Seriously, he was so wound up, the veins in his neck were throbbing. He was
stressed enough at the national tournaments last term, and I began to fear what was he going to be like at our first international tournament.

At the airport, people were yelling, children were weeping and one horrible man in flip-flops – yes flip-flops – told our little Sister Regina to bugger off when she asked for directions to the check-in counter.

Sister Regina was ever so sweet about it too. All she said was, ‘God bless you, my son.’

I felt like slapping him about the face with one of his snotty little flip-flops, but Sister Bethlehem stomped on his foot with her wooden clogs. For a woman who passed her first century last year, she has a lot of fight left in her – when she’s not asleep, that is.

Bell End had been off at the loo during our encounter with flip-flop man, but when I told him about the incident, he became enraged. ‘I’d have run the blighter through with my sword, had I been here.’ Then he looked at me as if I should have meted out a similar punishment. ‘Well, Sisters, I shan’t leave your side again. While blaggards like that crawl the earth, decent men must be on their guard.’

Portia and I were quite pleased when Billy found us. After we’d dispensed with the requisite air-kisses, it didn’t escape my eagle eye that a certain longing look passed between Billy and Portia. Even in this barren hall of airline chaos, love would have its way.

‘How’s Freds?’ I asked him after their longing gaze had become très embarrassing.

‘Not too well,’ he told me, turning his deep blue eyes onto me. ‘He spent the night in the infirmary, apparently.’

‘I feel really bad,’ I told him, hoping that he’d say something reassuring like, ‘Don’t blame yourself, Calypso. Why, chaps like Freds fall in the Thames all the time.’ But all he did was nod and go back to gazing longingly at Portia.

A bit later, we spotted Jenny and a few other members of the national team lurking outside a bookstore. Jenny gave me a death glare. After everything that had happened at the Nationals, I was resigned to having Jenny as my anti-girlfriend. I was far from scared, however. Mostly because I doubted her ability to out-psycho Honey. Not to boast, but years of being blanked by girls at Saint Augustine’s had given me a profound ability to out—death stare the best of them.