A Royal Mess (52 page)

In the courtyard, Sister Regina and Sister Bethlehem were sipping some petrol – I think the Italians like to call it grappa – with the Signora.

‘I’m disappointed in you, Calypso,’ Sister Regina said as I entered the courtyard.

I thought she must be referring to Rex, who was peeping away frantically. The idea that tomorrow I was going to successfully smuggle him into Great Britain was madness of the first order. What on earth had possessed me to insist on sole custody of Rex? As a tall, fit boy, surely Malcolm was much better suited to the rigours of Old Chokey than me?

I placed Rex on the table and fell into Sister’s arms and sobbed. ‘Oh Sister, I didn’t know what to do. No one would buy him and Malcolm was filming him and, well, we bought him, and now I don’t know how I’m going to smuggle him through customs, and he won’t stop peeping, and I’ll end up in Old Chokey, and Bob and Sarah will be –’

‘Shush, child,’ Sister soothed, stroking my hair while Signora Santospirito and Sister Bethlehem clucked away
over Rex. ‘What’s all this? I was talking about you missing the team dinner.’

‘Oh no. I can’t believe I missed my first post-international tournament team dinner. Will they throw me off the team, Sister?’

‘No one’s throwing anyone off anything. Though I daresay Mr Wellend and Mr Biffy will give you a steely look or two, but the main worry is drying up these silly tears.’

She dabbed my face with one of her long sleeves. ‘Now what’s all this about Old Chokey?’ she asked.

‘Rex.’ I pointed. ‘I can’t leave him here and I can’t take him home.’

‘I could take him in my sleeve,’ Sister Bethlehem suggested.

I looked at her and smiled. Bless. She was so sweet. Daft as socks, but ever so sweet.

‘No one would dare look in a nun’s sleeve,’ Sister Bethlehem assured me.

‘That’s right,’ Sister Regina agreed. ‘Not the lowest swine would dare trespass on a nun’s sleeve.’

‘But someone will hear him,’ I reasoned.

‘I’ll say it’s my joints,’ Sister Bethlehem told me, and so it was settled.

THIRTY-FOUR
You’re No One Until Someone Wants to Sell Stories about You to the Press

I was a bundle of nerves on the flight home, not just because of our smuggling but because each mile was bringing me closer to Freds, and my feelings about him were more jumbled than ever. Sister Regina forced me to drink some brandy to calm myself, but all it did was make me feel sick. Sister Bethlehem slept the whole way, and I had to keep checking on Rex to make sure she didn’t crush him. Fortunately the noise of the flight drowned out his incessant peepings, but I was not full of
joie de vivre
as we touched down at Gatwick.

Customs was not at all what I expected. I don’t mean the whole smuggling livestock palaver, because that went off without a hitch – walking through the Nothing to
Declare aisle with two nuns was a breeze. Thank you, Saint Jude – patron saint of lost causes – once more, you’ve come through.

No, the first voice I heard at the other end of the barrier was Honey screaming, ‘That’s her! That’s her! The tall one with fluffy bits sticking out the top of her head. The one in the chav top.’

And then a blaze of flashlights went off in my face.

Blinded, I groped through the noise of a thousand paps clicking their cameras and drowning all thoughts in my mind. You’ve heard that saying like a deer caught in headlights? Well, that was me. Scared out of my wits. Bell End was right, I was a big girl’s blouse.

People were calling out my name and asking me questions. ‘So how’s it feel to be called the prince’s slapper, luv?’

‘Is it true you pushed him in the Thames because he dumped you, Calypso?’

‘Bitter was you?’

‘Were all those things you said true? Did your parents really torture you as a child?’

‘Is it true you pulled his best mate, the Laird of Killmarn?’

‘What was your Florence love-nest like? Raunchy was it?’

I felt myself being grabbed and groped and began to lash out. Then I made out the shadowy figures of my parents, Sarah and Bob, as I heard them call out to me above the hubbub. My lovely wonderful, protective, much-maligned
parents, Sarah and Bob. They grabbed me and I grabbed them like a drowning girl grabbing two life jackets. Suddenly we were surrounded by four blokes in buzz cuts and sharp suits.

‘Right, guys, get us out of here,’ Bob said with an authority that shocked me to the core.

‘But my fencing gear?’ I cried – I know, how materialistic. But seriously, you knock yourself out trying to make the national team of your country. You wouldn’t let go of the kit either.

‘It’s all taken care of, darling,’ the madre assured me in the tone she used to use when I was ill and allowed to eat egg and soldiers in bed – we’re talking four years old here.

The suits led us to the waiting limo as the paps kept up their relentless barrage of questions and flashes.

It was très, très merde with double algebra bells on.

Finally the door of the stretch was slammed shut and the stadium-strength flashlights of the pap’s cameras stopped. I could see again. ‘What, in the name of old ladies’ knickers, is going on?’ I asked.

A few indefatigable paparazzi banged on the roof and windows of the limo as we drove away from the curb. Why do they do that? I mean, did they honestly think that I was going to come out and face their prying lenses and obscene questioning?

I guess they did. Hope is a powerful form of delusion. Believe me, I speak from personal experience.

‘We thought it best to keep it all from you while you were in Florence,’ Bob explained. ‘We wanted you to concentrate on your fencing.’

My eyes were still blurry from the flashes that had been blasting my retinas for the last ten minutes, so I was struggling to focus on the buzz cuts sitting opposite us.

‘Oh, and who are these guys?’ I asked, pointing to the grumpy suits who were eyeing me up like I was a prime suspect.

‘We thought you might need some security for a bit,’ Bob explained.

‘Just until it all blows over,’ Sarah added hastily, giving my knee a comforting squeeze.

‘Security from what?’ I asked. I couldn’t help feeling like this was all a practical joke or maybe payback for The Incident when I was three. I swear, I would not put it past my ’rentals to pull a stunt like that to prove a point. They are from Hollywood after all.

‘Erm … perhaps you’d better read these, Calypso,’ Bob suggested as he placed a pile of newspapers on my lap. ‘There’s a lot more, but that should give you the gist of the situation.’

‘Oh,’ I replied as the first headline hit me like a lacrosse ball between the eyes. ‘Prince’s Slapper Claims Parental Abuse!’

This was going to be worse than The Incident – I just knew it. I flicked through the first dozen or so headlines. I’d been accused of purposefully pushing Freds into the
Thames, pulling his ‘best mate, the Laird of Killmarn.’ Malcolm hadn’t said anything about being a laird – whatever a laird was. Oh, and apparently I was a lush to rival all lushes. There was even a snap of me knocking back a cocktail in a nightclub with Honey, presumably taken last term on the weekend she’d famously vomited in my handbag.

Naturally there were loads of quotes from Honey. She’d given a personal account of how she’d desperately tried to prevent my spiralling downfall. Her piece was titled: ‘My Friend The Slut!’ – the sub read, ‘The
Honourable Honey O’Hare, It Girl, Socialite and muse to the stars, has kindly donated her fee for this article to the charity ADIG (Alms for Dilapidated It Girls.)’

Of course she had, darling!

God, I wished Star was here.

But I couldn’t blame Honey. The worst of it was that each piece was littered with quotes from my stupid shortlisted essay about my mad ’rentals. Had I really written such vitriolic rubbish? It put Nancy Mitford’s thinly disguised book about her own family into perspective. I thought it amusing, but most of her family never spoke to her again. One of her other books,
A Talent to Annoy,
came to mind. Perhaps in years to come I would write a book,
A Talent for Dramarama.

How was I meant to imagine that an essay on my pathetic personal tragedies could make the shortlist above essays from orphans and refugees and kids with terminal
diseases? There were teens out there who had experienced real tragedy.

Over the past week I’d been so preoccupied with Freds dumping me, The Counter Dump, the fall-out of The Counter Dump, the tournament in Florence, Malcolm, and smuggling ducklings that I had totally forgotten about the essay.

Now I was in the merde. I looked at Sarah and Bob as tears of love, compassion, remorse and fear mingled and ran down my face in a river of shame. ‘I didn’t mean all those things,’ I told them. ‘Honestly, I did write lots of lovely things about you too. I promise I did,’ I ranted. ‘But the entry rules limited me to three thousand words, and it had to be about great traumas. I wish I’d never written the stupid thing. I do love you, though, I do!’

‘Oh darling,’ Sarah laughed as she clasped me to her while Bob patted my back. ‘We know you do. And we couldn’t be prouder of you, honestly, darling. The essay is brilliant.’

I was officially the worst daughter in the world. I would buy a slab of granite and carve those words into it as I wandered the streets with it slung around my neck.

I clung to my mother and my father and they clung to me, and in that moment I knew they were weren’t a bit bonkeresque. Well, just the tiniest bit, maybe. I would hardly be clinging to maddies, would I? No, I relied on these two forgiving ’rentals for everything. Scenes of uncountable kindnesses, angelic acts and selfless sacrifices
– all for a thankless daughter who hadn’t even won her first international fencing tournament – montaged into one another.

My tears wouldn’t stop no matter how many times they reassured me how proud they were of me.

Proud of
moi?

Perhaps they
were
mad? I looked at my mother and then at Bob. They were quite fit for a couple of old folks in their early forties. My mother really needed to get something done with her hair, and Bob, well, his dress sense rivalled the chaviest wannabe hip-hop artist onstage. But with a visit to Saville Row for a few bespoke suit fittings, he really could make something of himself, I decided.

‘I honestly didn’t want to enter the competition, that part’s true. But I did write those things, and now, well, you must hate me. Just a little bit?’

Bob and Sarah threw back their heads and laughed like an entire shop of old women’s knickers.

THIRTY-FIVE
In Each Letter, a Heart Beats

I returned to school on Sunday afternoon, and before dinner, every Year Eleven girl had gathered in my room. Some to offer their solidarity, some just out of curiosity. I was the cause celeb à la mode.

‘I can’t
believe
you’d dare to show your face after all the stories you sold about Calypso!’ Star sniped at Honey as she cruised in with her fags.

Honey was equally outraged. ‘Moi?’ she asked, pointing to herself in shock. ‘I was just trying to raise my dearest friend’s profile a bit. I thought it only fair that someone tell
her
side of the story. Sorry for caring,’ she added, slumping on my pillow.