Friends Forever! (28 page)

The card reads

“Where did you get this?” I shout.

“This girl came up to me backstage, when I was waiting for you guys,” yells Fleur. “She asked me to stand in front of the dressing room door, with a white background behind me, snapped a Polaroid of me and then gave me this. Says I've got to ring her.”

“Fleur!” I laugh. “That's amazing!”

“Is it?” asks Fleur, looking a little puzzled. “I mean, does that mean I've been, like, scouted? 'Cos I thought it would be more, y'know, official . . . or something.”

Fleur stands for a few more seconds, reexamining the card with a small look of growing excitement on her face.

“Yes!” I scream, almost drowning out Freaky D, who appears to be throwing around a vial of fake blood and doing a little war dance with an ax. “That's what happens when you've been scouted, you great nork!”

Fleur's mouth falls open as I throw myself upon her for a hug. “I knew it!” she chortles, folding up the card and sticking it into her jeans pocket before dancing off into the crowd. “I knew it, Ronnie! My time has come!”

“C'mon, Veronica,” yells Saul, taking my hand and trying to pull me farther into the crowd where all the rest of our group are standing. But in my jeans pocket, I can feel my phone vibrating. Probably Mum, I think, wanting to congratulate me. I gesture to Saul to give me five, before wandering off outside the marquee.

“Helloooo?” I shout, sticking my finger in my other ear, battling my way through the crowd.

“Ronnie?” says a male voice.

“That's me,” I say. “Who's this?”

“It's Jimi,” he says. “Jimi Steele.”

I freeze.

I feel like you must four seconds after jumping from an airplane.

“Errrr . . . what . . . erm . . . what do you want, Jimi?” I say, wandering behind a hot-dog stand where it's quieter.

“I just called to say hi,” he says in an odd voice I barely recognize. “My mate Naz rang, says he saw you on TV this morning, with your, erm, friend.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a little winded.

There's an awkward silence. What am I supposed to say now?

“So, how . . . er, are you?” I ask.

“Not so good,” he says drably. “It's been one pretty lame summer. As I'm sure you'll agree.”

No, I don't agree, actually. It has been the best summer of my entire life.

Something in Jimi's voice sounds like he's inviting a deep, heavy conversation. The same one I ached for when I sat on his garden wall all those months ago feeling sick with heartache. But now that it's available, it just seems futile. I'm cured.

“So, Jimi, how's Suzette?” I say, allowing a soupçon of bitterness to creep into my voice.

“Er . . . oh,” stutters Jimi, sounding put on the spot. “That sort of fizzled out. She's been training loads for this charity half marathon with Miles Boon, y'know . . . they've been spending weekends together while I was working at Wacky Warehouse and . . .”

Jimi's voice trails off. A small grin creeps across my face. “She dumped you for Miles Boon,” I say plainly.

“No! I wasn't dumped,” argues Jimi. “It's more that—”

“She dumped you for Miles Boon,” I repeat. Then I throw my head back and laugh, rather more cruelly than my normal persona would allow, but heck, this feels so good.

“I'm glad I amuse you, Ronnie,” Jimi mumbles crossly.

I want to tell him exactly why this is so amusing, but it really is time for me to go. In the distance, I can see Saul's silhouette at the door of the marquee, beckoning for me to hurry up and watch Psycho Killa's final track.

“Look, Jimi, what did you call for?” I say rather brusquely. “Was there a point?”

“Oh . . . erm,” he stutters, floundering for words. “Okay. Well, I called because I've been thinking about me and you.”

“Thinking what exactly?” I say.

“Thinking about what
we
threw away,” Jimi says, without a hint of irony. “ 'Cos, y'know, we really loved each other, didn't we, Ronnie? And, well, I just think we could work through this rough patch. I mean, all those annoying things you do, I can turn a blind eye to them. 'Cos that's what love's about, isn't it?”

By this point, I can't really think of a fitting, succinct reply to Jimi that would communicate how I feel about that last remark. And besides, he's wasted too much of my time already.

“Jimi, I'm putting the phone down now,” I tell him calmly. “Will you do me a huge favor?”

“Anything,” Jimi says.

“I'd like you to erase my number from your phone,” I say, “and never call me again. Ever.”

“But Ronnie, I—” he begins to yell as I turn off my phone and place it into the pocket of my jeans. I think this could be what writers talk about in those serious
Cosmopolitan
magazine relationship articles when they talk about “having closure.”

 

 

“You're a total one-off, you are,” Saul tells me as we stand on the sand right at the back of the crowd, watching Dita Murray and the Scandal Children's set. It's dusk and the Booty Quake crowd is growing even larger as people finish work and flock down to join the beach party.

“What do you mean?” I ask, blushing slightly.

“I've never met anyone like you,” he tells me. “You get your heart set on something and you just do it. Y'know, all that business with Claude? And learning to surf? And taking a chance on me when you found me in your attic? You've just got spirit, y'know?”

I look at Saul. Not only is he utterly gorgeous, but stuff drops out of his mouth quite naturally that no one has ever said to me before but I've always dreamed of.

He really is the most perfect creature I've ever met.

And he's moving to the total opposite side of the hemisphere.

I take a deep breath and decide to say what's really on my mind. “Look, can I ask you a serious question?” I say.

“Go on,” he says.

I pause for a while, wanting to wimp out.

“Do you think we can stay in touch when you go to Australia?” I ask. This is me being very brave. I know full well that “being free” is Saul Parker's life philosophy. It's risky to make any demands.

Saul is silent for a while. Then he sighs and looks down at his feet. “Long-distance relationships suck, Veronica,” he says quietly.

“Mmm, yeah, I know,” I nod, doing my best unbothered face.

Then Saul turns and looks at me oddly. He smooths his hand over my hair and looks me right in the eyes.

“Look, Veronica,” he says, “I've got a ten-thousand-pound check here in my pocket. It's the most money I'm ever likely to have in my entire life. All I want to do is buy a ticket to Australia, then buy a VW camper. Then I'm going to roam about the world surfing and going to beach parties.”

“Yeah,” I smile, feeling a tiny lump growing in my throat. “I always knew that. Don't worry.”

It sounds like a marvelous plan. I can't begrudge him for not wanting to get involved.

Saul grabs my hand and wraps his fingers around it tightly. “So come with me?” he asks.

The following morning at 8 A.M. prompt, after a thorough search of the West Turret by Miss Scrumble and assorted flunkies with stepladders and flashlights, the LBD are sacked from Harbinger Hall. Oddly enough, Scrumble didn't appreciate Claude's and my ingenuity in using the loft space to harbor Saul and Fleur, or “the debris of society,” as she referred to them. Instead, Scrumble bars us and any subsequent generation of our families from Harbinger Hall and all other Vanderloo Hotels sister properties “for the duration of our dismal lives.”

It's the first place I've ever been barred from. And my first official sacking too. I feel inexplicably proud.

“And don't dare ask me for a reference!” crows Scrumble, pinballing around the West Turret, throwing about handfuls of our clothes and shoes, threatening to have everything burned by the gardener if we're not off the property by 10 A.M.

To be honest, this suits us just fine.

It's almost September and we're ready to leave anyhow. Claude especially is dying to see her mum. She already phoned Gloria Cassiera and explained all about the money and how we plotted to stop Flat 27, Lister House, from being sold. Apparently Gloria broke down in tears. She just couldn't believe what we'd done for them both.

“It took me a while to convince her I hadn't gone crazy,” smiles Claude. “Then she kept accusing me of being drunk and warning me of the slippery slope of alcohol abuse.”

“But she believes you now?” I ask, sitting on my suitcase in an attempt to close it.

“Yeah, she does now,” nods Claude. “She says she can't thank you enough. Oh, and incidentally, you're all going to heaven. And she's promised to take the house off the market right now. And cancel my place at Mossington High.”

Claude pauses for a second to look at Fleur and me, then gives a little shake of her head in disbelief. “You two are unreal, y'know?” she smiles. “As long as I live, I'll never forget this. It's all just . . .”

As Claude's voice became a little misty again, Fleur picks up her suitcase and looks at her watch. “Now, now, Miss Cassiera,” she grins. “No slushiness. It's time for our offical drumming off the premises. And I, for one, can't wait.”

Fleur turns to where Saul is lying on the sofa with a cushion over his face, trying to grab ten minutes of extra sleep. “Right, Saul Parker,” Fleur yells, “who's going to carry some ladies' suitcases down a hundred and eighty-eight stairs? Any volunteers?”

 

 

As we clamber into the mini cab outside the main entrance, Siegmund, Rosco, Gene and Leon all wander out of the staff entrance to wave good-bye.

“Girls, girls,” sighs Siegmund, with a small, almost proud grin. “I tried my best to save you. But you
really
did it this time.”

“Never mind, Sieg. Thanks anyway,” I smile, as the striking vision of Carbzilla strolls into view wearing a large white terry-cloth dressing gown, clearly on her way to the day spa.

“Hey, Mrs. Fontague!” shouts Fleur. “We have to say good-bye now. We're being ejected from the grounds!”

Carbzilla turns and looks at us, her face a picture of disappointment.

“Ejected?” she cries. “No! Who'll bring my banana daiquiris now? You were the best waitresses this place has ever seen. That Scrumble character is a horse's ass. A horse's ass, I tell you!”

We all try not to laugh, but we just can't help ourselves.

“Godspeed, girls!” shouts Carbzilla, trundling away.

And with our stuff packed into the car and Saul's surfboard tied on the roof rack, we set off for Destiny Bay station.

“Right, the next train to Gatwick Airport leaves in twenty minutes,” says Saul, scanning the timetable on the platform before turning to me.

“Ours is just about to arrive,” Fleur announces, pointing at the arrivals screen above us. “In about three minutes' time.”

“Okay,” I say softly, linking Saul's arm.

Claude and Fleur, sensing a “moment,” make excuses and wander to the other end of the platform.

I've decided to get the train home with Claude and Fleur. I can't go to Australia. I think Saul understands. All those things that Saul rated about me—my spirit, my loyalty, my brains—well, they don't quite fit in with jacking my entire life in and ditching my A-levels and the LBD for a lad I've known just longer than five minutes.

Do they? Even if he is totally beautiful?

Ninety-nine percent of me knows this is the right decision.

“Here we are then, kiddo,” he says, nodding toward the train, which is approaching Platform 1.

“Yep,” I sigh, going up on tiptoes and kissing his forehead. His dreads smell of sea salt and wax. I inhale the smell discreetly.

“Now, you have a good time at school,” he sort of laughs, as if the idea is totally absurd.

“Yeah, I will,” I smile, wrapping my arms around him. “And you enjoy Australia.”

Then we have one last snog, which would have been nicer but for the fact that my heart is literally hurting and tears are dribbling down my face, sploshing all over his Rip Curl hoodie, as Claude and Fleur bundle my stuff onto the train, yelling at the guard to give us five more seconds.

As the train pulls away, I look out the window at Saul. He's sitting alone on a cold metal bench, beside his surfboard. All his worldly belongings are packed in an army surplus rucksack beside him. The train picks up speed, and the breeze plays with his brown dreadlocks, lifting them slightly. Saul pulls the hood up on his jacket and slumps forward slightly, resting his face on his hands.

As I take my seat, I catch his eye one final time.

He gives me a wink, and then he's gone.

“Come on, Ronnie,” says Fleur, as the train hurtles through mile upon mile of countryside. “Look, I bought you the new
Red Hot Celebs
mag! And some Ribena. And some Chocky Wocky Doo-Dahs for you and a Twix for me.”

Fleur's clearly trying to distract me.

I open my chocolates, unwrap one and stick it in my mouth. “Pssst . . . save the silver foils,” Fleur says, doing a bad stage whisper. “Then when Claude starts to snore, we can play throwing them in her mouth.”