Girl, 16: Five-Star Fiasco (26 page)

‘Tabbouleh.’

‘What’s tabbouleh?’

‘It’s basically cracked bulgur wheat.’

‘What’s bulgur?’

‘Well, it’s a sort of grain thing, with chopped parsley, mint, tomatoes, spring onions – it’s yummy!’

‘OK,’ said Jess faintly. ‘Go on.’

‘This would come with Charlotte potatoes, right?’ Polly ranted on. Jess had never heard of potatoes called Charlotte, but she found the whole thing immensely glamorous.

‘Lovely,’ she murmured.

‘Plus seasonal vegetables and salads,’ Polly added. ‘Then pear and ginger tart or passion fruit cheesecake, with tea and coffee. Does that sound OK?’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ groaned Jess. ‘But won’t it cost a bomb?’

‘Oh no,’ trilled Polly. ‘Like I said, this is based on a cost of twelve pounds a head, without wine, obviously – we can sell that separately.’ Jess felt dizzy at the thought of selling wine separately. ‘There will be ten of us working on this,’ Polly went on briskly. ‘We’ll do all the prep at college and then come and set it up at the venue. We’ll do it for fifty pounds each. Is that OK?’ Jess’s heart lurched in terror. What was ten times £50? Was it big bucks? Could they afford it?

‘Fine!’ she squeaked.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ gabbled Polly. ‘This is so exciting, wonderful! I’ll call back later with some more details. Bye!’

She rang off. Jess slumped down at the kitchen table. Could she afford to pay Polly’s catering friends? What was tabbouleh? What was bulgur? What was pear and ginger tart? And what would it all
cost
? She still hadn’t the faintest clue about her budget. And the whole point of organising Chaos was to raise money for Oxfam. What if, instead, she made a loss? That would be shameful. She sneaked into Granny’s room and cuddled up on the sofa with her. Somebody on TV was being lavishly murdered with a golf club. Compared with having to organise a dinner dance, it seemed quite an attractive option.

Chapter 32

Eventually Valentine’s arrived. There was no card from Fred, but there probably wouldn’t have been under normal circumstances anyway. He’d been away all week with the flu, and Fred was such a grouch when it came to conventional things that he probably wouldn’t have sent one even if they hadn’t had the big bad bust-up. Jess was cross with herself for even thinking about the possibility of a card from him, especially because she was in such a strop with him that she hadn’t even considered sending him one. And even if he had sent one, she would have burnt it. It would take more than a piddling valentine card for Fred to get back into her good books.

Mum, Dad and Granny had sent her a card with fluffy animals on – they hadn’t signed it but she recognised Dad’s lame attempt at disguised handwriting on the envelope and she could tell from their expressions that they were all in on the joke. Although it was nice of them, it hardly fitted the bill, and Jess didn’t have time to fret about her rock-bottom sweetheart status. This evening Chaos would unfold – only in one sense of the word, hopefully.

The problem of what to wear had been solved by her Cinderella role. To dress down she’d made a kind of holey net which slipped on over her black stretchy top and footless tights, and there was a piece of elastic which went round her waist, with ragged bits of random cloth hanging down in ripped shreds. On stage she would be barefoot (she’d take her favourite shoes, of course, even though, as they were killer heels, she’d actually be more comfortable when she kicked them off).

It was kind of liberating to be spending the evening literally in rags. As long as her make-up was brilliant it wouldn’t matter. Most of the time she’d be circulating with her mates, and obviously she wanted to appear heartbreakingly ravishing in case Fred was there – if he’d managed to force himself off his sofa to turn up and show support. So she spent her usual three hours on her make-up, designing a pair of Cinderella eyebrows emphasising her innocence and poverty but hinting at her royal destiny (Jess was becoming an eyebrow expert). She sprayed some glitter in her hair and painted her nails black (cinders, right?) and then, basically, she was ready to go.

Mum, who would be assisting Ben Jones front of house, drove her to the venue an hour early. Dad, of course, had been there all day fixing the lights which he’d got from his Oxford chum, and Martin had said his band would be there in the afternoon to have a look at the space and rehearse a number or two. Gordon Smith’s disco, which would take over in the band’s rest breaks, would also be all set up when Jess arrived.

All the same, her heart was hammering as she entered the hall. There was a big banner hanging over the entrance – this had been cooked up in a hurry by Flora and Jodie. It read
CHAOS
and was decorated with hearts and arrows and snowflakes – the usual stuff. Jess secretly prayed that their choice of name for the dinner dance would not prove to be a spooky premonition.

She entered the lobby to find Ben Jones in a tux, looking like a million dollars.

‘Oh, hello, Ben, you look very smart,’ said Mum, but then she effortlessly looked away to the table where she was going to sit. How could Mum bear to tear her eyes away from such a dazzling sight as Ben? Jess marvelled. It must be a generation thing.

Somebody had put up signs showing where the loos were, and there was a little bolt-hole that had been adapted to a cloakroom. There was a girl inside untangling coat hangers.

‘This is my cousin Melissa,’ said Ben. Jess beamed at her.

‘I hadn’t realised we’d need a cloakroom!’ gasped Jess. ‘Thanks so much!’

‘No problem,’ said Melissa with a cute grin. ‘I just hope there’s room for a hundred coats in here!’

Jess wondered if Melissa and Ben were an item as well as being cousins. She hoped not somehow. Although she knew that Ben Jones was Not For Her, she didn’t really want him to be for anybody else, either. It’s the same way one feels about dishy actors or singers – you like to think of them going home to a lonely house, not dating horrid bimbos or even perfectly nice other girls who are simply, tragically, Not You.

Jess entered the main hall, and gasped. Dad was up on a ladder fixing some lights, and the place looked amazing. Polly came bustling up. Though she still had a fair amount of metal in her face, she looked very professional in che
f
’s whites and she seemed to have a team of people milling around some trestle tables at the back of the hall, arranging hotplates, bringing in piles of plates and cutlery and so on.

It was amazing to see all these people busily conjuring up her dinner dance – people she’d never even met, all confidently doing their bit. Suddenly she realised it was going to be OK. The DJ had set up his disco corner with coloured lights sweeping across the stage. Martin was up there talking to a thin guy with a shaved head who was doing something to a drum kit.

‘You see,’ said Mum in her ear, giving her arm a secret squeeze. ‘It’s all under control!’

Jess heaved a huge, huge sigh.

‘I thought around 8.30 would be the best time to serve the food?’ asked Polly.

Jess panicked again. The moment of relief had been short-lived. Evidently she still had to make decisions, not to mention perform the hosting routine. A cold thrill of terror ran through her ribcage.

‘That would be kind of not too early but not too late,’ Polly went on. ‘And before that there’ll be some dancing and people can buy drinks at the bar. We’ve put nibbles on every table.’

Jess noticed how nicely the tables had been dressed, with pink and purple paper cloths, and paper butterflies on long bendy wires stuck into a central cluster of little flowers – the butterflies moved slightly in the currents of air. Each table had dishes of olives and nuts, and tiny sparkly confetti hearts were scattered randomly about. Jess wondered how much it had all cost, but Polly assured her that dressing the tables would be included in their fee, and in fact she had a friend, Kylie, for whom table-dressing was a passion.

‘I see they’ve put the bar in the side room,’ Mum pointed out.

Jess’s heart gave an anxious little skip. Fred’s dad had agreed to run the bar, of course. Halfway down the hall, there was a door leading to an extra room where, presumably, Fred’s dad would be installed. Jess hoped that he wasn’t missing any important football tonight, as a grumpy barman would be a bit of a downer on Valentine’s. She wondered, even more urgently, if she should go in there and ask him how Fred was, or at the very least if he was still alive. (Despite everything, this option was preferable.)

‘If you go backstage,’ said Mum, ‘I expect you’ll find a green room where the performers can chill out. I’ll go back to the lobby and make sure everything’s OK there – people will be arriving soon.’

Jess postponed the chat with Fred’s dad and went backstage, entering the green room. A couple of middle-aged men looked up with cheery smiles.

‘We’re part of The Martin Davies Quartet,’ said a bearded one. ‘And you must be Cinderella! I’m afraid there aren’t any Prince Charmings here, love.’

Jess smiled, and at that moment Martin came in and introduced everybody. The bearded guy was Bill the saxophone player, and the other guy, who was thin and smiley, was Roy the bass player. The drummer was apparently called Dave.

‘I think there’s a little dressing room for you, Jess,’ said Martin, pointing to a corner. ‘You’re the star of the show after all.’

‘There’s a message for you in there,’ said Bill with a wink. ‘Somebody delivered a card.’

Jess walked into her tiny dressing room. A card was propped against a bottle of water on the dressing table. Jess grabbed it, wondering if it would be from Fred. But it was in a stranger’s handwriting. Jess ripped it open. It was a good luck card with a massive silver horseshoe adorned with pale blue satin bows, and it said:
Her
e
’s to a great success – you deserve a triumph! Congrats, from Martin and his Band of Brothers
. Jess felt simultaneously grateful to Martin for being so kind, and annoyed that the card wasn’t from Fred. Still, she managed to thank them effusively.

Then she wandered into the hall again. She really ought to find out if Fred was here. In a way she hoped he had turned up, so he could be blown away by the brilliance of her hosting routine. On the other hand, if he wasn’t here it would kind of be a relief. But she had to know. So she headed for the bar area and found Mr Parsons polishing glasses with his usual slow dignity.

‘These glasses are a disgrace,’ he informed her sourly, holding one up to the light. That was typical of Fred’s dad – no hellos, none of the usual small talk – he always just plunged straight into the important stuff. ‘I’ve half a mind to ask for a refund.’

‘A refund?’ asked Jess, all at sea. She still hadn’t mastered some of the details of organising a dinner dance.

‘We hired the glasses from Frobisher’s,’ commented Fred’s dad. ‘A rip-off. Don’t worry, I’ll let them know what I think of them in no uncertain terms.’

‘Oh, er, well, good,’ spluttered Jess, supposing that Frobisher’s must be punished for their slackness and Mr Parsons was the man for the job. ‘Er, how’s Fred?’ she asked, trying to sound casual. ‘Is he here?’

‘He’s somewhere around.’ Mr Parsons shrugged gloomily.

Jess made her way back to the dressing room. Throngs of people were arriving, but she couldn’t see Fred anywhere. However, now she knew he was here. She couldn’t wait to perform – it would prove to him how fantastically she could do without him. She knew her stand-up script was a winner and she was really looking forward to doing it. It was a kind of treat for her – a reward for not giving up.