Live and Fabulous! (10 page)

“Cheers, birds,” says Claudette softly. A tiny little tear appears behind her spectacles, which she quickly bats away. “It's always me, isn't it?”

“Nah, Claude, we're all in the same boat here,” corrects Fleur. “We've all got parents who think serial killers lurk behind every road corner. Paranoid androids, the lot of 'em.”

This is all heavily ironic. I cast my mind back to that time we met Spike, standing in the marquee at Blackwell Live with his perfect teeth and beautiful blue eyes. There we were, trying so hard to act cool and mature that Spike must have totally forgotten that underneath the lip gloss and the itsy-bitsy thong underwear, we were actually only fourteen years old and still under the brutal regime of parental dictators. (Okay, that's slightly untrue. Claude and I acted cool with Spike; Fleur tried to nibble his shoulder at one point.)

“So what d'you reckon, Claude?” I say.

Claude mulls over the question a bit before speaking. “Hmmm ... well, I can't help thinking there must be room for some sort of compromise here,” she begins. “Now, bear with me, as you might not like what I'm saying here ... but, I mean, we have got a spare ticket, haven't we?”

We certainly have. I don't know why Spike sent us four tickets. Maybe he just deals in even numbers. Or maybe he thought the “BDL” had another mystery member.

“Yeah, and we're selling that extra ticket,” says Fleur. “Five hundred pounds! A hundred and sixty-six pounds each! With my cut I'm buying a leather jacket.” Fleur begins counting off fantasy purchases on her fingers. “And I can get some new modeling shots done and ...”

“Not so fast, Fleur, we might need to keep the ticket ...”

“Why?” asks Fleur.

“... and give it to someone else. Someone who can, er, escort us.”

“Escort us?” says Fleur, almost spluttering out the offending word.

“Escort us?” I repeat. I don't like the sound of this.

“If we want to go, it might be our only option,” continues Claude.

“You mean like a
grown-up?”
I say nervously.

“Well, some sort of, er, ‘responsible' person, anyhow,” says Claude.

At that moment, in my mind's eye, I'm visualizing Magda Ripperton, in a paisley cheesecloth caftan and sandals, letting wild and loose with free-form frugging, right in front of the Hexagon Main Stage area and a 120,000-strong cheering crowd. “That's Ronnie Ripperton's mother!” People are jeering and pointing at me. “That girl with the brown hair over there! She's here with her mum! Ha ha! What a dweeb!”

“I feel a bit sick,” I groan, standing up and pacing about the room, finally slumping on Fleur's wide window ledge, which looks over Disraeli Road.

“Er ... your dad's dead into music, er, isn't he, Ronnie?” mentions Claude ever so casually. “And he can be, sort of, quite a decent laugh ... er sometimes, can't he?”

I know her game. “Don't even think of it! What are you trying to do to me?” I shriek. “Stop it now! Not another word!”

Suddenly Fleur sits up straight on her bed, as if she's got the answer. I find this rather difficult to believe, but I'm up for a surprise.

“Right. I see what you're saying,” says Fleur. “What we're looking for is ... and this is strictly if we have to take someone with us ... an individual who is responsible. Well, at least considered responsible by the powers that be, but also someone who can be trusted not to crucify the LBD with embarrassment in a public place and stay out of our faces when we're having a good time?”

“Yes,” Claude and I both chorus. “Any ideas?”

“Errrrrr ...” Fleur scrunches up her face, applying every single one of her brain cells to the equation. Claude and I wait with bated breath ...

“No,” Fleur says.

“Great,” I sigh.

“Back to the drawing board,” says Claudette glumly.

At that moment, we're provided welcome distraction by the familiar rumblings of a Swan family argument springing to life in the hallway outside Fleur's room. The Swans love nothing better than a good argument with each other. I'm surprised any of the doors in the house are still on their hinges. However, this time it sounds like Paddy is embroiled in a furious disagreement with only himself. This is pretty good going, even for him.

“How? How?! How?” Paddy is shouting. “Please tell me
how
you can get halfway round the bloody world on a rickshaw, dodging killer crocodiles and flash floods, but you still can't turn a light off when you walk out of a room! How?”

Silence.

“Oh, yes, of course, I know!” continues Paddy. “It's because it's my money paying the bills, isn't it? My money that I slave blood and sweat in the coal mines every day for.”

“Isn't your dad an investment banker?” whispers Claude.

“Yes,” affirms Fleur. “His office is down a mine shaft, apparently.”

“Because it doesn't matter if it's Paddy paying the bills, does it? Yes, you can survive in the Nepalese Khumbu region on two rupees a day, can't you? But once you're under my roof, you're as spendthrift as your mother! Why don't we just all go out in the garden and burn my money! Burn it all! We could call it Paddy's Summer Money Barbecue!”

“He's really making some headway with his anger management course, isn't he?” I whisper to Fleur.

“He's the star pupil,” says Fleur witheringly.

“Of course, who would care if I went bankrupt? You'd all soon find another poor cretin to sponge off of,” continues Paddy. “I'm just a walking ATM to all of you. I should have a keypad fitted to my chest!”

The voice begins to feel louder and closer.

“And where's that other daughter of mine? Is she in or out?”

“She's in. Her bedroom light is on,” snaps Daphne “Nepal” Swan, finally squeezing an angry word in.

“Pah. That means nothing! I mean, sure, her bedroom light's on. I can hear the jungle drums. But does that really mean anything ? She probably went out hours ago. You're all the same!”

“Blah, blah, blah,” says Fleur, yawning widely and miming a big mouth opening and closing with her right hand.

Finally, Daphne begins letting rip: “Oooooh, you make me sooo cross sometimes, you infuriating man!” she screams. “Listen to yourself. Going on and on about lightbulbs. You are so boring! And also totally wrong on every count. I'll have you know that I'm a very resourceful and sensible person ...”

“Cuh, well ... ,” snortles Paddy.

“... I'm still talking! Yes, where was I? That's it, I'm a very resourceful young, er, adult. And it's time you began treating me like that! It's not my fault if I occasionally forget things like light switches! I'm a free spirit! But I'll remind you that I managed to trek from Khari Khola right through to Gorak Shep without your constant nagging, thank you very much, Dad, and I can do without it now!”

Slam, crash, thump. It sounds like all areas of the Swan household are involved in the battle.

“Oh, well, congratulations!” scoffs Paddy. “I'm over the moon about your Nepalese shindig! Meanwhile, back in the real world, I was having panic attacks imagining you leaving a curling iron plugged in, draining the Nepalese national power grid and me getting invoiced for the outbreak of civil war!”

I have to smirk at that bit, but Daphne is certainly taking this to heart. “Ooooooooh,
gnnngngnn!
Right, that's it! I'm leaving!” bellows Daphne, sounding almost choked. “I can't wait to get out of this house. And this time I'm going to go even farther away and stay away for even longer! In fact,
forever!
Just you wait and see!”

“Hoo-hoo! Don't get me excited!” guffaws Paddy. “What time does your banana boat leave? I'll help you with your rucksack!”

We don't call him Evil Paddy for nothing.

“Excellent,” mutters Fleur, filing her nails. “If she's going for good, I'm definitely getting her room this time.”

“Awww, Fleur!” mutters Claude. “She sounds dead upset.”

“Ooh, you'll regret saying that when I'm gone,” Daphne warns Paddy.

“No, I won't,” he says. “I'm not in the slightest alarmed. The more I try to get rid of you bloody people, the more you come back! That brother of yours is the same! Oh, yes, he keeps
threatening
to leave but oh, no, from the stench of feet and cigarette smoke billowing from under that door, he's very much still in residence too. Oh, how I long for you all to leave me alone! How I dream of a quiet house where I can sit in peace without you bloody children!”

“You
will
regret being so mean to me! You huge pig!” Daphne rants. “I'm calling Mother at her Pilates workshop
right now
to tell her how you've chased me away. I'll tell her I'm going to live in a hostel for vagrants and work in a massage parlor until I can save up for my ticket to remotest Tibet!”

Long silence.

“Seems a bit extreme,” mutters Paddy.

“I feel extreme!” shouts Daphne. “Stop telling me off like a little girl! I'm a twenty-year-old woman. I'm a responsible adult! Why can't you just admit it!”

“Well ... hmmm ... that's as may be,” grunts Paddy.

“Go on, then, say it!” warbles Daphne.

Another long silence.

In Fleur's bedroom, all three sets of LBD eyes are fixed upon the bedroom door. This is better than
Eastenders!

“Okay! Okay!” grumbles Paddy.
“You're a responsible young adult.
Now can I go, you annoying woman? I want to watch Robot
Wars!”

As Paddy crashes down the stairs into the den, Claudette sits up on the bed with a start, wearing that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed look that so often scares the pants off me.

“Noooo!” says Fleur, catching Claude's drift immediately and springing to life.

“But this could be our only solution!” argues Claude, waving the final ticket at Fleur like a matador.

“Well, he did say she was
responsible,”
I say.

“Nooooooo!” shrieks Fleur again. “Nooooooo!”

It was a crazy plan, but it might just work.

And just at that instant, something I can't really explain made me turn my head and look down upon Disraeli Road. Below, in the distance, my heart lurched as I spotted a familiar blond figure, skateboard under his arm, slowly walking away. Baggy jeans, red hoodie, shoulders slumped in a defeated manner. I'd know that silhouette anywhere, although somehow today he seemed different. The cocky swagger had all but gone.

Of course, Fleur kicked up a right fuss about the suggestion of inviting Daphne to Astlebury. She went totally ballistic, ranting that Daphne was a total dweeb (not really true: Daphne's pretty cool, really, she's into good music and is never short of a date) and an evil tyrant (also not true: she's one of the knit-your-own-yogurt hippie-dippie brigade). Fleur also screeched that Daphne was a “proper little Princess Tippytoes,” “totally spoiled” and “always has to get her big schneck into everything.” Claude and I had to try really hard not to smirk at this point because ... oh, well, you know.

At one time, I thought having a big sister would be ace. Just like a best friend who lived with you all the time. And you could spend all your free time either gossiping about snogging or facedown in her vast makeup box or even braiding each other's hair. Plus you'd have double the supercool wardrobe because you could steal all her hottest clothes.

Yes, I was a real dweeb when I was younger. I got more real after witnessing a row between Daphne and Fleur escalate into the sisters actually rolling around on the carpet, pulling each other's hair and screeching.

It was over a pair of tweezers worth fifty-nine pence.

“It was the principle of the matter,” Fleur fumed as she was being grounded until just after 2012. “They were my tweezers!”

So anyway, suffice to say Fleur didn't want Daphne cramping her style when she was on a mission to marry Spike Saunders.

But over Sunday and Monday when the LBD told our parents the stupendous news about the free tickets, it became the final card up our sleeve. Because
of course
our folks were ecstatic about Spike Saunders sending us tickets. And of
course
they all knew what a totally fantabulous once-in-a-lifetime happening this was. Of
course
they didn't want to stop us having fun. No, no sirree. And of
course
Magda wanted me to “stop moping around over Prince Retard and enjoy being young.” And of course, Gloria Cassiera wanted to reward Claude for those eight straight A's she got in her Year 10 exams. And extra specially, of course, Paddy wanted Fleur to stop stalking him around his own home asking him if she could go again and again like a stuck record.