Live and Fabulous! (13 page)

I've seen those paparazzi pictures of gorgeous supermodels and actresses hanging around backstage at pop festivals looking skinny and fabulous. They always wear stuff like skintight white Gucci dresses with Prada heels. How do they look so fabulous when they're camping!?

“Pah!” remarked my mother cattily as I pored over the “Backstage Bites” photo section of
JukeBox
magazine trying to glean some “festival chic” tips. “Because they get dressed in their Winnebagos and live on fresh air and Marlboro Lights the rest of the year.”

“Oh, dear,” I sighed.

“You're beautiful as you are, Ronnie,” Mum said. “And don't you dare go changing into one of those vacant doe-eyed clothes racks or I'll have you adopted. And
I
mean that.”

I should be so lucky,
I thought,
on both counts.

But in times of confusion, such as last Monday night, when this cruel, confused world conjures up a plethora of questions and not a great deal of answers, when my troubles are weighing me down like a wet duffel coat, I always follow the same ritual. I mooch over to Flat 26, Lister House, to ask Claudette “Clipboard” Cassiera what she reckons.

Claude always knows the score.

“Well, Ron, this is what I'm taking,” said Claudette, rustling in her Astlebury file, pulling out a list written neatly on crisp white paper. “And I took the liberty of photocopying it for you, 'cos I know how you're a bit, er ...” Claude stopped herself.

“A bit what?!”

“A bit, er ... right, never mind, here it is anyhow.”

I would have pressed the little madam further. However, I was far too busy beholding Claude's wonderful, majestic, all-consuming list.

It went like this:

 

“Wow,” I gasped. I hadn't thought of any of this stuff.

“Oh, I just chucked anything in, really,” said Claude, trying to sound breezy.

“Yeah, so I see,” I say, stifling a giggle. “I didn't realize Daphne was driving us there in a monster truck.”

“Hmpgh,”
spluttered Claude. “I think you'll find that the whole kit and caboodle weighs precisely twenty-one and a half kilograms. I could carry that by myself easily.” she flexed her beautifully toned ebony right arm. “Well, actually, when I say twenty-one kilograms it might be more like twenty-two ... but hey, who's counting?”

“Right,” I smiled, folding the list and shoving it in my bag.

“Anyway, while we're on the subject, do we know if Fleur has even thought about packing yet?” Claude asked, rolling her eyes and placing one hand on her hip. “Or are we going to end up doing that for her?”

“Oooh ... dunno,” I chuckled.

“ 'Cos that would be classic Miss Swan behavior,” continued Claude, straightening her bunches in the mirror. “I mean, I love her and all that, but at the best of times she's as much flipping use as a one-legged man at a bum-kicking party, isn't she?”

I tried to remain neutral on the matter, but sometimes Claude makes me laugh so much when she takes the mickey out of Fleur, I almost pee my pants.

 

Out of sheer nosiness, I left Claude's and wandered up high street, past the Fantastic Voyage and over to Disraeli Road to see how Fleur's Astlebury countdown was really shaping. Happily, the platinum-haired diva was in residence, sprawled out in a star-shaped position upon her king-sized divan, plastered in avocado face mask, downloading a new ring tone onto her mobile while leafing through
Vogue.

For all Claude says, Fleur sure can multitask.

“It's the Kings of Kong! Listen!” Fleur said, passing me the flashy handset, which was emitting polyphonic screeches not dissimilar to a fire in a petting zoo. “Only two quid a minute to download too! The numbers are in the back of
Seventeen
magazine.”

“Bargain,” I said, passing Claudette's list over to Fleur for a quick gander. Fleur gave it a cursory look before promptly rolling about on her bed, kicking her legs in the air, laughing.

“Eh? What? Where is Field Marshal Cassiera taking us?” scoffed Fleur. “Are we fighting our way down the Congo or something? She's bonkers, that woman. Hello! Paging scary organization woman!”

“Mmm, well, she likes to be on top of things,” I said tactfully, trying not to chuckle.

“Cuh, she won't need half this stuff,” said Fleur, chucking me her own Astlebury list, scrawled on the back of an old envelope. It made interesting reading:

“No sleeping bag, Fleur?” I asked, scanning the list again.

“Oooh, er, yeah, might be useful,” Fleur said, chucking me a pen, then picking up
Vogue
again. “Write it down for me, will you?”

Oh, dear.

So here I am, it's Thursday night and I'm in my thoroughly ransacked boudoir, counting down the nine remaining hours till Daphne and the girls collect me. Amelia Annanova and the Dropouts are blaring a succession of angst-ridden tracks out of my stereo system (Amelia totally rrrrrrocks, by the way) as I'm stuffing my rucksack nervously with bras, mascara and sunscreen.

I pull open the top drawer of my dressing table, searching for my favorite hot pink thong, only to let out a deep sigh at what I find hidden within.

There, underneath my old 32AA starter bras, lies a framed picture of Jimi and me, the one I hid from myself after Blackwell Disco.

Sometimes I have to play games with myself to get through crappy times.

This photograph was taken late last August when the LBD, Aaron, Naz and Jimi hung out down by the banks of the River Caldwell till long after dusk.

Sigh.

Jimi has his top off. His face is sun burnished from a summer spent skating, and he's wearing a navy trucker's cap. I'm crouching under his arm, wearing his outsized checkered Quiksilver shirt. I borrowed it after the boys decided it would be sooooo hilarious to chuck me in the water.

My eyes look really alive.

We both look really happy.

When it got totally dark, we recamped en masse at the Red Recreational Park behind Sainsburys. Fleur was flirting with Aaron. (She didn't really like him, Fleur just does that sort of thing.) Claude was holding court doing daft impressions of Mr. McGraw, making everyone howl. I was sitting on Jimi's knee on the old vandalized bench. He kept kissing the back of my head. That was a brilliant day.

I slam shut the drawer on the dresser, hiding the evidence of my sort of, nearly almost, ex-boyfriend. It's making me feel sick.

I slump down on the bed, wrapping my arms around my giant teddy. Not a gift from Jimi, I hasten to add. Dad just thinks it's hilarious to buy his little girl big tacky gifts on Valentine's Day.

I stare at my mobile phone, feeling rather agitated all of a sudden.

Uggggggh! This stupid, messed-up situation is all your fault, Jimi Steele!

Not mine.

Yours!

And yes, okay, maybe I should have called you back by now and discussed our problems, and yes, it's a bit rubbish of me going off to Astlebury without saying good-bye, but the LBD are right, Jimi, you do need to be taught a lesson. I mean, whooopity-do, last summer may have been the most wonderful time of my life. I'd managed to ensnare you,
yes, beautiful, gorgeous you
as my real live boyfriend, and unbelievably you were utterly besotted with me ... but by late winter it had all started to go a bit ... well,
weird.
Hadn't it?

First, I started noticing your two very different faces; on one hand the “mushy-slushy can't get enough of you” side, which made me feel like the luckiest bird at Blackwell...

... and then on the other, that annoying “Yeah, see you around whenever” side that you put on whenever your mates were within earshot.

Oooooh, that really got my goat.

Just because neither Naz nor Aaron can stay with one girl longer than a party! Has it occurred to you, Jimi, that your friends are shallow losers? And there was tons of other stuff too. Like that time I wasn't allowed to go to Suzette Law's eighteenth birthday party 'cos I had a 10 P.M. curfew so you went with the lads anyhow and were spotted dancing with Suzette.