Live and Fabulous! (21 page)

“Well, that's just flipping charming!” huffs Fleur Swan, sticking her head through the tent doors.

Fleur appears to be wearing a baby-pink turban over her blonde locks and a pair of large, glamorous dark glasses.

“Wah ...
gnnngn
... wha'timeisit?” I grunt, sitting up in my sleeping bag, realizing I've been sleeping with my face precariously close to Claudette Cassiera's exposed brown rump.

Claude's a good pal and all that, but this level of intimacy is beyond the call of friendship.

It's Saturday morning, our official first day at Astlebury ... and I feel like absolute poo! My back is stiff and aching. Claude and I were far too idle to blow up the air mattress and then drag Fleur on top of it, so we've kipped on the cold, hard ground. I also seem to have Cheesy Footballs, the remnants of last night's midnight feast, embedded in my forehead and a mouth like a pilgrim's flip-flop. To make matters worse, our neighbors at the twenty-four-hour dance tent are still thumping away, accompanied by an emcee with verbal diarrhea who's yelling, “Wakey, wakey, party people! Oi! Oi! Oi! Big shout going out to the Astlebury Massive! In da areeeeeee-a!!!” again and again and again.

It's only 8:15 A.M.!

I am sorely tempted to storm over in just my grunderwear and cut the plug off his microphone.

I am not a morning person.

“So, I've just walked over to the Karma Quadrant to begin my beautification progress,” huffs Fleur, “and I asked the security oompa-loompas where the shower block was ... and they just laughed at me! I mean, how incredibly rude!?”

I shuffle out of our tent in my sleeping bag like a giant slug, blinking in the bright morning sun. Fleur, dressed in a pristine white fluffy terrycloth dressing gown, kitten-heel slippers, and holding a luxurious lemon-colored bath towel over her arm, is glowering back at me.

“You went looking like that?” I ask, suppressing a smirk.

“Of course I went like this,” says Fleur, gazing at me like I'm an imbecile. “And yes, obviously it raised a few eyebrows with the great unwashed out there, but I just told anyone who commented that it was
style, darling,
and nothing they needed to worry about ... Oh, and Ronnie, suffice to say, that Karma Quadrant shower block doesn't exist. It was just an Astlebury myth. What am I going to do now?!”

“Er ... rough it for a few days?” I say.

Fleur gives me
that look
again.

“Time to hit the wet wipes?!” I venture, chucking her Claude's bumper-sized pack of antiseptic wipes. All around us Astlebury folk are crawling out of tents and vans, clutching their heads, making unpleasant remarks about DJ Retinal Migraine over at the dance tent and begging for ibuprofen. Near to us, three guys with shaven heads and goatees who have been crammed into what appears to be little more than a child's playhouse are glugging down bottles of water and staggering toward the porta-loos. Last night, it seems, was a big night for everyone.

It's like a scene from
Zombie Hell IV.

“Morning, campers!” zings Claude's smiley face, poking out of the tent.

“Ahhhh! What a beautiful day! What a great day for seeing some bands, eh?” she cheeps.

“Morgen,
Frauline Cassiera,” flounces Fleur, turning to me again to continue her rant. “Oh, and don't even
start
me about those disgusting portable toilet cubicle thingies! They're absolutely covered in ... in ... well, I can't even say it ... they smell really, really gross! And some bloke was asleep in the first one I went in! And there are no mirrors anywhere ... or any toilet paper! And nowhere to wash your hands afterward except the occasional primitive water outlet pipe with a queue of about fifty hippies beside it. There was a woman in the nude soaping her bits when I walked past too! It's just ... just ...”

“Exactly like we warned you it would be!” smiles Claude.

“It's worse! It's like I envision Earth after an all-out nuclear attack!” gasps Fleur. “There's nowhere for me to plug my straighteners in! My hair's going to be like a static badger by the end of the day!”

Fleur pauses for a second, then gasps as the most hideous thought of all crosses her mind.

“Oh my God! If my hair does that mad woo-hah thing at the front again, well, I'm simply going to kill myself!”

“Oh, shut up, you insane old goat,” chuckles Claude, standing up and strrrrrretching with a small satisfied groan.

“Ooooh, that's right, just insult me! Everyone pick on me as usual!” says Fleur, pretending to be offended. “It won't be like this when I meet Spike Saunders and he says, ‘Yes, Fleur, I did used to fancy you! Yes, I was going to marry you and let the LBD have an annex in my Mayfair mansion for you all to live in, and let you have a splishy-splashy in my Jacuzzi with the gold turbo-bubble buttons ... but now that I've seen you looking like a Sasquatch that's been run over by a tractor, I think I'll pass, thank you!'
Pghhh
... That'll serve you all right!”

Claude and I stare at Fleur; then we all burst into fits of snottery giggles.

Fleur crawls into the tent, dragging her makeup behind her.

“Now both of you shut up and leave me alone!” she huffs. “I have to unleash the magic.”

When Fleur's in good form, she can make you pee your pants laughing. But then suddenly, as I'm reaching for some toilet paper to blow my nose, I notice something strange about Daphne's tent. It appears to be emitting two sets of loud snores! One little girlie one and another big boomy one. On further inspection something highly irregular is poking out from underneath the door.

“Claudette! Look!” I shout, pointing at two rather large size 14 black boots. “There're extra legs in Daphne's tent!”

Whoever is in Daphne's tent must be absolutely enormous; he can't lie in her one-man tent without spilling out onto the grass.

“Wow!” laughs Claude. “When did he arrive? We were still awake at five!”

“Is that
Rover?”
gasps Fleur, sticking her head out. “Has he infiltrated LBD HQ?”

“It's Rex!” Claude says, her eyes wide with delight. “Ooh, I wonder what he looks like. I can't wait to see! Shall we throw sticks at his feet until he sits up?”

“He's not an evil giant, Claude,” I say.

“Oh Gawwd, he'll be some stinky new-age type with egg in his beard and a ‘Free Tibet' T-shirt, no doubt,” smirks Fleur. “I bet he plays didgeridoo too.”

“Shh, he'll hear you!” I shush as Daphne's tent reverberates with a particularly hearty snore.

“Hmmmph
... don't care,” says Fleur. “What's he going to do? Garrote me with his friendship bangles?”

“It's nice to be nice, Fleur,” says Claude, pretend-primly.

“Oh, whatever,” says Fleur, brandishing a large blusher brush covered in pink powder. “So anyway, ladies, evil giants aside, what's the sketch for today? Claude, have you got an itinerary worked out?”

“Who, me?” says Claude unconvincingly. “Nah ... I just thought we could, y'know, go with the flow? just see what happens?”

“Really?!” I say, feeling disoriented.

“Er, well, sort of ... I mean, sure, I took the liberty of printing off the Astlebury timetable from the website and making a few markers of stuff we might like to see.”

Claude grabs her Astlebury file, producing three charts, all marked in a variety of felt tips with squiggles and arrows.

“Now, I've put a gold star beside bands, et cetera, that we love, and added a point system to bands when there's a timetable clash.” Claude puts her plan down on the grass. “For example, Brassneck Ruffians are on at noon on the Hexagon Stage, but we're not that keen on them so I've given them a low rating. I thought we could go and hang out at the Astlebury Fun Fair then. I've rated that as choice two ... or we could go to the new-band area, as long as we get more central for Final Warning at four P.M. We all love them so they've got a gold star. And then the Losers are on after that.”

“The Losers?! Wow!” I say. “I'd forgotten about them! They're ace!”

“It's Carmella Dupris that I absolutely have to see!” says Claude excitedly. “That's a must. I can't miss that.”

“Oh, and then it's Color Me Wonderful,” says Fleur, taking her schedule and looking at it. “They're meant to be so amazing live!”

“Er, but Claude, you haven't scheduled bathroom stops,” I say dryly, looking at the plan.

“Of course not,” smiles Claude. “I'm not that bad now, am I?”

“Pgghh,
well, that suits me fine, girls!” sniffs Fleur. “After seeing those poo-traps, I'm not drinking or eating another morsel until I get home. I'm just going to wear lipstick and look pretty instead.”

Fleur smears on some plum-colored lipstick and blows us both a kiss.

I don't think she's joking.

“But anyway, girls,” coos Claude, “basically, we can do whatever we want! That's the bestest part!”

“Oh, really?” I say, delving into my rucksack, trying to work out which creased items I can throw together to create “festival chic.” “So we're not hooking up with any lads later on then? Any tattoo-covered, shaven-headed guys? Guys called
Damon,
by any chance?”

“Oooooh, shut up!” blushes Claude.

“Eh ... what? What's going on here?” says Fleur, sitting up on her haunches, waving a mascara wand. Fleur Swan can sniff out hot gossip at 500 meters with a clothes peg on her schneck. “Have I missed something?”

“Nooooo!” says Claude.

“No, not really, Fleur. Claude only snogged Damon last night!” I blurt out.

Ahhh, isn't it great to be the first to tell someone gossip?

“Whahhhh? When!?” squeals Fleur. “And how ... how do I not know this?!”

“You were zonked out!” I laugh. “It was when they were walking back to the tent. They ended up playing face invaders over there by that tree. And she felt his bum. She said it was so firm, you could take the top off a pickle jar with it.”

“Noooooooooo!” squeals Fleur. “That is soooo contravening Rule Four of the Parent/LBD Behavioral Contract! For shame, Claude! For shame!”

“Gnnnnngnnnn,”
groans Claude, covering her face.

“And Damon said she had a better bod than his favorite Sports Illustrated model!”

“Oooooh my God!” hoots Fleur. “Then what happened?!”

“Then she floated into the tent and waffled endlessly about him till her throat nearly packed in,” I smile.

“Hee hee!” hoots Fleur. “Was she being all mushy?”

“Totally!” I say. “She sounded like one of those padded valentine's cards you get in Clintons Cards. She is sooooo in love!” I conclude, opting for my favorite ripped denims, a little black vest top with lacy straps and a pale blue patterned headscarf.

“I am soooo not in love!” protests Claude, burying her head in her hands. “Stoppit! You're giving me a headache!”

“Ahhh! See? The headache ... ,” says Fleur authoritatively. “A classic sign of being in love! Love hurts, y'know, Claude?”

“Phhhhgh,
tell me about it,” I groan, suddenly recalling Jimi's contorted face as we pulled away in the car twenty-four hours ago.

Right. Forget about that,
I tell myself.

“Okay, everyone shut up about me and get dressed!” says Claude, changing the subject. “Now, chickadees, my itinerary denotes that the Beyond Las Vegas Casino opens in half an hour. I quite fancy a few hands of blackjack ... you can win amazing stuff like the entire top one hundred CDs or your body weight in chocolate. Actually, this map says there's a stall next door where some folk are giving out free breakfasts from seven to eleven A.M.... well, it's free as long as you promise to listen patiently while they talk about their religious beliefs. No, on second thought, that'll be just like being at home,” Claude says, rolling her eyes. “Let's just buy breakfast instead!”

“Mmm, breakfast!” I say, imagining a big greasy sausage sandwich smothered in tomato ketchup.

“Exactly! Come on, let's get a shift on,” says Claude. “If it's escaped your attention, ladies, we have to have another fabulous fandango today. One even more fabulous than yesterday!”

Half an hour later, after ten Fleur Swan costume changes and an LBD decision to tape a note to Rex the Evil Giant's boot telling him and Daphne that we've gone for breakfast, we're ready to rrrrrock.

“Do I look like a dog's dinner?” asks Fleur, looking utterly stunning in a pale turquoise cropped vest top and black mini kilt. Fleur's hair is concocted effortlessly into that “messed-up San Fran beach babe look” that I tried so hard to do before Blackwell Disco. It's knotted at the top with lots of tousled strands spilling out and a deep red silk flower placed in the middle.