Live and Fabulous! (3 page)

“You're still at hoooooooome!? Claude, CLAUDE ... she's still at home! At home!” shrieks Fleur.

“No way! Is she okay?” I hear Claude ask in the background.

“I was waiting for ... ,” I begin.

“The Fusia mobile phone network has been down, like nationally, since six P.M., did you know?” shouts Fleur. “We couldn't get a signal until now. Everyone's on Fusia except Liam, who's on G5 Network. He just turned up, we just borrowed his phone...”

“I'm on Fusia too,” I try to say.

“So where are you?”
shouts Fleur again. “I've seen Jimi trying to call you loads of times too. He's got a Fusia phone, hasn't he?”

“Yes, Jimi is at flaming Blackwell. He's been here for an hour with Naz and Aaron. Everyone's here.”

“But ... whatttttt? I've been ...”

“He's over at the other side of the hall now. I'll just go and get him ...”

I can hear Fleur begin to move through what sounds like a pretty hectic crowd.

“But he was picking me up!” I say, getting all blubbery again.

“He was what? Picking you up? Tonight?! He was picking you up from the Voyage. So you're there waiting?
I knnnnnnnnnnew it!”
Fleur has reached eruption level.

“Is that Jimi?” asks my mother, also sounding rather cross.

“No, it's Fleur,” I mouth, keeping extra tight hold of my phone.

“Let me speak to her,” instructs my mother.

“Back off!” I say, swatting her away.

“Oh, dear, is this another Jimi Steele misdemeanor?” says Dad, opening a jar of pureed apple and prodding Seth awake with a spoon.

“Leave it, Lawrence,” snaps Mum.

“Hoo-hoo! What's the poor bloke done to you all this time?” chuckles Dad.

“Right, he's crossed an LBD line this time. There will be repercussions,” snarls Fleur, moving up on her prey. “Oi, Steelo, what do you think you're doing, standing up my best mate?”

Fleur sounds very irate. I wouldn't mess with her.

“Er, what? She's ... ,” I hear Jimi's husky voice begin.

“Speak to her, not me, loser,” shouts Fleur, slinging the phone at him.

“Ronnie!”
begins Jimi.

It just feels great to hear his voice.
Gggnngn.
I'm such a sap.

“Why aren't you here, Ron? I was meeting you here after sixish and ...

“Owwwwwww, Fleur, that hurt! Ronnie, your friend just kicked me! Owwwww! My shin!”

“Fleur, stop kicking Jimi,” I hear Claude saying rather half-heartedly.

“We were meeting HERE at the pub,” I say. “We said we'd go together.”

“Did we ... ?”

“You said you were going across town to look at that secondhand skateboard you saw in the
Local Daily Mercury.”

“Yeah,” says Jimi, “and you said time would be tight so I'd not have time to pick you up then.”

“Nooooooo, you great useless sack of poo! I said time would be tight, but I'd
wait for you to pick me up.”

Why does he never listen?

“Oh,” says Jimi.

“Oh,” I say.

“Sorry, Ronnie,” Jimi says meekly. “I got a bit mixed up ... But hey, just come anyway!”

“I can't get in after eight P.M.! That's McGraw rules. No entry after eight P.M.,” I yell.

“Damn. You're right ... you can't.”

“Right, time's up with that phone, Steelo,” I hear Liam Gelding complaining. “Three other people want to make a call ... I can make some money here.”

“Ronnie. Gotta go. I'll call you later,” says Jimi.

Then the phone goes dead.

I feel like someone's just punched me in the stomach.

“Ready to rock?” asks Mum, jangling her keys.

“Mmm,” I sigh. “Can't get in after eight. Phone networks were down and ...”

And then I start crying again. Big proper tears.

“Awwwww, love. I'll sort it out,” says Mum. “Do you want me to go down and argue with Mr. McGraw?”

No, I do not. I'd rather take all my clothes off and run around the school ground with my bottom blowing in the breeze. That would be less embarrassing.

“Nah ... I'll just stay here.” I sniffle.

Mum, Dad and I all stand in silence. There is nothing left to be said. I wish I'd never been born.

“Hey, Ronno, we're ordering in tonight!” announces Dad, somehow imagining that crispy kung pao chicken changes anything.

“And a DVD?” suggests Mum. “We can get a movie out too.”

I know they're just trying to be nice, but I wish they'd both shut up.

“Oh, Ronnie, don't take it too badly. It's just one night,” says Mum, beginning what seems like a long meaningful speech. “I mean, you're only fifteen, and there'll be stacks of other nights-out to come.”

I stare at her crossly.

“Believe me, I had a lot of nights go bottoms up like this when I was a kid. And well, I look back now and giggle about it, 'cos, well, it's all part of growing up and ...
OH MY GOD, LOZ,
loook!”

Mum is pointing frantically at Seth, perched in his vibrating baby chair.

“Loooooook, Loz! Look at Seth! Seth's picking his nose!! He's picking his nose! He's never done that before, has he!?”

“Ha ha! Go on, my son!” shouts my absolutely elated dad. “Pick us a winner, Seth!”

“Ronnie, Seth's picking his nose! How great is that?” laughs Mum.

And at that point, I decided to spend the Friday night of Blackwell Summer Disco in my boudoir. Alone.

“Pggh,
cheer up, Ronnie, it wasn't that good anyway,” instructs Fleur Swan, perched on her bed in LBD Headquarters on Disraeli Road, dabbing menthol toothpaste on what is ripening into a juicy love bite beneath her left ear. “Now, did anybody notice if scarves were ‘In' or ‘Out' for summer?” she says. “Claudette, chuck me
Glamour
magazine.”

“Scarves are totally last season,” I say crossly. “So's looking like you've been attacked by a killer weasel.”

“Declan is a bit like a weasel, isn't he?” groans Fleur. “But it all happened so fast! One minute I was dancing and the next minute ... well, we were properly snogging!”

Fleur flaps herself with one carefully manicured hand.

“Oh, that was sooo hilarious!” hoots Claudette Cassiera, bouncing on Fleur's futon, her ebony plaits jiggling gleefully. “Especially later on when that other lad Mikey asked you to dance, and you said ... er, ahem, cough ... splutter ...”

Claude has noticed my dark countenance.

“Well, actually it wasn't that funny,” Claude corrects herself. “It was more ... er,
boring.”

I sigh deeply.

Fleur called this emergency Saturday morning LBD meeting to cheer me up. It is
not
working.

“Exactly, Claudette, the whole night was
très
dull,” agrees Fleur, “thanks to
that
Jimi Steele. It felt dead weird without you there, Ronnie.”

“Too right,” says Claude with a half smile. “We missed you, Ron.”

“Ta,” I say quietly.

“So anyway,” says Fleur, prancing across to her tangerine-colored iMac and flicking the mouse to online, with a whiz and a crash as the modem dials up, “I've gathered us here today for a very important discussion ...”

“Uh-oh, it's going black in the middle already,” Claude interrupts, helpfully pointing at the hickey.

“Well, we'll make my neck bite point of order three, shall we?”

“Point three?” I say with a jolt. I've been on top of Fleur's cream suede beanbag for more than an hour now, wallowing in misery thinking about Jimi Steele. “Did I miss two?”

“Excellent question, Veronica,” says Fleur. “Sorry to wake you up there ... well, point one is obvious: Jimi Steele.”

“Boo, hiss!” says Claude, cupping her mouth theatrically.

“Exactly. That so-called boyfriend of yours, Jimi Steele. We are very displeased at his behavior, Veronica,” announces Fleur.

“Pggghhh,
me too,” I whisper. “I'm not speaking to him.”

“Ever again?” says Fleur hopefully.

“Well. Not since last night anyhow,” I mumble.

I'm omitting to mention Jimi's twenty-two missed calls since 10 P.M. last night I've been dying to pick up.

And the increasingly frantic voice messages he's left. One of which sounded like he was blubbering.

(I want to ring him back so much.)

“Good. You've not spoken to him! Freeze him out!” says Fleur gleefully. “My mum once blanked Paddy for an entire month and she got, like, a BMW convertible at the end of it.”

“Yeah, Ron, you should hold out for a pair of Rollerblades at least,” says Claude dryly.

I knew I could trust the LBD to take my side, but it doesn't make me feel any more certain what to do.

“So you think I should dump Jimi over ruining Blackwell Disco?” I say, already aware of what Fleur's answer will be.

“Yes. Immediately,” she says, without consideration. “This is just one of a laughable catalogue of offenses the toad has inflicted upon you.
Can him.”

“Thank you, Fleur,” I say, turning to Claude. “Cassiera, your turn.”

Claude pauses, ever the cautious bambino. “Mmm ... dunno,” she says. “He certainly needs to be taught a lesson. I'm sure of that.”

“A lesson!? Pghhh,”
huffs Fleur, flicking her mouse around her mouse pad, mesmerized by the flashing screen. “Ooh, hang on a second ... wooo-hooo! Claude, pass me that blank CD, please. I've just had an e-mail from Mad Mavis in Chicago.”

Fleur's breathing seems to have gone all wonky.

“Mad who?” says Claude, rooting among the cacophony of magazines, makeup packaging and candy wrappers that makes up Fleur's desk.

“Mavis,” repeats Fleur, clearly totally elated. “Oh, she's just this crazy Spike Saunders fan in Chicago. I chat with her in the Spike web chat rooms. She's just tipping me off that the new Spike CD
Prize
is up as a file share on
RippaCD.com
! It's not out in the UK or in the USA for
six
weeks yet!”

“That's illegal!” frowns Claude.

“Oh, shut up! Spike won't mind, we're his friends!” laughs Fleur, waving at a poster on her wall featuring Spike stripped to the waist, slightly sweaty.

“We met Spike only once, Fleur,” I say gently, recalling the admittedly wild, but once-in-a-lifetime occurrence that happened a year ago. “We're hardly his best buddies.”

Fleur rolls her eyes, then stares at several “signed” letters from our hero tacked up among the bum and pec montage above her bed. The treasured letters, replies to Fleur's fan mail (plus a bizarrely real-looking thank-you note for her last Christmas gift) have been wafted under our noses by Fleur on many, many occasions. Of course, Fleur doesn't just reckon Spike remembers us, she actually thinks he quite fancies her too.

Obviously, Claude and I
know
the flipping letters are just photocopies from his fan club secretary, but you've got to humor Fleur sometimes. She's not overly furnished with “living in the real world” skills.

“And downloading Spike's CD illegally helps him, er, how?” says Claude, teasing Fleur. “Please tell us, because I'm intrigued.”

“Huh! I'm only making one copy!” Fleur grumps, frowning at the timer on her screen as the MP3s download slowly. “Flipping broadband dial-up! I'm changing ISPs this week. This is so slow it's unreal. Anyway, I'll e-mail Spike straightaway afterward and tell him it's being hosted on
RippaCD.com
. Then he can get his lawyers onto it.”

Claude and I stare at Fleur, trying to keep our faces straight.

“And I bet he replies too!” Fleur persists.

Claude shakes her head in disbelief.

“Anyway, back to Jimi—that's what we're here for, aren't we?” Claude says, turning to me seriously. “Now don't get me wrong, Ron, I like him, I mean, he is dead lovely most of the time.”

Claude's being fair as ever ... but I sense a “but.”

“But, the great poosplash has just ruined the biggest LBD shindig of the year. He thinks you're quite happy to fritter your life waiting about for him.”