A Royal Mess (22 page)

‘I’m already out, rinsed by a snotty little Harrovian.’

‘At least it wasn’t a Wimbledonian,’ I offered, which made him laugh.

‘I’ve got a break before the semi-finals,’ I told him.

‘Well, then, my champion, would you like to take a short perambulation around the back of the scoreboards. I hear that’s where they fix the scores.’

‘And hide from the scouts and spies,’ I joked. I’d told Freddie all about my mad fencing master’s paranoid delusions.

‘Well, then, it’s a duty more than a pleasure, really, when we think of it like that. Can’t let these horrid spies go unchecked.’

So we snuck around the back of the hall, avoiding Bell End and company until we reached the large blackboard. It was only used for recording the scores of school matches, as it wasn’t that big, but it provided the perfect hiding spot for a pulling session.

‘I forgot how lovely you smell,’ Freds told me as he drew me into his stinky neck – only it smelt lovely to me. I seriously doubted my smell was lovely, though. But the fact that he said it made me swoon with love for him even more, so I blurted, ‘I love you!’

Freds pulled away from me, and for a horrifying moment
I thought he was going to do a runner, he looked so baffled.

But he didn’t run off, he just smiled and then wrapped his arms around me so hard that he lifted me off the ground. ‘So does that mean I get a formal introduction to your mother?’

‘How do you know she’s here?’

‘Something about the pom-pom-laden cheerleader dress.’ He shrugged. ‘She has that Kelly look about her.’

I don’t know why this pleased me so much. I guess it was relief or something that I didn’t have to hide such an important part of my life (Freds) from one of the most important people in my life. So I kissed him some more.

TWENTY-ONE
Pulling Princes

As our lips roamed over one another, I was vaguely aware of announcements being made, but I remained otherwise oblivious to everything apart from Freds. That is, right up until the point at which his lips were cruelly wrenched from mine by Bell End, who thwacked HRH with his stupid faux riding crop.

I mean, seriously, that had to be illegal for a start! Striking a royal presence?

I didn’t need to seek confirmation on this. Freddie’s security dived on my general and began beating him to a pulp. It was soooo unfair because Bell End didn’t stand a chance. He was so small you couldn’t even see him under Freddie’s men. Not that a pileup of chino-wearing thugs with earpieces were going to shut our doughty general up.

He kept yelling, ‘Subversion! Foul Play! Bad Form! Alert the BFA!’ as he valiantly flailed about with his broken plastic riding crop. Eventually the stun guns and batons defeated him, though, and nothing more than the odd squeak could be heard.

‘Freds! You’ve got to call them off,’ I begged, clutching Freddie’s arm. ‘That’s my general!’

Freds looked at me like I was insane. ‘Your what?’

‘My fencing master. Bell End.’

‘Oh, right. Shit! Okay, chaps, that’s enough,’ he yelled, kicking the brutes on top.

‘I’m really sorry, Calypso,’ he said kissing my forehead as he kicked his thugs, ‘but they have authority to act in what they consider my best interest in matters of security. It would seem they’ve assessed your general as a class-A threat. All we can do really is wait it out, and obviously I’ll cover any, erm, medical requirements.’ He gave his men a few more kicks with his foot, though.

The real salvation came in the form of Majors Sister and Sarah, who launched themselves on Fred’s thugs with a professional level of violence that was really quite shocking. Within thirty seconds, Sister Regina had one of the guys in a headlock while Sarah began stuffing her pompoms in his mouth.

By the time Sister and Sarah had called it a day, most of Fred’s security guys had pom-poms up their noses and another was entwined in Sister’s knitted flag. Another was nursing a bitten ear, although I think that might have been the work of Bell End.

The whole hall was gathered around our group by this stage.

Some idiot with a clipboard made a daft remark about Bell End and his friends bringing the sport into disrepute
with their brawling, which only set Bell End (his beret now askew) off again.

‘Freddie, this is my mother, Sarah,’ I said (with a fair amount of pride, I might add) as I pushed her forward in her little mini-skirt.

Freddie took her hand, and Sarah simpered away as he kissed it. ‘What a long awaited pleasure, Mrs Kelly.’

‘Oh, call me Sarah, Your Royal Highness,’ giggled my mad madre, giving Freds her best approximation of a curtsey while all around us fencers and their fans were dashing from piste to piste for matches and names that were being announced over the loudspeaker.

‘Don’t be so daft, Sarah,’ Sister Regina told her gruffly, pulling her away. ‘He’s just like anybody else. He’s not a saint, woman. Where’s your Catholic pride?’ Sister demanded. None of the nuns are particularly keen on boys or royalty, so Freds was not a hit with my little nun.

As I watched the two of them hitting it off, I couldn’t for the life of me believe I was ever terrified of Sarah and Freds meeting. I guess knowing he loved me had made me more secure. They were flirting so ferociously I almost got jealous before I remembered that it was
me
he was pulling, not Sarah. I didn’t get to witness their meeting for long, though, as my name was called and I had to weave my way through the crowds to the other end of the hall.

My opponent, her fan club lined up behind her, was already doing a few low lunges on the piste when I pitched up. As we sized up for the first play, I was still distracted by
recent events. Then Freddie and Sarah turned up, and Freddie cupped his hands and called out, quite loudly so everyone could hear, ‘Give me a C! Give me an A! Give me an L! Give me a Y! Give me a P! Give me an S! Give me an O! Goooooo Calypso!’ And a few of my opponent’s fans wolf-whistled at Sarah, who was doing her cheerleader stuff beside him.

At that point things became clear. I might not have a fan club the size of my opponent, but I had something better. I had a prince who loved me.

I shook hands with my opponent, unable to hold back my happiness. I was grinning from ear to ear as I told her I hoped she’d do brilliantly. This love business had somehow taken the killer instinct out of me. My opponent wasn’t brimming with the same good will towards me, though. She squeezed my hand so hard it really hurt. ‘Good luck,
bitch,
you’re going to need it,’ she warned me sweetly. There was something about her sickly faux sweetness which reminded me of Honey.

‘Thanks for the warning, daaarling,’ I replied sarcastically, dragging out ‘darling’ with as much contempt as I could. I wasn’t going to be beaten by a toxic Honey-clone in front of Freds.

Fifteen points later, she was resplendent in her humiliation. And I told her so. ‘Loosing becomes you, daaarling,’ I whispered as we shook hands – right after she had said ‘You were lucky, that’s all!’

Lucky? Me? Hello, which one of us was writing an essay
on the great tragedies of her life? Me, that’s who. Freddie swung me around and snog-aged. Then he held my sweaty face in his hands and said, ‘Did I tell you I love you even more when you win?’

‘Unhand that sergeant!’ Bell End yelled. Only neither of us took any notice. I was only a private, after all. It was only when he began slapping us with his beret did we realise our mistake. Making it to the finals had apparently earned me a promotion. I was now a sergeant too.

We all repaired to the refreshment table, where Portia ran up to me and said, ‘Guess what! I’ve made it through to the finals, darling! Can you believe it?’

‘OMG! Me too!’

‘Aaaah!’ squealed Portia with an uncharacteristic loss of her aristocratic demeanour as we kept hugging one another and jumping up and down on the spot.

‘This is huge!’ I said. We’re against each other!’

‘I know, let’s go to the loo,’ she suggested.

We didn’t stop to share our news but dashed and darted through the crowds and into the loos, where we splashed ourselves with water and gave one another blow-by-blow accounts of our triumphs. It was as if we were just about to play a practice bout or something. There wasn’t a bit of competitive tension between us. Maybe because we’d got all that out of our system before half term?

‘You do realise that this poses a rather nasty conundrum for our fans, though, Calypso.’

I put my hand over my mouth in horror. ‘How’s Bell
End going to abuse us? He just made me a sergeant, you know.’

Back at the refreshment table, Sister and Sarah were stuffing themselves with Battenberg cakes and tea, chatting to Freds ten to the dozen, crumbs flying everywhere.

‘I watch your mother’s television slot,’ Freds told me.

‘He thinks I’m really fit, which mean “hot,”’ she explained, a blush spreading across her face. ‘Apparently all the boys at Eades do – think I’m fit,’ Sarah boasted, giggling like the teenager she so seriously wasn’t.

‘Well, you are a damn fine-looking woman, Major. Don’t need a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears schoolboys telling yer that, do you?’ Bell End remarked. He was wearing his beret again and had his silver Olympic medal out, but his little plastic stick was now in two parts, broken by the royal thugs. Even so, he looked very impressive.

‘You’re a handsome little chap yourself, Mr Wellend,’ Sister Regina told him sweetly.

‘We’ve been working on our battle chants,’ Sarah whispered conspiratorialy to me. We don’t want to favour either of you. I hope you don’t mind, darling, but the general says that even though I’m your mother, I’m not to show favouritism.’

‘No, of course,’ I agreed happily.

‘You do understand,’ she added. ‘Portia needs our support too.

‘Fine,’ I breezed, blissfully ignorant of what awaited us.

‘Your fabulous legs run in the family, then,’ Freds remarked sexily in my ear.

‘Don’t be so pervy. How dare you look at my mother’s legs!’ I teased.

‘Well, there’s not a lot else to look at, is there? I mean, to look at her, she’s all legs.’

I looked over at my mother. He had a point.

When our names were called to the piste, Portia and I made our way there arm in arm. A phalanx of the fittest boys England has to offer had assembled in great numbers all around the piste, presumably with the intention of watching the final. I recognised Billy, Kev, Malcolm and a few others, but the mass was just soooo daunting.

Portia and I knew each other’s form so well we could impersonate one another. As we pulled our masks down before the president had even called play, I knew that thought must be on Portia’s mind too. We had the same master, we were one another’s practise partners. We could match each other skill for skill. Portia’s technique was flawless, and I knew that I would have to raise my thinking level beyond textbook tactics if that buzzer was to blare for me fifteen times.

There were no cheers or cries of abuse as we advanced. I emptied my mind and entered a state of pure focus in which all that existed was my blade and her blade. Portia knew only too well my preference for attack. I loved the aggression of sabre, whereas Portia had spent three years as an épéeist and loved a genius riposte. Her defence was
flawless, and I knew she was relying on me to attack. So fighting aggressively against my friend in this bout would be playing to her strengths.

I had to draw her out with a bluff.

I straightened my arm to threaten her target area, but I didn’t advance, goading her to attempt to clear my blade. As Portia stepped forward to beat my blade, I surprised her with a disengagement and landed a viper-quick strike to her wrist. The buzzer was the only applause required.

It was a tiring, strategic battle, fought almost as much in our minds as on the piste. It really was as Professor Sullivan, our old master, had always warned: a physical game of chess.

By the time the president called ‘Fourteen, fourteen, bout point!’ we were both drained physically and mentally. Everything hinged on the next three seconds, and yet behind my mask I was smiling. I was proud not just of myself but because whatever happened in the next few moments we were both going to the Nationals.