A Royal Mess (39 page)

As it was, I did an actual faint and crumpled up at Malcolm’s feet. I felt quite the Georgian lady –you know those ‘gels’ Miss Austen wrote about in such yawn-making detail. They do one of those swooney wooneys and the next minute, Darcy or some other git goes into feverish overdrive to bring the corseted lass around.

Back in the twenty-first century, I came to, looked up and saw Malcolm looking mildly curious rather than alarmed. He was preoccupied with easing the cork off the miniature champagne bottle.

Star and Indie helped me up, and Star gave me a cuddle. ‘How dare he dump
you!’
she declared hotly.

‘He didn’t dump me,’ I insisted. ‘He hasn’t dumped me!’ I pointed at Malcolm. ‘He’s just being Scottishl’

All eyes turned to Malcolm, who had successfully removed the cork and was now giving it a sniff and wrinkling his nose. He turned to me and winced before saying, ‘Sorry, I appear to have set the veritable cat out amongst the veritable whatsits.’

Malcolm stuck the straw in the miniature bottle and held it to my lips. Why was this mad loon of a boy always trying to shove alcohol down my neck?

‘Drink deeply from the well of fizz, Calypso. In the words of Madame Bollinger, “I drink it when I am happy, I drink it when I am sad.” Besides, you don’t want to take anything I say seriously. I’ve probably got it all wrong. He was no doubt off to dump some other hapless girl and not your good self after all. Forget everything I said.’

I pushed the champagne away and roughly wiped a tear from my cheek. Malcolm hadn’t got it wrong. Deep down I knew that. All that guff Freds had been burbling in Windsor about how he’d understand if I wanted to take a break. He had wanted to dump me all along. He’d just bottled out because he didn’t want me to cry, or make a scene, or do something disappointing.

‘If you ask me, he was a bit wet for you anyway,’ Malcolm remarked, sipping the champagne himself.

‘I agree,’ said Star. ‘Wet as soggy gym socks. You’re much better off without him.’

Star would say that. Operation Dumping Boys was going splendidly – well, in a reverse sort of way anyway.

‘Better off without whom?’ my
bete noire,
Honey, asked
as she wandered into the studio wearing yet another slinky sundress. Her bony arms were covered in nicotine patches but she was still smoking a fag.

‘Freds dumped Calypso,’ Malcolm said, offering her a miniature.

‘Poor lamb,’ Honey said, taking the bottle. ‘Here, have a nicotine patch, darling, they really give you a lift,’ she offered, peeling one off her arm and slapping it on my forehead. Then she plonked herself down on the floor beside me and put her arm around my shoulder as if she really, really cared.

I didn’t know what was worse. My despair that Freds didn’t love me anymore or having Honey pretend to pity me. She blew a plume of smoke in my face, which made me cough, so she sprayed the air around me with Febreze, which made my eyes tear up. ‘Poor, sad little tragic Calypso. You must feel like utter dirt. You must feel as though your life’s not worth living. You must feel like slashing your wrists or diving from the bell tower to your macabre and bloody death – or at least a coma. I know I would if I were you.’

‘She’s far better off without him,’ Malcolm said stoutly, roughly snatching back the bottle of champagne he’d given Honey.

‘I’m not better off without him, though,’ I insisted. ‘He’s not a drip and he didn’t actually dump me!’ I carried on, my voice rising into a hysterical screech. Tres unattractive, I know, but I was like one of those crazed women in films who have just had a horrible shock and need a good slap.

Honey slapped me hard across the face.

Then Star slapped Honey back even harder.

Malcolm must have wondered what kind of slappity-slap circus he’d entered, but he didn’t show it. Not that I was thinking about Malcolm’s feelings at the time. I was remembering Freds’ good-bye kiss and how lovely and real it had felt. Oh God, it was all so confusing. Please God, let Malcolm be wrong. Freds loves me. He told me so.

Besides, Malcolm wasn’t even one of Freds’ mates. Malcolm was in the year above and made weird art movie thingies that Freds wasn’t keen on. ‘Malcolm’s got it all wrong. It must have been a mistake,’ I told everyone. ‘Freds loves me.’

Honey snickered.

No one else looked convinced either.

‘He’s still wet,’ Malcolm muttered as he swizzled the straw of his champagne.

Star agreed enthusiastically.

Sucking hard on her cigarette, Honey nodded. Blowing a series of artful smoke rings in my eyes, she said, ‘Soz, darling’ and sprayed me with Febreze.

I didn’t rise to their bait, though.
They
hadn’t been there in Windsor in the snow when Freds kissed me good-bye.
They
couldn’t grasp the true depth of his
je ne sais quoi
or his savoir-faire. Okay, so he wasn’t exactly the life of the party, but he made me feel special, and without wanting to sound shallow, he was heir to the throne. Every girl in the world worshipped him – apart from Star.

‘And what’s with his hair?’ Malcolm asked, shaking his head. ‘You should see the pots of gel in his room. Has it delivered by the lorry load every Monday, the vain git.’

‘Freds doesn’t use gel,’ I blurted, because everyone knows that boys who use gel are très, très tragic.

Malcolm shook his head. ‘You never did find your way into his room, did you, Calypso? For if you had, well. Gel Central, I’m afraid.’

Star giggled. ‘I know, he looks like such a chav.’

Indie giggled. ‘Gel is soooo sad. You’d think one of his lackeys would tell him.’

Even Honey laughed – well, as best she could.

I looked around at the faces of my friends and Honey. I wanted to be alone with Star and tell her how terrible I felt, but I knew she’d just say stuff like how I was better off without him. This scenario was, after all, just what she wanted. But then she surprised me by announcing, ‘Listen, though, seriously, we can’t allow this to happen. Freddie can’t be allowed to dump Calypso.’

I could have kissed her! No wonder I loved Star so much. To quote from some addled Latin text we were translating, she is most definitely the
ne plus ultra
of girlfriends, the alpha and omega of friends.

When she came over and hugged me, I hugged her back so hard she made a squeaking sound. Everything would be okay now.

‘No Saint Augustine’s girl has ever been dumped. We’re the ones who do the dumping,’ she told me.

‘But he didn’t actually
dump
me,’ I reminded her.

‘Okay, so he chickened out, but according to Malcolm, that was his plan.’

I looked over at Malcolm, who shrugged and nodded in the affirmative.

‘It’s an immutable fact, my darling bestest friend in the world,’ Star said to me. ‘No boy, not even a prince, has ever dumped a Saint Augustine’s girl. Ever.’

Just then Georgina walked in with Tobias. What was this, Humiliation Central? ‘Apparently there was some incident of a Stowe boy dumping some girl in the sixties,’ she said, clearly already
au fait
with my shame. Maybe Freds had pasted posters declaring his dumping intentions over Windsor.

‘Typical,’ Malcolm sneered. ‘What do you expect from Stowe?’

‘Sister Constance will flip when she hears one of her girls has been dumped,’ Honey said gleefully.

Star gave her a warning look. ‘Do you want a wrist burn, Honey?’

Honey grabbed her thin little wrists in fear.

‘No one is telling Sister. Freds hasn’t
officially
dumped Calypso
yet,’
Star said, the word ‘yet’ going through my heart like a dagger. ‘There’s still time to save the situation if we act quickly.’

Georgina gave me Tobias to hug. He was wearing a fetching little black Prada jumper and some vintage Vivienne Westwood bondage trousers, teemed with
workman’s earmuffs – presumably to protect his ears from the noise of Star and Indie’s music. ‘Tobias said you’re not to worry, darling, we’ll sort it out.’

Just then I heard my txt alert going off.

Honey grabbed my bag off the chair and pulled out my phone. ‘ “Soz and all that, but I think we should take a break! I’ll call later, F,”’ she read. Then she made a really sad, pitying face that made her pumped-up collagen-enhanced lips loll around her chin.

Star snatched my mobile from her and scanned the message. ‘Bugger. What an absolute jerk,’ she said, chucking the phone to me in disgust.

‘The txt dump is a low blow,’ Malcolm said. ‘Even for a wet prince lathered in chav gel.’

I read the txt myself, wanting it say something other than what Honey and Star had read. But it didn’t.

Soz and all that, but I think we should take a break! I’ll call later, F

It was true. I had been dumped by the heir to the throne. What’s more, I had been dumped by txt, an instrument designed for flirting and sending lovely messages to friends! All the confusion I had felt earlier drained out of me as I read and reread the stark cruelty of the words.

All I felt now was outrage and anger. I looked up at the concerned faces of the others and stood up in fury. ‘Right. He’s toast.’

Malcolm raised his bottle in the air. ‘Here’s to toasting the little wet!’ I know that it wasn’t the time to be thinking such things, but hearing him call Freds ‘the little wet’ suddenly made me realise that Malcolm was actually quite fit.

Georgina, Honey, Indie and Star all grabbed a bottle each and clunked them against Malcolm’s.

‘Toast!’ everyone declared.

Then Indie turned to me and said, ‘You could always perform The Counter Dump. A girl at Cheltenham Ladies had to do The Counter Dump once – the guy was destroyed! He never pulled again.’

SEVENTEEN
The Mechanics of The Counter Dump

How many teenagers can you fit in a dorm room built to accommodate three girls? Forty-two, that’s how many – the entire Year Eleven. There were girls on ledges, girls on cupboards, even girls in the bath in the en suite – all of them wearing the hideous plastic bead bracelets of Enterprise Initiative.

By that evening, I had become a cause celeb, only not in a good way like Nelson Mandela or that woman who is trying to bring down the cruel regime in Burma. No, my name had become associated with shame. The word was out. Girls, teachers, nuns and house spinsters were all aghast that one of their own, a Saint Augustine’s girl, had been so brutally dumped.

Walking down corridors, you could hear snatches of conversation like, ‘I just don’t understand how it could have happened,’ and ‘I heard he uses
gel.’

I was as much at a loss to understand my dumping as
they were. I had no answers, only questions. But all I really wanted was a solution, and that’s what Indie promised she had.

‘Right. The main thing is to restore honour to our school, right?’ she asked.

‘And to Calypso,’ Star added.

‘Especially
to Calypso,’ Indie agreed, smiling sweetly at me. ‘The skillful execution of The Counter Dump is based on Calypso getting Freds in a lather over her again and then just as he realises that life without her isn’t worth living, she dumps him.’

‘Here, here!’ the room cheered.

‘Believe me, I’ve witnessed a Counter Dump firsthand. It will make Freds feel like a pig’s dinner for the rest of his life. He will never pull another girl again.’

Everyone seemed thrilled by this outcome. I mean, I know he dumped me, but a pig’s dinner? I don’t know that I’d wish that on anyone – not that I have the slightest clue what pig’s dinners consist of.

‘Seriously, he will never pull again,’ Indie repeated for dramatic effect.

An image of Freds as a Lady Haversham character flashed through my mind and I giggled, which set everyone else off. As I looked around at the faces of the girls perched and squeezed into our tiny room, I couldn’t help but be touched. It was a coming together of the school such as I’d never witnessed. Even Honey – who was perched companionably with Polo Central on the
wardrobe – thought The Counter Dump was the only way for me to regain my dignity. I was shocked that Honey felt I had any dignity in need of restoration, given she’d spent the last four years trying to strip me of it.