Live and Fabulous! (5 page)

Suffice to say, I hate school. If it wasn't for Fleur and Claude ... well, I don't know how I'd cope.

“I've really, reeeeeally hated school this term, Mum,” I tell Mum matter-of-factly as we stare at each other over the breakfast dishes, picking sleep snot from our eyes. “I'm not going today.”

“Of course you hate school,” says Mum dryly, pausing to make a face at baby Seth, who's slavering all over himself in his chair. “Only weirdos like school. I'd be more worried if you loved it.”

Mum does this reverse psychology thing a lot. It's sort of unnerving.

“This got anything to do with
that Jimi?”
says Mum.

“Nah.” I sigh.

Thank you, Mother. That's a record twelve whole minutes awake before I've been reminded about the Jimi scenario.

“You see, I don't need to go today anyway, it's the end of term. All the lessons have wound down now. It's not like it's
compulsory,”
I moan.

“Really?” says Mum.

“Yeah. It's like, y‘know,
flexitime.
I've gone almost all year, y'see? Even when I've been ill and stuff ... so I get today in lieu.”

“Ahhhh, right,” coos Mum. “Well, you just get yourself back to bed then. I'll bring you a cup of tea after I've done all the housework, fed Seth and supervised the lunchtime shifts.”

“What? Really!” I shrill, getting all excited.

Mum looks full of glee now.

“Nooooo! Of course you can't! You're going to school with the rest of the ankle biters!” she erupts, laughing like a demented horse. “Ha ha,
flexitime!
I've heard it all now. Get your bag packed, twinkie, you're off to school. I'm spending some quality time with my son today. I estimate I've got about three months left before he starts back chatting to me too—I'm going to enjoy it!”

Huh! It's bad enough that my mother pranced around town for nine months with a massive stomach, meaning everyone at school knew beyond doubt that she and Dad are still, ugggghhh, y'know, “doing it”
(bleeeeeeee!),
but now that Seth's born, she's blatantly giving the little infiltrator preferential treatment ! I wish I had a child psychologist to tell all of this to. I am sooo totally being mentally abused. And as for Seth, well, I can't wait until he's twelve so I can give him an extra-big revenge wedgie. Obviously, for now, I'll just let him be cute and stick pureed fruit in his scalp, as that seems to make him happy.

“Pghhhhgh,”
I huff, changing tack, clutching my stomach. “But I can't go to school. I feel sick.”

“So do I,” retorts Mum, laughing. “Come tonight, I've got your miserable face to look at for six entire weeks. You! Mooching about, telling me you're bored on repetitive play and tapping me for money. I'm as sick as a bleeding parrot.”

At this millisecond, it occurs to me that there is no more suitable conversational junction to ask Magda about the LBD's jaunt to Astlebury Festival. I've been procrastinating over this for four days now, as every time I see Mum she's either knee-deep in poo and diapers or downstairs pouring pints or cooking bar meals till almost 11 P.M. while I watch Seth. There's no point in asking Dad, as all decisions have to be rubber-stamped by Her Highness.

But hang on ... surely Magda has just specifically said that
she wants to see less of my miserable face?
It could be gone for almost four whole days!

“So Muuu-huum,” I begin, using my singsong voice, the traditional opening bars to me wanting something.

“Yep, what do you want from me now?” Mum predicts over her shoulder, clearing half-eaten eggs into the rubbish bin. “And before you begin, Veronica, go easy on my nerves. I don't know if you've heard, but Cassie and Kiki, those brain-dead bimbos I was foolishly calling waitresses, finally quit their jobs last night. I am officially a woman on the edge of something murderous. I mean...
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

Mum throws her head back and sort of roars, by way of illustration.

“Errrr, ooh ... ,” I mumble.

“Ibiza! Flipping Ibiza! They've only gone and got jobs in a beach disco! And, well ... that's it!
Au revoir!
No notice! Nothing. Vamoooosh! I've got no staff left! Well, except that useless Aussie idiot Travis, and to be frank, if he calls me Sheila one more time, I'm going to stick his didgeridoo intimately where the sun doesn't set and ... ooh, well, I could almost explode.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes,
oh, dear!
This is not good for my post-natal blood pressure, Ronnie. Why is the world filled with annoying cretins? I'm soooo angry. God, y'know, Ronnie, I think if anyone gives me any hassle today, I'm simply going to whip off my varicose vein support tights and strangle them!”

“Mmm ... right,” I say, biting my lip as Mum crashes cupboard doors, being that sort of angry where she laughs a lot with big, wide, scary, unblinking eyes.

That's the worst kind. She's gone to the bad place.

“But anyway, tootles, enough about me,” Mum says, crashing open the dishwasher and producing a large sharp bread knife. “What did you want to ask me?”

The knife's edge glints in the early morning sunlight.

“Mmm ... y'know, it doesn't really matter,” I say, being as flaky as the LBD always accuse me of.

“Oh ... well ... are you sure?” asks Mum, pausing a second from chucking plates into their rack with wild abandon.

“Yeah, I'm sure. Gotta go anyway, Fleur and Claude are here. See ya later, loonytoons,” I say and blow her a kiss.

“Ta ta for now,” says Mum, catching it and smacking it to her cheek.

“Hey, and face-ache ... enjoy your last day at school, eh?”

“Gnnnnngn,”
I groan.

Fleur Swan is propped against the black knight on the oversized chess set near the back gate of the Fantastic Voyage, madly texting, with digits o' fury, whichever lad it is this week on her top-of-the-range mobile phone. Fleur is always texting. She prefers to deal with most people outside of the LBD employing sentences of approximately three words or less. And even then, those words will be abbreviated to an unintelligible mess of numbers and symbols that not even Claude can decipher.

This conversational brevity gives Fleur more time to focus on her ambitions, namely

You've gotta have dreams.

Today Fleur (34-22-34) is wearing her Blackwell uniform with the skirt turned up at the waistband, shortening it elegantly at the knee. Her love bite is expertly hidden with industrial-strength concealer gloop while her legs are newly shaven then moisturized, sporting an all-over even tan. Fleur's crisp white shirt is tailored neatly into her waspish waist, and her hair looks like she should be cavorting through fields of spun wheat in a shampoo ad. She really hacks me off sometimes. I, in contrast, have a creased blouse and odd socks. I very quickly hazarded using some eyeliner before I left the house and haven't had a chance to comb my hair yet. Roughly speaking, I look like an aging goth rocker on the last leg of an eighty-date “No Sleep Till Moscow” world tour.

Sometimes the penchant to attack Fleur with my school bag just for being so flipping gorgeous is especially virulent.

“ 'Bout time, slowpoke,” Fleur smiles. “Thought you were a no-show.”

“Me too! Hurray, you're here!” says Claudette in the midst of cleaning her specs. Today Claudette looks like ... well, just like a girl who could adorn the cover of the Blackwell School prospectus depicting a wonderful example of a model pupil. All bushy tailed and eager of manner in a nicely pressed uniform.

“Hmmm, sorry, girls,” I say sheepishly. “Look, let's go, shall we? Let's get today over with.”

Claude and Fleur didn't always come to collect me for school every day. However, as my attendance became slightly more “erratic,” the LBD decided I needed extra incentive. I actually cut out only once, but they seemed to think it was a real big deal. I don't recommend cutting, by the way; it quickly transpired that hiding by myself in the local municipal library from 9 to 4 was even more tedious than double algebra. Not glamorous and wild-childish at all. Sigh. That's the problem with hating school: I haven't quite worked out where I want to be instead. Oh, and Magda doesn't know about any of the above (as you may have guessed by the fact that I'm still in possession of a head).

“So,” says Fleur, putting her phone into her bag, “what did your mum say?”

“What?” I say, playing stupid.

“Your mum ... about Astlebury? You promised to ask her last night.”

“You
did
ask her, didn't you?” says Claude, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Yesss, of course I've asked her,” I lie blatantly, as it seems like the easiest thing to do. Look, I've been awake only thirty-eight minutes! I'm not proud! You try tackling the wrath of these two demons when you're half asleep.

“Yeah,
'course
I asked her. I did it just then, er ... just before I came out—that's why I'm late.”

“And!?” trill Claude and Fleur in stereo.

“She ... er, said that she'd ... think about it and get back to me.”

“Poo. That's totally rubbish,” says Claude glumly. Then she checks herself. “Ooh, sorry, Ron, no offense to your mum and that. We could just do with getting a move on. The tickets are, like, ninety-five percent sold out. We're really leaving it late now.”

“I know, I know,” I sigh.

“And, look, I don't want to be the harbinger of doom here but... ,” Fleur says, sounding slightly rattled, “but ... oh, nothing, it's not important.”

“What?” I say, grabbing her arm, stopping her.

“Tell us, Fleur,” says Claude.

“Oh, it's not that bad, it's just
irritating,”
frowns Fleur. “You see, I heard yesterday that Panama Goodyear and her moron disciples already got sorted for tickets ... they're all going to Astlebury.”

“Wah? Ugggggggggh!” I groan. This news feels like an ax between my shoulder blades. “But ... but ... noooooo! That's so unfair! Are you sure?”

“Yep,” nods Fleur. “I walked back from school with Liam last night. He's a surprisingly good source of gossip for a bloke.”

“Oh, well, that's just great, isn't it?” huffs Claude, pursing her lips smaller than a rat's ass as she speaks. “And I suppose Panama's daddy's lending them his Land Rover to drive down in, is he?”

“Hmmm,” says Fleur, rolling her eyes. “You mean the £60,000 bad boy with the cast-iron rhino repellent stuck on the front?”

“Pghh ...
'cos Mrs. Goodyear needs that diesel-guzzling safari truck to get to Safeway and back, doesn't she?” I hiss. “Flipping eco-fascists.”

“Huh, well, ‘Crush anything in our path' is the Goodyear family motto, isn't it?” tuts Claude. “They need that rhino prod to scoop away peasants.”

The LBD have agreed on many occasions that bitching about Panama is a waste of time and just playing into their hands ... but sometimes it's just so flipping necessary.

“So, so,” I say, taking a deep, steadying breath, “are all of Panama's clique going? What about Abigail? And Leeza? And what about Zane Patterson!? Old orange-faced Zane must have got his nose into this one, has he?!”

“You've forgotten Derren,” sighs Fleur, naming a particularly loathsome individual who flounces around Blackwell with a Prada sweater wrapped around his shoulders and spray-on pants that you can virtually see the outline of his nether dangly parts through. Derren spends all day sneering and jeering at anyone not as aesthetically blessed as himself.