Friends Forever! (15 page)

I tear open the small white envelope, which has my mother's familiar swirly hieroglyphics across the front, and pull out her letter. A crisp £20 note falls upon my lap. Ha! Good old Mum. I begin to read . . .

 

 

19 July, The Fantastic Voyage

Hellooo . . . anyone there?

Earth calling Ronnie.

It's your mother here. Remember me?

Well, lambkins, that's two weeks you've been gone now. Things must be looking up, eh, kiddo? Not a peep out of you for days?

I take it you're not coming home. Jeez, Ronnie, it was hard hearing you crying like that on the first night without jumping in the car and racing to get you. . . .

 

Pah! Pardon? What fantastic nonsense my mum gibbers! Me, Ronnie Ripperton? Fearless Amazonian warrior? Sobbing on the phone to Mummy like a homesick child? The woman's clearly delirious. I mean, okay, I was a bit sniffly . . . but, well . . . cough, moving on . . .

Believe me, Ron, newbies always get lumped with the crappy shifts. That's waitressing for you. Make sure you stand your ground and get some time off to have fun. Be assertive! Remember, you learned from the best!

 

Hmmm. Don't worry, Mother, the LBD have been making time for fun. I mean, sure, the hours here at Harbinger are long, and Scrumble may well be a heinous right-angle-ridden old boot, but Siegmund, Rosco and all the other kitchen misfits always cheer me up.

Plus they announced the lineup for the Big Beach Booty Quake the next day . . . and it rrrrrocks! The whole MTV gang are staying here! And Destiny Bay is just so cool. I feel alive!

There's always something fab happening. Like last Saturday night, Gene and Leon gave the LBD a lift in their van up onto the cliffs at midnight for a campfire party with a huge gang of their surfer buddies. And Jose, this hottie from Pamplona in Spain, said I had a bum like “two little apples,” and he gave me his e-mail address if I ever want to visit for the bull-running weekend. Fleur and Claude and I stayed out till 5 A.M. having crazy limbo dancing competitions with some New Zealand dudes. And Claude learned to walk through hot coals! We got a lift home on the back of the Harbinger Hall milk truck! And the next morning, when Fleur was doing breakfast shift, she vomited in the waste disposal, then fell fast asleep against the dishwasher with her face in a plate of porridge! Ha ha ha!

And . . . erm . . . actually, Mum, you're never going to find out any of this. No way. Because you'd hit the roof.

But suffice to say . . . am I coming home? Of course I'm flipping not . . .

 

 

. . . Oh, yeah, Ronnie, ignore those “headless earl” stories too. Allegedly there was a “dead weeping waitress” haunting the first place I chefed at. Never saw her either, funnily enough. It's just another classic newbie wind-up . . .

 

I read that last bit again, then pause to look around our apartment, which I notice is totally covered in Fleur's clothes, makeup, plates and cups. Fleur seems to move through the apartment like a tornado of mess, shedding her belongings and making things unimaginably untidy. Sometimes I feel like her mother, walking about picking up her lipstick and stained tissues and hanging up her dresses.

I'm glad we're living here together, though. I wouldn't want to be here alone. The West Turret definitely has a creepy feel to it. It's steeped in a fairly gruesome history, after all. Plus, and I might be going mad here, things keep disappearing. Biscuits, cheese, bread . . . it's like we've got a bulimic poltergeist. If it is Fleur and Claude gobbling it all up, they're flipping good actresses when questioned. And what's that weird dragging sound in the attic? Claude says I've got an overactive imagination and next year I should take an A-level in “getting a grip.” Hmmph! She won't be so smug when we're being chased to our doom by an ax-wielding ghoul carrying a severed head spewing out cookies and stolen sausages.

There's more . . .

Anyway, Ron, me and Dad are cool. Seth sends regards. He continues to rule the house, as ever . . . the poo never endeth. We're all still getting back to normal after everything. I have dodgy days, but today I'm feeling pretty chipper. Every day without Nan things seem to get a little bit more back to normal, but then that makes me sad too, as I feel further away from her. It's a no-win situation. Every little thing reminds me of her right now. I spend my days ranging from hysterical giggles to sobbing while serving pints of beer. The customers must think I'm bonkers.

 

Hmmm . . . more than a large twinge of homesickness there. Must fight it.

 

Anyway, in other news, Susan and I went shopping in Westland Mall yesterday. Susan's doing great at Slimming World (ahem, again) and needed all new nonbaggy knickers and a new “over-the-shoulder boulder holder.” (Yes, she's still not sick of that joke.) Guess who we bumped into in House of Frazer? That Cressida girl you were lumbered with last term!

 

Euuuugh! I'd almost forgotten about her.

 

She was with that snooty little madam with the dark hair from Larkrise Manor. Panama, is it? Anyway, they were in the fitting rooms trying on thong bikinis the size of microchips. Skinny whippets they both were too. Annoying. Saying that, they were chatty enough, asking what you were up to, etc. Don't worry, Ron, I put them straight. I told them that you, Claude and Fleur were all at Harbinger Hall in Destiny Bay having the time of your lives! You should've seen their faces. Priceless!

Right, must run and catch last mail. Ring me soon! Love you loads. You may be all grown-up and living away from home now, but you're still my little girl.

Mum xxxx

 

Ha ha ha! Excellent! Stick that in your caldron, Sleeth! Thought you could split the LBD up, didn't you? Instead, we're tighter than ever before and having triple the fun.

Friends forever!

Nothing can muck things up now.

 

 

P.S. Nearly forgot! Saw that sniveling little excuse for manhood Jimi Steele yesterday morning . . . waiting for the staff minibus for the Wacky Warehouse! Ha! Ha! Ha!

 

Oh my God! Ha ha ha! Today just gets better and better. Love you too, Mum!

That very second, Fleur Swan appears from the bedroom clad in a green Chinese silk kimono, kitten-heel slippers and a fluffy pink eye mask pulled up over her forehead. She walks over to the fridge, opens the door and pulls out a carton of orange juice with a yellow Post-it note attached to the spout.

“Claude's orange juice. Keep off!”
reads Fleur, taking the note off temporarily to take a long refreshing gulp. “Sheeeesh, Claude's on fire with those Post-it notes, isn't she?”

I roll my eyes and try not to laugh.

“Oooh, another one,” laughs Fleur, rooting about in the fridge and producing some butter. “It's like a treasure hunt! What does this say?
This is not communal butter.
Ha ha!”

“Oh, and apparently we're rationed to three sheets of toilet paper per bathroom visitation,” I announce. “There's a Post-it note above the loo. Apparently we're using too much.”

“I'm going to use four sheets!” laughs Fleur. “I laugh in the face of authority.”

“You're a braver girl than me,” I mutter.

“Hey, is that the mail?” she smiles. “Is there anything for me?”

“There was one for all for us,” I say, nodding at the postcard and letter on the coffee table.

Fleur grabs her card and begins reading . . .

“Poor Paddy,” says Fleur, shaking her head slowly. “He's a heart attack waiting to happen. He should take up Ashtanga.”

Fleur picks up the aforementioned “borrowed” digital camera from the breakfast bar. She snaps a shot of me lying on the sofa, then begins examining some snaps we took at the cliff-top party.

“Aaagggggghh! Delete! Delete!” squawks Fleur, staring aghast at the camera's screen. “Bingo wing alert! Noooo! I've got flabby corned beef arms in all of these. Yuk!”

I just smile at her. I'm not playing her “oooh, I'm so ugly” game today.

“Who's that from?” Fleur says, nodding at my letter. “Jimi Steele?”

“Noooo!” I grimace. “Mother.”

“Gossip?” says Fleur.

“Hmmm, well,” I smile, “Mum ran into Cressida and Panama, trying on bikinis in House of Frazer!”

“Did she?” says Fleur, her eyes glowing. “Did she see what size bikini Panama was? Has she put on any weight? Did she have cellulite? Oh, Ronnie, go on, tell me she had big shoals of cellulite swimming up each wibbly thigh!”

“Er . . . well,” I say.

“And a third nipple?” suggests Fleur. “Glowing in the center of her chest like an all-seeing eye?”

“Mmm . . . no,” I sigh.

“Damn it, Ronnie! What is the use in you?” chuckles Fleur. “Well, was Cressida hairy then? With rufty-tufty locks sprouting from her navel to her knees . . . like a pair of furry knickerbockers?”

“Nope,” I say.

Deep down, we both know Panama Goodyear and Cressida Sleeth are pretty much perfect. Panama's the only girl at Blackwell who looks hot in satin hipster hot pants. (When I tried on a pair at It's a Girl's World, Fleur laughed so much she had to cling on to the cubicle door to steady herself.)

“Pggh . . . bet Cressida's been invited along to Panama's daddy's villa in Ibiza, eh?” groans Fleur. “Panama, Abigail, Derren, the whole shower. They go every summer, don't they?”

“Hope so,” I say. “Cressida's allergic to sunlight, isn't she? I hope she dissolves into a puddle of bile.”

“Me too,” agrees Fleur, double-checking the waitressing schedule pinned to our fridge. “Not that we care about them anyway. We're having a super-fabulous time here! Plus, today's our first full day off together.”

Fleur throws open the West Turret's living room curtains, letting sunshine pour into the room. “Wow! Scorchio!” she hoots. “Right, Ronnie, I'm taking a long soak, then applying my sun cream. Then, we're off to Destiny Bay to cause a rumpus.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I smile.

“And you're in charge of waking up Claude,” says Fleur.

“Oh, thanks,” I groan. “She was working till 1 A.M.! She said not to wake . . .”

Fleur swings open the bedroom door where Claude is snuggled in her duvet, gob open, emitting noises like a broken lawn mower.

“Morning, Claudette!” screams Fleur as Claude sits up in bed with glued-shut eyes and Halloween hair. “Are you awake?”

“Shplgh gnnnn,” she growls. “Go away!”

“But you've got mail,” Fleur says, chucking Claude's letter onto the end of her bed.

“Hmmm . . . It's a mum-o-gram,” Claude mumbles, picking up her reading specs and ripping it open.

“Now then, both of you!” warns Fleur. “Find your itsy-bitsiest bikinis! All armpits and lower legs need to be defuzzed! We're on a mission. The Argies are coming. I'm so excited I could spew!”

“The who?” I say, wrapping my sensible dressing gown a little tighter.

“The Argentinians! Santiago Marre and all his Argentinian surf buddies. They're arriving at Destiny Bay today. Ha ha ha! Game on!” cackles Fleur, vanishing into the bathroom with a copy of
Harpers and Queen
and a large white bath towel under her arm, leaving me lying on the sofa with a bemused expression.

Just then, I notice something extremely unsettling. Claude appears to be slumped forward in bed with her face cupped in her hands.

She appears to be crying.

Gloria Cassiera's letter lies discarded on the carpet beside her bed.

It's noon later that day, and the LBD are chilling on Misty Beach. Destiny Bay's famous sandy cove is extra-specially jam-packed today with buff boys, near-naked babes, Frisbee chuckers, lush surf junkies, surf groupies and of course, several miserable-faced grown-ups with kids attempting to enjoy a fuddy-duddy day trip despite all the heaving cleavages and canoodling couples.

As the July sun beats down, a chilled-out DJ set drifts over from Cactus Jack's roof terrace accompanied by wafts of jerk chicken sizzling on the Cactus Jack barbecue. To my left, Fleur Swan, almost dressed in her lemon thong bikini with gold ties, is noisily slurping a double-flaked 99 cone with neon sprinkles and strawberry sauce. On my right, a highly subdued Claudette Cassiera is applying SPF 6 to her voluptuous brown curves. Claude's barely spoken since she got up three hours ago. And we're not buying her migraine story one little bit.

Fleur catches my eye and raises an eyebrow as if to say, “What do we do?”

I take a deep breath and ask Claude for the tenth time if she's okay.

“I'm totally fine,” says Claude, doing a fake smile. “Stop fretting! Hey, Fleur, tell us about what Siegmund knows about Booty Quake. He had gossip, didn't he?”

“Ooh, erm, okay,” says Fleur, vanilla ice cream dribbling down her hand. “Well, word is that Psycho Killa's people have preordered three cases of Cristal champagne. Ten thousand quid, that costs!”