Friends Forever! (18 page)

“You're thinking about it,” grins Saul, flaring his cute nostrils.

“I'm . . . oooh! Gnnnnnnnnngnnn!” I groan, knowing I want this more than anything in the world.

“It's a yes, isn't it?” hoots Saul. “Oh, I'm stoked, man! This'll be so great. Me and you, Veronica, riding the green monsters!”

“Eh? Errr . . . oh,” I moan, starting to giggle. “Oh, yes! Okay, yes! Teach me to surf!”

But just then we hear footsteps climbing the 188 stairs to the West Turret. It must be Claude coming back from her shift!

“Later!” yells Saul, jumping on the sofa, flipping down the loft door, then in a freaky flying-baboon-type motion, swinging his entire body up into the loft before snapping the door shut behind him.

He's gone!

In a flurry, I kick Claude's silver shoes beside her bed, grab my dressing gown and try to look normal.

“Yo!” grins Claude, sauntering in and grabbing the last can of Diet Coke from the fridge. “Ha! Fleur's downstairs getting screamed at by Scrumble for swapping shifts with you this morning. Scrumble's yelling so hard, Fleur's hair looks like it's in a wind tunnel.”

“Really?” I grin. “Y'know something, Claudey? Scrumble grows on me.”

Claude cracks up laughing. She lies down on the sofa, picking up the
What's On in Destiny Bay
guide to find tonight's party.

“So, any gossip?” she asks.

“Nah,” I say, wearing my best poker face. “Just a normal day really.”

Six entire days pass, and I don't hear another peep from Saul Parker. Or a thump, sneeze, cough or chuckle, for that matter.

When we girls aren't out waitressing, partying, chasing Argie sex gods or at the beach, and I have a moment alone, I try banging on the loft door with a broom, shouting Saul's name and even luring him down with the aroma of sizzling bacon. Nothing.

Have I imagined the entire episode? Or has he moved on? Found himself a less grumpy landlady? Or hitched back to Wigan with his surfboard under his arm?

It would probably make things a lot simpler if he has. I mean, if Scrumble does one of her “spot checks,” finds him and kicks us all out just before Booty Quake, well, Claude and Fleur will blank me till 2047.

So, yeah, it's all for the best. I just wish I didn't feel so . . . so stupidly disappointed.

But learning to surf would have rrrocked.

And, if I'm being completely honest, Saul Parker, despite being a talented cat burglar and looking like the shock of a good deep hair-conditioning treatment might kill him, seems like a pretty wild kind of lad to kick about with for a few weeks.

Not that I fancy him or anything. He just seems sort of, cool, y'know? A bit of a wrong'un. Precisely the sort of lad my mother warns me to steer clear of (usually before attempting to hook me up with Aunty Susan's Scottish country-dancing godson).

“Think sexalicious! Think va-voom! Think curves!” Fleur Swan cries breathily, waving her arms, while Claude Cassiera fiddles with the wiring on a laptop computer.

“Wah?” I say, crashing back to earth, totally forgetting about Saul Parker's neat smattering of freckles and broad shoulders.

The LBD are in the conference room of Harbinger Hall's Business Suite, sitting around a magnificent oval oak table.

“I was giving you runway tips for the contest,” tuts Fleur. “I don't need to remind you how important scooping this twenty thousand pounds is, do I, Ronnie?”

“No, Fleur,” I say through very tight lips.

I wish
she'd
move to Mossington.

“Hey,” interrupts Claude, flicking a switch on the side of the overhead projector. “That's it, it's hooked up. Can we hurry this along, please? I'm working in twenty minutes. I'm helping get the Windsmore Suite ready. We've got VIP guests arriving tomorrow!”

“No problem,” says Fleur, tapping a key on the laptop. “So, let me introduce you to Miss Demonboard Babe contestant number one: Svetlana Varninka.”

On the far screen, a huge image appears of a stunning, sullen, athletic brunette with a geometric bob. She's dressed in a black bustier, French knickers and green high heels. It looks like an underwear shot from an expensive catalogue, but the girl's face is weirdly familiar.

“Svetlana?” I gasp, feeling dwarfish, rotund and sausagelike. “That's Svetlana the Russian waitress. Miss Flipping Premature Menopause with whom I serve coffee each morning! She's entering Miss Demonboard Babe?”

“She certainly is,” Fleur says firmly.

“Fleur Swan!” says Claude. “Where did you get this photo?”

“Hmmm, well, I'd heard a rumor Svetlana used to model part time in Russia,” says Fleur matter-of-factly. “So I, er, borrowed her portfolio from the East Turret and scanned some shots.”

“You stole it!” Claude gasps.

“Look, let's not get bogged down in details,” tuts Fleur. “Do you want to see what we're up against or what? It took me hours of arduous flirting to get the lowdown on who the other contestants are.”

“Flirting? Who with?” I say. “Who told you all this?”

“Oh, I called Demonboard's head office in London and targeted their office assistant,” Fleur says. “Julian, he was called. Bit dim. Putty in my hands!”

“Fleur, that's immoral,” says Claude, her eyes alive with excitement. “And normally, y'know, I'd be outraged. But in this case, I'm going to say well done! Right, let's get on with it. Show me the pictures. Bring it on!”

Fleur taps the keyboard. The next slide shows a curvy blonde girl with long shiny hair, clad in tiny red sports shorts, long funky hockey socks and a cropped gym top, sweating it out on the Harbinger Hall treadmill.

“Wow!” says Claude. “Is that Precious Elton from reception?”

“Snapped two hours ago on my camera phone,” says Fleur, raising an eyebrow. “According to Carbzilla, Precious has been doing two hours of Hatha yoga each day for a fortnight and eating only fruit, vegetables, seeds and grilled meat. Oh, and she's just had her hair colored three shades blonder. She's looking pretty buff, eh?”

“Amazing!” coos Claude.

I retrieve a packet of Chocky Wocky Doo-Dahs out of my handbag and stuff one in my gob defiantly.

“What about Carbzilla?” I ask dryly. “She's not entering too, is she?”

“Goodness no!” says Fleur. “She still weighs a cubic ton. I just served her a midmorning banana daiquiri in the Jacuzzi.”

“Damn it,” I mutter. “She was my one hope of not coming in last.”

“Ronnie,”
tuts Claude.

“Now, what's interesting,” says Fleur, ignoring me and pointing at the screen, “is that none of these girls is an anorexic bone bag. Look!”

Fleur clicks through another ten slides of equally stunning barmaids, waitresses and surf instructors from around Destiny Bay. Small doe-eyed brunettes, tall Amazonian blondes, quirky-looking indie girls, chicks with bunches, brown-skinned babes, pale-skinned honeys, girls with faces like angels. Each girl possibly prettier than the last.

“The look is ‘healthy and alive,' ” continues Fleur, “so from now on we're focused on getting into shape!”

“Agreed!” grins Claude. Claude loves a project.

“Now,” says Fleur, dishing out some papers, “both of you take one of my healthful eating tip sheets.”

I gaze forlornly at the sheet, which is filled with lots of low-fat, low-fun, windy, farty things that make you poo and wee a lot.

“What's up now?” chuckles Fleur.

“Cuh,” I scoff. “It'll take more than a few bags of Puy lentils to get rid of this,” I moan, whipping up my T-shirt and playing the opening bars of “The Ace of Spades” by Motörhead on my belly, just to illustrate.

“Oh, shut up,” sighs Fleur. “Ronnie Ripperton, as well as being extremely pretty, you have the tiniest of nonexistent stomachs, which looks perfectly womanly to me. You've just got a poor self-image! Which isn't surprising considering you wasted two years dating a lying, cheating, chromosomally challenged skateboarding baboon.”

“Hmmm . . . but,” I begin.

“But if you're so keen on having washboard abs, then do some crunches!” quacks Fleur. “The closest I've seen you get to aerobics this year was when you pulled a groin injury doing Riverdance at my birthday sleepover.”

“Hmmmph,” I say, wriggling in the grip of truth.

Just that instant my phone vibrates and squeaks in my pocket. It's a text sent from a number I don't recognize.

 

 

FROM: 079782 432871

TIME: 2:33

HEY VERONICA—IT'S YOUR LODGER. STILL WANNA RIDE THE WAVES?

Do I wanna ride the waves? Eh?

Oh my God! Saul Parker!
My heart nearly leaps through my chest.

“Who's that from?” noses Claude.

“Oooh, erm.” I'm blushing now. “Just Mum. She's mad I've not called her for days.”

“Girls, girls! Can I have your attention?” persists Fleur. “Right, who agrees that we all swim twenty lengths of the pool each morning? And do fifty crunches a day before breakfast shift? And . . .”

But Fleur's voice is just background static now. I'm thinking about surfing with Saul. Should I text him back right away? Or make him wait? But what if I leave it and then he thinks it's a no, so he vanishes again?

Does this mean he's still kipping in the loft? Is this going to end in disaster?

Oh God, this is hopeless. I can't help myself. My hands are moving out of control with my mind by this point. I start tapping out an answer.

 

 

FROM: RONNIE

TIME: 2:36

REPLY: AH . . . YOU'RE ALIVE, ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU GOT IN MIND?

 

I press “send.”

Uggghhh! That “You're alive” bit made me sound like I was worried about him. Which I soooo wasn't, by the way.

Oh God. Why am I such a total loser with the opposite sex? It's Miles Boon all over again. Yuk.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Another text!

 

 

FROM: 079782 432871

TIME: 2:38

REPLY: CAN YOU MEET ME AT 5AM TOMORROW BY THE GATE TO HARBINGER'S CLIFF PATH? X

 

Can I meet him tomorrow? What are my shifts? Oh my God, yes, I'm off tomorrow until 2 P.M.! I begin to text a reply.

“Ronnie!” nags Fleur. “Stop texting! That's soooo rude!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” I blush, with a huge grin spreading across my chops. “Okay, what were you saying again?”

“I said,” repeats Fleur, “will you at least promise to add some fresh air and exercise to your daily routine?”

 

 

FROM: RONNIE

TIME: 2:42

REPLY: YES! NO PROBLEM AT ALL. SEE YOU THERE X

 

“Yes! No problem at all,” I tell Fleur with a mischievous grin.

I barely sleep a wink that night. I wake up at 2, 3 and 4 A.M., checking my watch.

Eventually, at half past four I slide out of bed. Fleur and Claude are dead to the world; Fleur emitting dainty breathy snores, Claude letting out big breathy snores like an asthmatic elephant on a slide trombone. I pull on a bikini, some track pants and my big blue baggy hoodie, scribble the girls a note saying I'm off “to exercise” and creep out of the apartment.

Harbinger Hall is freakishly silent. All the guests and staff are safely tucked in beddy-bye-byes, aside from an occasional cleaner polishing a marble floor or scaling a ladder to fiddle with a chandelier shard. As I pass reception, Frank the night-watchman is deeply asleep, the peak of his dark green hat pulled down over his eyes. I tiptoe past him, then run through the hotel, past the health club and through the pool area before unbolting one of the back doors leading out into the gardens.

At the bottom of Harbinger's gardens lies a steep cliff path leading down to a private cove. A dusty sign on the path's gate reads

 

I loiter by the gate for about twelve minutes, feeling increasingly foolish.

This wouldn't be the first time I'd been stood up by a boy. I waited for Jimi outside the Warner Village Multiplex one Friday night until the usherettes took pity and sent me out some chili fries.

I look at my watch. It's twelve minutes past five.

“Saaaaul!” I shout, doing that half-quiet shout you do when searching for a dog late at night. “Saaaaul!”

To my horror, the hedge begins to rustle.

“Ha ha! Morning!” yells Saul, his cheeky face and crazy brown hair appearing like the rising sun from behind the leaves. “You came! Sweet!”

“Jeez! Aaaagh!” I squeal, nearly splatting face-first into the hedge. “Look, monkey-boy, could you just stop doing that? Stop . . . hiding in places! Lurky Lurkason! What's wrong with you?”

“Ha ha!” Saul chortles. “Look, lady, one of us is a fugitive around here, remember?”

I pull a twig from my hair and straighten my track pants, trying to regain my dignity.

“C'mon then,” says Saul, standing there in his black hoodie, long khaki shorts and flip-flops. He opens the gate and beckons me in. “Ready?”

“Erm, yeah,” I smile, stepping inside.

As we begin to descend the steep cliff path, the view ahead is awesome. As far as the eye can see is vast, calm blue ocean, with a magical amber sun shimmering as it ascends. Wow!