Claude's mouth drops wide open. “You'd . . . do that for me?” she whispers. “But . . . I couldn't take . . . I mean, wow!”
Claude is utterly gobsmacked.
“Yes, you could,” says Fleur firmly. “I'm not letting you go, Claude. I've got to do something! You can't go to that crappy Mossington place. And besides, you're in charge of sleep snot and poo bums when we wash McGraw's yucky poodles. You can't abandon me!”
Claude's face is an absolute picture.
It's moments like this when I remember why Fleur Swan is a life necessity. Okay, she's crazy as hell, totally conceited, and a liability at times, but there's something about her that makes me and Claude feel bulletproof.
“But let's all enter!” Fleur urges. “Let's triple our chances!”
“Mmm . . . erm,” I say, sucking in my tummy.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” mutters Claude to herself, her eyes as wide as saucers. “That would be incredible. It would solve everything.”
“Would it really, Claude?” I ask.
“Totally,” she replies.
“Well, that's that, then,” says Fleur, whipping her phone from her beach bag. “Let's call the hotline now and register. Ha! And it's broadcast live on MTV too! Everyone at Blackwell will see it.”
“Oh God,”
I groan.
“And we'll have to start working out a training schedule,” says Fleur. “Y'know, fresh fruit, exercise, exfoliation, two liters of water a day. We'll have to detox. I'm going to buy some of those detox socks that purge the toxins out of the soles of your feet.”
As Fleur gibbers on and on and on, Claude is absolutely silent, staring ahead with a small grin spreading across her face. It seems the mere possibility of clearing her mum's debt is making her more relaxed than I've seen her for a long time.
And that's why I find myself agreeing to this whole ludicrous Miss Demonboard Babe idea. Because I'll do anything to keep Claude at Lister House and the LBD together. Anything. No matter how daft, far-fetched or likely the scheme is to humiliate me on a nearly naked international televisual level.
Because, okay, it's a long shot, but at least now we have a lifeline.
spooked
So here I am in the West Turret, alone.
It's about 5 P.M. and I'm standing before a full-length mirror, wearing only my fave pink halter-neck bikini and Claude's silver high heels. I'm having a sneaky go with them while she's working.
Twenty-four hours have passed since I agreed to this totally shameful Miss Demonboard idea and I'm already regretting it big time.
I mean, first, my mother will flip out if she sees it. Sure, she doesn't watch much MTV. She likes VH1 Classic, where she can watch ye olde hits from the medieval ages, but that doesn't guarantee Seth won't sit (or poo) on the control, filling the screen with his teenage sister jiggling her bits to a Psycho Killa track, wearing little more than pipe cleaners and diamante nipple tassles. (Fleur's already spoken to Siegmund, who says he can locate us some sequins and fabric if we want to make bikinis. Aaaaaaagh!)
And what if Jimi and Snuff see me? Or Cressida and Panama? Panama Bogwash will laugh till she pukes. Last September, when the LBD did Triplet Day, she informed me that I “take pear shaped to a new eerie dimension of dumpy.”
She's such a spiteful moonfaced hag.
I pinch a whole centimeter of flesh on the side of each thigh and wibble it about, pivoting around for the umpteenth time to examine my butt cheeks.
Right, that's it. I have to get out of this competition! How easy is it to break your own arm?
Okay, I'm probably over-thinking things, as ever. I'm exhausted and a little grouchy. After the beach drama yesterday, the LBD headed over to A Land Down Under for a party thrown by a gang of gorgeous Argentinian surfers who'd just hit town. The party was fabulous! Plenty of tanned Argie muscle to ogle and an excellent grime DJ from London playing a loud, raw set that had everyone spilling out onto the beach, shakin' their booties like mad.
A mere ten minutes after arriving, we'd lost Fleur Swan in a melee of bronzed pecs, testosterone, beer cans and processed beats . . . only for the scurrilous minx to reappear in the West Turret at 5:45 A.M., crawling into bed beside me, stinking of cider and surfboard wax, begging me to cover her breakfast shift. Apparently Fleur Swan was “unwell.”
By 6:10, I was being chased around the dining hall by Colonel Three-Minute Egg, false teeth rattling in his skeletal hand as he attempted to demonstrate he had “a delicate palate and a misformed esophagus that can't cope with hard yolk.”
Uggghhh! Fleur Swan must die.
Back in the bedroom, in the West Turret, I adjust the straps on my bikini and let out another gut-wrenching sigh. This will not do at all.
Nan used to call me a classic beauty, but what does that mean exactly? Why didn't I ever ask her? That's another secret she took away that I'll never know.
I spin around and judder my butt fat again. No one deserves to be exposed to this horror. Especially the Demonboard Babe judges. If I chucked myself down 188 stairs, surely I'd crack a rib at least?
Just then, something creaks loudly upstairs in the loft.
I stop in my tracks and glare upward.
Gnnnn, old buildings creak, Ronnie. Get over yourself,
I tell myself, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a Diet Coke from the fridge. That's weirdâmy leftover Chinese food is gone from the bottom drawer. Both Fleur and Claude are on strict detox plans. They totally refused even a mouthful of noodles the other night.
Who's been in here?
Okay, I'm officially beginning to get spooked out again. This happens every time I'm in this apartment alone. I'm such a sap.
I take a deep breath and try to focus my mind elsewhere.
Grabbing one of Claude's Mistress Minny novels, I balance it on my head and decide to try out some posture exercises, like Fleur's been bullying me to.
“Well, hellloooo, Destiny Bay!” I announce as I sashay across the floor, practicing my “personality interview.” “My name is Ronnie Ripperton, contestant number one. My long-term goals include unifying the children of Israel and Palestine via the funky power of disco dancing . . . and, er, finding a vaccine for hemorrhoids!”
“Achoooooooooooo!” erupts a very definite sneeze somewhere above me.
Oh my God! That was totally real. I didn't imagine it.
Clump, clump, clump
thump some rather heavy footsteps.
I'm literally rooted to the spot in terror. My heart is thudding loudly against my chest.
I try to scream but only a futile squeak comes out.
The ghostly footsteps gravitate over to the loft's trapdoor entrance just above the sofa.
I can hear heavy breathing.
Oh my God! This is it. It's just like in the slasher movies. They'll find me bludgeoned to death in a puddle of my own entrails. Aaaaaaaaaagh!
Just then, the loft door falls open. I can't breathe.
Out of the dark hole in the trapdoor, a ghostly face emerges.
It's the headless earl!
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” I screech, finding my voice and falling over backward into the sofa.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaiaaaaaaaaiaaaaaaaaai! Get out! Get out!” I yell. If this is a nightmare, let me wake up!
But as my screaming goes on and on, I begin to realize half the racket is coming from the ghost itself.
“Shut up!” the earl is shouting, looking as shocked to see me. “Stop screaming! You're freaking me out!”
What? I'm freaking him out?
“I . . . I . . . eh? Aiiiiiiiiiii!” I screech again at the dismembered head. “Get out of my flat, you hideous ghoul! This is my home!”
“Hmmmph,” tuts the earl slightly huffily. “It was my home first.”
“That's . . . erm,” I splutter, becoming more flummoxed by the second. “That's irrelevant! Look, you're clearly trapped in some sort of ghostly time stasis. Move on to the next world!”
“Are you on magic mushrooms?” asks the spectral vision rather sarcastically. His voice sounds distinctly northern.
I glare at him rather crossly. The earl appears to be about seventeen, with huge brown eyes, longish auburn curly hair and a smattering of freckles. His head, I now see, appears to be attached to a muscular pair of shoulders.
“Nice bikini, by the way,” the earl adds cheekily.
“Look, who are you?” I yell, feeling thoroughly foolish as well as rather naked. “What are you doing up there?”
“Erm, well, that's a long story,” he says. “Look, would it be out of the question if I came down? I can explain everything.”
I fold my arms across my boobs.
“Okay,” I huff.
Quickly a pair of feet in black flip-flops dangle through the loft door, followed by a pair of toned calves, some navy knee-length surf shorts, then a toned, tanned torso with a buff chest, and finally a rather handsome yet cheeky face. His hair is matted into little occasional dreads and encrusted with bits of sand. I grab my mobile phone from the coffee table, dial 999 and place my finger on “call.”
“Hey, chill! Please!” pleads the lad. “Hey, I'm not a mad ax man or anything. Honest! I just needed somewhere to crash. I had no choice after Scrumble sacked me.”
“What?” I bark. “I don't believe this! How long have you been up there?”
“Erm . . . ,” winces the lad. “About three weeks.”
“But that's when we arrived!” I snap. “Hang onâwere you one of the waiters Scrumble sacked for being lazy, useless good-for-nothing surf freaks?”
“That's us,” smiles the boy proudly. “But Clem and Stevie went back to Lancashire. I decided to stay. And when Scrumble forgot to take my keys . . .”
“But . . . but how? Why? Where do you sleep?” I scream, my mind racing with questions.
“I've got a sleeping bag. Oh, there's plenty of room up there,” he beams. “It's pretty freaky, really! There's all sorts of interesting heirlooms and knickknacks. In factâ”
“So you thought you'd just squat illegally in the loft?” I yell, interrupting him. “You thought you'd just sneak about, steal our noodles, watch our TV, and spy on us . . . like a freaky perv!”
The lad's face goes white.
“Hey!” he shouts. “I've not been spying! I'm not a perv. I'm totally, er, unpervy! The anti-perv, in fact.”
“But, but, how did you manage to miss us?” I shout at him.
Then my eyes rest on the LBD's waitressing schedule, containing our names, phone numbers and daily routine, stuck to the fridge door. “Hmmm . . . clever,” I tut.
“Well, not exactly foolproof,” says the lad sheepishly. “So which one are you then: Veronica, Claude or Fleur?”
“Veronica,” I say sternly.
“I'm Saul Parker,” he says with a small grin.
Saul holds out his hand to shake. I stare at it crossly, then back at him. Eventually, he lets his arm fall back to his side. I'm not in the habit of fraternizing with burglars.
“Look, Veronica,” Saul says, batting his long brown eyelashes, doing his best “sorry” face, “can I just express my utmost regret and complete shame about spooking you out? I totally and utterly apologize.”
Okay. He's cute. But he's not winning me over that easily.
“Apology
unaccepted,
Mr. Parker!” I say firmly. “Pack up and ship out!”
“But . . . but I've nowhere else to go,” he says pathetically. “It's just for another three weeks. Until the Booty Quake. I'm entering the surf contest!”
“That's not my problem,” I say, cold as ice.
“Aw, have a heart, Veronica!” pleads Saul. “Look, I know I'm in the wrong here. I should never have been crashing up there . . . but . . . you have to understand! Surfing is my life, Veronica. It's an obsession. An illness even! And competing at Demonboards, well, that's a life ambition andâ”
“Can I just butt in?” I say sharply. “I've got three words for you, Saul: Sam's Surf Shack. Make a reservation!”
Saul looks stunned at my bluntness. But then a broad grin sweeps over his face.
Why is it that the ruder you are to boys, the more they like you?
“Well, I suppose I could sleep on the beach,” he says pathetically. “I'm broke, y'see. Blew all my savings last summer surfing in Fuerteventura. That's where I won my wildcard entry to the Demonboard finals. Wish I was back there now . . . least the locals were friendly.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he stops talking.
“I'll go and get my sleeping bag then,” he says, shuffling his feet like a little boy. The teensiest pang of guilt flickers across my face.
Then Saul turns quickly, grabbing my arm gently.
“Let me stay! Please!” he pleads. “I'll be totally quiet! And I'll replace all the cookies and noodles and stuff!”
“Noooo!” I shout. “Scrumble will throw all of us out. Claude will go berserk!”
“That won't happen!” cries Saul. “Hey, and here's a plan: what if, as a payback, I teach you to surf too?”
“What?” I gasp. Now he's got me. I'd love to learn to surf. “Could you really teach me?” I ask.
Saul smiles broadly. His teeth are lovely and white. “Sure! I've still got Clem's board,” he says. “And his suit! It'd fit you okay. He's quite a small bloke.”
My mind is racing now.
Learning to surf is 100 percent more appetizing than being a Demonboard Babe. And if I must do this totally lame-ass bikini thing to save the LBD, then why shouldn't I have a little fun of my own?