Live and Fabulous! Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 - the curse of the flaky buttmunch

  Chapter 2 - the happiest days of my life

  Chapter 3 - full house

  Chapter 4 - packing light

  Chapter 5 - fruit, freaks and fairy wings

  Chapter 6 - morning has broken

  Chapter 7 - the pits

  Chapter 8 - situation vacant

  Chapter 9 - homeward bound

  APPENDIX MAGDA RIPPERTON’S OBSERVATIONS ON BOYKIND

  Teaser chapter

  The moment of truth...

  After putting on my new Kings of Kong CD, I sit down on the bed and begin opening the letter. This is very irregular. Nobody writes to me, ever. As I tear open the outer package, I notice that inside the first large red envelope is a smaller, pale yellow envelope. Upon the yellow envelope, in ink, is written:Ronnie Ripperton + 3

  Weird.

  I grab the yellow envelope and carefully rip it open, reaching inside, suddenly feeling a strong urge to go to the toilet.

  Is it possibly possible, even in a parallel wonky universe, that Spike “so beautiful it actually hurts, multimillionaire, Duke of Pop” Saunders actually remembers meeting the LBD last year, and has got his personal assistant to send us something?

  Surely not.

  From the yellow envelope, I pull out four, thick, shiny gilt-edged pieces of paper with a silver hologram of a tent perched upon a hill glittering on each one. And then I gaze at them, totally spellbound by their majestic beauty.

  Four Astlebury Festival tickets!

  In my hands!

  Four “with compliments of Spike Saunders” Astlebury Festival Tickets!!!

  OTHER SPEAK BOOKS

  SPEAK

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, NewYork, NewYork 10014, U.S.A.

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2005

  Published in Great Britain by Puffin UK, London, 2004

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2006

  Copyright © Grace Dent, 2004

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Dent, Grace. LBD: live and fabulous. / Grace Dent.—1st American ed. p. cm.

  Sequel to: LBD: it’s a girl thing. Summary: Now fifteen years old, Ronnie, Fleur,

  and Claude, with Fleur’s sister as their chaperone, are having the time of their lives

  at the Astlebury music festival when Fleur suddenly disappears while crowd surfing.

  [1. Music festivals—Fiction. 2. Rock music—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.

  4. England—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.D4345Lb 2005 [Fic]—dc22 2004005508

  eISBN : 978-1-101-00700-6

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume

  any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  for bob watts

  and veronica mccormack—

  who took me to Glastonbury when I was thirteen.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

  Huge thanks to all of the usual suspects ...

  Thanks to Sarah Hughes and all the brilliant Puffin people for their support and patience as LBD II rolled along and real life occasionally got in the way.

  Thanks to the fabulous Adele Minchin.

  Eternal gratitude to Caradoc King, Vicky Longley, Rob Kraitt and Linda Shaughnessy at AP Watt.

  Massive thanks also to John Rudolph and the U.S. Penguin team, who believed in the LBD from the very first word (and even made raunchy pink thongs to prove it).

  Finally, thanks to Jon Wilkinson for enduring my incessant moaning and numerous show-biz tantrums.

  You’re all great—it wouldn’t be half as much fun without you.

  Chapter 1

  the curse of the flaky buttmunch

  “So can I take your name, please?”

  “It’sh Ronnish ... ,” I tell the nurse, sniffing back tears, smudging foundation on the keypad of my mobile phone.

  “Ronnidge?” confirms the nurse.

  “No, Ronn-eee ... I’m Veronica Ripperton,” I say meekly.

  “Okay ... and is that Miss or Mrs. er, Flipperhorn?”

  “Ripperton,” I repeat, dabbing my eyes. “Look, this isn’t about me anyway. It’s about my, er, friend. Well, he’s my boyfriend. I need to know if he’s in your emergency ward.”

  “Can I take his last name?” replies the nurse.

  I can hear pages being flicked and a long, faint exhale of breath. As the nurse begins searching her logbook, I catch sight of my sorry self in the living room mirror. What a fright.

  It’s 7 P.M., Friday night, and I, Veronica Ripperton, am pacing the floorboards upstairs at the Fantastic Voyage pub. I’m wearing my most fantastic “makes yer boobs look like a proper rack,” pale pink, clingy T-shirt (now mascara stained) and my intensely snazzy “entire month of pocket money in one card swipe” denim pencil skirt (now covered in snotty bobbly tissue bits). Despite braiding my hair and applying Light-Reflecting Bronzing Powder since 3:30 P.M., on sound assurance from Glamour magazine that it would give me “that blissed-out San Fran beach babe look,” it pains me to say I look more like a sunburned, depressed Martian. Or a “South American swamp donkey,” as my tactful friend Fleur would probably say.

  Obviously I’d be more destroyed about the above if my life wasn’t in tatters anyhow.

  “Steele. He’s called JIMI STEELE,” I tell the nurse. “Try looking at the lists for your special fracture unit ... or ... oh my God ... what about the intensive care ward!”

  My voice is beginning to choke up.

  “Uggghh ... he might even be DEAD,” I whisper. “Actually, could you put me through to the morgue after this, please?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” replies the nurse firmly. “Now, what time did this accident happen?”

  “Accident? Ooh, well, I’m not totally sure there’s been one yet,” I say, truly hoping I don’t sound like a complete idiot. “It’s just that I heard an ambulance go wee-wahing down the high street about ten minutes ago ... and my boyfriend Jimi ... well, he’s almost two hours late to pick me up. We’re going to the Blackwell School Summer Disco, you see.”

  Even deeper sigh from the nursie.

  “Tuna on whole wheat will do for me. Actually, Julie, just green salad,” says the nurse, blatantly chatting with a passing colleague.

  “And I’ve called his mobile phone, but it went straight to voice mail. It must have been smashed
in the horrific impact of the car pile-up,” I babble on and on. “He’s a skateboarder, you see, and he’s always doing really dangerous, death-defying stunts and ... er, hang on, are you ordering your dinner!?”

  “Mmm,” admits the nurse. “I’ve been here since seven A.M. and I’ve only managed to grab half a yogurt and a handful of M&Ms. My damn phone won’t stop ringing.”

  “Ooh, er, sorry about that ... ,” I mutter.

  “But I’m listening at the same time,” says the nurse. “Death-defying stunts, you say? Wonderful. Well, I’ll no doubt be sewing his vital organs back inside him at some point soon then. But, fortunately for you, his name’s not down on my, er, guest list tonight.”

  The nurse chuckles at her own little joke.

  “He’s not there? Oh, brilliant. That’s totally ace!” I say. “So do you have the numbers of any other emergency wards that I could call?”

  “Veronica, who on earth are ... ,” interrupts my mother, Magda Ripperton, materializing before me clad in what can only be explained as a bizarre, multicolored ... jeez, and this pains me to say it ... jumpsuit. You know, like overalls that mechanics wear, but fitted around the ass with a silver zip up the center. The zipper is undone a few inches, revealing a generous glance of mother cleavage.

  Nooooo. Please, God. PLEASE say she wasn’t outdoors dressed like that with her boobs hanging half out. Not near the school?

  Magda’s long, thick brown hair is scraped up into a high ponytail with mad, static chunks escaping at the fringe, pointing skyward. Her cheeks are glowing, which may be connected to the posh boutique shopping bags she is clutching in each hand. Since my mother got herself into the pudding club last year (Pregnant at the age of thirty-eight—can you believe it?), she has begun residing in a parallel fashion universe where vile clothes are gorgeous and vice versa. I blamed it on her hormones and weight gain (By nine months Mum was almost big as Luxembourg. She had her own flag and everything), and thought once she gave birth she might calm down. But I was so wrong. It simply gave her more mobility to shop.

  “Who are you speaking to? Who’s in the hospital?” Mum is shouting.

  “I’m on the phone. Go away!” I snap back.

  Magda’s brow is creased. She can tell I’ve been crying. Suddenly she’s grabbing at me, trying to snatch the phone from my hands.

  “Pggh, just give me that phone,” she bleats. “Has there been an accident?”

  I try shooing Magda away, but as an entity, she is highly unshoo-able.

  It’s like being charged by an ill-tempered, colorblind octopus.

  With a crafty pincer movement, Operation Jumpsuit Terror liberates the phone from my right hand, leaving me opening and closing my mouth, waving my arms like a synchronized swimmer.

  “Yes, hello, Magda Ripperton here,” Mum says, switching to her hoity-toity posh phone voice. Grrrrrrr. “Veronica Ripperton’s mother speaking. What is occurring here, if you please?”

  Mum listens to the nurse, her face turning slightly pale.

  “Oh, right, she did, did she?” Mum sighs, shaking her head. “Mmm, uh-huh ... Jimi Steele? Oh, yes, I know him very well ... ,” Mum says, in the tone of someone recalling an intimate fungal infection. Her nostrils are flaring.

  “Well, Staff Sister Jacqueline, I apologize profusely for Veronica. Her father and I are having her head examined next week. It’s an ongoing problem. Good evening to you.”

  Mother presses “hang up” on the phone.

  I narrow my eyes at her. She sneers back.

  “I’m not even going to comment on that,” lies my mother blatantly. “Just please tell me you haven’t got the Missing Persons Bureau on Jimi Steele’s case too. Or Interpol?”

  “You don’t understand,” I sigh dramatically.

  “Cuh,” Mum splutters, managing to communicate in the space of one grunt that:1. She understands only too well ...

  2. ... that Jimi, my prize flaky buttmunch of a boyfriend, has gone AWOL on a very important night indeed and she thinks ...

  3. ... I should have dumped his sad “pants-far-too-big-for-him” ass months ago for one of the “plenty of other fish in the sea” swimming about out there.

  Fine ... if I wanted to swap the most beautiful boy at Blackwell School for a haddock.

  “I hate you,” I tell her, glancing at my watch. I am soooo going to miss this party.

  “No, you don’t,” she replies.

  “I do hate you,” I assure her, sighing even more deeply. “I hate the world.”

  “Well, I love you anyhow,” Mum replies cunningly.

  “Bleuggh,” I reply.

  Mum and I gaze at each other in silence. I check my phone again for missed calls. Zilch. Nada.

  Downstairs, crowds of beer-heads are making their noisy way into the Fantastic Voyage, spilling out into our newly built beer garden, enjoying the hazy June start-of-the-weekend feeling. Travis, our Aussie bartender, is wrestling crates up from the cellar and flirting with the girlie customers.

  The smell of Jimi Steele not arriving to take me to Blackwell Disco hangs pungently in the air.

  “Sooooo,” announces Mum, peering at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Claudette and Fleur shaking your thang tonight? You’ve been at hysterical point about this for weeks, haven’t you?”

  “Hmmphgh,” I say, plonking down and picking up a copy of Your Baby Monthly, feigning engrossment in a feature on inverted nipples.

  Mum may have a small point there.

  My very own all-girl cosmic fighting force, Les Bambinos Dangereuses, or the LBD as we’re universally known, have held hair/body/clothes summit talks every single night for a fortnight to debate the Blackwell end-of-term disco. It’s the indisputable social event of the year! Well, so far anyway. We’ve spent eons yaddering about which outfits made our boobs look perkier, our booties look peachier and our upper arm skin look less like corned beef. Then, after a zillion outfits were tried, Fleur Swan even made Paddy, her dad, digital-camera her sashaying up and down the stairs in her top five choices, just to make an “informed decision.”

  Suffice to say, Blackwell Disco, is ... or was ... a big deal.

  “And I’m gathering that Crown Prince Retard was escorting you there,” says Mum.

  “Don’t call him ...”

  “Sorry, sorry, I mean Jimi.”

  Mum mimes “buttoning her lip,” but as ever, her will to speak is too strong. “Right, let’s go!” she barks, grabbing her car keys off the coffee table.

  “Fix your makeup, missy, you look like a disgruntled panda. I’m driving you to Blackwell myself. Call Claudette Cassiera now and tell her we’re en route.”

  “But...”

  “Lovely Claudette Cassiera is going, isn’t she? And that Fleur Swan? Well, unless Paddy sent her to the nunnery like he threatened to last week. That poor man ... his nerves must be shot to pieces.”

  “Yeah, they’re both going. But you don’t understand, Mum,” I begin. “Jimi said he was going to come here and pick ...”

  “Oh, spare me,” grunts Mum.

  “So I can’t just go, Mum,” I argue. “He wouldn’t let me down! He must have had an accident or...”

  “Ooh-hoo! He’ll be having an accident when I get ahold of him,” scoffs my mother, miming squeezing someone by the throat. “At least I’ll make it look like an accident.”

  Oh, dear.

  “Right, Cinderella?” Mum says, clapping her hands. “What you need is a good dance, blow the cobwebs away.”

  “Not going,” I say sulkily.

  “Ooh, I quite fancy a rave myself,” Mum says, not at all joking. “I might pop in for a leg stretch when I’m dropping you off. Y’know, say thanks to Mrs. Guinevere for resurrecting Blackwell Discos. I’ll see if that miserable old headmaster Mr. McGraw fancies cutting a rug.”

  I feel faint.

  “Ooh, Ronnie, y‘know, since I had Seth, y’know, I feel like I’ve got a fresh lease on life.”

  Mum begins gyrating her bum from left to
right, waving her hands.

  Wonderful: My entire world is obliterated and she’s doing the Macarena.

  “Will they play any Tamla Motown?”

  “No,” I say through a very small mouth.

  “Any reggae?”

  “You’re not coming in.”

  “I’m going if you don’t,” Mum bribes.

  Then Mum notices the tears starting to run down my face. She stops shaking her rump.

  “Aww, Ronnie, come here,” she says, sitting down beside me and wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “I know how you feel. It’s crap. Being stood up is really crap.”

  “Where can he be, Mum?” I ask.

  “Oh, he’s just out there. Somewhere. Being a jerk,” says Mum, tickling my neck.

  “You don’t think he’s dead?”

  “No, Ron. The smart money says he’s absolutely alive.”

  “The night’s ruined,” I say bleakly.

  Over the last ten months, I have learned some harsh lessons about the realities of keeping, training and maintaining a boyfriend. Sometimes it really sucks. I mean, what flaming excuse in the entire world could that great farthead give for standing me up tonight?

  And this after an entire 330 days of quacking on that I’m a “total babe” and “absolutely hilarious.” Oh, and he gets a “dead weird feeling inside whenever he sees me.”

  (“Hoo-hoo! I get that feeling sometimes,” hooted Mum when I told her. “Usually after eating brussels sprouts ...”)

  Pah.

  Because if boyfriends care so much that they can slaver on soppy stuff like that, how can they hurt your feelings so much?

  Correction. How can they hurt your feelings so much AGAIN?

  “Because when it comes to most men, Veronica,” says Mum sagely, “you’d be better off with a sock puppet.”

  I tend to take Mum’s man advice with a pinch of salt. She always refers to her marriage to Dad as “a drunken bet gone too far.”