Friends Forever! Page 11

  Not that it is poor Mrs. Fontague’s fault she’s so fat. Oh no. Apparently, as Carbzilla explains to me in intricate detail, it’s evil carbohydrates that make her so flabulous. That’s right, carbohydrates, not the two large mojito cocktails she sloshes back while perusing the lunch menu, questioning me on every single lurking gram of carb in every dish.

  After twenty dizzying minutes Carbzilla opts for the baked chicken parmesan with a side of steamed asparagus . . . accompanied by a full bottle of merlot and a sticky toffee pudding with extra double fudge sauce and crème fraîche. Gnnngnnn!

  “Marvelous to see you again, Mrs. Fontague!” shouts Siegmund as Carbzilla waddles out. “Same time tomorrow!”

  “Can’t hang about!” yells Carbzilla back. “I’ve got an appointment at the beauty spa. Having one of those body-contouring seaweed wraps!”

  “Good for you!” replies Siegmund, taking his voice much quieter. “Get them to wrap one round your gob.”

  But the prize for the day’s most very, very unbelievable guests? That has to be Mr. and Mrs. Segatti from Room 109, a bone-thin middle-aged Italian couple with mean eyes and thin lips who bitch at Fleur about every little piddly thing from the second they sit their scrawny bottoms down.

  Eventually, after a huge hissy fit over a forgotten bread basket, things just get too much for our most sensitive bambino. Fleur snaps and storms out of the hall, chucking her apron behind her. Claude and I discover her outside, kicking the dustbins and sobbing.

  “That’s it!” squeals Fleur. “I’m going home. Scrumble can stick this job. I can be on the next train and in my own bed on Disraeli Road by tonight. This was the stupidest idea ever! I’m a rubbish waitress!”

  “Fleur, calm down,” I plead. “Please don’t go home.”

  “I’m going home!” repeats Fleur. “I’ve just had Leon frightening the life out of me too. Did you know the West Turret is haunted? By an executed earl who roams the apartment with his head in his hands!”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “Oh, Fleur,” tuts Claude. “Just ignore him. He tried that with me too. It’s a load of old tosh. He’s winding us up.”

  “A headless earl,” I shudder.

  Claude frowns at me to shut up.

  “Fleur,” says Claude, wrapping her arms round her, “you’re just tired. And that Italian couple would test anyone’s patience. No wonder you’ve lost your temper.”

  “But they just called me a blonde bimbo and threw a fork at me!” sobs Fleur. “They’ve not even had their main courses yet! I’m sorry, girls, but I’m quitting.”

  “Okay, lady,” says Gene, who’d been sitting on the step smoking a cigarette. He pulls a clean white napkin from his pocket and passes it to Fleur in a gentlemanly fashion. “Nobody needs to quit.”

  Fleur blows her nose noisily.

  “Now listen to me,” Gene says, batting his long black eyelashes. “Maybe it’s time you girls learned a few Harbinger special emergency moves. For dealing with nasty customers.”

  The LBD look at him curiously. We move closer.

  “Okay,” says Gene, with a small mischievous twinkle. “Now, when you take the Segattis’ starter plates away, make sure you take all of their other cutlery too.”

  “All of the cutlery?” we repeat.

  “Yes, I mean the cutlery for the main courses too. Get me? You can take these knives and forks back when you serve their main dishes.”

  “But why?” sniffs Fleur, dabbing her eyes. “That makes no sense.”

  “Watch and see,” chuckles Gene, ruffling Fleur’s hair at the front before sauntering back into the kitchen. “Hey, and no quitting. Quitting is not allowed!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Segatti’s behavior doesn’t improve one tiny iota during the remainder of their lunch session. They bawl at Fleur, bicker loudly with each other and even accuse Siegmund of overcharging them. Yet, despite the torrent of abuse, Fleur starts feeling a little rosier. She even serves the Segattis’ desserts with a tiny joyous spring in her step. Because, yes, she might be a “brainless bimbo” in their opinion, but at least she hasn’t just eaten lunch using knives and forks gently warmed inside Gene’s three-day-old underpants.

  By the time Siegmund officially lets us go at 4 P.M., the LBD look like walking corpses. We can barely climb the 188 steps to the West Turret. All our fabulous intentions to quick-change into bikinis and hit Misty Beach to catch the late-afternoon rays are dashed in favor of crashing on our beds, facedown in star shapes, groaning in unison.

  “I ache,” mumbles Fleur into her pillow. “I ache worse than after a sixty-minute butt-blast class.”

  “Mngggh,” moans Claude, wrapping herself in a duvet. In seconds she’s doing her usual impression of a chain saw. Ugh. When I agreed to share a room with her for an entire summer, I’d forgotten about Claude’s atrocious snoring problem.

  Just then I notice a slip of paper lying behind our front door. It’s a note from our friend Miss Scrumble, with a timetable attached. Somebody has clearly been having a lot of fun on their PC, because to my utter horror it appears that the LBD are scheduled to work double shifts every single day for the next fourteen days!

  Aaaaagggggh!

  “Fleur!” I say, poking my blonde buddy, who had quickly slipped into a comatose sleep. “Listen to this!”

  “Mnnnn? Wah?” mutters Fleur, curling up into a fetal position and cuddling her pillow. “Wassamatter?”

  I gaze at her. She looks so peaceful.

  “Erm, nothing,” I grump, chucking the schedule on the bedside table quietly. “Just get some sleep.”

  I lie on my rather lumpy single bed, simmering quietly with rage. Right, Scrumble, you square-assed slave driver, I think. You can stick the Big Beach Booty Quake. Stick Misty Beach. Stick the West Turret! Stick your flipping job up your . . . jumper. I’ve had enough!

  Just then I hear a creepy dragging noise and, if I’m not wrong, a small groan, upstairs in the attic.

  That’s it, I think adamantly. I’m going home.

  Chapter 5

  cometh the mailman

  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 . . .

  Miss Fleur Iris Swan

  The West Turret

  Harbinger Hall Hotel

  Destiny Bay

  DBX1 423

  FAO: Fleur Swan

  Where in God’s name is my Olympus XJ-216 digital camera? Can I have nothing in this house without my children relieving me of it?

  You, girl, really are the absolute limit. Consider it deducted from next year’s allowance.

  Yours, incandescent with rage, P. Swan (Father)

  P.S. Come home soon, darling. House is utterly tedious without you. x

  “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 dissolve
s 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!”