Friends Forever! Read online

Claude releases me from her hug, wrapping her arm around my waist. “Look, Ronnie,” she says, “I just want to say how sorry I am that I’ve not been there for you over the last few days. I feel terrible.”

  “Me too,” sighs Fleur, biting her lip. “I’d have come round on Saturday if you’d called. You didn’t even text, though. You must have thought I wouldn’t care after, well, y’know, everything that’s happened. I feel awful.”

  I dab my eyes and shrug. “I didn’t think that . . . I just . . . ,” I begin, but my voice trails off.

  This has all got so stupid and complicated.

  “Ronnie, we do care,” says Claude firmly, taking charge of the awkward silence. “Things have just got messy between me and Fleur, that’s all. No one’s angry at you.”

  “Totally,” nods Fleur.

  I look at my two friends, standing there with tearful expressions.

  “Look, if there’s anything we can do to make you and your mum feel better,” says Claude, “just give us a shout, we’ll be there.”

  “Yeah! Anything at all,” nods Fleur. “Like babysitting, or making cups of tea or running errands or, well, anything. I know what it’s like when grans die. Everybody has to pull together.”

  “Thanks, girls,” I whisper. “To be honest, I feel a whole lot better just seeing you both and, well, knowing we’re all fine again.”

  Claude and Fleur look at each other, then look away.

  There’s another awkward silence.

  “What?” I say.

  “Well,” says Fleur sheepishly, “depends what you mean by ‘fine.’ ”

  Claude crosses her arms and throws Fleur a withering look. “Leave it, Fleur,” she mutters.

  “No, c’mon,” I say plaintively. “Surely you two must be okay now. You both came down here together, after all.”

  Claude fixes me with her best fake politician smile. “We’re fine,” she begins, nudging Fleur to shut up. “We’ve just got a few niggles that need ironing out—”

  “But we didn’t come together,” Fleur announces, talking over her. “I came down here to wait for you by myself. Then brainiac here showed up. I wouldn’t leave and neither would she!”

  Claude tries to let that wash over her, but she can’t. “And why should I have left, candy-floss brain?”

  “So we decided to play chess,” Fleur says, ignoring her. “Then we wouldn’t have to talk to each other.”

  “Oh, I see . . . ,” I say dryly. “Great.” I sit down at one of the garden tables, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Fleur!” hisses Claude. “I can’t believe you’d be so insensitive as to start this in front of Ronnie, on today of all days!”

  “I’m not starting anything!” Fleur huffs under her breath. “I was just telling the truth.”

  “Oh, we’re all telling the truth today, are we?” Claude growls under her breath. “Well, let’s leave that for another day, perhaps? I’ve certainly got plenty of home truths to tell you!”

  The pair swing around and look at me apologetically. I’m not angry at them, though. In fact, after the day I’ve had, they both seem rather comical.

  “Anyway, Claude,” Fleur says, wandering over to where I’m sitting, trying to sound breezy. “Good of Cressida to give you a day off today to come down here. Very compassionate of her.”

  Claude shuffles awkwardly. “Mmm,” she mumbles. “I don’t, er, think I’ll be seeing Cressida Sleeth again.”

  “Pgh,” snorts Fleur, folding her arms. “Oh dear. Dropped you, has she?”

  Claude scowls at Fleur and doesn’t answer.

  “She’s dropped you, hasn’t she?” repeats Fleur, cocking her head to the side in a satisfied manner.

  “She dropped you first,” Claude retorts.

  Fleur’s face crumbles. “Pah . . . plgh,” she splutters, struggling to get the upper hand again. “Yeah, and as if I was bothered.”

  Her rattled expression seems to suggest otherwise.

  “It was a relief to get rid of her. And to get shot of you too! It’s not like I’ve missed you,” Fleur tells Claude, wagging her finger. “I mean, look at you! You’re just so . . .” Fleur makes her fingers and thumbs into circles, placing them around her eyes to mimic spectacles. “Oooh, look at me, I’m Claude Cassiera! I study for nine hundred hours a week! I iron a sensible crease into my thongs! I get my thrills highlighting textbooks with neon pens!”

  Claude’s face stays poker straight.

  “Cuh!” continues Fleur. “And at least I don’t spend my nights on the Internet chatting to geeks about books!”

  Claude simply gazes at Fleur. “Well, you’d have a job doing that, Fleur,” she replies, deadpan. “You’ve not read any books.”

  Fleur’s nostrils flare crossly. “I have so!” she says.

  “Really?” says Claude, sitting down at the table opposite me. “What was the last thing you read?”

  “That’s easy. It was To Kill a Mockingbir—” begins Fleur.

  “That you weren’t forced to read by Mr. Swainson for GCSE English?” Claude interrupts cruelly.

  Fleur looks totally stumped now. Her cheeks begin to flush pink. “Hmmm . . . ,” she huffs eventually. “Okay, it was the July Vogue swimwear special.”

  Fleur looks sheepishly at Claude, emitting a small embarrassed groan. I let out a small involuntary chuckle. Claude’s trying her best to stay serene, but her mouth is creasing upward at the corners.

  Fleur prances across, sitting her very small posterior down at the table opposite her enemy, folding her arms.

  We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity. I feel absolutely stumped at where to begin sorting this all out.

  “Okay. Look, both of you,” Claude says eventually, taking a deep breath. “I just want to get something off my chest. I want to apologize.”

  “Eh?” says Fleur, staring at Claude, rather gobsmacked.

  “What for?” I ask.

  “For getting so . . . so sucked in by Cressida Sleeth,” Claude sighs.

  “Well . . . we all did, at first,” I mumble.

  “You didn’t, Ronnie,” corrects Claude. “You knew she was a vile stirrer. You said rather expressly she was trying to split us up.”

  “I did too, Claude!” pipes in Fleur. “I’ve been telling you for the last month.”

  “Okay, okay, I know,” admits Claude. “But, Fleur, you’ve been a total nightmare recently. I didn’t care what you thought.”

  “When have I been a nightmare?” gasps Fleur.

  “Whoa! Hold on,” I say, frowning at Fleur to shut up. “Let’s not start fighting again.”

  We all glare at the table in silence. A small group of Fantastic Voyage customers filters into the beer garden, giving our angstridden table a wide berth.

  “Listen,” says Claude softly, turning to Fleur, who’s clearly fuming but trying to keep a lid on things for my sake. “I shouldn’t have been so tight about lending you that green dress. I’m sorry, right?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” whispers Fleur, her bottom lip jutting petulantly.

  “But it’s just that . . . ,” Claude continues, “you’ve got tons of amazing clothes. And I . . . well, I just haven’t. So I get a bit precious about lending stuff. Especially when you’re being totally frosty and horrible with me anyway.”

  “But I . . . I’ve not got that much stuff,” Fleur protests rather feebly.

  This is nonsense. Fleur’s bedroom is ram-jammed full of girly fabulousness of the extreme ka-ching variety. She’s never short of a £20 note for a new T-shirt or a designer lip gloss.

  “And of course, Cressida spotted this,” continues Claude. “And she started harping on about the whole money thing, saying that you’re way too materialistic. And that you don’t respect our monetary differences . . . and I started thinking, yeah! She’s right! Fleur is really spoiled.”

  Fleur looks horrified at Claude. Her huge blue eyes well up with tears. I mean, all of this is true, but Fleur doesn’t need to hear it, does she?
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  “Suffice to say, I feel like a right spanner now,” Claude sighs. “Why did I listen to Cressida?”

  Fleur shakes her head slowly. I pass her a tissue and she wipes her eyes.

  “Hmmm,” Fleur sighs. “You feel like a spanner, Claude? At least you didn’t let Cressida practice acupuncture on you with nonsterilized sewing needles.”

  Claude and I gasp in horror.

  “Fleur?” I say. “You didn’t? Cressida’s not a trained acupuncturist!”

  “Thank you, Ronnie,” says Fleur, blushing slightly. “I know that now.”

  Claude catches my eye and we both can’t help giggling.

  “Oh, girls, don’t be cruel!” sniffs Fleur, rolling her eyes. “Some of those needles really hurt! Cressida assured me it would prevent the stagnation of my chi and make my butt tiny like hers.”

  Fleur buries her face in her hands again, groaning with shame.

  I know this is meant to be a serious discussion, but I can’t help cracking up laughing. It just feels so good, having my girls here with me. I’d rather we were bickering in the beer garden than in our bedrooms alone.

  “Look, girls, can we sort something out here?” says Claude, taking control of the situation. “I really don’t want us to argue anymore.”

  “Me neither,” I say emphatically.

  “And I know things have got really dodgy lately,” Claude says to Fleur. “But Ronnie needs us both right now. The bambinos need to present a unified front. It’s not too late to make this a good summer.”

  “We should make a plan!” I say, remembering what Nan advised me to do on the last night I saw her. “We could still have an adventure!”

  Fleur seems to be thinking about it.

  “C’mon, Fleur!” pleads Claude, grabbing Fleur’s hand. “Let’s call a truce.”

  “Erm . . . I don’t think so,” Fleur says.

  “Oh, why not?” I sigh. “Claude’s apologized! Do you want her to beg?”

  “No! It’s not that,” Fleur protests. “Of course I want us all to be friends. But it’s just that . . . I’m going away for the summer.”

  “What?” says Claude. “Where to?”

  “Destiny Bay,” Fleur says. “I’ve applied for a summer job in a hotel. It’s looking pretty certain that I start next week.”

  “Destiny Bay?” I squeak. “Where MTV holds the Big Beach Booty Quake? The total party resort with all the clubs and beach bars?”

  “Uh-huh,” groans Fleur.

  “Destiny Bay!” repeats Claude. “That surfers’ resort where they broadcast all those surf and bikini competitions from?”

  “Er, yeah, that’s the one,” says Fleur apologetically. “There’s this really exclusive hotel about a mile from the main resort called Harbinger Hall.”

  “Harbinger Hall!” I cry. “MTV hired nearly the whole hotel for a weekend last year when they were staging the Big Beach Booty Quake!”

  “That’s it,” says Fleur, her lip wobbling. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I just e-mailed my resume to Miss Scrumble, the personnel lady, on the off chance. I didn’t expect her to call me!”

  Claude and I stare at Fleur, utterly aghast.

  “When do you go?” I ask, feeling my life beginning to trickle down the drain.

  “Next Tuesday,” Fleur says. “Until late August.”

  “Nooooooo!” I moan.

  We all sit in silence again. This has to be the worst day of my life.

  “Well,” sighs Claude eventually. “I know this sounds like a peculiar thing to say after all that’s happened but . . . I’ll really miss you, Fleur. I can’t believe you’re going.”

  “Oh, don’t, Claude!” says Fleur. “I thought the LBD was finished. I’d never have applied otherwise! And Paddy was on my back 24/7 about getting a job. He’s never stopped nagging!”

  “I know how that feels,” whispers Claude sadly. “Mum’s giving me a hard time too. She just can’t get a job in this town that pays like her old one. I need to find work extra quick. Things are getting a bit desperate.”

  Claude stares into the distance. She looks really worried.

  “What happens if things don’t get better?” asks Fleur.

  Claude looks at us both, then bites her lip. “Well, let’s not think about that now,” she says. “I just have to start earning soon.”

  We all sit rather dumbfounded for about ten minutes. A candy wrapper tumbles mournfully around the beer garden as I unravel a thread on the hem of my funeral skirt. This is officially the end of the world.

  “Right,” announces Fleur, after an eternity of woe. “I’ve got it. And don’t either of you dare say no!”

  We’ve known Fleur far too long to ever agree to that.

  “Come with me to Destiny Bay,” Fleur tells us firmly. “Both of you. Come with me? Please, just say yes?”

  “Oh, Fleur, I can’t,” I begin, thinking of Mum and the whole Nan business and of Seth and all my Post-it note chores. I can’t just leave.

  Claude just looks stunned.

  “Come to Destiny Bay!” repeats Fleur, grabbing our hands. “Let’s call Miss Scrumble at Harbinger Hall and ask if there are other jobs!”

  “I can’t see how I can—” Claude begins.

  “Aha! Don’t even say it!” Fleur shrieks, putting her hand to Claude’s mouth. “Not a word, unless it’s yes! Say that the LBD will spend the summer together at Destiny Bay! Just say it!”

  Claude and I stare back at Fleur with eyes as wide as saucers.

  We couldn’t do that, could we?

  Or could we?

  four days later

  “Daaaaaaa-aaaaad!” yells Fleur so loudly her next-door neighbors’ back teeth rattle. “How do we make a conference call?”

  “What?” shouts Paddy Swan from his bedroom next door. “What now?”

  “Connnnnnnnnnn-ference call!” yells Fleur again. “What do we do? Come and show us!”

  Paddy Swan sticks his head around the door to his office, raising one sardonic eyebrow at the LBD sitting perched around his computer, making full use of his “mission control” facilities.

  “Well, just press the ‘conference’ button, then dial, you blithering imbeciles!” scoffs Paddy. “Where have you three been going every morning for the last five years? Blackwell School or Burger King?”

  “Gnnnngnn, Fleur!” groans Claude. “I told you it was that button!”

  “Hmmph, you say that now,” tuts Fleur as Paddy appears wearing a sharp, navy blue bespoke suit, clutching a handful of neckties.

  “Ladies,” he announces seriously. “Which tie? The blue or the gray? C’mon, hurry! I’m lunching with Mr. Jefferson Smythe in half an hour. He’s a very important new client. This meeting could end up paying for Fleur’s mother’s next crucial jaunt to a Himalayan health farm. If it goes well, we can get rid of her for two whole weeks!”

  “Excellent,” says Fleur without even looking up.

  “The blue one,” says Claude confidently. “It goes with the pin stripe.”

  “Really, Claudette?” asks Paddy, holding the tie beside his face. “It’s not too . . . old fogey?”

  Paddy Swan has been acting very oddly since he turned forty-four last month. Not only has he taken up the martial art tae kwon do and started high kicking up and down the lawn each dusk, but last week he threatened to purchase a mint-green Lambretta scooter and a Maharishi parka. Well, until Fleur threatened to run away with the circus in shame.

  “Nooooooo! It’s not old fogey, Mr. Swan!” assures Claude, ever the smooth talker. “It’s more . . . Secret Service.”

  “Ahhh! Secret Service!” beams Paddy. “I like that, Claudette. You can come here again.”

  As if he has any choice, I think. We’ve practically lived here since Year 7.

  At this point Paddy breaks into his very worst Sean-Connery-as-James-Bond impression. “The name’s Schwan . . . Paddy Schwan,” Paddy rasps, looking into the mirror while fastening his tie. “On Her Majesty’s shecret shervice. Lish-ensh to
kill . . .”

  Fleur visibly shrinks with embarrassment. “Dad, will you get out?” she moans. “We’re calling Harbinger Hall!”

  “Very well,” sniggers Paddy, clearly elated at humiliating his youngest child. “You girls can leave the money for that call on my desk.”

  “Put it on my bill,” tuts Fleur, dialing the number. “Oooh! Shh, everyone . . . It’s ringing! It’s ringing!”

  The fact that I’m here, waiting to speak to Miss Scrumble, Harbinger Hall’s head of personnel, is the freakiest of deakiest turn of events. Ever since our Monday meeting, Fleur has talked and pleaded until she was blue in the face about the LBD going to Destiny Bay. She yaddered incessantly about MTV’s August Big Beach Booty Quake. (Psycho Killa, God Created Man and the Scandal Children are all rumored in the tabloids to be playing there, plus there’s a surf competition and a massive beach party.) Fleur never shut up about the hot surf dudes, cliff-top parties, sunbathing, snogging and skinny-dipping in store for us if we’d just agree to go.

  Fleur’s smooth talking certainly paid off. By Wednesday evening Claude was wavering toward “yes” and had even convinced Gloria that Harbinger Hall was a great place for Claude to make some cash.

  It was all down to me then. But it just didn’t seem right.

  I couldn’t disappear for a nine-week party when Nan had just died, could I? Not even if a summer in Destiny Bay sounded like the most exciting, fabulous LBD adventure in the entire cosmiverse.

  I mean, even if I do agree to go, when is the time to hit Mum with it? Tuesday? When she and I collect Nan’s ashes from the crematorium and drive to the town hall to sign some death certificates? Or Wednesday, when we go to Nan’s house to close off the gas and electricity (the day Mum spends five hours staring at Nan’s very small fluffy slippers and walking stick while crying)? Okay, then, what about Thursday, the day Mum doesn’t get out of bed at all and I spend my afternoon talking Seth out of pushing chocolate chip cookies into the VCR?

  The fact is, I can’t bring the subject up, and that is that.

  But on Thursday night, I am sitting in the bar after closing time, keeping Dad company while he closes up, when the subject of summer presents itself of its own accord.

  “What is your gang up to then,” Dad asks, “now that you’ve stopped arguing? Any plans for summer?”