Live and Fabulous!

by Grace Dent

  “Of course we will,” chorus Daphne and Claude.

  “You can count on us, Mr. Ripperton!” winks Fleur.

  Daphne zaps the switch on the electric windows and we begin negotiating the Mini down the narrow cobbled back lane. The LBD are waving and grinning like mad. I almost feel tearful. We’re off! I can’t believe this is actually happening, I’ve imagined this so many times before. My heart is really thumping! Then suddenly, before we’ve even reached the comer to the main road, a male figure seems to appear from nowhere, literally chucking himself in front of the car, thrusting his hands on the hood as if to stop it.

  We all jump and scream.

  “Stop!” shouts Claude.

  “Ronnnnnnnie!” shouts an agitated voice. “Sttttttttop, Ronnnnie!”

  “Oh, no,” groans Claude, spying who it is immediately.

  “Ugggggghggh, this guy again?” announces Fleur, turning up her nose. “Just drive over him, Daphne!”

  Instead, Daphne pulls up the emergency brake.

  “Oh my God! Is that my Jimi?!” I shout, grabbing frantically for the window buttons. “Jimi, what are you doing here!?”

  “Aside from ruining our day?” grumbles Fleur.

  Jimi gazes at Fleur, but doesn’t retaliate. He looks about ten pounds thinner than usual, sort of more little-boyish. Tired. Bess, his prized skateboard, is sitting in the gutter looking similarly disheveled.

  “Where are you going!?” he says.

  “Away,” I say. “We’re off to Astlebury Festival.”

  “What!?” he says. “How?! When did all this happen?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “Er, but ... but.” Jimi looks dumbfounded. “You ... you can’t go! You’ve got to stay. Stay and talk to me, Ronnie!”

  “Oooooh, I’ve heard it all now!” butts in another familiar voice. Oh, no, it’s only my mother, who’s spotted the commotion and decided to wade in.

  “Look, what do you want exactly?” Mum shouts at Jimi.

  I look at Jimi and then Mum quite hopelessly, not knowing quite what to do.

  “I’m trying to tell your daughter, Mrs. Ripperton, that ... that she has to stay here and sort out whether she’s my girlfriend anymore!” Jimi garbles, sounding totally exasperated.

  “Ronnie doesn’t have to do anything! She’s her own free agent now!” yells back my mother.

  God, this is soooooo embarrassing.

  “And she’s off now to have the time of her life, hundreds of miles away, without you driving her crazy with your stupid antics!”

  That sounds kind of cool, actually.

  “Exactly!” Fleur says, putting her arm around my shoulder, shouting ahead to Daphne, “Drive on, driver!”

  “Come on, let’s get going before we have to pitch the tent in the dark?” says Claude tactfully. “We’ll see you sometime, Jimi, eh?”

  “Bye,” I mouth, feeling totally choked.

  Daphne puts her foot down and we turn into high street, picking up some speed. Claude unfolds her map, slamming Amelia Annanova into the CD player to break the awful silence. In the backseat, I wipe away a tiny tear, then crane my neck to grab a final glimpse of the Fantastic Voyage. Very quickly Mum and Jimi have become such small dots on the horizon, I’ve no idea whether she’s let him out of that headlock.

  famous people Part too

  “Oh my Gaaaaaawd, I can’t believe this,” gossips Fleur, avidly reading her Red Hot Celebs magazine. “Amelia and Giovanni are actually flying into Astlebury on Saturday night from their yacht harbored in Salinas Beach in Ibiza! They’re on their European vacation! And they’ve got a helicopter pad on their yacht! And a recording studio so they can lay down tracks as they travel! How megarich must they be!?”

  Outside the car, miles and miles of beautiful English countryside hurtles past as Fleur reads on. “Ooh, and the Kings of Kong have had special Astlebury stage outfits made by Hazel Valenski, the prestigious New York designer! Huh! Everyone listen to this!

  “‘Apparently, Curtis, lead singer with Detroit rock gods the Kings, has been spotted enjoying intimate dinners with A-list fashion stylist Hazel in the Tribeca area of Manhattan, kindling further rumors of a split with longtime companion Canadian supermodel Tabitha Lovelace.’

  “He’s soooooo bonkers, splitting up with Tabitha!” says Fleur, as if they’re all old friends. “She is absolutely the most beautiful thing in the entire world. She’s so tall and blonde!”

  Fleur loooooves Red Hot Celebs. In fact she loves it so much, she’s actually barred herself from reading it on the bus after going straight past her stop once without realizing it and ending up in an adjacent county. Magazines like these just seem to transport Fleur to another cosmiverse, one that pleases her more greatly than her own. Saying that, after that run-in with Jimi, I could do with some escapism too.

  “Fleur, who are all of these people?” giggles Daphne, carefully changing lanes. “Who’s Giovanni?”

  Fleur sighs as if this is the most idiotic question in the world history of speaking. “Giovanni Baston, Daphne dearest, is Amelia Annanova’s Italian actor boyfriend. They’ve been together, like, forever, although apparently she wants to get married but he’s still not sure. They argue and split up a lot.”

  “How do you know that?” laughs Daphne, shaking her head.

  “She just knows,” chortles Claudette. “Believe me.”

  “Now, Curtis Leith is lead singer in the Kings of Kong,” continues Fleur.

  “He’s totally hot, albeit obviously insane if he’s letting that Hazel Valenski woman get her schneck in at him.”

  “Hang on,” I blurt out. “Wasn’t Hazel Valenski snogging Pharrell Mars at the MTV Awards last month? She’s a fast mover, isn’t she?”

  “See, Daphne?” laughs Fleur. “Ronnie Ripperton knows the score!”

  Damn, busted.

  I always profess I’m not that bothered about celebrities ... but deep down I really am. Saying that, I’m different from Fleur. It’s not the glammy pics of people “Beyond the Velvet Rope” that I love ... ooh, no, I crave those sneaky paparazzi shots of stars buying their washing detergent or wearing baggy sweatpants and walking their dogs. I find them totally fascinating. It makes me realize that famous folk are really just as boring as me. Or that I’m just as exciting as them. One of the two.

  “Anything about Spike Saunders this week?” asks Claude, handing around a bag of candies.

  “Mmm, don’t think so,” says Fleur, examining her hand. “Hang on, these are licorice! You know I don’t like the licorice ones!”

  Claude tuts, then begins picking Fleur’s favorite, blackcurrant candies, out of the bag for Miss Pickyknickers in the rear seat.

  “Ooh, I tell a lie,” Fleur corrects herself. “Apparently Spike’s bought a new hot tub with a twenty-four-karat-gold faucet and a turbo-bubble button.”

  “Ha ha! Why are you all so interested in this stuff?” hoots Daphne.

  “Why aren’t you?” retorts Fleur. “You’re totally weird!”

  “I’m not weird!” argues Daphne. “I mean, is it so weird that I find my normal everyday real life friends much more interesting than complete strangers I only see on MTV?”

  Fleur yawns dramatically behind her big sister’s head.

  “You know, when I was in Nepal,” Daphne continues, “we were totally cut off from the whole media celebrity thing. And you know what? The local inhabitants were so much more spiritually happy within themselves as human beings and ...”

  “I’ve heard this one before,” Fleur says sarcastically, nudging me. “It’s grrrreat.”

  Daphne stops talking abruptly.

  “I’m listening to you, Daphne,” Claude tells her, not wanting the LBD kicked out 200 miles from Astlebury on the hard shoulder of the road.

  “I just find it odd,” continues Daphne to Claude, “that people are obsessed with people they’ll never meet, but bored by the world underneath their noses!”

  “Ahhh, well, that’s wh
ere you’re soooo wrong, Daphne,” butts in Fleur. “Because all of these people will be at Astlebury! So we will be meeting them! That’s why I need to bone up on Red Hot Celebs magazine. Cuh! Everyone knows how uncool it is to talk to celebs about their latest album or film!”

  “Mmm, Fleur, dear?” Daphne patronizes back. “Don’t you realize that the beautiful people will all be hiding away in their little VIP enclosure? We won’t be seeing them unless we hang about the Main Stage with binoculars with the rest of the hundred and twenty thousand fans!”

  Daphne gives a smug little smile. Fleur flares her nostrils.

  “Not that it bothers me anyway,” Daphne continues. “I’m only coming for the Healing Fields and the Ethnic Drumming Zone.”

  “Good,” replies Fleur dryly. “Well, I hope you’ll feel healed of the need to cramp my style for the entire bloody weekend.”

  “Believe me,” says Daphne under her breath, “the feeling is entirely mutual.”

  Claude turns to pass me another candy, arching an eyebrow in a “Did you hear that?!” sort of way.

  Daphne’s mobile phone bleeps, signaling a text message. She picks it up and quickly glances at the message, giving a small grin before changing tack a little.

  “Anyway, you know what really riles me about those stupid magazines?” Daphne lets out a little snort. “Those ridiculous celebrity beauty sections! ‘Give up dairy products and you can marry a rock star too!’ and ‘Drink six liters of water a day and get a body like a Brazilian lingerie model!’ It’s all total rubbish! Who believes this pig swill?!”

  In the backseat, Fleur, ignorant of her sister’s ranting, is devouring a “stars looking fat in their bikinis!” special pull-out section, slurping her way through two liters of Evian water.

  “Errrr ... how far have we gone now?” Fleur asks, shuffling uncomfortably.

  “Ninety-eight miles,” says Daphne, examining the mile counter.

  “Errrrrrr ... any chance of a bathroom stop?”

  karma

  This wee stop suited me fine.

  No, not because, like Fleur, my back teeth were floating, but because I was hoping for a text message too. I wanted to check my phone, but the LBD seemed so convinced that I was rock solid about teaching Jimi a lesson, I wasn’t going to ruin my reputation by openly pining for his phone call. However, as Fleur and Claude caused mayhem in the Sunny Vale Heath M6 Service Station (Fleur faffing about getting swanky business cards printed, Claude indulging her clandestine pinball addiction), I realized something quite alarming:

  I’d forgotten my phone. Ugggggggghhhhh!

  It wasn’t in my handbag. Or in my rucksack. Or in any of my jacket pockets. In fact I could almost swear I’d left it on my bedside table. Durrrrrrbrain! Suddenly I felt exceedingly cold and alone. Ronnie Ripperton, away from home and without her mobile phone! I felt like I was on my way to a handstand competition without my underpants on.

  “Ooh, never mind, Ronnie,” said Fleur when I finally blurted out my trauma thirty miles or so out of the rest stop. “Time you got a new one anyway. Your old one’s, like, totally sad. Hey! You could even get one with a camera, like mine!”

  Fleur flourishes her silver phone at me, which is displaying a picture of a hairy lad she was chatting up twenty minutes ago in the café at the rest stop. He looks slightly bemused, shoveling a burger into his stubbly face.

  “There was soooooo much talent in that service station, wasn’t there, Claude?!” giggles Fleur. “And they were all going to Astlebury! Did you see those hotties in the yellow van with all the graffiti on the side who were just pulling in as we were leaving?”

  “Lads? Yellow van?” mutters Claudette, pretending to examine the map. “Never noticed them.”

  “But I feel guilty about the phone,” I warble. “That was Rule Two: I had to ring my mum every day, didn’t I? I’ve been away two hours and I’ve broken a rule already!”

  “Hey, I’ve been talking to a weirdo, if that makes you feel better,” offers Fleur, showing me the picture again. “That contravenes Subsection Three.”

  “You can use my phone, Ronnie,” laughs Claude. “Stop worrying about stuff!”

  “Ooh, let’s ring Red Hot Celebs magazine! ‘Ronnie Ripperton in Unnecessary Worry Shocker!’ ” giggles Fleur.

  “Button it, Fleur,” says Claude. “Ronnie can’t help it.”

  “Errrr ... Does anyone else hear something weird?” Daphne butts in, turning down “Too Much Love” on the Kings of Kong CD.

  “Only Ronnie moaning,” laughs Fleur. “That’s hardly weird.”

  “Shh,” shushes Claude.

  We drive along in silence for about half a mile. Daphne looks quite anxious.

  “Yep, I can hear that, Daphne,” says Claude edgily. “Something sounds a bit, well, clunky.”

  “And the steering’s gone all shaky too,” gasps Daphne, gripping onto the wheel and frowning.

  “What’s that mean?!” I ask, getting worried all over again. There’s a definite grinding sound coming from the right side of the Mini Cooper.

  “Well, something’s certainly wrong,” says Daphne, her lip wobbling slightly. “But I don’t know what.”

  “Daphne, did you not have this car serviced last week?” Fleur asks unhelpfully.

  “Yes, Fleur,” snaps Daphne.

  “Look, let’s not argue,” suggests Claude. “Should we stop and see if we can suss out what’s wrong?”

  “As soon as we can. This is getting really tough to drive now,” says Daphne, slowing her speed as juggernauts scream past us at 80 mph. “Everyone keep an eye out for a good place.”

  “Sounds like a flat tire to me,” remarks Fleur, but everyone ignores her.

  A motorbike flies past, the rider jabbing his horn and waving at us furiously.

  My heart’s in my mouth now. As Daphne struggles to keep the Mini in one traffic lane, a bus passes by, with the driver beeping its horn and pointing at us to get off the road. Oh my God, is this what it feels like to die?

  Fleur reaches over and grabs my hand tightly.

  “There!” points Claude. “Turn now!”

  Daphne turns left, wrestling the poor car, extremely shakily, to a resting place.

  We all sit quietly, breathing deeply, before piling outside to gather bleakly around the Mini’s hood. Umpteen cars and vans scream past, people craning their necks at us damsels in distress. I feel like crying, but I’m not going to be first.

  “See, told you so,” says Fleur, pointing at the offending right front wheel.

  “It’s a flat tire.”

  “Oh, no!” sniffles Daphne. “Oh, no, no, no! I don’t believe it! This is total bad karma! I knew I shouldn’t have begun eating meat again!”

  Claude steps up and puts an arm around Daphne. “Er, Daphne, mmm ... surely it’s not that bad,” she says gingerly. “Could we not, er, call someone?”

  Daphne stares at the LBD, thinking deeply, then begins to root about in her patchwork bag for her phone. “Okay,” she says, biting her lip, looking at Fleur. “I’m going to have to phone the only person I can think of.”

  “Oh, hang on a minute, no, you don’t,” explodes Fleur, catching her drift. “We are not ringing Dad! No way! We’ll never hear the end of it from that pompous, grinning goon! Are you berserk, Daphne? He’d love to hear us begging for help!”

  “I’d rather beg for help, Fleur, and be en route to Astlebury than spend the weekend sitting on the side of the road!” argues Daphne.

  Right at that moment a vehicle speeds by at about 97 mph, honking its horn joyously. We all look up, praying for a passing Good Samaritan; instead we catch a flash of green Land Rover, the sun bouncing off its gleaming metallic rhino repellent. Inside the vehicle, Abigail, Panama Goodyear’s brain-dead sidekick, sits in the front passenger seat smirking while Derren and Leeza in the backseats wave and whoop. In the front seat, their vile leader Panama tries to keep one snooty eye on the road as she savors the LBD’s misery.

  I can’t see
Zane. Here’s hoping they stuck him on the roof rack and his orange head was decapitated by an oak tree.

  “Ha ha! No luck! Better get hitchhiking!” shouts Abigail, giving us a saucy thumbs-up.

  In a flash they’re gone, hurtling toward Astlebury without a care in the world. We all stand staring silently at the broken-down Mini.

  “Oh, look, Fleur, let’s just ring Paddy, shall we? It’s our best option,” I say nervously, suddenly feeling like we’re just four very silly girls absolutely out of their depths who need a grown-up to hold our hands. I’m actually slightly shocked that Panama would just drive past us. I mean, she’s a bitch, fair enough, but we’re really in trouble here. We wouldn’t have done that to her.

  “Oh, bum cracks to calling Paddy,” shouts Fleur at the now long-gone Land Rover as she walks over and peers at the saggy front wheel. “And bum cracks to them! I’ll change the tire.”

  We all stare at Fleur with our mouths agog, almost as if she’d said, “Don’t worry, girls, I’ll just spin us all a new golden car from straw!”

  “What?” splutters Claude.

  “I’ll change the tire,” Fleur says again matter-of-factly. “I’ve done it before. It’s not flipping rocket science.”

  “Errrr ... I’m not sure, Fleur,” I say.

  “Oh, well, that’s just wonderful,” says Fleur sniffily. “Is that because you think I’m a dizzy blonde who can’t possibly do it?”

  “No, it’s just ...,” Daphne butts in, but Fleur’s got the bit between her teeth now.

  “Just what, precisely?” she snaps. “Just that I’ve changed tires with Dad twice before when we’ve been on road trips together? Just that Dad made me pay flipping attention because, in his words, he couldn’t bear having three useless women in his family who can’t change a tire?!”

  Daphne blushes and looks away.

  “Or just that I’ll have to batter you all to a bloody pulp with my Louis Vuitton vanity case if I miss this ruddy festival?!”