Then I heard him calling out my name again.
I turned around. ‘Good luck!’ he called and gave me a little wave.
‘I don’t need luck,’ I replied haughtily, because I felt wrong-footed by his unexpected kindness. Still, I was sounding almost like Honey and I wished I could take it back.
I won all my bouts, but I was still shaking over my exchange with Freddie when we finally clambered into the minibus for the journey back to Saint Augustine’s.
Everyone immediately started going on about me giving Freddie a Right Royal Dressing Down, but I felt sick inside and didn’t rise to the bait. I hardly said a word. I couldn’t quite believe the things I’d said. I had been like a mad, erupting volcano and I hadn’t even given him a chance.
Should I have given him a chance?
I didn’t ask any of my friends because I knew what they’d say. ‘No way. You were brilliant, Calypso … blah, blah, blah.’
Thank God it was an exeat weekend and we all got straight off the minibus with only half an hour to get ready for the coach that took us to London.
Star had invited me to spend the weekend at her place in Chelsea. This time her parents were there. That is, her parents and their roadies and their rock-star friends and their hangers-on – and, of course, their drugs.
That night there was a big party with loads of models and It-Girls and really ancient rock stars, all of them acting like they thought they were sixteen or something. What is it with adults who can’t grow up? They reminded me of Sarah and Bob.
Star and I wandered through the party, sipping on our Jack Daniels and Coke, which tasted ghastly, but Star insisted it was the only drink one could drink at a rock-star party.
I suppose it was quite cool, not the yucky drink, but seeing all these famous people being really happy to see Star and talking to us like we were real adults, even though we were about a hundred years younger than they were.
The best part was when Elsa, a really famous super-model-turned-writer, hung out with us in the cupboard under the stairs and we talked about school and friends and make-up. We told her about our magazine. She was really impressed and asked if she could come to the launch. She said she was writing a book, which made me worship her even more.
The party went on all through the night and when we went downstairs for breakfast the next morning there were loads of sleeping bodies everywhere. Mostly they were Tiger’s roadies, but as Star said, even really famous people look totally gross when they are sleeping and there is no one to airbrush them.
They were sprawled on sofas and the floor, and Star and I were quite wicked and put Coco Pops in their mouths and then ran off and hid.
All in all it was a weekend free of worry. Feeding sleeping rock stars Coco Pops turned out to be the perfect antidote to all my dilemmas, but on the coach back to Saint Augustine’s they all came flooding back. I discovered a text on my phone, which had been sent on Friday.
I hadn’t even looked at my phone all weekend.
PLEASE DON’T H8 ME. I DON’T H8 U. ACTUALLY …
QUITE THE OPPOSITE. CAN I CALL YOU TO XPLAIN?
F
I immediately texted him back.
I DON’T HATE YOU. C X
Then I immediately regretted the x.
TWENTY-TWO:
Nun of Your Business
A week later, on the morning of the launch party for Nun of Your Business, I woke up pre-gong, which put Miss Cribbe into a bit of a mood. Honey was back at school, no longer in Coventry, ensconced in her role as Queen B (that’s B for Bitch), but in a weird sort of way, it was actually quite fun having her back. There was too much going on for me to be bothered holding a grudge.
Honey had had a complete makeover. She’d had ringlets put into her hair, which was now blonder than ever, and Rystaline injected into her smile lines (even though she didn’t have any). She’d also had her navel pierced and as a punishment/reward her mother had given her a diamond navel ring for it. Duchess had a real Tiffany diamond collar, with a white gold bell, so she could drive the other pets bananas.
‘It’s barbaric. Hilda is terrified!’ Star had complained. ‘She’s so stressed out by that bell, she’s constantly on her wheel now. I’m scared she’s going to have a heart attack if she keeps this up.’
On this occasion even I felt quite sorry for Hilda (and all the other pets in the pet shed – especially Dorothy Parker). I mean, imagine having a bell sounding every time the horrible Duchess moved! It would be like Miss Cribbe banging on her gong all the time.
‘I’m actually quite bored with her anyway,’ Honey yawned when Star complained about her rabbit’s bell. ‘I’m thinking that the diamond collar would look so much more stylish on a white rabbit. Perhaps I’ll give Duchess to Poppy.’
None of us said anything. I guess the makeover hadn’t been that complete.
We had far more important things on our minds – making sure everything was in place for the launch. All day long, girls kept coming up to us and saying, Is Jono (famous rock star) really coming to the launch? and stuff like that. No one could pay attention in classes that day.
The nuns had volunteered to supervise everything (i.e., to wander around the hall oppressively, making sure no one had an iota of a chance of pulling any of the boys).
We had a plan, though.
My plan went like this. After sending Freddie the x on my text, I decided to go for gold, i.e., march straight up to him, grab him by the hand, and lead him to the secret passage under the stage and, while Star and Georgina diverted any nuns nearby, we would nip in the secret door and tongue-fence like mad. All the complications between us – whether to ‘x’ or not – had made me think that some things are better said with tongues than words.
It was Clemmie’s idea, actually. All term it had been clear that she’d been heading this way, but since the Eades social she had officially gone Boy Crazy. All she could talk about was who she was going to pull at the launch – she had a list with five names on it:
Kevin.
Kevin.
Kevin.
Kevin.
Kevin.
Georgina had a list too. Her list had thirty-six names on it (all different) but only twenty-four of the names on the list attended Eades. But Georgina could pull boys effortlessly (eighteen was her record so far), whereas Clemmie was a bit more like me – single-minded (or as Georgina called us, dramatic).
Star was back on with Rupert, who’d had his braces taken off and was now a realistic pulling option. She was hoping to pull a few older, fit boys as well, just in case Rupert was as hopeless a kisser without braces as with.
Arabella was keeping her pulling list open, but she had sworn that she was determined to pull at least six boys before the night was out.
Thank goodness our nuns were so old and innocent.
The painting that the kids from the village in Africa had sent us was hanging above the stage, next to the DJ’s station. The nuns had really gone to town with decorations. The main hall was lit with multicoloured flashing lights and the standard disco ball hanging in the centre.
Sisters Hillary and Veronica were manning the Nun of Your Business desk at the entrance. Everyone who had bought a ticket to the launch was given a free copy as they came in, but we were also selling a limited edition of two hundred copies signed by the editors, that is us, the five Lit Chick Salon girls (Arabella, Clemmie, Georgina, Star and me) for ten pounds each.
All the Eades boys were arriving by coaches, and I tried to loiter nonchalantly around the entrance, looking out for Freddie as coach after coach arrived. Our hall was already at capacity by the time Kevin ambled in, laughing and chatting away with a few of his mates. I sidled up to him very casually/desperately and said, ‘Hiya.’
He looked genuinely pleased to see me. But then that’s how Eades boys are brought up to look.
‘Hey, Calypso. How’s it going? I heard you trounced my bro at sabre last week. Well done.’
I giggled like … well,
a schoolgirl, I suppose.
‘So, erm, how’s Freddie, then?’ I asked, craning a look over his shoulder for my prince.
‘Down with some stomach bug, unfortunately. He said to say hi.’
Clemmie skipped over and my window of interrogation had closed. So I stood there at the entrance, clinging to my pathetic message.
Freddie said to say hi.
What could I read into that? Answer: A LOT.
I mean, did he say, ‘God, I’m gutted that this stomach bug has prevented me from resting my eyes on the beautiful, intoxicating sight of Calypso Kelly, but say hi for me, will you, Kev?’ Or did he say, ‘If you see what’s-her-name, the fencer girl – Calypso, is it? – tell her hi.’
Or worse still, did he say nothing at all, and Kevin, not wanting to make me realise how irrelevant I truly was, had made up the ‘hi’ to save my feelings?
I watched as Kevin and Clementine disappeared through the secret stage door.
Sister Veronica was polishing her spectacles.
Sister Hillary was eating a scone.
Clemmie was hotly followed by Star with Rupert, and Georgina with an Eades Sixth Former.
‘So, Calypso, can you talk to mere mortals, or do I need to petition Zeus?’
I spun around. ‘What?’
‘Billy. We met at …’
‘I know. Hi, how’s it going?’ I got that funny wiggly feeling again. Maybe I was coming down with Freddie’s stomach bug? Wouldn’t that be romantic, sharing a gastric flu … or not! The thing was, my wiggly feeling didn’t feel gastric, it felt sort of … nice, really.
‘It’s going fine. Cool magazine, by the way. I love the satires, especially the one on Honey.’
And then I remembered. ‘Oh, that’s right, you go out with Poppy, don’t you?’
He looked embarrassed and did that funny I’m-going-to-look-at-my-feet-now thing that boys tend to do. ‘No …’
‘Oh, OK. It’s just that, erm …’
He still looked embarrassed and he didn’t take his eyes off his shoes. He sort of shuffled them a bit, shoving his hands in his pockets, and he looked so cute.
‘We went out a few times over the Easter break,’ he explained. ‘You know, down the Kings Road – that sort of thing. Nothing major. But we’re not like going out, going out.’
‘Darling! I wondered where you’d got to.’ It was Poppy, looking divine in a breathtakingly short, pink, wispy number with matching Jimmy Choo sling-backs. She threw her arm around Billy in a proprietorial sort of fashion. ‘Quick, darling, this way. I’ve got some vodka in my bag.’
With that, she took him by the hand and led him towards the stage passage. He looked back at me like a man being led off to a firing squad.
With a wardrobe like hers, it was no wonder Poppy could pull a boy like Billy. I looked down at my carefully constructed outfit, bought the night before for a fiver from one of the Lower Sixth girls. It was last year’s cut, last year’s colour, and the shoes I was wearing were a label no one in England had ever heard of, which I’d bought in LA in the sale at Bloomingdale’s. Honey had declared them ‘Don’t-Fuck-Me Shoes!’ But then I didn’t really give a toss what Honey said, did or thought any more.
Besides, it wasn’t all doom and gloom. In fact, it was really cool, especially when Jono, famous for his views on world debt, arrived. He looked quite cute standing on the stage next to Sister Veronica – they were about the same height – especially when he put his arm around her and she started to giggle.
Hello, was Sister Veronica flirting?
He gave a stirring speech about why the rich countries of the world should cancel the debt of really poor ones, and everyone cheered.
He said it was really cool that we’d put so much effort into raising all this money. Then Star’s dad, Tiger, got on stage with Elsa, the supermodel Star and I had chatted with at the party, which was just totally random and unscripted.
Tiger was wobbling a bit when he grabbed the mike off of Jono and asked us if we were having a ‘rocking good time.’
Everyone screamed back, ‘Yes!’
Then he said, ‘That’s cool, but just remember, if all the rich arsehole countries in the world cancelled world debt, ninety million girls in Africa could have an education.’
Everyone clapped and I looked over at Star to give her a supportive smile about her dad being dead embarrassing, but she didn’t look in the least bit embarrassed. In fact, she looked proud. And once I thought about it, I could see why. It was a very good point.
Then Elsa took the mike and she very sweetly reminded everyone that the magazine wouldn’t have got off the ground if it wasn’t for Star, Calypso, Arabella, Clementine and Georgina and their friends, and everyone clapped.
Then the party really kicked in.
I ended up dancing with a few random boys, but I didn’t even really look at their faces – apart from Rupert’s (he must have got the thumbs-down after his no-braces kiss with Star).
It was a fantastic party, but the only thing I pulled that night was a good laugh when we arrived back at our dorms.
Misty had weed all over Honey’s duvet.
You could hear her scream throughout Cleathorpes.
TWENTY-THREE:
The Glory and the Embarrassment
The week after the launch no one could talk about anything other than the party – or rather, who’d pulled whom.
Even though I’d pulled a grand total of nil, I was still caught up in the excitement. Also, both Freddie and Billy had sent me text messages and voice mails afterwards – but to tell the truth, pulling boys was the last thing on my mind. I was more excited about the next meeting of the Lit Chick Writing Salon.
We’d decided to wait until Friday to discuss our strategy for the next issue of the magazine because we wanted to find out exactly how much money we’d raised altogether.
Sister Constance made the announcement at Thursday’s assembly and it was unbelievable. With the twenty-pound tickets all sold out, and with roughly eight hundred boys from Eades and four hundred girls from Saint Augustine’s, we’d made loads of money. Also people like Tiger and Jono had made extra donations.
Sister Constance had stood on the hall stage flanked by two ancient statues of the Virgin Mary. There were enormous vases of lilies surrounding them. The other nuns were all gathered on the stage with her. The elderly ones (all those over ninety) were sitting on chairs. It was like a conceptual girl-power exhibit – in a nun-ish sort of way.
She announced how much we raised, unable to suppress a smile. It was much more than the Lower Sixth girls had managed the year before.
No one even clapped at first. I think we were all too shocked. After a moment’s silence the nuns all clapped for us and Sister Constance congratulated Star, Clemmie, Arabella, Georgina and me. Suddenly everyone burst into applause and threw their ties in the air, as is the tradition at Saint Augustine’s. (Any excuse to rid ourselves of the revolting bows. We would have thrown them in the air if we’d raised five quid, to be honest.)
When the deafening noise had died down a little, a girl from the Saint Augustine’s Old Girls Society took the microphone and talked to us about how much that money would mean to the Children of the World charity.
It was one of the most fantastic days of my life … well, it was up until the point when Camilla (the Old Girl) asked Georgina, Star, Clementine, Arabella and me to come up onto the stage.
Talk about catastrophically random; no one had even hinted that we might be called upon to embarrass ourselves in front of the entire school. We all immediately started applying lip-gloss as we made our way through the aisles. The whole school started stamping their feet (even the nuns – apart from Sister Constance, who never lets her austere demeanour drop for a moment) and demanding, ‘Speech, speech, speech!’
Sister Constance took the microphone and asked for hush. Everyone fell silent immediately.
‘Now, I’m sure you’d all like to hear from one of the girls responsible for r
aising all this money,’ she said, handing the mike over to me.
The school responded in the affirmative. ‘Erm, well thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘I mean yeah … brilliant. This is so random and totally unexpected,’ I stuttered. My mouth went all dry and so I applied a dab more lip-gloss.
Here I was, on stage in front of the entire school, a sea of girls all looking up at me, expecting me to say something profound or at least comprehensible.
How could this happen? So I tried to pretend I was Nancy Mitford or Dorothy Parker (the writer, not the rabbit) and say something poignant and witty, something inspirational – and not to mention how our writing salon, from which the magazine had sprung, all started with a food fight in the canteen. I had quickly decided that wouldn’t sound very inspirational.
I did one of those little cough thingamies that Oscar winners do in the hope that it would add some glamour to the occasion, and then I just let my subconscious do the rambling for me, figuring it couldn’t do a worse job than my conscious self – which couldn’t think of much apart from whether my hair was sticking up and if it was possible to apply lip-gloss while holding a microphone and speaking. I must have said something vaguely reasonable, though, because I heard the applause. Also no one teased me afterwards.
When it was over I went to the technology room and sent Sarah and Bob an e-mail about it. I thought about texting Freddie, but couldn’t think of an excuse that wouldn’t seem tragic, so I joined the celebratory dorm party.
TWENTY-FOUR:
The Myth of the Midnight Dash
Georgina invited Clemmie, Star, Arabella and me (and Dorothy Parker, of course) to spend half-term break at her massive stucco house on Eton Square.
We spent our mornings lying in the spring sun of her vast garden square, sipping on various health drinks dreamed up by her housekeeper, after which we would head off to Sloane Street and do a bit of shopping.
A Royal Match Page 14
