by Wendy Harmer
I remember that I beat Bianca with a top score of seven positively identified fashion crimes:
1. White lace bra under black mesh singlet – Eeeyew! Do you even own a mirror?
2. Leopard print scrunchie – circa 1992.
3. Gypsy skirt – banned by the United Nations last time I checked.
4. Popped collar – Wassup? You have a rash on your neck, bro?
5. Fake tan lines on legs – Highway to Hell.
6. Jeans with designer rips – Shanghai Seamstress Goes Postal With Boxcutter!
7. T-shirt with 'Gold Coast' spelt out in sequins – Aaargh!
Seven is a good score. Not a perfect score of ten on the hideousness index, but still, a good effort. Bianca usually beats me. She can spot a fashion crime from miles away. It's almost as if she has a built-in drack-o-meter.
'Don't look,' gasps Bianca. 'White frilly socks and black patent ballet flats coming out of Cathedral Candles right this minute. I said, DON'T LOOK!'
At this point I swivel my head back around to see Bianca's bright blue eyeballs tunnelling right through the soft tissue of my brain and out the back of my head. The perpetrator is then expertly tracked without any idea she has been spotted. Bianca's eyes are constantly sweeping the perimeters of the mall like floodlights on razor wire at a high security correctional facility. Even through massive sunnies, no-one, nothing, escapes her piercing gaze.
For instance – one day Bianca suspected I was wearing Disney Princess undies and barricaded me into my room until I agreed to change out of them.
'Are you in Year Nine or just nine years old?!' she fumes through the door.
After the offending Sleeping Beauty cotton glitter knickers had been hurled in the bin and I'd pulled on black stretch boy-legs, I was allowed to proceed. You have to respect a girl who cares that much. And you definitely don't want her as an enemy.
Anyway, back to the mall. I'll admit that I took advantage of the fact that Bianca was texting Jai nonstop. (Ever since she met him I have only had her full attention for random three-minute intervals.) So I was the one on sentry duty. I came, I saw, I cringed and took out line honours with, as I say, seven fully documented style transgressions. That's how I know I still had my mobile phone. The ghastly photographs of each one are stored there.
After viewing the evidence Bianca had to admit she had been outclassed. And let me tell you, for Bianca, that was a biggie. She offered to buy me a juice from Hip Pip to celebrate and maybe . . . maybe that's where I lost my bag? During the resulting shock, because, believe me, Bianca NEVER admits ANYTHING.
Then we went back to Tiara one more time so Bianca could buy a silver glitter headband. After that, we left.
We boarded the bus outside the mall and when it accelerated into the middle lane before we had even sat down, I fell on top of Bianca.
'Ow! Watch it, Belly!' Bianca screeches.
Now, I have spoken to Bianca about this 'Belly' business. And, you can add to that, 'Nelly', 'Jelly' and 'Smelly'. Also combinations of any of the above: 'JellyBelly', 'SmellyNelly' and 'JellySmellyBellyNellyElly'.
My full name is Eleanor. I will settle for Elly. My sister's name is Matilda. She gets 'Matty', 'Tilda', 'Tills' and will also accept 'Tilly'. And that's what our family calls her – Tilly.
Eleanor and Matilda are the names of Queens of England. Why did Mum and Dad choose these names? It's a long, pathetic joke.
We live in the suburb of Oldcastle in the City of Britannia, New South Wales, Australia. Mum's name is Elizabeth (commonly known as 'Libby') and Dad's name is Richard (AKA 'Rick'). So somewhere along the way Mum and Dad thought it would be hilarious to imagine that our house at 25 Buckingham Street, Oldcastle, Britannia was some kind of red-brick royal palace.
Elizabeth, Richard, Eleanor and Matilda, Buckingham Street, Oldcastle, Britannia. They even named our dog 'Harry' and our cat 'Camilla'. Geddit?
Our second name is Pickering. The Pickering coat of arms features an armoured helmet and some kind of weird animal with its tongue stuck out. Dad's got it framed on the toilet wall. Or should I say in his 'throne room'.
I found out that the Pickerings originally lived on the side of a hill in Yorkshire, England. We live on the side of a hill in Oldcastle and it all looks like plain old suburbia to me. The only royal view from our house is the London Tavern and drive-thru bottle shop.
But everyone in the suburb of Oldcastle seems to be in on this bad joke – we've got the Majestic Movieplex, Beefeater Butchery (and its famous 'Sandringham' venison snags), the Lionheart Drycleaners, Marquess Mini-mart and the Big-Ears Day Care Centre. Then there's Henry, George and Mary streets, Edward Court, Charles Drive and Victoria Square. Even at Oldcastle High the sports houses are Wessex, Stuart, Tudor and Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. Geddit?
Mostly I don't. What has all this British monarchy stuff got to do with Oldcastle, a million miles away in Australia? I'll bet that the Queen of England hasn't got a corgi called 'Pitjanjarra'.
When my mother first met Will, she laughed. For her it was one more joke to add to the rest. Prince William. The fact that Will has a full head of hair and the sweetest little sister named Pookie – and neither of them fly helicopters – doesn't seem to matter. The entire Royal Family of Buckingham Street, Oldcastle, thinks my love-life is a joke. And, for that matter, so does Bianca.
'When Prince Willy marries Princess Smelly,' laughs Bianca, 'then you can be the Duke and Duchess of Smelly-Willy.'
Sometimes I wish I had a better BF than Bianca.
Which brings me back to the bus. It wasn't till I was getting up from on top of Bianca, mad at myself for spilling pineapple and mint juice on my top, that I realised that my shoulder felt curiously light. There's usually three kilos of stuff hanging off it.
When I realised my handbag was missing, I ran down the aisle waving madly at the bus driver to stop. Too late. We were barrelling down the main road by then – trucks and cars on all sides – and before I knew it we were turning off towards Oldcastle. I was totally stressing out. I told Bianca that we should get off at the next stop and wait for the bus to take us back again to look for my bag.
'Your bag has totally been swiped by now, Elly, and your mobile is gone,' says Bianca. 'It's time you faced facts.'
I begged for her mobile to ring the mall and ask if anything had been found and handed in. Then we were at Bianca's stop and she said she couldn't hang around, her mum was expecting her home for lunch (?!) and besides, her phone battery was flat (?!). With that, she was gone, and just as the bus door was closing behind her, I realised that I had no $$$ whatsoever. The only thing I could do was come back here to Buckingham Palace and wait.
Two things occur to me now as I sit in The Dungeon (AKA my bedroom):
1. How come Bianca's phone was flat, when she'd just finished a long convo with Jai and I didn't hear any beeps from the battery winding down?
2. Why was Bianca's mother expecting her home for lunch when everyone knows that Bianca's mother has not prepared a meal, or eaten one, since Bianca was born?
I know the truth. Bianca was rushing off to meet Jai and had care factor zero about my bag and phone. She's right that I have to face facts. And the first major fact is that I really do need a new BF.
Uh-oh! I can hear the Queen Mother walking up the hall and greeting His Excellency the Mutt.
'Here, Harry,' she calls. 'There you go. Look at you. Good dog.'
Then the cat is acknowledged, no doubt with a dismissive regal wave.
'Camilla! Shoo! Get off that couch. You've left fur all over it.'
Then, finally it's my turn.
'Elly. Eleanor. Are you home? I've been trying to call you on your mobile,' yells Mum.
All jokes aside, this is going to be right royal torture.
Saturday. 7 pm.
Seven hours PM.
It's now seven hours since I lost my mobile at the mall and as I predicted, I am dead. Dead to my family. Dead to the world. Dead, as Nan might say, as a doornail.
:'-(
I'm in my dungeon feeling as if my head has been banged repeatedly. They all lined up to have a go. The first blow came from my mother.
'Elly! You are so careless! Stupid!' she yells. 'Are you thinking anything at all? Or is your brain just a few cells held together with lip gloss and nail polish?
I have to admit that my mother had me there for a moment, because sometimes I wonder the same thing myself. I try to think of things in the correct order, but with so much to think about all at once ('Why am I here?', 'Where are my sports socks?') it's easy to be distracted by shiny stuff like lip gloss and nail polish.
My mother is an events organiser – a weddings, parties, anything planner. Her business is called 'Regal Events'. Geddit? She values, above all, punctuality and attention to detail. I swear that my mother wouldn't mind if I smuggled marijuana to Bali as long as I was at the airport on time, had proper travel insurance and wasn't carrying a pair of nail scissors in my hand luggage.
First she rang to report my phone missing and put a bar on the number. (Which of course I would have done if I'd had a phone. Der!) Then she herded me into the car and back we went to the mall. Groan!
The first stop was the mall admin office, where she inspected the lost and found shelves. There's actually some really good stuff there: a couple of nice bags, cool sunnies and about thirty-seven mobile phones – none of them mine. Then she took twenty agonising minutes to carefully fill out a three-page form to report my handbag missing.
After that she dragged me about eighty kilometres – including back to Tiara and to the Hip Pip juice bar – leaving her business card sticky-taped on every cash register and pinned to every noticeboard she could find (thoughtfully bringing along the sticky-tape and pins herself). If nothing else, Mrs Libby Pickering is sure to be offered the job of CEO of Britannia Mall Crime Stoppers.
Of course there was the expected lecture on the way home about the Days Before Mobile Phones Were Invented. All very fascinating. (YAWN!) Truth is my mother would be dead as a doornail too if she didn't have her mobile. A common exchange heard in the halls of Pickering Palace:
'Rick, have you seen my phone?' My mother tears through the kitchen, her car keys jangling in her hand.
'No. Have you seen my car keys?' My father runs the other way, mobile up to his ear.
'Can I use your mobile to ring mine?'
'Can I use your key to my car?'
'Sure, honey.'
'Thanks, sweetie.'
Ring ring. Jingle jangle. Kiss kiss. Bye bye. Slam!
When I ask my mother if I can use her phone to ring Bianca and Will, she is, predictably, outraged.
'This is a business phone, Elly,' she snaps. 'I simply can't have you gossiping away when I need it to be free for important calls.'
She then takes a call and gossips away for a good half-hour to some client or other about whether it's possible to make gerberas out of icing sugar and, even if you could, would they be suitable for a christening cake? All very important!
Meanwhile, seven entire hours of a Saturday have gone by and I haven't spoken to Will. In this time Will could have rung to tell me he loves me and then, getting no answer, wondered if my declaration of love for him yesterday was just a whim. As if perhaps the fierce sun on the beach had made me dizzy. He'll take the silence of my phone as evidence that I didn't mean what I said, when, in fact, I have never meant anything more in my entire life.
What is it about Will? Why do I love him? He doesn't say much. But then he doesn't have to. In fact, you can tell what Will is really like by the number of things he doesn't do, including:
Blah, blah, blah, on and on about sport. Paint his face blue to go to the football or stick a hollowed-out watermelon on his head to go to the cricket.
Repeat stupid jokes he read on the net or heard on breakfast radio.
Do bad impersonations of Jack Black, Mike Myers, Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler or any other Hollywood star.
Walk around with earphones stuck in his ears, humming out of tune and air drumming.
Sit for hours on end on the couch playing stupid video games.
Jump on you and lick your face to say 'hello'.
You'd be right in thinking that only an immature dweeb would do any of this pathetic stuff. You'd also be right in wondering what kind of girl would have a boyfriend who did. Welcome to Bianca and Jai World.
But before I get distracted by stupid Jai, here's more about wonderful Will. I might be utterly obsessed with hair (I don't know why, I just am) but no-one has hair like Will Phillips. In fact, if you stand on the steps of Oldcastle High and look across the quadrangle, it's easy to imagine the heads there as a kind of bumpy landscape. You see spiky peaks of black, then tangled bushes of brown, the odd coppery hill, and then your eye is taken by the sight of blond curls threaded with gold that glint in the sun. It's as if you were looking across the rocky, drab plains of Middle-earth to the shimmering Elven forest of Lothlórien.
That's what I feel like when I stand underneath Will's arm – as if I am being sheltered by the golden bough of a golden tree in a golden wood and I am Arwen Evenstar. Sigh!
Will looks like an elf or a water sprite or faerie boy. He is tall and slim and has long, elegant fingers. As I said, he doesn't say much, and doesn't have to, because he is deep.
'It's kind of like I am totally connected to the universe when I'm out there in the ocean,' says Will. 'Every thing, every place, every person, just slips away and I'm just some random drop of, I dunno . . .'
Can you believe he says amazing stuff like that? He plays guitar, watches surfing DVDs and picks up rubbish on the beach whenever we walk there together, because he really cares about Mother Earth. We sit on the sand and watch the moon come up over the ocean whenever we can. Just him and me . . . and a giant plastic bag full of old soft-drink cans and busted rubber thongs.
I hope he does say that he loves me – even if I said it first and put him under pressure.
Sometimes I ask Will if he thinks of me when he's out there surfing and loses his grip on reality.
'Sure I do,' says Will. 'I use you as a marker to remember where my stuff is. You're my land anchor, Elly. You bring me back to earth.'
So, there it is. I'm Will's bridge between nothingness and real life. Without me, he'd be swept out to sea. Sometimes he laughs and calls me his 'little leg rope'. You might think that's a rude thing to say, but no surfer ever goes out without their leg rope. With out that little length of rubber, their board would smash into the rocks or drift across endless oceans.
I don't surf. I've tried a couple of times and I'm crap. Trying to keep up with Will would be needy and pathetic. I like to swim, but mostly I'd rather sit on the beach with a book.
'What are you reading now, Elly?' smiles Will. 'Read me something.'
And I do. He shakes out crystal drops from his curls, towels his tanned skin and we lie back in the warm sand and I read to him.
'That's brilliant, Elly,' Will whispers. 'You get lost in words the same way I do in the waves. Every time I come back to shore, every time you close the cover of your book, I'll bet we're both asking the same question: What does it all mean?'
Tonight in The Dungeon I google What does it all mean? and come up with 56,000,000 mentions. Doesn't look like anyone has worked it out so far.
The second person to bang the doorknocker on my deadhead this afternoon was my father. I predicted that he would sigh and shake his head and so it came to pass.
