Friends Forever!

by Grace Dent

  And standing beside Cressida is a taller brunette, clad in a Chloe summer dress, huge dark Dior sunglasses and a red string kabbalah bracelet around her right wrist.

  The ground begins to feel highly unsteady beneath my feet.

  It’s Panama Goodyear.

  “And can you make a note that I need kabbalah water on my breakfast tray each sunrise,” Panama quacks, thumping the reception desk with her Marni wallet. “You do know what kabbalah water is, don’t you? It’s blessed by kabbalah priests.”

  Oh God.

  Please.

  Nooooooo.

  scrumbled

  “Clauuuude, Fleeeeur! Oh my God! Listen,” I cry, racing into the apartment, sweat running down my face. “It’s terrible! The worst thing ever!”

  Weirdly, Claude and Fleur are standing in the lounge wearing freaky fixed smiles.

  “They’ve followed us,” I say. “It’s awful! Cress—”

  But we’re not alone. Because lurking in the kitchen with a clipboard under one arm is Miss Scrumble.

  “Oh, hello, Miss Scrumble,” I gasp. “What’s happening?”

  “Two crucial points of business,” sighs Scrumble, peering suspiciously around the apartment, “the former being very grave indeed.”

  Scrumble directs the last part of the sentence to Fleur. “Hang on. What have I done now?” gasps Fleur.

  Scrumble sighs and puckers her mouth into a perfect cat’s anus. “Boys,” she tuts.

  “Boys?” repeats Fleur.

  “My sources report,” drones Scrumble, “that a boy has been spotted creeping out of this apartment on various occasions over the last month.”

  This day had taken a serious nosedive.

  “Canoodlement is occurring in these staff quarters,” Scrumble says, “which contravenes Section 8 of the Harbinger Hall Employee Behavioral Code.”

  “But that’s totally impossible, Miss Scrumble!” I cry, sounding like a bad daytime soap actress.

  “I don’t know anything about that!” says Fleur, looking very confused.

  “What a load of rubbish!” Claude says. “Somebody is lying to you.”

  “Svetlana wouldn’t—” Scrumble begins, before coughing and starting again. “My source isn’t known for telling lies.”

  “That Russian is going to pay for this,” mutters Fleur as Scrumble begins to waddle around our apartment, snooping into the bedroom, looking under beds and behind wardrobes, sticking her snout into every nook.

  “This is a very fine line that you’re walking, Fleur Swan,” Scrumble squawks, standing just beneath the door to the loft. “What Siegmund Brewster sees in you beats me. I’d have had you thrown out weeks ago! But, oh no, he knows best, apparently.”

  “But,” protests Fleur, “I’ve not—”

  “Enough!” grunts Scrumble, raising a stumpy hand. “Let this be a warning to you. One more strike and your feet won’t touch the ground!”

  Fleur folds her arms and stands there visibly simmering.

  I feel really guilty. But not guilty enough to grass myself up.

  “Now, moving on to topic two,” says Scrumble, checking her clipboard. “The new VIP guests have just checked into the Windsmore Suite.”

  “Are they pop stars?” asks Fleur, brightening slightly.

  “No, Fleur, they certainly are not,” I groan, shaking my head.

  “In actual fact,” says Scrumble, “they’re a group of extremely wealthy young ladies here for a summer break. One of their fathers has kindly given over his gold AmEx so the girls can have unlimited spending while they’re here. That makes them VIPs by our standards.”

  “How nice,” says Claude bitterly.

  “So,” continues Scrumble, ignoring her, “it’s of paramount importance that they feel pampered during their stay.”

  “Fine,” shrug Fleur and Claude.

  “Oh God, please kill me now,” I mutter. A bead of sweat trickles down my back.

  “Tomorrow,” Scrumble continues, “the guests have requested a traditional English afternoon tea party to be served in their suite. Cucumber sandwiches, scones, cakes, tea, that sort of thing.”

  “Consider it done,” says Claude, opening the door to chivvy Scrumble out.

  “Thank you, Claudette,” says Scrumble, waddling past. “Oh, and just one other thing: all purchases for the Windsmore Suite guests are being charged to the AmEx card of a Mr. Alan Sleeth.”

  Claude’s mouth drops wide open. “Mr. Sleeth?” repeats Claude.

  Fleur’s eyes widen. Then I swear her face turns puce.

  “Yes, Sleeth,” repeats Scrumble, referring to her clipboard. “But the bill for the accommodation itself is being picked up by a Mr. Goodyear.”

  Chapter 7

  more tea, cressida?

  “Right, everyone stay chilled,” Fleur warns us as we trek miserably to the Windsmore Suite pushing trolleys laden with tea-party treats. Scones, cream cakes, dainty little sandwiches, petits fours, gallons of Darjeeling and Lapsang souchong tea and of course we haven’t forgotten Panama’s kabbalah water. The Windsmore Suite witches have ordered the lot.

  “Let’s not give them a reaction,” hisses Fleur. “Then they’ll check out and buzz off.”

  “Hmmm . . . hope so,” I mutter, trudging behind, pushing a trolley bearing a large pomegranate and white chocolate cream gateau under a silver serving platter.

  Claude just walks behind like a little mouse. Cressida and Panama’s arrival seems to have really floored her. She’s coped with so much of late, but this seems different somehow.

  “C’mon, Claude,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulder. In one of the grand mirrors lining the main corridor, I catch sight of our little gang, traipsing along in our skanky bry-nylon green pinafores. Even Fleur, with her long legs and platinum blonde hair, struggles to look glam in these frumpy outfits.

  “Okay, remember. Cool as ice,” says Fleur, knocking on the suite’s door and clearing her throat. “Hello? Room service!”

  Inside the Windsmore Suite, a chorus of sniggers rings out.

  “Ennnnnter!” shouts Panama Goodyear in her unmistakably nauseating tones.

  “I can’t go in,” whispers Claude. Her hands are shaking.

  “We have to,” I say.

  With heavy hearts, we wheel the trolleys into the suite’s living area. It’s worse than I even imagined. Around the suite’s antique dining table sit Panama Goodyear and Cressida Sleeth looking glossy, well groomed and as smug as humanly possible. Euugh!

  Whereas Panama’s look is a little more “bo-ho chic” than usual, Cressida’s hippie image seems a tad more dressy and blinged up. They’re both wearing red cord wristbands around their right wrists. It’s like the gruesome pair have melded into one.

  Worse still, they’re accompanied by Leeza Palmer, Panama’s terrifying über-bimbo buddy. Bizarrely, they’re all far bustier than I ever remembered them. Proper D-cup whoppers. Especially Leeza, who had droopy spaniel’s ears last time I saw her, but now has DD monsters. Freaky.

  “Oh, thank you, God!” grins Panama, clapping her hands together. “It’s true. They are working as servants here. Hilarious!”

  Fleur takes a deep breath, announcing calmly, “Afternoon tea is served.”

  I try to say a businesslike hello, but I’m too bitter to breathe.

  Just then, from an adjoining bedroom appears Abigail Munro, probably Panama’s loyalest of bum kissers, also with new all-improved cleavage. She can barely contain her glee.

  “Oh, girls, loving the uniforms,” she winks, sitting herself down.

  As we begin to unload the plates, cups and food, the humiliation is asphyxiating me. Cressida Sleeth, clad in a pale blue floaty vintage Marc Jacobs summer smock, is peeping coyly at us from behind her blunt-cut fringe. Her face is a dictionary definition of conceited. Just like it was on the day of the last GCSE exam.

  Play it cool, Ronnie, I repeat to myself. Remember what Fleur said.

  “Gosh, they’re all very quiet,” Pan
ama announces as we begin unloading the plates of cream scones and jugs of milk. “Taken a vow of silence?”

  The first flicker of annoyance passes Fleur’s face.

  “Maybe they’re tired?” suggests Cressida. “All this skivvying and slaving must be exhausting.” She pauses, gazing directly at Claude. “We’re so very blessed our parents aren’t dependent on us for money.”

  Claude cringes with embarrassment.

  “Oh, Cressy,” sighs Panama. “Don’t be mean! You know Claude’s mum is broke as a joke.”

  “She’s . . . she’s not,” says Claude unconvincingly.

  “Yes, she is!” chuckles Cressida. “She had an interview with my daddy at Farquar, Lime and Young last month. She was begging for work! Claiming she was a highly qualified legal secretary. Ha!”

  “What?” gasps Claude.

  “Sadly, all Daddy needed at that time was a toilet attendant,” Cressida smirks.

  “But, we’re . . . she’s . . . ,” splutters Claude. A small tear appears in her eye.

  I can’t stand this any longer. “Oh, why don’t you just leave her alone?!” I growl, as the Sisters Grim collapse into satisfied titters.

  “It’s just a little joke,” smirks Abigail. “Can’t she take a joke?”

  “Ha ha ha! Ronnie Ripperton speaks!” guffaws Panama, pointing at me. “Her period of mourning is over. Hurray for us!”

  “Wah wah, Jimi Steele!” torments Leeza. “Let me sit on your wall, Jimi Steele! Let me hack into your Hotmail account, Jimi Steele!”

  Ugh! Cressida really has told them every little LBD secret. All I can see are four faces smirking and pointing at me. I’m trying to be cool, but a red angry mist has descended.

  “Okay! Enough!” Fleur yells, turning to Panama. “Listen, Panama, why are you here? Surely you’ve not driven three hundred miles just to laugh at us in our bry-nylon uniforms? Why aren’t you in Ibiza?”

  Panama rolls her eyes. “Tsk. Fleur, no one goes to Ibiza anymore,” she sneers. “It’s full of fat thirty-year-old has-beens at ‘back to the nineties’ retro-house nights.”

  The girls look to one another and smirk. “Anyone who’s anyone is coming down here for Booty Quake,” says Leeza patronizingly.

  “Plus we all decided to enter Miss Demonboard Babe,” simpers Abigail. “Just for the hell of it.”

  As Claude lets out a little whimper, I drop a teacup in horror.

  “And when we found out you three little trolls were working here,” continues Panama, “well, I said to my daddy, book me a suite ASAP!”

  Somehow Fleur’s face is a vision of Zen calm. I’ve never seen her so composed. “Okay, girls,” she says serenely. “You’ve had your slave/master degradation kick now, haven’t you? What more do you actually want?”

  Panama ponders for a moment.

  “Oooh, let me see . . . ,” she wonders aloud. Then her eyes widen. “Oooh, I know! How about a pole-dance? Do your Moulin Rouge again! In your underpants and bra! Cressida tells us that home video was hilarious!”

  “What?” groans Fleur, flushing scarlet. “Oooh . . . gnnnnnngnn!”

  “I’ve got an idea too,” squawks Cressida. “Maybe Fleur could tell us about the time she convinced herself she was pregnant . . . just because she’d let Baz Kauffman touch the outside of her tights!”

  “Hee hee! The immaculate conception!” guffaws Panama. “I wish my mummy would buy me a Your Body, Yourself sex education textbook.”

  Fleur’s mouth drops open. She’s totally lost for words.

  The entire gang is in hysterics now, laughing, singing Moulin Rouge songs and waving their arms. “More tea, waitress!” shouts Cressida, waving a teacup at us antagonistically.

  “Oh, serve yourself, Bilbo,” I hiss.

  Cressida feigns shock. “Well, how rude!” she hisses, grabbing her mobile phone. “Y’know, ladies? I think it’s time for our first official complaint.”

  I look to Fleur to calm things down, but by now her face has altered from calm composure to the crazed firecracker I know and love.

  As Cressida punches in numbers on her phone, Fleur strides around the table and stands before the huge pomegranate and cream gateau, her nostrils flaring with anger.

  “Oh, so you’re going to complain, are you?” says Fleur.

  Cressida just smirks and carries on dialing.

  “Well, then!” says Fleur, grabbing the cake with both hands. “I’d better give you something to complain about!”

  “Noooo, Fleur!” I scream. “Not the cake!”

  “Fleeeeur!” implores Claude. “Cool as ice, remember?”

  But this is soooo the opposite of cool.

  “Gateau is served!” Fleur yells with evil glee, unceremoniously splatting the entire fruity, spongy creation all over Cressida Sleeth’s head.

  Oh my God!

  “Spppllllgh pgghhhhgh!” splutters Cressida as cake drips all over her expensive dress.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” screams Panama.

  And at this point, all hell breaks loose in the Windsmore Suite.

  As Claude grabs two fresh cream scones and squishes them majestically into Panama’s ears, pretty much destroying her Stella McCartney shift dress, I take leave of my senses, grab a plate of chocolate profiteroles and begin splatting them across the room at Abigail and Leeza. Cressida squeals about lawyers, legal fees and her lactose intolerance, while Panama grabs plates of jam tarts and attempts to fight back. Meanwhile Abigail and Leeza are screeching, chucking sandwiches and cream buns willy-nilly.

  Within seconds the entire tea party has been reduced to a war zone of clotted cream, choux pastry and jam, and there’s not a single morsel remaining on the table to chuck. All of our VIPs look like they’ve been in the gunk tank on a Saturday morning kids’ show.

  “You’ll pay for this!” screams Panama, scooping clotted cream out of her ears.

  “Whatever,” says Fleur, brandishing the last remaining cream bun and taking aim at Panama’s big forehead.

  But at the same time, the door to the Windsmore Suite is creaking open, and to our horror Miss Scrumble appears, wearing her fake Harbinger grin.

  “Good afternoon!” she coos. “Just a courtesy call to our new VIPs. How is everything—”

  “Fleur, noooo!” I cry, but it’s too late.

  “Oh my Lord! What is hap—” Scrumble yells, just as trigger-happy Fleur Swan flings the final cream cake right across the suite, missing Panama, but knocking Scrumble’s glasses off her snout and dripping raspberry jam and whipped cream all over her Harris Tweed jacket.

  An eerie silence descends on the room.

  “Fleur Swan,” Scrumble says in a low venomous voice, removing the offending cake from her person, “go to the West Turret immediately and clear your belongings. You are dismissed!”

  sacked

  “Stop laughing!” Fleur is sniffling crossly into her mobile phone as she wanders around the West Turret, gathering handfuls of thongs, strappy sandals, mascaras and hair clips. “Stop it right now, you horrible man!”

  “I don’t think Fleur’s dad is being too supportive about this,” I whisper to Claude as we sit side by side on the sofa, totally shell-shocked.

  “Oh, so you had a bet, did you?” Fleur snaps to the phone line. “Well, I’ll have you know, Father, I’ve worked my butt off for almost a whole month, so tell that so-called mother of mine she owes you nothing!”

  Fleur is storming about now, listening to Paddy’s response, slamming things about angrily. “I can’t believe this!” she is saying, clearly rising to his bait. “You’re just as bad as that Scrumble! You think you know me, but you don’t! Well, I’ve got news for you, Paddy Swan, I don’t need you laughing at me and writing me off as a total numpty. In fact I don’t need you at all! Got it? Good! Right. I’m hanging up now.”

  Fleur picks up a skirt from beside her bed and throws it into her case.

  “Oh, and one other thing, Daddy,” she sniffles more humbly. “You’ll pick me
up at the station, won’t you? Oh, you will? Cool. See ya later.”

  Fleur puts her phone down on the coffee table and dries her eyes a little, turning to speak to us. “I can’t believe this is happening, girls,” she says mournfully. “I can’t believe I’ve been sacked.”

  Claude and I look at Fleur sympathetically. We can totally believe Scrumble sacked Fleur. But we just can’t believe she didn’t sack us too. But saying that, she didn’t catch us red-handed. Or cream-cake-handed, as it were.

  “It’s just so dramatic,” Fleur sobs, grabbing another handful of tissues and blowing her nose. Two thick streams of blue mascara are cascading down Fleur’s pretty face. Her nose is crimson from blubbing.

  “What did I do to deserve this?” she whispers, shaking her head incredulously.

  “Fleur,” I say reasonably, “you assaulted one of the VIP guests with a pomegranate gateau. What did you expect? A gold star and promotion to a managerial position?”

  “Hmmppgh, when you put it like that,” sighs Fleur, shoving handfuls of eye pencils and lipsticks into her vanity case. “But I think you’ll find I wasn’t the only hooligan. What about Claude? She virtually perforated Panama’s eardrum with a cream scone!”

  “I know,” sighs Claude, slouching back on the sofa and folding her arms. “And it felt so good!”

  Fleur wanders miserably back into the bedroom and begins removing all her teensy little dresses off their hangers. She stands by the chart on our bedroom wall where the LBD has awarded ourselves points for every boy we’ve snogged. Obviously Fleur is yards ahead—she’s even got the bonus prize for snogging a man over the age of thirty with a mustache, called Keith. Bleugh.

  It feels like the party is well and truly over.

  “Is Paddy angry?” I ask Fleur gently.

  “Well, not really,” sighs Fleur, folding up her fave It’s a Girl’s World halter-neck rah-rah dress into the size of pocket hankie. “He was pretty sarcastic. Y’know what he’s like; he was laughing at me, saying he couldn’t believe I’d lasted so long. Mum bet him I’d be back within a week.”

  Fleur looks sort of hurt.

  “Mmm,” I say. “Well, you did walk out of that job at Dunkin’ Donuts after one hour because the overall shade clashed with your skin tone.”