A Royal Mess (41 page)

I solved the mystery of my missing skirts Monday morning when Indie found them wedged behind the completely useless non-heat-radiating radiator in our room.

‘Sebastian probably hid them there.’ Clems giggled. But I couldn’t feel cross about Sebastian as all my cross feelings were focused on Freds.

Down in the chaos of clashing dishes and chatter in the ref, Star waved us over to her table, where she’d saved us a bench. ‘I called Malcolm this morning and he’s totally on for Operation Counter Dump,’ she told us as we sat down. ‘We’re all convening in Windsor on Saturday at two.’

‘He’s going to get a posse together of fit boys from his film club too,’ Portia added. ‘Tarkie told me.’

I imagined a hellish troop of pimpled film buffs in tight black clothes banging on about Federico Fellini and almost died with the dreariness of it all, but Indie was
wriggling excitedly in her seat, so I didn’t verbalise my doubts. Tarquin was fit enough, though – and a member of Malcolm’s film club – so Indie was no doubt over the moonarama at the prospect of seeing him.

But my enthusiasm was somewhat diluted. First, I wasn’t convinced that Freds would even show on Saturday. And second, even if he did show, I wasn’t sure he’d be that devastated to see me with my posse chatting to Malcolm and his nerdy film club in their stupid tight black clothes.

But Star was on a mission. ‘See, everything’s going according to plan,’ she told me, shoving a piece of croissant in my mouth so I couldn’t argue.

After chapel and room inspection we made our way to maths, where Mr Templeton was eager to arouse our young minds with hard sums and amusing theorems. He actually talked like that.

‘I’ve got something really exciting to stimulate those little grey cells of yours today, girls,’ he told us as he rubbed his hands together like some Machiavellian priest of evil.

We tried to look spellbound and interested – or at least not about to expire from boredom – but it was très, très challenging.

‘Yes, girls! It’s my favourite subject, and I sincerely hope it will soon be yours. It’s called trigonometry, or as our ancient Latin friends called it,
trigonometría!

I don’t think I was the only girl in the class wondering what ancient Latin friends he or any of the rest of us had. I
doubt he has any friends frankly, not with his tragic capacity for delusion.

Most of the class were either pocket-eating their breakfast, checking txts under their desks or writing whimsical things about boys on their stationery.

But Mr Templeton was undeterred. He banged on relentlessly, making up even more ridiculous words like ‘sine,’ ‘cos’ and some other thingameepiglets. I put my head on the desk for a nice little snoozy woozy. I hadn’t slept well the night before because of all the Counter Dump issues.

The next thing I knew, a piece of chalk hit me on the head. I swear it practically decapitated me. If that’s not against European Human Rights legislation, I don’t know what is.

‘Miss Kelly, were you asleep?’ Mr Templeton asked.

Seriously, the man was the apex of all that is sadly mad about grown-ups. ‘Of course I was asleep!’ I blurted as I rubbed my sore little head.

How could anyone keep their eyes open with someone banging on about the measurement of triangles? I don’t even like triangles. They’re unnatural. Then again so is Mr Templeton.

Still it was my duty as a well-brought-up student to humour the horrible little man. So I said – ultra, ultra sweetly – ‘Sorry, Mr Templeton. I was just having a nice little dream about sine, cos and the, erm, that other lovely trigonomonstic thingamee you were telling us about.’

Mr Templeton was not even mildly mollified by my excuse. ‘Fine, then you’ll have no trouble giving me three blues on the fascinating tables I was just explaining to everyone, will you?’

Seriously, those heady days when Pythagoras could hold a crowd spellbound with theorems and tricky sums were long gone, with no small thanks to teachers like Mr Templeton.

All in all it was a pretty blue week for me. Every time I tried to have a bit of a snooze in class, some sadistic teacher would slap a pile of blues on me.

I suppose it did distract me from thinking about Freds, who called me once a night. It took more willpower than I ever knew I had not to answer my phone. As predicted by the wise girls of Polo Central, though, he left no message. If I hadn’t been so tired from practising for our trip to Florence with the national fencing team, I would have agonised over why he only bothered to call once a night. Did that mean he only thought of my poor broken heart once? Or was he being all dignified and decent and trying not to stalk me?

I would have liked him to call a hundred desperate times a day. I would have liked to hear him sobbing away disgracefully on my answer service. At least then I would know that my charms were powerful enough to bring a boy to tears. As it was, I just felt annoyed. Which is why I started writing songs.

I know it was just a first draft of my first song ever, but
by Friday I thought it was going quite magnifique, I really, really did. I was so tremulous with pride, I rushed to the music wing to share my opus with Indie and Star, whom I hoped would give my self-esteem that much-needed lift.

They took the pages from me, and Star read the lyrics out but without injecting any feeling into them whatsoever.

He stole my heart with his sticky-outy hair
and then he broke it in two, oooh, oooh.
My heart is soooo broken and my mind’s so confused,
and I don’t knowwhat to dooo, oooh, ooh.
If I wasn’t afraid of getting more blues,
I’d take my sabre and cut him in two,
yes, that’s exactly what I’d do! Oooh! Oooh!
That’s exactly what I’d do, oooooooooooooh yaaaaaah.

Star and Indie said it was a good first effort, which was a bit underwhelming. Still, they had a go at writing the melody for it – if you can call the noise their band makes melodious.

Indie did a great job singing the lyrics though, which in my humble opinion sounded brilliant and feverishly meaningful. But Star said it wasn’t long enough, and Indie suggested I might want to ‘rework it a bit.’

‘Or maybe even a lot,’ added Star.

Like most rock royalty, Star’s honesty could occasionally do with a little reining in. On the piste I could usually get
the better of her, but in the music room she was madder than Bell End during the Nationals.

I left them to belt out some minor chords on their own while I sought solace in the pet shed, where Dorothy gave me some much-needed love and affection. I swear rabbits are ultra-sentient as far as creatures go, with little on their minds other than lettuce and carrots.

TWENTY
My Style Statement Depended on the Whims of a Psycho Toff

Sister Constance let Year Eleven off Saturday lessons so we could ‘beautify ourselves for Operation Counter Dump,’ which I must say was very Christian of her. She also let us order in pizza! The entire school almost fell over in shock. I know we do it all the time, but we do it secretly and smuggle in the delivery guy using the stealth and cunning that boarding school nurtures in teen minds.

Seriously though, getting dressed that day was more nerve-racking than getting dressed for my first social or VIP ball. My outfit had to be
ultra de rigueur.
When I say the pressure was on, I’m speaking euphemistically, you understand – or is that eurithmically? Either way, it was very stressful.

My outfit was largely inspired and owned by Honey.
For all her flaws, she does have her good points. Like Siddhartha, for example. We were all growing awfully fond of her orange-robed pacifist. Even Miss Bibsmore was developing a soft spot for him. Also, Honey did have an unreasonable number of designer outfits and shoes.

‘Darling, you simply can’t wear your own tragic clothes if you’re serious about seducing poor Freddie,’ my evil anti-girlfriend told me. ‘I mean, they’re probably the reason he dumped you, sweetie.’ She was filing her talons as she explained this fact, adding, ‘Besides, he has his pick of the crop, and well …’ She let her sentence trail off, let the nail file fall to the floor and wiped an imagined tear from her eye. She always managed to make me feel that my life was too, too sad for mere words to express – and so she said it all with gestures. She’s a perfectionist at miming my inadequacy.

Star et al agreed with her choice of coffee-coloured suede micro-mini. ‘Oh yes, legs are always very now,’ Georgina advised. The micro-mini was teamed with butter-coloured suede Jimmy Choos, which I feared would end in disaster. ‘But what if I get them wet or dirty?’ I asked fearfully. The last thing I wanted was to be hunted down by Honey and murdered for ruining her boots.

‘Oh darling, they are soooo last term. It was you or the bin for them, to be perfectly honest.’

‘Freds won’t know that they’re last season. Boys are hopeless on clothes,’ Portia said kindly. ‘Tarkie’s got absolutely no idea about fashion, and Daddy’s man sees to all his clothes.’

‘I always think Tarquin looks really cool,’ Indie said, which made us all tease her mercilessly about how feverishly infatuated she was with the ever-so-serious Lord Tarquin.

Star insisted I wear her ripped cashmere jumper. She said it would give me “attitude.”

‘The attitude of a girl with no boyfriend,’ Honey remarked tartly. ‘Well, if that’s the look you’re after, peasants, be my guest.’ She sneered, lighting up a fag. Which provoked Star to pull out the Febreze and spray it all over my clothes and hair, making me choke. Seriously, my nerves were shredded by the time I’d been turned into boy bait.

Even though it was below zero, I wasn’t allowed to wear tights ‘because no one wants to pull a girl in granny tights,’ as Georgina pointed out. ‘Even Tobias can’t bear them.’ She grimaced as if the very thought of me in tights might be giving her a migraine.

Miss Bibsmore popped her head around the corner. ‘She’s right, duckie, you don’t want to look like an old granny.’

‘Oh well, you’d know, you horrible old hag,’ Honey sniped.

Miss Bibsmore didn’t rise to the bait. She merely shuffled off in her giant dog slippers. I think she knew that my style statement that day was in the hands of a psycho toff – and the last thing anyone wanted to do that day was set Honey off.

Georgina insisted on lending me one of her priceless pashes, which I’d been coveting since I first saw her wear it at the start of term. It was soooo gloriously soft and adorable, it reminded me of Dorothy until Honey wrapped it tightly around my neck like a hangman’s noose.

Portia leant me her really beautiful diamond chandelier earrings, and Clems and Indie did my hair, which took an age because we wanted it to look wild and windswept and yet stay perfectly still. Indie had all sorts of lacquers and potions for that. Clems had a professional turbo hair dryer, which I was fairly certain started life as an aircraft engine.

I didn’t wear any makeup whatsoever, apart from six inches of lip-gloss and three tubes of mascara, because everyone knows boys prefer the natural look.

My entire year was decked out in similar finery. Even the Polo twins looked like a Saint Tropez fantasy in tiny pleated skirts and gold strappy sandals. But it wasn’t just them, everyone looked fantastic. Looking around at my beautiful posse as we began climbing into our taxis, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of pride. Bob’s always banging on about the bonds of true friendship, but then he also bangs on about scrubbing vegetables, so I don’t listen to him if I can help it. But for once, I really felt I understood what he meant – not about the veggie scrubbing, but about friendship and sisterhood. All these people were coming out for me, well, me and the school honour. I barely knew some of the girls, but they were there for me.
Braving the cold with their bare legs, all for the sake of my honour. It was a humbling experience.

Sister Constance and the rest of the nuns and all of the house spinsters were assembled in a long line on the gravel driveway to wave us off. Sister Regina and Sister Bethlehem had stitched a banner saying COUNTER DUMP YOUR SOCKS OFF GIRLS! which was très, très sweet and would have made me weep if my eyes weren’t so weighed down with mascara. Miss Bibsmore saluted us with her stick. It almost brought a tear to my eye. Almost, because then I suddenly started to buckle under the monumental pressure of what I was about to do.