A Royal Match (45 page)

‘They’re called staff now, Honey,’ Indie snapped. ‘You have absolutely no respect for the people who work for you, do you?’

Naturally, Honey ignored the remark. I hadn’t even had a chance to get my head around the prospect of staying at Honey’s famous Chelsea mansion. I suppose I hadn’t actually thought she’d meant it.

‘Oh, look, there’s a shooting star,’ cried Arabella, pointing with her cigarette up at the heavens. ‘I’m going to wish that I pull Alfred at Star’s party,’ she announced.

‘I wish I could go to Star’s place with rest of rest you,’ Indie added, cuddling under a duvet with me.

‘Given the choice I’d rather go to the Euro Ball,’ I sighed wistfully as I spotted a shooting star of my own.

Suddenly Portia spoke. ‘You should be grateful you even have a choice.’

I was stung by what I saw as a direct attack on me. ‘But I don’t have the choices I want. Unlike you, Portia, I haven’t been invited to the Royal Ball.’

The vodka stash concealed in the Body Shop bottles was being passed around. ‘Do you know, Calypso,’ Portia remarked lightly, as if about to explain weather systems, ‘I actually used to look up to you? I actually used to admire you. Last year, when you set up
Nun of Your Business
and raised all that money for charity, all I wanted was to get to know you better. I was so thrilled when I discovered that you and I were sharing this term. I saw it as a chance to get to know you properly. But you’re nothing like I thought you were. In fact, as far as I can tell, you and Honey are
the
singularly most self-centred girls I’ve ever had the misfortune to know.’

I took a big gulp of vodka and almost choked. So much for my plan to make up with Portia under the canopy of the stars. I felt like I’d been slapped across the face. Instead of making up, all my pent-up resentments about Portia going to the ball with Freddie just exploded out of me.
‘That’s easy for you to say, Miss I-Was-Born-with-a-Silver-Spoon-in-My-Mouth.’

Honey did her hyena laugh, which sounded more peculiar than ever echoing through her metal beak.

‘Don’t ruin tonight, you two,’ Indie pleaded, nudging me in the ribs with her elbow. ‘This is my first moonwalk at Saint Augustine’s. I don’t want any arguing.’

‘Yes, have another drink,’ Clemmie urged, passing the Body Shop Special flask to me.

‘Yes, stop it, both of you,’ Arabella added, passing another Body Shop Special over to Portia. ‘Balls and parties simply aren’t worth falling out over.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Clemmie.

I took another long slug of vodka and passed it to Indie, hoping the confrontation was over.

‘A silver spoon in my mouth didn’t save my mother’s life though, did it?’ Portia replied emotionlessly.

She was right, and in that moment I realised what a tragic piece of work I was, obsessing about a couple of boys when what really counted was being here with my friends and knowing that on the other side of the world Bob and Sarah were working hard to give me all this. I remembered how I’d not even bothered opening the e-mail from Bob and Sarah when there was an e-mail in my in box from Freddie. I’d been obsessing about all the wrong things. ‘I’m really, really sorry, Portia,’ I told her as the tears sprang to my eyes. ‘Please, Portia, I’m sorry.’

But she continued, her voice pleasant but cold, ‘People like
you
will never understand that money and position don’t instantly deliver your dreams. Sometimes, you have to do things you’d rather not do. Sometimes you have to put other people before yourself. Do you think I want to go to this stupid ball any more than Indie does?’

I felt the blood rush to my face at her words. For a start I was shocked that she hadn’t acknowledged my apology, and then I began to feel angry because even though she could see I was tearful, she was still going for me. Behind her aloof demeanour, which prevented her from showing her true feelings, was the simple truth: she disliked me.

‘People like you …,’ she continued.

‘Oh, just have a sweet, you two, and lighten up,’ Clemmie groaned. ‘I didn’t risk my life climbing down that bloody scaffolding to hear you two arguing.’

Still, her outburst worked for a moment, at least until the silence was interrupted by Honey. ‘You really, really hate Calypso, don’t you, Portia?’ she said with a reverent awe in her voice.

But I barely listened to Honey. The fragile sense of belonging that I’d built up last term was under attack. ‘Anyway, Portia, what do you mean by people like
me?
People without money? People without title and privilege?’ I lashed back. ‘Just because I’m American and titleless, and not as rich as you …’

Portia groaned. ‘How typical that you make this about
your country rather than looking at yourself. I’m not talking about your nationality, Calypso. I’m talking about the fact that self-centred, manipulative people like you and Honey make the world a colder, more miserable place for the rest of us.’

‘Me and Honey?’ I repeated. I looked over at Honey in her metal beak and her eyes met mine in shared horror. ‘Honey and me!’ I said it again because it wasn’t easy getting my mind around our two names linked together like that.

‘How
dare
you!’ Honey squawked through her beak. I don’t suppose she wanted to be grouped with me either.

‘Um, this is getting a bit heavy, guys. Can we just chill a bit?’ Indie pleaded. ‘They’re
both
just stupid balls full of stupid boys we’ll loathe by next year. None of it means anything.’

‘At least you’re invited, though,’ I reminded her.

Arabella interjected. ‘Well, I’m glad I don’t have to go to the stupid Royal Bore. I can’t think of anything worse than dancing with all those old farty men. Yuk.’

Indie giggled. ‘That’s what it is, actually, a Royal Bore.’

‘Exactly. It all sounds positively evil to me,’ Arabella groaned. ‘No, I’m looking forward to pulling lovely fit boys at Star’s house party and riding quad bikes around in the mud.’

‘I wish I could,’ added Portia. ‘I’d much rather be spending time with Star and the … boys. Just chilling.’

The image of Madam Deportment ‘chilling’ made me laugh. ‘Chilling? You, Portia? You’re so cold I’m surprised bits of you don’t snap off,’ I blurted before I could stop myself.

Portia was right: I
was
becoming like Honey. Help!

I spent the rest of the week in Indie’s dorm, mostly because I was too uncomfortable to be around Portia.

Honey, on the other hand, stuck to me like glue, which was creepy, not just because of the iron beak, but because of the associations the other girls might have made about us hanging out together. Indie hated Honey and wouldn’t let her in her room, so at least I was safe there. Indie was really kind. She told me not to worry about what Portia had said and urged me to make up.

‘But I’ve tried,’ I reminded her, and she threw it back in my face.

‘Give her time. You know what Honey’s said to you
about Portia, but you don’t know what she’s said to Portia about you.’

‘I don’t think Portia listens to Honey,’ I told her, quite certain I was right.

As far as Honey was concerned, it was now written in stone that I was spending the half term week at her place, and out of desperation, I let myself be talked into it. Although I dreaded the thought of spending time with Honey, I was still determined to go to the ball.

On Friday, the day we left school, I had to go back to my room to pack my bag. I hoped Portia would be gone already, but despite my careful timing, I was just in time to see her placing the last item in her bag and zipping it up. Dressed in old jeans and a t-shirt, a cashmere hoodie tied casually around her waist, her long dark hair tied up in a ponytail, she walked past me without acknowledging me in her special regal way. Honey high-fived me, and I high-fived her back, because, well, I couldn’t just leave her hand hanging in midair when I was going to be stuck with her at her house all week!

That was when it hit me. Portia had said she’d much rather be spending the week at Star’s when we were on our moonwalk. And what’s more, she’d sounded like she actually meant it.

‘She said she’d much rather be spending the half term break at Star’s,’ I announced as if coming out of a dream – or perhaps it was a nightmare.

‘Who cares what Misery Briggs prefers?’ Honey
shrugged. ‘We’ll have the best time at La Fiesta; I’ve arranged caviar and champagne for the ride back to London….’

‘Yes, but don’t you see? Freds is going to be at the Royal Bore, not at Star’s; so if she’s so keen on Freddie, why would she want to be at Star’s?’

Honey shrugged again, then turned her back on me and went into the en suite, slamming the door behind her.

Had I been a complete idiot, allowing Honey’s suggestions and poisonous whispers to seep into my consciousness? Indie was right, I had to sort this out. I charged down the stairs, which were packed with girls and their luggage, all of them making their half term plans to catch up on the King’s Road. By the time I fought my way outside, I was calling out Portia’s name as loudly as humanly possible without losing a tonsil. But her chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce was already crunching down the gravel driveway.

In the limo on the drive back to her place, Honey produced those tiny little bottles of Veuve Clicquot that you see runway models drinking at after show parties. I had never even tried champagne, not that I was going to admit this to Honey or anything. I was actually quite curious to see what the big deal was. Sucking up the contents of our mini-bottles through matching orange straws, driving down the hedge-lined country lanes, I watched in shock as Honey suddenly threw her iron beak out the window.

‘What about your nose?’ I asked fearfully, because after a
while Honey’s lies sort of seep into you. Of course I knew all this, I’d known her for coming up on five years, which begged the question … what was I doing, sitting in the back of her limo with her, like we were close girlfriends? And then it got even worse. As the bubbles of the champagne charged up through the straw and into my mouth, I looked down, and she was actually holding my hand.

She squeezed it warmly. ‘Oh, I don’t need it now, I was only making a point. If Star thinks she can get away with hitting me, she’s about to get a nasty surprise. Daddy said I needed the infirmary to quantify my injuries.’

We had come to a T-junction, and as we took the turn to London, I realised that I was the one who had taken a wrong turn. Instead of heading off to stay with my best friend, Star, in Derbyshire like a sane girl, I was in Honey’s limo on the way back to Honey’s mansion in Chelsea, where I would be spending the next week. A whole week in Honey World!

There was no chance of escape now, though. I sucked on my straw, hoping the champagne could make me feel more optimistic, but all it did was make me feel like screaming hysterically and tearing at my clothing the way those women do in Alfred Hitchcock movies.

‘I’ve got loads of bleach at home, so don’t worry about your hair, okay?’ she said faux-kindly, giving my head a pat.

Of course she had bleach. No doubt she also had arsenic and cyanide and a whole host of other poisonous toys to try on me as well. I felt like her little pet, which is probably
how she saw me. With Poppy and her mother in LA, Georgina and all the other girls who tolerated her at Star’s estate and her rabbit now in the possession of Miss Bibsmore, I was all Honey had left. Maybe
I’d
end up being turned into a pair of designer shoes!

Looking at it from the other angle, I did have choices, as Portia so accurately pointed out. I could have been at Star’s with all the other girls. I could have been riding quad bikes by day and pulling fit boys by night. Okay, Freddie wouldn’t be there, but I could have met other fit boys, danced, pulled, moved on. But instead I was in Honey’s limo en route to Honey’s mansion, where bleach and god knows what else awaited me.

It was about five o’clock when we finally dived out of the limo on Cadogan Gardens, a garden square behind Harrods in Knightsbridge, where even the plants have trust funds. The door was opened by my old friend, and Honey’s crippled manservant, Oopa. He was dressed in the usual valet garb, morning coat and striped trousers. He didn’t smile but merely wandered out to the limo and started to bring in the bags. The rest of the staff were lined up as if to meet the queen, curtsying and doffing their caps to Honey. It really was like we were in another century.

‘Bring up some champagne, Oopa. Dom, I think, don’t you, Calypso?’ She asked me as if genuinely interested in my opinion.

‘Oh yes, always Dom,’ I agreed, even though I didn’t want any more champagne and I definitely didn’t want to
be alone with a seriously châteaued Honey. Nonetheless, I scuttled up the marble stairs after her, trying to reassure myself that I would be okay. It was only a week after all, and at least Honey was being nice to me …

She opened the door on a bedroom so palatial that you could get lost in it. She had her own phone and one of those intercom systems so she could contact the staff in any room of the house. But there was something rather sad about it all, as if all this luxury could in some way compensate for being alone. As much as Honey went on about her Daddy suing everyone, he’d never actually attended any of the school functions for parents. I started to feel a bit sorry for Honey. I would hate to go home to LA to a house with no Bob and Sarah – even if I did have loads of people to do things for me and lots of lovely things. The best thing about holidays at home with my parents was being with them – as mad and wholemeal as they were. I was the most important person in the world as far as they were concerned. They loved me.