Bridesmaid Blitz (3 page)

Dad runs his hands through his hair. “You drive a hard bargain, Amy, but OK — you babysit Shelly on Saturday night and I’ll give you fifty euro for runners.”

I give a laugh. “Bought runners recently, Dad?”

“OK, seventy. That’s my final offer. Deal?” He sticks out his hand for me to shake.

“You two are as bad as each other.” Mum shakes her head, and off she huffs.

I clasp his hand. His palm feels warm and smooth. I’d prefer a hug, to be honest — shaking hands with your own dad seems a bit odd — and I’m still not thrilled that he’s chosen golf over spending time with me, but I’m used to it at this stage. And I didn’t really expect him to pay me for keeping an eye on Shelly — I was only joking — so I guess it’s an added bonus.

I see Dad out and then creep into the living room to watch some telly. I know Mum asked me to sort out my textbooks for school a week ago and I still haven’t done it, but there’s no way, José, I’m going to waste my last few precious hours of holiday time on that. Besides, I need some de-stressing after having to witness Mum and Dad bickering again. I find
Glee
on the Sky box and settle down to watch Rachel belt out yet another show tune.

Ten minutes later, there’s a loud
BANG
as something slaps the window, hard, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Peeling back the curtains, I peer out into the murky night and suddenly a face appears at the window. It’s pressed up against the glass like something out of one of Shelly’s horror films. I give a breathy shriek.

As the face draws back, I realize it’s not a vampire or a burglar; it’s Clover. I hurry into the hall and open the front door.

“Yowser, Beanie. How goes it?” she says, a big stupid grin on her face.

“
Pógarooney
, Clover. Are you trying to kill me?” I ask, my heart still almost thumping out of my chest.

She just chuckles and shakes her head. “You’re so easy to scare; I couldn’t resist. Are you going to let me in?”

“I guess,” I say a little crossly, standing back from the doorway. “But I’m supposed to be in my room, so shush, OK?”

Clover makes a scene of tiptoeing into the living room, bending her body over and putting her finger to her lips, like she’s on the stage. I follow and close the door carefully behind us. She flops onto the sofa, swivels around, dangles her feet over the armrest, and folds her arms behind her head.

“Quite comfortable?” I ask her.

“Yes, thanks,” she replies, ignoring my snarky tone. “What has you in such a grump?”

“What were you doing out there, anyway?” I say, ignoring her question. I perch on the side of the armchair and glare down at her.

“Practicing my superstealth technique. You never know when you might need to spy on someone. I was out there for ages before you spotted me.”

“Spotted you? Clover, your face was gurning against the window. I could hardly miss you.”

She shrugs. “I got bored of the surveillance. You weren’t even picking your nose or scratching your bum.”

“Clover!”

“What? Everyone picks their nose when they think no one’s looking, Beanie. Don’t be such a girlie wuss. Anyway, what were you watching? At one stage, you seemed to be singing along.”

“Glee,”
I admit. “And I’d like to get back to it before Mum catches me, so get to the point.”

“The point?”

“What are you doing here, Clover? It’s after nine and you know Mum’s a bedtime Nazi on school nights. I’m supposed to be upstairs, getting my stuff sorted out for school tomorrow.”

Clover wrinkles her nose. “School-smool. Real life is far more important than stupid old lessons and exams, Bean Machine.”

I sigh. “So true.”

“Besides, I haven’t seen a soul all day. Brains is gigging in Cork, and Gramps is in Belfast with his old RTÉ buddies at some sort of awards thingy. I’ve been rattling around the house all day on my ownio. I tried to do some work but gave up after staring at a blank screen for an hour.” She gives me a half smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and then looks away. “Just wanted some company, I guess,” she adds softly.

My irritation at being spied on (and being pulled away from
Glee
) melts away. Clover rarely admits to feeling anything other than fab, so owning up to feeling lonely is a big deal.

“Things OK at the mag?” I ask gently.

She shakes her head. “Not really. Remember the intern I was telling you about — Saskia Davenport?”

“The posh one who looks like a vampire and only wears black?”

“The very minx.” Clover pretends to put her finger down her throat and gag. “She’s still biting at my heels, like an evil job-stealing Alsatian. She keeps asking Saffy if she can ‘help’ me with the agony aunt pages. It’s making me an ultraparanoid android.” (Saffy is Clover’s editor at the
Goss,
and she sounds pretty scary.) “My brain’s nearly fried from thinking up new articles and keeping on top of the agony aunt pages. This month’s postbag is Bleak House — pathetic letters asking how to cure warts and how to find the perfect pair of jeans — what do they think I am, an embarrassing-bodies-doctor-cum-stylist? There’s nothing with the ‘universal appeal’ that Saffy’s always banging on about. And I’m so out of feature-creature ideas it’s unreal. Sad, sad state of affairs, Bean Machine.” She looks really glum, which is so unlike Clover. She needs serious cheering up and distraction.

“I’ve got an idea for you,” I say. “A piece on long-distance romances and how to keep them alive — you know, after the summer holidays and everything. And how to cope if things go belly-up. It’s a common problem. Very ‘universal.’” I smile at her brightly.

Clover cocks her head and looks me in the eye. “Is it, now?” The edges of her lips lift. “Everything hunky-D with Seth? Or is it Mills and her li’l slice of the American Dream?”

You can’t keep anything from Clover. I knew she’d guess. “It’s Ed. He’s gone incommunicado. Hasn’t contacted Mills for a whole week. And they used to IM every day. She’s been e-mailing and ringing — she even talked to his dad — but still
nada
.”

“Siúcra.”
Clover sucks her lips, making a faint hiss — but she seems brighter now that she has someone else’s problem to focus on. “Not good. Sounds like Ed’s moving on to pastures
nouveaux
. Poor Mills.” She shakes her head sadly. “Not much you can do, Beanie. Just be there for her and help her find a worthy successor as quickly as possible, to help her take her mind off him. A real prince. But I do believe you’ve put your finger on something there.” She whips her notebook out of her utterly swoony red vintage Birkin bag (“borrowed” from the
Goss
fashion cupboard) and talks slowly as she starts scribbling. “‘How to Make Your Summer Lovin’ Last and How to Cope When It All Goes Belly-up.’”

She reads it back to herself then looks up. “Bean Machine, you’re a genius. You may have just saved my bacon. Finally, I’ll have something decent to show Saffy. Oh, and I almost forgot . . .” She digs around in her bag again and pulls out a square of dark-pink tissue paper. “This is for you.” She thrusts the packet into my hands. “Happy ‘back to school,’ Beanie. Enjoy second year — it’s stellar. No major exams, and oceans of time to hang with your friends — what’s not to love?”

I peel back the tissue paper and beam. It’s only the Alexander McQueen scarf I spotted in the
Goss
’s last issue. It’s beautiful — black, dotted with tiny dark-pink skulls with angel wings. I’m about to thank Clover when there’s a noise from the hall.

“Amy? Amy? Is that you down there?”

It’s Mum.

Still clutching the scarf, I leap up to open the living-room door before she comes down the stairs and finds Clover here. She’s standing at the top of the stairs in her baggy striped pajamas.

“Thought I heard voices,” she says. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you in your room, young lady?”

“Just switching off the television — you were so tired you must have left it on, Mum. Go back to bed.”

“Right. OK. Well, don’t be too long.” She shuffles away, yawning.

After she’s gone, Clover appears behind me. “Better mush,” she whispers. “Don’t want to get you into trouble with Sylvie. And thanks for the feature-creature. Smooch, smooch.” She kisses the tips of her fingers, blows them at me, and flies out the front door, her bag slapping against her hip.

I run my fingers over the scarf and smile to myself. “Thanks, Clover. You rock.”

“Would you look at that piece of fine in the Saint John’s uniform?” Mills nods at the boy standing beside the doors of the DART, listening to his iPod. It’s hard not to stare. He’s tall and tanned, with emerald eyes and chiseled cheekbones that angels would fight to hang their wings on. Under his slouchy gray beanie, his hair is jet-black.

I grin at her and whistle under my breath. “Bom-chicka-wha-wha.”

“Amy!” Seth isn’t impressed.

“You know I only have eyes for you.” I kiss the tips of my fingers and blow them at him, Clover-style.

He laughs. “Keep it that way.”

“Must be his first day,” Mills says. “Poor guy. I’d hate to be a newbie. Wonder if he’s in our year.”

Seth looks him up and down. “Nah. Too tall. I’d say third or Transition.”

Annabelle Hamilton and Sophie Piggott totter past us on their spindle heels, legs, hands, and faces fake-baked the D4s’ signature dark orange. I’m surprised to see them together; they had a falling-out recently — Sophie snogged Annabelle’s boyfriend, Mark Delaney, at the end-of-term party, in her garden shed, no less. They’ve obviously made up now, though. It’s hard to keep up with D4 politics, so generally I don’t bother.

Sophie used to be our friend up until the summer when she was consumed into the bowels of the D4 posse. I think Mills misses her sometimes, but I most certainly don’t. She’s catty, bitter, and as twisted as a
Wizard of Oz
cyclone. Sophie’s idea of having fun is shaking her blue-and-white pom-poms at one of the boys’ rugby matches with the rest of the self-styled cheerleading squad. They call themselves the All Saints ’cos our school is
Saint
John’s College. Sad.

They shouldn’t even be on the train — none of them actually live on the DART line — but they get their parents to drop them at Dun Laoghaire station so they can check out the Blackrock College and Saint Michael’s boys on their way to school. Sad cubed.

As they pass, Seth starts singing the Oompa-Loompa song from
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
and Annabelle scowls at him. “You’re such a sketchpad, Seth Stone. Go hide behind your emo curtains.” And with a flick of her hair, she continues down the carriage, coming to a stop in front of the new boy.

She smiles broadly and he looks up, stares at her for a second, then, taking off his oversize DJ headphones, asks in a deliciously smooth Northern Irish accent, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Annabelle,” she simpers. “And this is Sophie. Like, welcome to our school.” Then she giggles.

He looks around. “I think you’ll find it’s a train.”

“Ha! Nice one.” Seth gives a loud laugh.

The boy looks down the carriage and catches Seth’s eye but doesn’t say anything.

Annabelle carries on, unperturbed. “Like, what year are you in?” she asks him, batting her eyelashes.

“Second,” he says, obviously deciding the quickest way to get rid of her is to answer the question.

Sophie gasps. “That’s our year. What class?”

“Mr. Olen’s.”

Annabelle squeals. “That’s, like, our class. Two O.
O
for Mr. Olen. You can, like, totally sit with us. You must be, like, so nervous, it being your first day and all.”

He doesn’t look too impressed. “Thanks, but I’m not in Junior Infants — I can take care of myself. Excuse me, I see some people I know. See you around.” He walks down the aisle, leaving Annabelle and Sophie staring after him openmouthed, and swings himself into the seat beside Seth.

I get an instant waft of shower-fresh skin and practically melt. He’s even more delicious up close and personal. Mills can’t take her eyes off his bee-stung lips.

“’Pologies, folks,” he says, looking a bit embarrassed. “I’m on the run from scary-biscuit D4s. Mind if I kick back with you guys?”

Before we have a chance to say anything, Annabelle and Sophie clip-clop past us, back to their D4 pack. They scowl at me and Mills and tinkle their fingers at the new boy as if nothing has happened.