Friends Forever! (24 page)

In the midst of this chaos, Claude and I are running as fast as we can, apologizing to Fleur on my phone for being so very, very late.

“But you were meant to be here two hours ago! The Demonboard competition has started,” Fleur screeches into her mobile phone. “You've missed Round One! Saul's just paddling out for his second now.”

“It's not our fault! Scrumble made us do breakfast!” I cry, feeling terribly guilty as we battle our way through the crowd. “Then we hitched a lift from Harbinger Hall with Raw-T, Psycho Killa's sushi chef. But one of the tires blew coming down the coast road. We've had to run the last mile!”

“Well, you're here now anyway, so just . . . hurry up . . . ,” shouts Fleur, suddenly sounding rather distracted. “Oooh . . . oh noooo . . . Oh, bad luck, Saul! Never mind.”

“What's happening?” I gasp.

“Errr . . . it doesn't matter,” Fleur shouts. “Just get down here now! The Extreme Channel cameras keep floating past, filming crowd shots. Paddy has just called. He says he's already spotted me on Channel 214 wearing next to nothing and chatting up surfers! He says if I don't put a cardigan on immediately, he's going to drive down and take me home. Ha ha ha!”

“We're coming!” we yell.

Eventually, among the melee of oily bodies we spot Fleur's fuchsia sun hat, blonde locks and huge aviator sunglasses. She looks totally radiant in an emerald bikini top and black hot pants, standing beside the Demonboard Surf Championship judges' marquee. Her ruby lip gloss is glinting in the sun.

“Fleuuuur,” we shout. “We're here!”

“Hurray!” she smiles.

“Where's Saul?” I say. “How's he doing?”

“He's over there in the competitors' enclosure,” says Fleur. “Those gorillas dressed as security guards over there say I've not got a green VIP wristband to get in.”

Over in the enclosure, I can just about make out Saul Parker's crazy brown dreads among the nine other competitors. Saul looks really unhappy. Almost like he might cry.

Just then, rapturous applause sweeps through the crowd as Finn Talbot, a blond shaved-headed guy with huge pecs from New Zealand catches a perfect wave and begins ripping along it, right on the end of his board for well over twenty seconds. Saul's shoulders slump farther.

Right at that moment, I'm filled with an urge to run across the sand, hug Saul and tell him that this whole daft surf contest just doesn't matter, but I know that would go down like a cup of cold vomit. Surf gods must look macho at all times, you see. There's a lot of testosterone splashing about among these extreme sports guys. I mean, some of them are even having arm-wrestling competitions while waiting for their round.

Sad, I know.

“Okay, so things aren't so good,” Fleur says. “Santiago Marre, the Argentinian dude, is in the lead—he's surfed two great waves. Then Finn Talbot, that blond guy with the shaved head, is in second place. And y'see that dark-haired lad over there with the ponytail and the huge shark bite on his back? He's in third.”

“And Saul?” I ask.

“Sixth,” winces Fleur. “His first wave was pretty good, but on the second he wiped out after about five seconds.”

Saul looks rather awkward as we all stare silently toward the enclosure. All the other competitors look totally at home there. They all have more expensive surfboards than Saul and high-tech wet suits with their sponsors' names splashed across the chests. None of them look like they've spent a month living in a loft, existing on stolen biscuits.

Inside the competitors' enclosure, a gaggle of beautiful models in tiny bikinis with huge boobs are frothing around, fawning over the surfers. “Oh, good luck, Sandybago darling!” shouts one plummy-mouthed brunette girl. “You can do it!”

“Accchhhoooo,” sneezes another of the girls. “Will somebody fetch me a parasol, please? This direct sunlight is making me sneeze. I'm a photophobic, don't you know.”

Ugh! I don't believe it. Cressida, Panama and the other witches are in the competitors' enclosure.

“Noooo!” I groan. “It's them! They've got green wristbands.”

“Oh God,” sighs Fleur. “The Argentinians must have sorted them out with VIP passes. That's who they must have been having dinner with last night.”

Claude says nothing. She just rolls her eyes, then ignores them.

“That's totally unfair,” tuts Fleur, as Panama purrs and bats her eyelashes at Santiago and he struts around in front of her like a caveman flexing his muscles. They make a hilarious couple. “I've been giving Santiago the full Fleur Swan flirty-flirt treatment for more than two weeks now,” she moans. “And I've got nowhere! It's illogical!”

As Saul paces around, nervously watching the other surfers' performances, he spots me in the crowd. He nods toward the scoreboards and looks sort of embarrassed.

“You can still do it,” I mouth.

“Thanks, babe,” Saul mouths back, looking rather unconvinced.

“Hang on. I've been thinking: This isn't as bad as it looks,” announces Claude, pointing at the scores. “Quite a few of the contestants have had a terrible third round so far. So if Santiago really messes up his last wave, and Saul can pull off something special, then logically Saul can still take third position.”

“And there's prize money for third, isn't there?” says Fleur.

“Yeah,” I say, as the announcer calls for Santiago Marre to come down for Round Three.

Santiago Marre, who looks as conceited as a human face would physically allow, quickly begins paddling out for his third and final wave. Once he's out, floating where the set waves are crashing down, the Argie heartthrob bobs around for a while searching for the perfect break. On the shore, the Windsmore Suite witches are leading the encouragement.

“Oh, get on with it, Sarabongo!” shouts Panama helpfully.

“Oh, this is so boring,” moans Cressida. “Is it time to get ready for the beauty contest yet?”

But then things began to go awry for Santiago. The surf appears to be dying down dramatically. In fact, for the next long five minutes, dozens of little ripple waves proceed to wash past him, doing nothing except sweep the surf god back to the shore. And with the pressure growing to perform, the Argentinian appears to be losing his nerve.

Eventually, Santiago springs to life, catches a wave and jumps up . . . before losing his footing and crashing back into the water headfirst.

Santiago Marre has wiped out after two seconds!

“Oh, bad luck,” says Fleur as Santiago grabs his board and staggers sulkily back to the shore, swearing loudly at anyone who commiserates with him. Panama immediately runs up and wraps herself around his salty torso like a giant limpet, trying to nibble his shoulder.

“Does that kick Santiago off first place?” mutters Fleur.

“I'm not sure,” I say, squinting at the scoreboard and trying to do the math. I look for Claude to help me, but she's vanished.

“Next up, third round, is Saul Parker,” announces the compere.

I can barely bring myself to watch.

“Oh, come on, Saul!” I will him, half covering my eyes as Saul walks to the water looking terrified. What's up with him? I know he's more than capable of beating any of these surfers. Only last night, I'd slipped down to the private beach and watched him tackle far bigger, crazier waves than these. I know he's more than capable of impressing the judges. I mean, sure, Saul may be of no fixed abode, with no firm plans for the future, no qualifications, and in fact may be as wild as wild can be, but the one absolute certainty about him is that he can surf like a professional.

If only he can do that now.

As Saul paddles out, the waves are whipping up again, crashing hard and fast around him. Without time to hesitate, Saul chooses a wave and goes with it, quickly leaping up onto his board with total confidence.

“Yesssssss! Come on, Saul!” I shout, beginning to roar loudly.

Quick as a flash, Saul is ripping along the crest of the wave, stepping right to the end of his board and hanging ten toes over the edge. As the crowd goes wild, the surf judges begin scribbling furiously on their pads.

“That's my friend's boyfriend!” Fleur is shouting proudly to anyone who will listen. “I know him! My best friend Ronnie is his girlfriend!”

“Fleur!” I blush as Saul wades proudly back up onto the beach, giving me a big wave. “He's not my boyfriend.”

“Pardon?” laughs Fleur. “Well, he certainly thinks he is.”

“He does?” I gasp, tingles rushing all over my body.

“Totally!” chuckles Fleur. “He never stops talking about you. I've spent the last few days in a flipping attic with him. I felt like putting cotton wool in my ears!”

“Oooh!” I grin, going gooier by the second. “Really? He really thinks he's going out with me?”

“Yes!” splutters Fleur, shaking her head. “You total berk.”

Down on the beach Finn Talbot is heading down to the water's edge to surf the final wave of the contest. I'm a little distracted now, though. I'm thinking about being Saul's girlfriend and what that actually means. My stomach is doing backward somersaults. I know I'm meant to be deliriously happy, and I am, but it's accompanied by all sorts of little anxieties. You see, I've started to think about Saul Parker all the time lately. Day and night. Night and day. And I feel like puking every time I see him, which appears to be the requisite side effect of finding someone you really fancy.

“Aw, just go with the flow, Ronnie. Have some fun!” laughs Fleur as we watch Finn jump up onto his board and rip along for about ten seconds to wild applause. As Finn washes up on the shore, the judges begin totting up their final scores.

“But I didn't plan to get another boyfriend so soon,” I say. “Or feel this way so quickly. I mean, I hardly know him and—”

“Look, the main thing,” interrupts Fleur, “is that you're soooo over Jimi Steele. How cool is that? You're dating again. You never have to cry about that pigeon-toed, dog-breath buttmunch ever again!”

Fleur has a point here. A smile sweeps across my face.

“Hey!” I grin, flapping my hands. “That's true. I've not even thought once about Jimi and Suzette Laws for over a fortnight. I'm cured!”

“Hosannah in the highest!” cries Fleur, flapping her hands in the air.

“Jesus saves!” I cheer.

“Alan is good!” cries Fleur.

“You mean Allah,” I correct her.

“Praise him too!” laughs Fleur.

And suddenly a massive cheer erupts.

“Look! Look!” shouts Fleur, pointing at the scoreboards. “There are the final scores. Saul's got third! He's come in third! That's excellent! He wins ten thousand pounds!”

I watch proudly as Saul staggers up the beach, spots the scoreboard and lets out a huge yelp. Then things get a little crazy. Finn Talbot, the winner, jumps on Saul and begins hugging him while jumping up and down. Nearby, Santiago Marre, who has ended up in second place, begins flipping out and threatening to kill the judges.

Suddenly, the crowd around the enclosure surges forward, knocking down the flimsy wooden barriers, as all the TV crews, sponsors and well-wishers clamor to be near the surfers. As security tries to lead away Santiago, who's in the midst of surf rage, people are popping corks on bottles of champagne and spraying it over Saul and Finn while the TV cameras beam the pictures out live on the Extreme Sports Channel and MTV.

Then Saul spots me, breaks free of the huddle and runs in my direction. “Veronica!” he shouts. “Ten thousand pounds! Not bad for a wildcard entry, eh?”

“I knew you'd do it!” I laugh, hugging him. Saul whisks me up and swings me around and around.

“Excuse me, Saul Parker,” butts in a man, thrusting a microphone under both of our noses. A full TV camera crew is now surrounding us.

“You're live on Extreme Sports Channel!” says the man. “Now, Saul Parker, you were an unknown wildcard in the Demonboard contest and you've managed to grab third place and a hefty check. You must be ecstatic!”

Saul hugs me tight into his chest. “I'm stoked, man!” he tells the interviewer. “And can I just say I couldn't have done it without my girl, Veronica Ripperton! She put a roof over my head for the last few weeks while I was in training. She's a total star.”

I try to look cool, but all I can do is grin and give a big involuntary “thumbs-up” to the camera. Uggghhh! That does it: I'm cutting my thumbs off as soon as I get home. It's not as if I ever hitchhike anywhere. They have to go.

“That was Saul Parker, viewers,” says the presenter to the camera. “A sure surf star of the future.”

“Saul? Can we interview you for a moment?” shouts MTV's Chloe Kissimy, whisking Saul away to the press enclosure.

As the camera crew follows him, Fleur grabs my arm. “Hey, Miss TV Star,” she laughs. “Have you seen Claude?”

“Not for ages,” I say, looking at my watch, suddenly remembering what we'd promised to do this afternoon.

“It's time to get ready for Miss Demonboard Babe,” says Fleur, clearly relishing the horror.

“Okay, okay,” I say, feeling nervous again. “Let's go and win Claude some money.”

“That's the plan,” says Fleur as we make our way toward the Demonboard Babe marquee where the dressing rooms are. “Hey, and that reminds me, what's Saul going to do with his ten thousand pounds? Is he going to buy you something nice? Diamonds? A new bass guitar?”

“Oh, that cash is all spoken for,” I smile, proudly thinking of my surf-hero “boyfriend.”