Free Friends Forever! by Grace Dent Page B

seriously. “Which tie? The blue or the gray? C’mon, hurry! I’m lunching with Mr. Jefferson Smythe in half an hour. He’s a very important new client. This meeting could end up paying for Fleur’s mother’s next crucial jaunt to a Himalayan health farm. If it goes well, we can get rid of her for two whole weeks!”
    â€œExcellent,” says Fleur without even looking up.
    â€œThe blue one,” says Claude confidently. “It goes with the pin stripe.”
    â€œReally, Claudette?” asks Paddy, holding the tie beside his face. “It’s not too . . . old fogey?”
    Paddy Swan has been acting very oddly since he turned forty-four last month. Not only has he taken up the martial art tae kwon do and started high kicking up and down the lawn each dusk, but last week he threatened to purchase a mint-green Lambretta scooter and a Maharishi parka. Well, until Fleur threatened to run away with the circus in shame.
    â€œNooooooo! It’s not old fogey, Mr. Swan!” assures Claude, ever the smooth talker. “It’s more . . . Secret Service .”
    â€œAhhh! Secret Service!” beams Paddy. “I like that, Claudette. You can come here again.”
    As if he has any choice, I think. We’ve practically lived here since Year 7.
    At this point Paddy breaks into his very worst Sean-Connery-as-James-Bond impression. “The name’s Schwan . . . Paddy Schwan,” Paddy rasps, looking into the mirror while fastening his tie. “On Her Majesty’s shecret shervice. Lish-ensh to kill . . .”
    Fleur visibly shrinks with embarrassment. “Dad, will you get out?” she moans. “We’re calling Harbinger Hall!”
    â€œVery well,” sniggers Paddy, clearly elated at humiliating his youngest child. “You girls can leave the money for that call on my desk.”
    â€œPut it on my bill,” tuts Fleur, dialing the number. “Oooh! Shh, everyone . . . It’s ringing! It’s ringing!”
    The fact that I’m here, waiting to speak to Miss Scrumble, Harbinger Hall’s head of personnel, is the freakiest of deakiest turn of events. Ever since our Monday meeting, Fleur has talked and pleaded until she was blue in the face about the LBD going to Destiny Bay. She yaddered incessantly about MTV’s August Big Beach Booty Quake. (Psycho Killa, God Created Man and the Scandal Children are all rumored in the tabloids to be playing there, plus there’s a surf competition and a massive beach party.) Fleur never shut up about the hot surf dudes, cliff-top parties, sunbathing, snogging and skinny-dipping in store for us if we’d just agree to go.
    Fleur’s smooth talking certainly paid off. By Wednesday evening Claude was wavering toward “yes” and had even convinced Gloria that Harbinger Hall was a great place for Claude to make some cash.
    It was all down to me then. But it just didn’t seem right.
    I couldn’t disappear for a nine-week party when Nan had just died, could I? Not even if a summer in Destiny Bay sounded like the most exciting, fabulous LBD adventure in the entire cosmiverse.
    I mean, even if I do agree to go, when is the time to hit Mum with it? Tuesday? When she and I collect Nan’s ashes from the crematorium and drive to the town hall to sign some death certificates? Or Wednesday, when we go to Nan’s house to close off the gas and electricity (the day Mum spends five hours staring at Nan’s very small fluffy slippers and walking stick while crying)? Okay, then, what about Thursday, the day Mum doesn’t get out of bed at all and I spend my afternoon talking Seth out of pushing chocolate chip cookies into the VCR?
    The fact is, I can’t bring the subject up, and that is that.
    But on Thursday night, I am sitting in the bar after closing time, keeping Dad company while he closes up, when the subject of summer presents itself of its own accord.
    â€œWhat is your