HOW OLD ARE YOU?
One magic word and you get your way
OK FINE. Cal, PLEASE can you send an email round telling everyone we’re not dating? There, I said it
That’s not the magic word
CAL
It’s not and you know it
I’m not going to say it
You were the one who came up with it. I think it’s adorable
WHY ARE YOU SO ANNOYING?
I think you secretly find me endearing
EUGH. Fine fine fine. I’ll say the stupid magic word
I’m ready and waiting . . .
Poopdopalopolis
The whole sentence please
Cal, can you send an email to everyone poopdopalopolis?
Bad news: I can’t hack into the school database and send an email. Good news: I just took a screenshot of you saying ‘poopdopalopolis’. I love our chats
I hate you
On the first Saturday of half-term, the doorbell of our flat rang at 7 a.m.
Mum answered because she had already been up for a couple of hours – as she likes to tell everyone who will listen, she’s an ‘early bird’ who apparently doesn’t need to sleep like normal human beings.
‘Flick?’ she said softly, coming through my door while knocking, which is one of my pet hates about her because WHAT is the point of knocking if you’re just barging on in anyway?
I mumbled at her to go away and then turned over, snuggling down into my cosy duvet.
Mum and I were back on speaking terms, not that it made a huge amount of difference considering how busy she was in the lead-up to Christmas. She was constantly dashing off to meetings at the moment, and then rushing back in the evenings to change her heels into other, higher heels because she had to go to a dinner or party somewhere across London with a load of boring, important people. The Christmas Ball was also always on her mind – she kept repeating her orders and triple-checking the guest list. Even Matthew had told her to ‘chill on out’ – which he could not pull off, by the way, and once again displays the cringe-worthy gene pool from which Cal was produced.
Still, her mood had definitely improved. I knew that things had taken a turn for the better when she made a joke for the first time in weeks. A couple of days ago, I had heard down the hotel grapevine that the Editor ofGQhad made a reservation for dinner, so I made sure Fritz was looking his most dapper in case we bumped into him. As Fritz came trotting out of my bedroom sporting his red velvet smoking jacket, Mum was coming through to the living room from her study reading an email on her phone. She stopped as he padded past her on the way to his bowl.
‘Are you two sneaking off to a fashion show again?’ she’d said, before returning to her email.
We may be friends again but she still hadn’t said anything about the Christmas Ball. She can be so stubborn.
‘Flick,’ she repeated, moving over to my bed and shaking my shoulder.
I batted her away.
‘You need to get up.’
‘It’s half-term,’ I mumbled into my pillow. ‘And a Saturday.’
‘Cal’s here.’
