Friends Forever! by Grace Dent Read Free Book Online Page B

five weeks ago in May. It was around then that Cressida phased out Fleur.
    Fleur had served her purpose. Nowadays, Cressida knew all the hottest people to know at Blackwell. She played tennis with Panama, had several hot boys sniffing round her, and got personal invites to all the best parties. She just didn’t need Fleur anymore. She was perfectly civil, but the texts, the calls, the Reiki sessions, the past-life therapy, all that just stopped.
    At first I was chuffed. Now Fleur would see Cressida for the freak she really was—but it didn’t work out like that. Instead, Fleur got angry with Claude for not dropping Cressida in protest. Things got weirder, more complex, more subtly nasty.
    A distinct crack began to form right down the center of the group. Fleur was bitching about Claude and Cressida “leaving us both out of things” while Claude and Cressida spent their days in the library cramming for the GCSEs like weird book-ogling Siamese twins.
    I don’t blame Claude for being flattered by Cressida’s undivided attention. Let’s face it, we’ve both played second fiddle to Fleur right through Blackwell. And Claude truly believed that Cressida liked her the best.
    I buried my head in quadratic equations and infinite verbs and tried to ignore the whole mess.
    Eventually Cressida bought Claude a heart-shaped necklace to thank her for being “such an amazing friend during Year 11,” which Claude wore to her geography exam. This riled Fleur so deeply that she stopped texting Claude daft good-night messages at bedtime, something the LBD have done every night since Year 9.
    So, Claude refused to lend Fleur her green Morgan dress for the Blackwell Golden Centenary Barbecue, telling her to “buy her own clothes,” seeing as the Swan family “had more money than sense anyhow.”
    And by this point, I was finding it hard to like Claude. Or Fleur for that matter.
    And that pretty much brings us up to now.

dizzy
    â€œHmmm . . . well, you know what the moral of that tale is?” Nan asks, crashing open the oven door and producing a tray of sweet-smelling scones.
    â€œEr, no?” I say, my eyes red-rimmed.
    â€œNever trust a vegetarian,” she says. “Hitler was one, you know.”
    â€œReally?” I say.
    â€œAbsolutely,” she tuts. “A couple of plates of corned beef hash down his neck, he’d never have invaded Poland. What’s life without the odd lovely Scotch egg? Cuh! No wonder that Cressida Slime article is so bitter and twisted.”
    I gaze forlornly at Nan, who has flour on the end of her nose and a random sultana in her hairline. She winks at me before hobbling to the pantry and producing a tin of Lyon’s black treacle, a bottle of Glenmorangie whiskey and two small glasses.
    â€œCan I tempt you with a wee nip? Just for your nerves?” Nan asks, pouring herself a healthy-sized dram.
    â€œNah,” I sigh. “I’ll pass.”
    â€œVery noble,” Nan smiles, tapping her floury nose, then taking a dainty glug of the pungent fluid. “So, anyway, what’s the lay of the land now? When did you last see Claudette and Fleur?”
    â€œWednesday,” I tell her. “It was the last GCSE exam. English.”
    â€œAnd?” Nan prompts.
    â€œWell, the paper was fairly easy,” I sigh. “So I was really hoping we all might go to Ruby’s afterward for cakes to celebrate. But the second the bell went, Fleur chucked her pencil case in her bag and stormed out with her nose aloft.”
    â€œAnd Claudette?” asks Nan, picking up her whiskey and taking another dainty glug.
    â€œShe just watched her go!” I cry, tears spilling down my face. “Like she didn’t care. And then the most awful thing of all happened!”
    â€œWhat?” says Nan, reaching up her sleeve, pulling out a fresh cotton handkerchief and passing it to me.
    â€œThen Cressida pranced over to