Beyblade Fan Fiction ❯ Evra's Big Mistake ❯ Chapter nine ( Chapter 9 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Rei's Neko_gurl: Hey there. I know it's been a while but I had a lot of stuff to do, plus I had writers block for like all of the storys that I have underway just now. So anyway, heres the latest chapter, hope you enjoy.

'This is the right building,' said Evra, pushing her way through the revolving door. 'I can feel it in my nose.'

'Sometimes I worry about you.' Bex ran an anxious hand over her hair, checking her sleek chignon was still secure after its encounter with the howling gale outside. 'God, what a night. You'd better not have dragged me here under false pretences,' she warned. 'If there aren't any decent men here, I'm going straigt home.'

Evra crossed her fingers as the followed the trail of Elizabeth Turnbull's perfume up three flights of stairs. Her extravagant promise to Bex that there would be sackfuls -- if not wagonloads -- of gorgeous men at this evening's party was gnawing slightly at her conscience.

But if she hadn't said it, Bex wouldn't have come.

And since Florence had insisted that she take the spare ticket-for-two, Evra had been desperate. The prospect of bowling up at a cocktail party on your own where the only people you know were Bruce and Verity Kent -- aargh -- and Elizabeth Turnbull -- double aargh -- was too terrible for words.

She'd had to bring someone along for moral support. And basically, with her social life currently in such a dismal state, Bex needed all the help she could get.

Poor Bex, thought Evra, it must be awful to be so helplessly at the mercy of your hormones.

It wasn't that Bex wasn't pretty, because she was. And she toook immaculate care of herself.

It wasn't as if she was old, because she wasn't. Well, maybe oldish, but not ancient, only twenty-nine.

It wasn't even as if she had a horrible personality, or knock-you-dead halitosis. Or acres of cellulite.

No, the only problem with Bex was something so easily remidied it could make you cry.

Sadly, it was this very flaw that sent horrified men scurrying backwards out of rooms the moment she clapped eyes on them.

The trouble with Bex was that she was Desperate.

Her biological clock was clanging like the 'Oh-dear-we're-in-trouble' bell on the Titanic. It had been for the last three years.

And she didn't just want a baby, she wanted a husband too, preferably one as keen on the idea of settling down to a lifetime of domestic bliss as she was.

Although failing that, well, pretty much anyone would do.

Just so long as Bex could GET MARRIED and HAVE A BABY.

It was something of a standing joke at the salon.

'Oh well, there must be one around somewhere,' Evra had consoled her only yesterday when Bex had been wailing over the failure of the latest fling in her life to ring her. 'In a zoo, maybe. With a little sign fixed to the front of his cage saying: "Commitment man. Possibly the only surviving member of this species. Likes to eat home-made steak and kidney pies and wear hand-knitted tank-tops. Spends his weekends carrying out helpful little DIY jobs around the cage. Seeks ideal mate, can't wait to start a family."'

'I can't think why I'm your friend,' Bex had replied loftily. 'I hate you.'

'I know, but you'll come to the party with me tomorrow night, won't you?' Evra had wheedled. 'I promise there'll be oodles of men.'

It was no good trying to tell Bex that she scared men witless. She knew that already. She couldn't help it, that was her trouble. The light of matrimony was in her eyes and she couldn't switch it off.

And if one more well-meaning person tried to tell her that the reason she wasn't getting anywhere wasbeacause she was trying to hard -- that if she stopped looking for a man she'd find one before you could say three-tiered cake . . . well, Evra didn't give much for their chances.

They were likely to get more than their head bitten off.

'Evra, how lovely to see you,' gushed Elizabeth Turnbull, leaning towards her and going mwah, mwah several inches away from each cheek.

She was wearing Poison. The air around her was as thick as pea soup. Evra, her lips clamped together, could still taste it down the back of her throat.

Frantically, over Elizabeth's shoulder plump shoulder, she scanned the room for men, any man, who might do for Bex. Honestly, it was like scavenging for scraps to feed a ravenous baby starling. Wayne Peterson, the footballer, was over by the window. Looking quite sober, for him. But since Bex wasn't a Malibu-swilling bosom-flashing page-three girl, he probably wouldn't be interested.

Oh dear, thought Evra, still searching. Evra other man she saw was either diaboloically ugly, older than the Tower of London, or clearly married.

Behind her, like telepathic acupuncture, she could feel Bex plunging imaginary pins into her back.

'No sign of Florence's son or his wife yet,' Elizabeth announced, assuming that this was who Evra was sop eager to locate. 'What's her name ? Valerie?'

'Verity.' A waiter approached, bearing a tray. Hurriedly relieving him of a couple of glasses, Evra said, 'I'm sure they'll be here soon. Don't worry about us, we'll just mingle.'

'Do, do! Caroline Newman's over there, by the way.' Elizabeth gestured grandly towards the fireplace. 'The travel presenter, you must recognise her. Charming lady, so easy to talk to, she and I have been getting along like a house on fire.' She preened visibly, like a cockatoo.

'I can't see Daisy Schofield,' said Evra. 'Wasn't she supposed to be here as well?'

Next to her, Bex knocked her drink back in three seconds flat.

Their hostess pursed her bright orange lips.

'I'm afraid we've been badly let down by Ms Schofield. Some of these so called celebrities, they just don't take their duties seriously.'

'So what happened?' said Evra. 'She just didn't turn up?'

'Pretty much.' Elizabeth's mouth narrowed further still, as if some internal vacuum cleaner was trying to suck her lips down her throat. 'The party began at eight. no word from Daisy Schofield. I mean, you can almost expect it from alcoholic footballers . . .' she gestured carelessly in the direction of poor Wayne Peterson, 'but if he could manage to get here on time, I don't see why I should be made to look a fool by a third-rate Australian model-cum-actress.'

'Maybe she's on her way,' Evra suggested. As someone not famous for getting to places on time herself, she felt obliged to leap to the other girl's defence. 'She could have been held up in traffic.'

Her nasal passages were by this time becoming accustomed to the scent cloud. Either that, Evra decided, or they'd gone into self-preservation mode and given themselves a general anaesthetic.

'Hmmph,' Elizabeth snorted, 'that's what I was hoping, untill the phone call ten minutes ago. Man's voice, wouldn't give his name, ringing to tell me Daisy was unwell. Sais she was in bed with a viral illness and that she wouldn't be able to make it tonight.'

'But you don't believe him?' said Evra.

'He wasn't exactly going out of his way to sound believable. He treated the whole thing as a joke: "She's in bed with a virile -- oops, sorry, viral illness." And she was there, I caould hear her, giggling away in the background like a silly teenager playing truant from school.'

'Daisy Schofield's nineteen.' Evra remembered reading this in one of the salon's glossy magazines. Feeling incredibly ancient -- at twenty-three -- she said, 'She is a silly teenager.'

'People have come here expecting to meet her,' Elizabeth replied frostily, 'and she's let us down. That girl needs to get a grip.'

Frankly, if Daisy was in bed with a virile male, Evra thought, getting a grip was probably what she was doing right now.


By nine o'clock Hiro Granger was beginning to wish he hadn't dragged Brooklyn along to this party. When Brook got it into his head to be argumentative there was no stopping him. God, it wasn't as if either of them was even interested in meeting some bleached-blonde clapped-out travel show presenter.

'It's breach of promise though, isn't it?' Brooklyn was enjoying the organiser's discomfort. 'We paid good money for these tickets' -- big lie -- 'and you haven't delivered. No Carol Newman---'

'Caroline,' Hiro murmured.

'She was here,' the organiser insisted. 'She had to leave early.'

'And no Daisy Schofield. I mean, how fair is that?' Brooklyn tilted his head accusingly. 'We came here to meet celebrities and instead here you are, palming us off with a roomful of . . . nobodies.'

Stung, the woman said, 'We've got Wayne Peterson.'

'Oh big deal,' Brooklyn drawled. 'He's sober.'

This was tru. After being given teh mother of all talking-tos by -- well, his own mother, Wayne Peterson was here tonight on his very best behaviour. Miserably clutching his seventh glass of Perrier -- and trying hard not to burp -- he was currently listening to some old bore's blow-by-blow account of the 1966 World Cup.

Sadly, Wayne was only fun when he had fourteen pints of Newcastle Brown inside him. Without the aid of alcohol, he was a personlaity-free zone.

Even Elizabeth had been sorely tempted to spike his water with vodka.

'Look, I'm sorry if you're disappointed.' She struggled to appease her two difficult guests. 'Let me get you another drink---'

'Never mind another drink,' said Brooklyn. 'How about a refund?'

'He doesn't mean that,' Hiro put in hurriedly. God, Brooklyn could be a pain sometimes. 'Of course we don't want a refund. And yes, another drink would be great.'

Typically, there wasn't a circulating waiter in sight. In her rush to reach the sanctuary of the kitchen, Elizabeth knocked into Evra, jolting her arm. A sesame prawn canape flew out of Evra's hand and landed with a plop in a bowl of floating candles.

'Oh God, oh God.' Elizabeth pulled her handkerchief out of hersleeve and mopped her perspiering forehead.

'Are you alright?' Evra peered at her. 'You look a bit, um . . .'

Flappy, was the word that sprung to mind.

'. . . hot and bothered.'

'Troublemakers.' Elizabeth inclind her head stiffly in the direction of the door. 'Those two, just arrived. Kicking up a fuss because Daisy Schofield isn't here.' Shuddering because her wholereputation was at stake, she wailed, 'Why can't people simply relax and enjoy themselves? I'm not Tommy Cooper, I can't click my fingers and produce a hatful of celebrities out of thin air.'

'Neith could Tommy Cooper,' said Evar. 'He'd have clicked his fingers and produced a hatful of sausages.'

'It's not my fault.' Elizabeth was by this time close to tears. 'One of them threatened to sue me for breach of promise.'

'Which one?' Evra demanded, indignant on her behalf.

'Blue shirt. Oh Lord, look at the state of me. And I'm supposed to be g-getting them another d-drink.'

Dyed-in-the-wooll battleaxes weren't supposed to cry.

Swiveling around to glare at the offending pair, Evra discovered they were already gazing at her.

The one in the blue shirt smirked and murmered something to his friend.

Prat, thought Evra.

'Come on, put your shoulders back,' she instructed Bex, 'and stick your chest out.'

'Are we going to talk to Wayne Peterson?' Bex looked worried. She wasn't all sure she wanted to marry an alcoholic shaven-headed footballer. Then again -- the thought flashed unstopably through her one-track mind -- maybe she could be the one to tame him. They could live together happily ever after in a mock-Tudor mansion in Middlesbrough, buy each other mathching diamond-encrusted identity bracelets and have lots of boisterous, shaven-headed mini-footballers---

'Wayne Peterson? No way.' Briskly interrupting this fantasy, Evra seized the two glasses Elizabeth had returned with from the kitchen. 'Right, just pay attention,' she told bex, 'and follow me.'

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Rei's Neko_gurl: Phew. That took a while. My poor hands hurt. Anyway, writting this finally got me out of months of writers block so I hope to be updating some of my other fics pretty soon too if you read them.