by Harry Hill
‘No one at all?’ said Kitty in wonder.
‘I’m not surprised. There’s nothing to tell people there’s even a gig happening! Where are Rob’s posters?’ said Matt, his disappointment starting to turn to anger.
‘Your manager told us to keep it a secret!’ said Jess.
‘Well, not a complete secret!’ said Matt.
‘I said you should email all your regulars and keep it low profile – not a secret!’ said Kitty shaking her head.
‘I did that!’ protested Jess. ‘But as you can see, it’s dead as a doornail! Actually there’s even fewer people here than on a normal night which is kinda weird.’
‘Dead’s the word all right!’ said Matt.
Then his frustration tipped over into anger, an anger that he just couldn’t keep bottled up any longer. All the frustrations of the last few weeks suddenly became too much to bear. He turned to Kitty and let rip.
‘Cancelled!’ he yelled. ‘Cancelled! It’s such a low-profile gig that no one even knew about it! What is it with you, huh? Either the gig’s cancelled because there’s too many people or it’s cancelled because there aren’t enough people! I just wanna do a gig! Is that so hard to understand? I’m supposed to be a comedian! But what kind of comedian never does a live show? I’m like a cowboy without a horse. Like a DJ without any tracks, like a flaming footballer without a match or any boots or ball! I’m right back where I started and it’s all because of YOU! You … you … amateur!’
Neil and Alex winced at Matt’s vicious attack, but Kitty wasn’t having any of it. She stepped forward and stood her ground.
‘How dare you use that word with me!’ she said pulling herself up to her full height (three feet six). ‘I organised this gig in good faith, down to the letter! I told Jess and her assistant to send the information out to their mailing list! I got regular updates on numbers and yesterday I was told it was heading for a sell-out! Something’s happened, someone’s sabotaged it – it’s the only explanation!’
‘Their mailing list! Ha!’ shouted Matt. ‘Look at it! It’s a clapped-out old pub in the middle of a field – the only crowd they’re likely to get is a couple of sheep and a donkey!’
‘Hang on a sec!’ said Jess bridling at Matt’s choice of words.
‘That’s not fair,’ countered Kitty. ‘It may be off the beaten track but it’s well run and they have regular entertainment here with good crowds. I know, I came along to one of their nights last week and it was packed!’
‘Thanks, luv!’ said Jess with a told-you-so nod.
‘How convenient!’ shouted Matt. ‘What you’re saying is “You shoulda been here last week”? Yeah, well I don’t have the benefit of time travel. All I’m looking at is an empty pub and another wasted journey!’
‘I saw the figures – yesterday it was heading for a sell-out! I will get to the bottom of it, Matt, but please don’t take out your frustration on me!’
‘Hey, come on, you two!’ said Bobby, stepping in between them. ‘I know you’re disappointed, Matt, but it’s not worth falling out over surely? There’ll be other gigs—’
‘WHEN?’ shouted Matt turning to face Bobby, his face red and his eyes wild with rage.
‘When? Where are these so-called other gigs, Bobby? That reviewer from the Bugle was right – I’m a flash in the pan! I’m not a stand-up comic! I’m a schoolboy who was on a talent show once!’
With that he stormed out of the pub. Ian leant his head out of the window of the Astra.
‘What’s going on, Matt? Is it going ahead?’ he said.
‘NO!’ snapped Matt.
‘Right, well, you’d better get in then …’
But Matt kept walking.
‘Where are you going?’ said Ian, calling after him.
‘For a very long walk!’ shouted Matt without so much as looking back. He walked out of the car park, across the road and kept walking.
He walked across a couple of fields, through a ditch which deposited a large amount of stinking mud on his trousers, then it started raining. His stage suit became sodden and mud-stained and the quiff he was so pleased with fell down over his eyes and became plastered to his face. In amongst the rain were salty tears – not of sadness but of anger and frustration.
Why was it taking so long for him to become what he wanted to be – a stand-up. He had talent didn’t he? The crowd at the Apollo bore testament to that and yet at every turn his plans were thwarted. Surely no comedian in history had had to put up with so many obstacles thrown in his path.
Then his thoughts turned to Kitty. He really liked her and respected her for supporting him from the start, for spotting something in him that others hadn’t, for encouraging him and, yes, educating him in the history of comedy, but surely she was out of her depth? The fact was she’d never managed a single comedian before him, and the proof was there for all to see – he was in a worse position now than he had been one month ago. His head start had been thrown away. He felt in his pocket and produced the Harry Styles doll that had started it all for him – the routine he’d done with Rob at the school talent show. That seemed an awfully long time ago now. He took the doll and pitched it high. It went looping through the air and landed in a tree, staring back at him like some sort of demented Christmas fairy.
Just then he felt a buzz from his inside pocket which meant he’d got a text. He fished out his phone.
‘If that’s Kitty Hope she can whistle,’ he muttered swiping the screen with his finger. The text wasn’t from Kitty. It was from Dickie Hart of Excalibur Management.
‘Oh dear, looks like the bubble has burst. Call me before it’s too late.’
Matt weighed the phone in his hand for a couple of moments. He sighed heavily, then dialled the number.
‘Sorry, Kitty …’ he said aloud, ‘this is just business.’
18
Professional Help
‘I wondered how long it would take for you to wake up and smell the roses,’ a gruff voice said at the other end of the phone.
‘How’d you know?’ said Matt.
‘I know everything,’ said Dickie.
‘You were right, Mr Hart, Kitty’s out of her depth. I need help, and fast. If that offer of management is still open I’d like to take you up on it.’
‘Hmm, I like that …’ said Dickie, savouring the moment. ‘Say that again.’
‘If that offer of management is still open, I’d like to take you up on it …’
‘Not that bit!’ he snapped. ‘The bit about me being right. Yeah, I’m still interested. You’d better come over to the office and we can sort out the paperwork.’
‘Thanks, Mr Hart, I really appreciate this,’ said Matt with a sigh of relief. It was like a weight lifting from his shoulders. ‘It’ll take me a while. I’ll need to look at train times …’
‘Nah, don’t bother with all that, I’ll send a car for you.’
Matt had come off the phone both relieved and excited. As he’d made his way back home across the fields his mind raced – this could be just the boost that he needed. Yes, Dickie wasn’t the most likeable person he’d ever met – in fact if he was honest he felt there was something ‘wrong’ about him, something a bit shady. But no one could argue with his track record – surely that spoke for itself? After all, as Kitty herself had said, it was called show business not show friendship.
It was early the following morning by the time he’d finished his soul searching session and arrived home. He changed out of his wet things and lay on his bed staring at his phone. He knew what he had to do, and it sent a chill down his spine just thinking about it. He needed to let Kitty know his decision, and he knew she was going to be gutted. He selected her name from his list of contacts and was just about to call her when he hesitated.
‘No, better if I do it face to face,’ he thought. He started texting.
‘Hi Kitty, we need to talk, r u around? Matt x’
As he was about to press send, the doorbell went. Standing on the s
tep was Alf, the driver who’d taken him and the gang to the O2.
‘Mr Hart has requested your presence, sir,’ he said with a benign smile.
‘Blimey that was quick!’
‘Yes well, Mr Hart has an amazing ability to predict certain circumstances. Do you have an overnight bag, sir?’
‘Overnight? Why …?’
‘Well, Mr Hart said that there is urgent work to be done, which will require an overnight stay.’
‘But where? I don’t have anywhere to stay in London. Besides, I’ve got school!’ said Matt frowning.
‘Oh, I’m sure Mr Hart will take care of all that for you.’
Matt nipped upstairs and threw a few things into a suitcase.
‘Where are you off to?’ said Ian as he passed him in the hallway. ‘You’re not leaving home without telling your mother are you?’
‘No, Ian, I’m not leaving home, it’s actually worse than that. I’m leaving Kitty,’ said Matt. That feeling of shame he’d felt earlier kicked back in with a vengeance.
‘Leaving? You mean …?’
‘Yeah, I’m meeting Dickie Hart. I’m being taken on by Excalibur Management!’
‘Nice one,’ said Ian offering Matt a high five. Matt wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.
‘I’m sure you’re doing the right thing, Matt – they’ve got offices in London, and well, you’ve seen the car he drives around in. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Kitty did do a good job for a while but she’s got you as far as she can get you.’
‘Yeah well, after the shambles at Sossinghurst last night I don’t think I have any choice. Besides if I change my mind I can always leave them can’t I?’ Matt sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Ian.
‘Exactly,’ said Ian, nodding enthusiastically.
‘So anyway, he wants me to go up for some meetings, and sign his contract …’ said Matt pulling up the handle of his suitcase and wheeling it towards the front door.
‘Hang on,’ said Ian, a concerned look on his face. ‘A contract? I don’t think you should be signing anything without an adult present!’
‘Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Matt scratching his chin. ‘I don’t suppose …?’
‘Wait there!’ said Ian and he disappeared into his bedroom. There was the sound of drawers being opened and closed, then a thud and finally the ZZZZZip! of a suitcase, and Ian appeared at the door in his coat and trundling his battered old luggage behind him.
‘Ready?’ he said.
*
Matt once again sunk into the sofa-like leather seat of Alf’s limo and watched as the little houses and gardens of his suburban home gave way to fields, woods and farmhouses, then another town and then the main motorway into London. ‘The Mighty M20’ as Ian called it.
His mind drifted to Kitty and how she’d be feeling right now, how upset she’d be when she found out, how disappointed Neil and Rob and even Ahmed would feel at what they could only perceive as his betrayal of Team Millz. In his mind’s eye he saw the look of disapproval on Bobby’s face as he heard the news.
Then there was Alex. He and she had been getting on really well ever since they’d met at the ill-fated Frittledean gig. He really liked her. How was she going to feel now he’d turned his back on Kitty and the gang? There was no reason why they couldn’t all still remain friends though was there? Surely once they’d all got over the initial shock … They’d understand that he stood a better chance of making it as a comic with a big London agent, wouldn’t they? Then he remembered Russel Perkins’ unhappiness at the O2 after-show party. His mind was in a churning turmoil of self-doubt and insecurity. Was he doing the right thing? What was he getting himself into?
An hour and a half later the limo wound its way haltingly up London’s Piccadilly eventually pulling up outside a fancy-looking restaurant with the word ‘Austin’s’ above the door.
‘Here you are, gentlemen!’ said the chauffeur, opening the door for Matt and Ian and handing them their suitcases. ‘Mr Hart is running a little late but the maître d’ will show you to his usual table.’
Matt stood on the pavement feeling bewildered and a long way from home.
‘Oy! Move it would you?! You’re blockin’ the path!’ snapped a voice from behind him, and someone clunked Matt in the back with his manbag with such force that it knocked him to the pavement. Matt shook his head, looked up and immediately recognised the culprit. It was Dickie Hart.
‘Oh! It’s you, Matt!’ said Dickie, realising his mistake. ‘Sorry, I thought you was … er … that’s to say … SO you got here all right then?’
‘Hello, Mr Hart! I must say that I’m really pleased that you’re considering taking young Matt on to Excalibur’s books …’ said Ian.
‘Oh yeah, and who are you when you’re at home?’ said Dickie Hart looking him up and down like he was a something the dog had retrieved from the bin.
‘Ian! Ian Woodwood! Matt’s stepdad? We met before, remember? You were interested in my old punk band, Dead Toys?’ said Ian, his hand shooting out for a handshake.
‘Hmm! This is private business, so …!’ said Dickie ignoring Ian’s gesture of friendship.
Ian took a step back, not quite sure how to react.
‘Ian is my stepdad, Mr Hart,’ Matt piped up.
‘Exactly,’ said Ian, recovering his composure and slightly annoyed. ‘He’s a minor and if there’s a contract to be signed, then he needs an adult to advise him.’
Dickie hesitated and narrowed his eyes as if he was considering his next move in a game of Jenga. Then his face cracked into a huge smile.
‘Of course! Nice to see you again, Ian,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll be joining us for lunch! Shall we …?’
With that Dickie grabbed Ian’s suitcase, marched up the steps and led them through the huge doors of the restaurant.
Before being converted into a restaurant, Austin’s had once been a car showroom, when Britain’s car industry had been at its peak, back in the nineteen sixties. Where once were cars and auto paraphernalia, now sat London’s great and good at tables covered in starched white tablecloths, set with cutlery and glassware that glittered, throwing spangled light back up at the high ceilings which were now hung with huge crystal chandeliers.
‘Welcome, Monsieur ’Art!’ said the maître d’ in a thick French accent, helping Dickie off with his coat. ‘We ’ave your usual table, in ze middle where everyone can see you!’
‘Thank you, Maurice!’ said Dickie, pressing a crumpled fiver into the maître d’s hand. ‘Ah, merci!’ said the maître d’, almost bent double in slightly desperate appreciation.
As they picked their way between the tables, the noise of the diners’ chatter was deafening, gossiping about the latest twists and turns in showbiz, who had done what to whom, who was on the up and who was on the slide. Matt cast his eye around and saw a number of familiar faces – TV executive Avril Yentl chatted animatedly to long-established nature presenter Sir David Applebough; legendary star of the small screen Dame Joan Curlings sat holding the hand of a man half her age who was toying with a prawn; ex-boy-band star Dane Wanton was on another table deep in conversation with some men in suits. Then Matt heard his name being called. He looked over to see Amelia Wong waving at him. He waved back.
Ian dug Matt in the ribs with his elbow. ‘This is a bit of all right!’ he said.
‘All right, Davinia?’ said Dickie as he passed the table of the top TV presenter Davinia McLoud offering her his hand. The presenter batted him away dismissively and pulled a face at the other people on her table. They passed another table with five very serious, very affluent-looking businessmen who were engaged in dismembering a pile of lobsters. As they saw Dickie, their faces took on an angry countenance.
‘Before you say anything, fellas …’ said Dickie to the men, ‘the money will be with you first thing Monday!’
‘It had better be,’ growled one of the businessmen. ‘Otherwise it’s …’ He made a rather threatening gesture
with the lobster tongs. Dickie gave a nervous laugh and pressed on into the room.
‘Who were they?’ asked Matt, catching up with Dickie at their table.
‘Eh? Oh, they’re what you might call business associates – nothing to worry about. I told you this day would come didn’t I, Matt?’ said Dickie, settling into a chair and opening the huge menu.
‘How did the girl take it, Kitty wassername?’ he said, grinning. He seemed to be relishing the misery he’d helped cause.
‘I haven’t told her yet,’ said Matt with a wince.
‘Well, she needs to grow some. It’s a big boys’ game. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the frying pan,’ he said
‘You mean kitchen, I think,’ said Matt.
‘Eh?’ said Dickie scanning the menu.
‘You said if you can’t stand the heat get out of the frying pan, but if you get out of the frying pan you end up in the fire!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you want something fried I’m sure I could have a word with the chef …’
‘Does your young friend need any help wiz ze menu at all, Monsieur ’Art?’ It was Maurice the maître d’ again.
‘He was talking about having something fried …’ said Dickie.
Matt scanned the menu – it was an assortment of strange foreign-sounding words. What was confit of duck when it was at home? What was a cassoulet? Or coq au vin?
‘I’ll have the usual please, Maurice,’ said Dickie folding the menu and handing it back.
‘And I’ll have the same,’ said Matt and Ian clearly hedging their bets.
‘Three fish and chips,’ said Maurice jotting it down on his little pad. ‘Splendido!’
‘Thanks for seeing me, Mr Hart,’ said Matt.
‘No problem, but I don’t like to talk business before I’ve had me lunch.’
They sat there pretty much in silence until the food came. It seemed Dickie Hart wasn’t famed for his small talk.
When the food did turn up, Matt was rather surprised at the portion size. It was tiny. The fish wasn’t a big slab of cod in a fat crispy overcoat of batter like he was used to from the chippy at home – it was three slivers dipped in breadcrumbs and, instead of being served on a plate, it was on what looked like a roof tile, and it had a sort of musty smell to it.
