by Georgia Byng
There were hundreds of television channels. Molly surfed through them happily. There were news programs, talk shows, music programs, fitness programs, religious programs, and movies.
And ads all the time. Molly noticed that some channels had commercials every five minutes with hardly any programming in between. Some ads were repeated over and over again. “Buy this … Buy this … You need this … You really do need this …”
As Molly watched, amazed by the regularity of the commercial breaks, it struck her for the first time that advertising was like a sort of hypnotism. A hypnotism that persuaded people to buy things. A sort of brainwashing. Perhaps if people watched an advertisement that told them “You need this” often enough, eventually they’d believe they did need whatever it was. Then Molly caught her favorite, the Qube ad, and she felt all warm inside. How much closer she was now to being one of those glamorous people on the beach. She started to sing along.
“Qube if you’re cute … Qube if you’re rude … Everyone loves you ‘cause you’re so Qube.”
The blue-eyed man on the TV winked. “I’m sooooo popular—I’ve been Qubed.”
“Not as popular as I’m going to be,” shouted Molly, throwing a wet washcloth at the TV and pressing the Jacuzzi button on the side of the bath. A moment later she was practically blown out of the water. Molly slammed her hand on the button again and the bubbles stopped. She wasn’t sure about the Jacuzzi. It was like ten monsters farting in her bath all at once. But apart from the Jacuzzi, she certainly felt she could get used to this kind of life. The question was, how should she go about keeping it?
After her bath Molly got into her satin-sheeted four-poster to think. But instead, like Petula, on the end of the bed, she fell instantly asleep.
Nockman was four hours from landing at JFK Airport. In his mind he conjured up a picture of the girl with the book. The girl who, his taxi driver from Briersville had told him, had performed in front of hundreds of local people who had all thought her the most talented and sweet-looking child they had ever seen. Nockman realized with astonishment that the girl had hypnotized them all. He was astounded that a girl as young as she could learn Dr. Logan’s art. She must be exceptionally talented. But his fascination with her was soon replaced with fury. How dare the wretched kid steal his book? He’d soon wipe the smirk off her face.
He ground his teeth. She wasn’t going to escape him. He was on her trail. Even though he hadn’t properly seen what she looked like, he was sure that if he kept his ear to the ground, he’d track her down in New York. He removed his new spiral-pattern glasses from his pocket and gave them a polish. He’d read enough about hypnotism to know that when someone had the mesmerizing gift, people were powerless under their gaze. But something in the makeup of the spiral on these glasses deflected the effect of hypnotic eyes. Nockman hoped they worked. The only other thing he needed was a voice-scrambling machine, and then he’d be protected from M. Moon’s voice, too.
Stroking his oily mustache, Professor Nockman sat back and wondered what the M stood for. Margaret? Matilda? Mavis? He smiled. Perhaps it was a good thing that this girl had found the hypnotism book. Maybe she was better at it than he could ever hope to be. When he found this M. Moon, maybe all he needed do was control her, which shouldn’t be difficult. After all, she was only a child. And suddenly the ruthless Nockman realized that, far from being his rival, this M. Moon, whoever she was, could be a gift horse in disguise. Why, she was surely the perfect accomplice to help him achieve his ambitions. She could give him a ride to the top.
Fifteen
When Molly opened her eyes the next morning, the hotel room made her jump. The luxury of it was a shock. The cream carpet and heavy silk curtains made her feel as if she was in a chocolate commercial. She tipped herself out of bed, opened the fridge, and took out a Heaven bar, singing the brand song as she ate it.
“I’m in Heaven, Heaven’s in me.
I knew I’d get to Heaven eventually.”
Then she put on the robe from the back of the bathroom door. It was way too big for her, but warm and very soft, like the towels in the Cloud Nine ads. She walked over to the windows, this time to look at New York in daylight. The city buzzed away below and beyond. The buildings looked even bigger and Manhattan seemed to stretch farther. A massive poster, hundreds of feet tall, was stuck on the wall of a skyscraper. It was a giant picture of a woman wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket. Underneath, it said, “Walk like a giant…. Wear Diva Jeans.”
The giant woman made Molly feel extremely small. An attack of butterflies gathered in her stomach. Since Briersville she’d been riding on a wave of glory, and with a spinning head she’d made her bold plans and left the country. But now, in the morning light, Molly didn’t feel quite as confident as she had the day before. She realized that she knew nothing about this city or its inhabitants. She looked at the New Yorkers, far below on the pavement, who were walking along with purpose and determination. Very few of them were idling or stopping. Molly decided she must learn something about this place before she stepped out into it. But before she did anything, she had to have some breakfast, so she called room service.
Fifteen minutes later a skinny waiter pushed a table on wheels into Molly’s suite. It was laid with a white tablecloth, cutlery, and delicate white china plates, cups, and saucers. Two shiny pots were beside two silver domes that concealed Molly’s breakfast. The waiter handed Molly a piece of paper. “Sign please, madam,” he said.
Molly signed and the waiter left.
Molly looked at the slip. Her breakfast had cost twenty-five dollars! A second swarm of butterflies, great big Amazonian butterflies, filled her insides. She knew that the hotel bill was going to eat up the rest of her prize money quickly. On top of this, she needed money for life in general. For the little things, like chewing gum, ice cream, cotton candy, and magazines. She couldn’t go around New York hypnotizing everyone for everything, because sooner or later someone would see what she was up to, and then she’d be in big trouble.
Molly’s butterflies turned into tummy rumblings. Deciding to think about her dilemma later, she lifted the silver domes. One plate had a sausage on it. This was Petula’s breakfast. The other had four ketchup sandwiches. In the little silver pot was some purple liquid, and beside it was a note that read:
The Waldorf regrets that in America we do not have orange squash concentrate. We do, however, have Granita, a cherry-flavored syrup to which water or lemonade can be added. We hope that this substitute is satisfactory.
Molly sniffed the Granita and poured some into a glass. It tasted okay. The big silver pot had hot chocolate in it.
Soon Molly and Petula were eating with relish.
After breakfast, Molly bit her ketchupy lip and thought. She should approach this money problem logically. Perhaps the TV would help her. So, putting her new sunglasses on, she and Petula settled down for a marathon viewing session.
Molly flicked through the channels, paying particular attention to the ads. She landed in a nature program. On the screen was a nest with three baby birds in it, all squawking for food. The chick in the middle was much bigger and noisier than the others. The narrator’s voice explained: “The baby cuckoo has hatched in the robins’ nest. And already it is growing faster than the robin chicks.”
The mother robin returned to the nest with a worm. But before the smaller robin chicks had time to have a bite, the cuckoo chick snatched it.
“It’s amazing,” continued the narrator, “how the mother robin thinks the cuckoo chick is her own.” When the mother robin flew off, the cuckoo chick started to hop about. And then, with a firm movement, it pushed first one baby robin chick, and then the other, out of the nest.
Molly gasped. So, cuckoos really did push other birds out of the nest. Mrs. Trinklebury’s lullaby rang in her head, making her feel uneasy. Was she like those baby robins? She felt more like the cuckoo, the way she’d pushed her way to winning the Briersville talent money. Mrs. Trinklebury�
��s song had never made much sense to her. Now it made even less. With a little shudder she switched channels.
By lunchtime Molly’s eyes were feeling rectangular. She’d been surfing the channels for three hours and knew much more about America, but she still didn’t have a clue how she would make any money. As for Rocky, Molly didn’t know where to start looking for him. Like a helium balloon with a hole in it, her spirits were sinking lower and lower. Negative thoughts filled her mind. She must have been crazy to come to America.
She got up and opened the minibar to get a drink. Inside were all sorts of things: tiny bottles of whisky, gin, and vodka, and cartons of fruit juice, water, and Qube, too. “Be cool, drink Qube,” sang the ad in her memory. Qube would help her. She certainly did need to cool down; she needed to be Qube cool. So she took a can and cracked it open.
Minty, fruity bubbles fizzed up her nose as she swallowed. And as she glugged, the Qube ad came on the television screen. It was quite something to be drinking her first full can of Qube, at last, and to be watching the Qube crowd on TV at the same moment. Molly smiled.
“Hey, the world really looks better with a can of Qube in my hand.” The white-toothed man grinned.
“Yeah,” agreed Molly, drinking the rest of her can at once, and making a victory sign with her fingers at the man on the box. Suddenly the world really did look better. Molly felt certain that everything was going to be all right. For a moment she felt just like one of the people on the screen. Then she burped and the feeling was gone. The ad switched to one about wood varnish. Molly was left with an empty can in her hand and lots of bubbles in her stomach.
Molly was startled. She’d actually believed that a can of Qube could help sort out her problems. Qube and its people. With Qube by her side, she’d felt sure she’d be more confident and able to charm the world. Instead of feeling cool, though, she felt hot and worried and deflated. Molly felt that her favorite ad people had betrayed her, and in a blinding flash she saw that her infatuation with them and their world had been madness. Why, they were completely unreal.
As she watched the next ad, which featured a boy with a scraped knee, Molly thought that maybe she could get work as an actress. After all, those people in all the ads weren’t real, they were actors, and there were hundreds of ads. There must be lots of work. Maybe she could even get a part in a Qube ad.
As Molly toyed with this idea, a new program started. A man in an orange suit sat on a pink sofa with a huge spongy microphone in his hand. Behind him a large flashing sign said CHARLIE CHAT’S SHOW. The man had a voice so deep that it sounded as if he gargled with gravel in the mornings.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, as promised, we have her here with us today. Please put your hands together and give a very warm welcome to Broadway’s newest star, Davina Nuttel!”
Molly was surprised to see that Davina Nuttel was a small girl of about eight or nine. As she strode onto the stage, the audience whistled and clapped. She sat down, and the red-haired interviewer, Charlie Chat, boomed, “Well, hi, Davina! It’s just grrrreat to have you on the show!”
“Hi, Charlie, it’s great to be here,” came the sugar-sweet voice of Davina.
“So, Davina, let’s get strrrraight to the point. I’m sure everyone wants to know what it feels like to be the star of a Broadway musical.”
“It feels just great,” said Davina, smiling beautifully. “I love the songs, I love the dancing, I love the story. I love the other actors, I love the audiences, and I love being in Manhattan.”
“You must have a grrrreat big heart for all that love,” said Charlie Chat, and the audience laughed.
“Well, it’s all great, and everyone should come and see the show.” Davina turned to the audience and beamed out a huge, persuasive grin. Her face gave Molly a jolt. She looked a bit like Hazel.
“Let’s see some of it,” said Charlie Chat. On came a sequence of clips. First there was a picture of the entrance of a grand theater with the title of the show, Stars on Mars, written above it in neon lights. A slinky black car pulled up outside, and Davina Nuttel, in a fur coat, got out of it. Then the picture cut to some clips of the show. The stage set looked like the surface of the planet Mars, full of big red rocks. Davina Nuttel was dressed in a shining red astronaut’s suit and was tap dancing and singing. It was a space musical. More clips were shown of other parts of the show, one where four large Mars monsters tried to attack Davina. Petula dropped the stone she was sucking and growled at the Martians.
The Chat show audience clapped, and Molly felt some of the thrill she’d felt on the Briersville stage when her audience had applauded her.
“My goodness, that cerrrrtainly was something,” said Charlie Chat.
“Thank you. You know I owe just about everything to my caring, wonderful, self-sacrificing mom and dad.”
“Aahhh,” said the audience.
“And,” said Davina, “to my manager, Barry Bragg.”
“Ah yes,” said Charlie Chat. “And here he is!”
On the screen appeared a man with a center part and combed-down, gelled hair. He had red cheeks and wore a checkered suit and a pair of red spectacles.
“Hi there, Davina and Charlie!” he said.
“Hi, Barry!” cried Davina Nuttel.
“So Barrrrrry, everyone here wants to know, how did you discover Davina?”
“Well, she just walked straight into my Manhattan offices on Derry Street,” said bow tied Barry enthusiastically, “and she bowled me over. You all know how she sings and dances. Well, she just came into my offices and she sang and danced around the room like the li’l bit of magic that she is. It was obvious to me that she was going to be a star, so I introduced her to the director of Stars on Mars, and, well, a hit and a half later, here we are.”
Davina laughed, shaking her golden locks playfully. “My lucky stars were out the day I met you, Barry.” She turned to Charlie Chat. “I mean, Barry knows everyone in show business.”
The program continued, and Molly watched bright-eyed people come and go. She realized that she really did fancy being an actress for a bit, but not in the ads. They seemed very superficial compared to singing and dancing in front of a live audience. She’d enjoyed all that adulation and applause on the stage in Briersville, and she’d like to experience it again. She bet actors like Davina got paid a lot. Perhaps this manager, Barry Bragg, would be a good person to meet. Acting would be a challenge, but Molly felt sure she could rise to the occasion, especially with her new skills. And what had Rocky said? That she never tried at anything? She would prove him absolutely wrong.
She got up and stretched. Petula did the same. Molly felt as if she’d found a solution. This Barry Bragg, whose office was on Derry Street, wherever that was, could help to sort her out.
As she got dressed, she hummed along to a number from Stars on Mars. It really was a catchy tune, and Molly thought what fun it must be to star in a Broadway show.
Molly put on her T-shirt and her old, holey sweater. She pulled on her worn-out short gray skirt, she brushed her curly hair, and she looked at her peculiar face in the mirror, wrinkling her potato nose at her reflection. She locked her hypnotism book in the room’s safe, then grabbed her jacket and whistled to Petula.
“Come on, Petula. Let’s go and get a slice of the action!”
With her own destiny at the front of her mind, and leaving all thoughts of Rocky behind her, Molly left the hotel room.
Sixteen
It was scary stepping out of the quiet, snazzy hotel into the busy, dirty streets of Manhattan. Hot dogs, onions, bagels, roasted peanuts, coffee, pretzels, burgers, and pickles filled the air with their aromas. And everywhere there was movement—of people and of traffic. Molly had never seen such a mixture of people in one place; all colors and all kinds. There were the biggest, fattest people she’d ever seen walking past the thinnest. New Yorkers seemed to dress exactly how they felt, without caring what anyone else thought. Molly saw a guy dressed in cowboy chaps swaggerin
g past a woman dressed in sparkly pink hot pants. Molly imagined Mrs. Toadley in a pair of them and smiled, and she thought how Miss Adderstone could walk down the street here in her snipped-up suit, with her knickers on her head, and everyone would just think it was a new fashion.
For a moment Molly felt very small and unsteady, but then a hotel porter appeared beside her in his brown-and-gold uniform. “Cab, ma’am?”
“Er, yes, please,” said Molly. The porter opened the door to another rattly yellow cab, this time driven by a guy with a thick black moustache.
“Where ya wanna go, ladee?” he said.
“Derry Street,” said Molly as firmly as possible. She and Petula climbed in, and a different taped voice under her seat said, “Meoooow, cats have nine lives, but you don’t, so buckle up.” Molly didn’t need to be reminded, as this driver drove like a madman. They skidded away from the hotel and down one of the main streets that went south through Manhattan. LEXINGTON AVENUE, said a sign, and the driver slalomed down it as if he were in a computer game, laughing like a lunatic every time he nearly hit another car. Molly gripped the seat, and Petula sank her claws into the vinyl.
Above them, on either side, enormous skyscrapers shot upward, great walls of glass and steel. At street level, billowing clouds of steam rose up through grates in the pavements.
Molly looked at the map on the back of her driver’s seat. It was a plan of Manhattan, and she saw that although most of the streets were named by number, at the bottom end of the island the streets had names, as in other cities. Indeed, twenty minutes and thirteen dollars later, Molly and Petula had arrived in the maze of these streets and been dropped off on the one called Derry. It was a street full of brownstone buildings, more the size of buildings in Briersville, although they still had a distinctly city feeling about them. Molly and Petula picked their way along, looking at names on doorbells. At last they came to a polished bronze sign that said THE BARRY BRAGG AGENCY. Molly was relieved that finding Mr. Bragg had been so simple, although it did mean that now there was no putting off meeting him. She straightened her skirt, took a deep breath, and pressed the buzzer.
