I Will Marry George Clooney (By Christmas)

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘Trespassing?’ yelled Michelle. She paused as she waited to spin round again until she could at least see Rio. ‘This is a public park,’ she managed as he whizzed past her again.

  The spinning was getting faster and faster as the momentum built. There was no option for it, she would have to jump. A James Bond-style roll might just break her fall enough to avoid injuring herself, and then she could spring up and run him off. She poised, waiting for Rio to appear again. Best not to jump on top of him; he was the sort to report her for child abuse. In a flash he appeared and she was flying through the air. Her feet touched the ground and she instantly bent her knees to lessen the impact. Her side came into contact with the spongy, childfriendly surface and she launched herself into an impressive roll – until she stopped, having only achieved a quarter turn, totally forgetting that she had a rucksack on her back. She lay there, legs waving in the air like a distressed tortoise.

  It is possible that Rio actually did wet himself as he screamed with laughter at Michelle. She hoped so. Eventually Gina dismounted the roundabout as it came to a standstill and helped Michelle up. They walked away, ignoring Rio’s further verbal assault.

  ‘You alright?’ asked Gina. ‘You could have come a cropper there. You’re not as young as you used to be, remember.’

  ‘Of course I’m not as young as I used to bloody be,’ said Michelle, humiliated. ‘I hate that saying. It’s so stupid.’

  ‘You only hate it because it’s true.’

  ‘Of course it’s true!’ screeched Michelle. ‘How could I be anything but not as young as I used to be?’

  ‘Alright, keep your hair on,’ said Gina. ‘You going home now?’

  ‘Yeah. Josie’s out, so I can get onto the computer and try and find out about George’s favourite charities.’

  ‘Right. I’ll call Cousin Jack, shall I, and say his intelligence was of great value to our operation?’

  ‘You been watching Homeland again?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I think Cousin Jack should thank his recruit and keep her under orders.’

  ‘Good thinking. I shall inform agent Jack to abort the mission to slash the Mondeo tyres.’

  ‘Excellent. Let’s debrief tomorrow.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Mum, I need the computer.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Michelle, trying to concentrate on what was being said on-screen.

  ‘I said I’d Skype Sean before he went to bed.’

  ‘But you’ve just been over at his house!’

  ‘I know, but he wants to see my face before he goes to sleep.’

  ‘Well, I’m using it at the moment.’

  Michelle felt Josie rear up behind her left shoulder, forcing her to quickly wipe away the tears that were dripping off the end of her nose. She didn’t have a tissue, so she was forced to give a loud sniff.

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re just snivelling over some dodgy George Clooney film,’ Josie said scornfully. ‘When are you going to grow up?’

  ‘It’s not a George Clooney film,’ said Michelle, wishing she could get up for a tissue but unwilling to allow Josie to take over the cyberspace and replace George Clooney with Sean’s acne.

  ‘Oh really, so who exactly is that, then?’ asked Josie, her hands defiantly on her hips.

  ‘It is George Clooney, but not in a movie,’ Michelle muttered as she watched his lips move, unable to follow what he was saying over Josie’s interruption.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Josie. ‘There’s Clooney porn all over the internet that you can watch whenever you like, but at this very moment I promised Sean I would Skype to say goodnight.’

  ‘Call him on your mobile,’ said Michelle.

  ‘You are unreal!’ shouted Josie. ‘Some dodgy clip on YouTube is more important than me wishing my beloved goodnight!’

  ‘It is, actually,’ said Michelle, turning round to face her daughter for the first time, eyes red and cheeks glowing.

  ‘What’s up with you? You look weird!’ shrieked Josie.

  She thrust her thumb towards the screen as if gesturing directly to George to clear off and get out of her Skype time. ‘You’re thirty-six, Mum, not sixteen, for Christ’s sake. You’re an embarrassment!’

  Michelle got up and rushed to the kitchen to grab a tissue. By the time she’d come back, Josie was already dialling Sean on Skype. He answered immediately, leering topless out of the screen, revealing that his acne problem was not restricted to his face. Michelle thought she might retch as she reached over and grabbed the mouse before clicking the Call Cancel button.

  ‘WTF, Mother?’ said Josie. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I hadn’t finished,’ said Michelle. ‘And you can tell Sean I don’t want to see him naked on Skype again.’

  ‘He wasn’t naked. He had his PJ bottoms on.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he was in them when I left his house.’

  ‘And what were you in, young lady? Or not, as the case may be.’

  ‘I was in my clothes, Mother. I told you, we’re waiting until I’m sixteen before we do anything like that.’

  ‘Oh, how reassuring,’ huffed Michelle.

  ‘We are both more than capable of controlling ourselves,’ said Josie. ‘Unlike some. Exactly why were you all red in the face after watching George Clooney on the internet?’

  ‘Josie!’ Michelle exclaimed, mortified. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Look, I know it must have been a long time, Mum, and indeed the internet is well known for allowing some people to relieve their frustration, but really – you? So very disappointing.’

  ‘I was not masturbating whilst watching George Clooney on the internet.’ Michelle slammed her fist on the desk table.

  ‘Er, hi,’ came a voice out of nowhere.

  They both swung round to look at the screen, and there was a smirking Sean, reappearing somehow to participate in this late-night mother–daughter debate.

  ‘I wasn’t!’ Michelle shouted at Sean in a box.

  ‘It’s okay, Mrs H, we’ve all done it,’ said Sean.

  Silence fell as Sean grinned inanely out at them. It was the first time Michelle had ever seen his teeth and she was sure it was the longest sentence she’d ever heard him put together.

  ‘But I won’t tell anyone if you’re embarrassed,’ he continued.

  Michelle stared back at him for a moment, then reached down and pulled the computer plug out of the wall.

  ‘Mum!’ shrieked Josie. ‘You can’t do that to a computer! It’s really bad for it.’ She crouched down to put the plug back in.

  ‘Tell your boyfriend,’ said Michelle, pointing at Josie’s crouched back, ‘that I was not doing what he thinks I was doing.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Josie stood up again and sat herself down in front of the computer, concentrating on getting it back up and running. ‘No-one cares what you do in your private life anyway.’

  Michelle opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She was tired and not sure she could face trying to explain the real reason why she was flustered and red in the face after watching a George Clooney clip on the computer. She trudged upstairs and went through her usual night-time rituals: brush teeth, look at dental floss and decide to leave it another night, scrutinise face in the mirror to do a wrinkle check, apply moisturiser, go into bedroom, drag off clothes and dump on floor, pull on passion-killing pyjamas, fall into cold, empty bed.

  Except tonight, for once, her head wasn’t filled with the sadness of sleeping yet another night alone. It was buzzing with the images she had watched that evening on the computer. It hadn’t taken long for her to discover that George Clooney ‘has one of the most charitable hearts in the Hollywood community’. The list of charities he supported appeared to be endless, but it wasn’t the quantity of his giving that was most impressive. She’d discovered that in 2008 he was so incensed by some of the terrible things going on in the world that, along with the likes of Matt Damon and Brad P
itt, he’d set up the Not On Our Watch project. This was not about putting their faces in the media and asking people to give money, or pretending to be on a stupid switchboard. This involved actually trying to make a difference, using their celebrity status to increase awareness of the pain and suffering going on in places like Darfur in Africa and Burma in South East Asia. Michelle had wept as she’d watched a woman speak of the ritual rape she was subjected to and seen images of millions of children without homes or food. There were clips of George putting pressure on politicians to change what was happening, to actually do something about the mass atrocities going on around the world. Michelle had watched as George addressed the United Nations, desperately trying to get the voices heard of people suffering at the hands of terrible regimes. He had never looked better.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘There you are,’ said Michelle, dumping herself down in a slightly damp wicker chair. ‘I’ve been looking for you all over. What are you doing out here?’

  ‘Welcome to my office,’ declared Daz, waving his hands around the smokers’ hut behind the Empire Social Club in the middle of town. The wind was blowing a gale through the open front and cigarette butts were floating in water-filled ashtrays as a result of an earlier rain shower.

  ‘Are you serious?’ asked Michelle. ‘It’s dark, it’s damp, it’s dirty, and it stinks of fags.’

  ‘Exactly!’ replied Daz. ‘I love it. Takes me back to the good old days when all pubs and clubs were just like this – when you walked in and were hit with that smoky atmosphere and the next morning you could still smell the remnants of a fantastic night out on your clothes. Cigarettes and sweat. Good times, Michelle, good times.’

  ‘You never smoked.’

  ‘I know. I just preferred going home smelling like that rather than of wood polish and Domestos. No atmosphere today, you see. That’s why no-one goes to the pub any more. They’re so sterile, so cleeeean, so homely, with all their fake old country furniture and pretend vintage tat. Yuck, yuck, yuck,’ he concluded, pretending to stuff his fingers down his throat.

  ‘But shouldn’t you be inside, manning the decks or something? Aren’t you supposed to be working?’ she asked.

  ‘Buffet time,’ Daz pointed out. ‘I’m about to go back in after I’ve made an important managerial decision. What do you reckon to this?’ He turned his iPad around to show Michelle what looked like a logo design.

  ‘Dazzling Daz’s Double Dex Disco Machine,’ she read out from the riot of colours radiating from the letters on the screen.

  ‘Cool, eh?’ Daz said proudly. ‘I’m going through some rebranding. See how I’ve changed the spelling of Decks to Dex. It’s to appeal to the youth market. I’ve spotted a big trend in spelling things wrong.’

  ‘Right,’ Michelle nodded. ‘And the fact that you don’t use decks any more; you use a laptop? Should that not be part of your rebranding?’

  ‘Michelle,’ Daz sighed. ‘Kids like the retro feel. Most top DJs are using decks again to be authentic. Decks are cool. I can’t be arsed, though.’

  ‘I see. So what’s this new logo for, then?’

  ‘The new truck, of course. Pat Jones has just sold me his Ford Ranger pick-up. It’s the bollocks. Five-seater, beautiful grey trim, CD changer, and my disco kit fits in the back perfectly, now I’ve got rid of the stink of sheep. I just need to pimp it up a bit, you know. I’ll take you for a ride later if you like. Bring back memories of old times, eh?’ He winked. ‘Me, you and Millie the Metro.’

  Michelle recollected awkward pauses in lay-bys on the way back from the pub in Daz’s mum’s car. Gina and her boyfriend would be virtually swallowing each other in the back whilst Michelle would be chatting ten to the dozen in the front at Daz to avoid any silence which might be filled by Daz moving in for a snog.

  ‘Actually, I’ve come to see you to pick your brains,’ she said quickly.

  Daz stared at her before silently raising his finger in a gesture to prevent her proceeding any further.

  ‘I knew this day would come,’ he said seriously, glancing down at his watch. ‘Hold that thought. I’m due back inside now, so why don’t you come and join me and we can continue this conversation behind the decks.’

  ‘Are you sure they won’t mind?’

  ‘They won’t even notice you’re there, believe me.’

  They went through a back door into the function room, which allowed them to appear behind Daz’s disco kit as if they’d been there all the time. Daz sat down behind his laptop and a bank of speakers and began tapping buttons.

  ‘Just lining up the next track ready for when the eating selection finishes,’ he muttered as Michelle peered past the lighting rig to take a look at what kind of crowd was having a party on a Thursday night. Before she could take anything in, however, an elderly gentleman appeared at her side.

  ‘Burt Bacharach,’ he shouted in her ear.

  ‘Michelle Hidderley,’ she replied. ‘I’m just giving Daz a hand. Hope that’s okay?’

  The man looked at her as though she was out of her mind – so much so she wished she’d told Daz she’d come back when he’d finished.

  ‘Burt Bacharach,’ the man bellowed again.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Michelle politely offered her hand to shake.

  The man shook his head at her then some kind of realisation appeared to dawn on him.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he apologised. ‘It’s just you’re awfully young to have it.’

  ‘Have what?’ she asked, starting to panic at the intense concern that had appeared on his face.

  Now it was the man’s turn to start panicking. He went bright red and his eyes darted around as he searched for an escape route.

  ‘Of course,’ he flustered. ‘You won’t know if you’ve got it, will you? I’m such an idiot. I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.’ She watched him turn and scuttle to the other end of the room.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Daz.

  ‘Burt Bacharach, I think he said his name was.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Burt Bacharach is a very famous American singersong writer.’

  ‘Riiiight,’ said Michelle slowly. ‘Oooooh, I bet he was asking for Burt Bacharach, not introducing himself. No wonder.’

  ‘Or he’s one of them?’

  ‘One of what?’

  ‘Maybe he has Alzheimer’s and thinks he actually is

  Burt Bacharach.’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Doh,’ said Daz. ‘Because this is an Alzheimer’s fundraiser.’

  ‘Riiiiight,’ she said once again, her mouth dropping open. ‘I think he thought it was me who had Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I thought he was Burt Bacharach.’

  ‘Now I’m confused,’ said Daz.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Shall we move on?’ said Daz briskly. ‘You said you needed advice?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, still staring after the old man.

  Daz grabbed her hands, forcing her to look at him. ‘I have waited patiently,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to push my expertise on you, but I can assure you I am totally prepared.’

  ‘Really?’ Michelle was beginning to wonder if she might actually have early onset Alzheimer’s, given that nothing was making any sense.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Daz said. ‘I’ve seen you struggling for some time now, and boy, has it hurt me to hold myself back, but I knew I had to let you come to me, or else you might cast my superior knowledge on this matter aside.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Daz?’

  ‘Music, of course!’ he cried. ‘I’ve seen it time and time again. You have a teenager in the house listening to some drivel you don’t recognise and you need me to give you a tutorial on the youth music of today so you can communicate with your daughter again. You have no idea how many parents have come to me wanting me to explain the difference between each member of One Di
rection so they can have an intelligent dialogue with their daughter about the merits of Harry Styles.’

  ‘Josie hates One Direction.’

  ‘What! Is she real?’

  ‘She thinks they’re for kids and bored housewives and is mortified I have a bit of a crush on Niall.’

  ‘But it’s about the music,’ cried Daz, thrusting his hands in the air. ‘I keep telling everyone. They do perfect pop music. It’s genius. Why does no-one understand?’

  Michelle took a step back from the demented arm waving that was accompanying his rant.

  ‘It makes me so mad,’ he continued. ‘Bands with desperate, overly complicated names who play pretentious bloody crap get all the praise, and they’re rubbish. One Direction are brilliant and it’s about time they got the critical praise they deserve.’ He banged his fist on a speaker.

  ‘Okay, Daz, just calm down. I know you are the number one expert on boy bands, but I need your considerable expertise in another area just now. I want you to tell me all you know about event management.’

  Daz paused to look at her then took a deep breath and sat down again in the chair in front of his laptop.

  ‘Well, now you’re talking.’ He turned his lucky DJ baseball cap around and folded his arms. ‘I have witnessed every possible event screw-up known to man. Did I ever tell you about the hog roast at the bar mitzvah? Epic fallout.’

  An elderly lady’s head appeared over the top of his screen.

  ‘Frank Sinatra?’ she said.

  Daz looked over to Michelle and mouthed, ‘She is not Frank Sinatra, just so you know.’

  ‘Really,’ Michelle mouthed back sarcastically.

  ‘Any particular track?’ Daz asked the lady.

  ‘Ooh yes,’ she giggled. ‘“Fly Me to the Moon” is my favourite. It’s the first record my husband and I ever danced to. We’d love to dance to it now.’

  ‘How sweet,’ grimaced Daz as he tapped at his keyboard. ‘“Fly Me to the Moon”, coming right up.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, dear. I’ll go and find Gordon straight away.’

  ‘So,’ said Daz, turning his attention back to Michelle. ‘Event management, you say? What type of event are you thinking of? Hit me with it.’