I Will Marry George Clooney (By Christmas)

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘Well,’ she said, suddenly feeling nervous. ‘I’m thinking of running an event for charity.’

  ‘Charity? Why?’

  ‘Well, to raise money.’

  ‘Who for?’

  Michelle took a deep breath.

  ‘For a charity called Not On Our Watch.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  She took another deep breath.

  ‘They aim to bring global attention to international crises and give a voice to the victims.’ Daz looked at her quizzically.

  ‘And why do you want to help do that stuff you just said?’

  She sighed deeply.

  ‘Because I want to meet George Clooney and ask him to marry me.’

  ‘Oh, I see. This is that thing Josie has been telling me about.’

  ‘What!’ she exclaimed. ‘Josie has talked to you about it? When?’

  ‘Michelle,’ he said, clasping her hands again, ‘you forget I have the school and village hall disco scene sewn up. I am like a godfather to the teenagers of Malton. They talk to me, they tell me things when I’m sat behind these strobe lights and they’re trying to convince me to stop playing Eighties classics, despite the fact that they have to understand that Spandau Ballet are vital to their cultural education.’

  ‘So what did she say?’

  ‘That you are a total embarrassment and that you are trying to marry George Clooney.’

  ‘But she said if I married George Clooney she wouldn’t sleep with Sean.’

  ‘Right. You are not a freak and it totally makes sense. What the fuck are you talking about? Are you sure you don’t have Alzheimer’s?’

  Michelle put her head in her hands in despair.

  ‘That’s the deal. Plus if she sees me trying to follow my dream, perhaps she’ll think of a dream beyond shagging Sean and get her act together and do something with her life,’ she said into her hands.

  ‘Frank Sinatra?’ The elderly lady’s head appeared over the top of Daz’s laptop again.

  ‘It’s on now, love. Can’t you hear it?’

  ‘This isn’t Frank Sinatra,’ the lady said after she’d paused to listen.

  ‘I can assure you it is. “Fly Me to the Moon”, just like you asked,’ said Daz.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ cried the lady. ‘I know “Fly Me to the Moon” when I hear it and it certainly isn’t this.’

  ‘I am a music professional,’ said Daz firmly. ‘And this is definitely the song you asked for.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she cried, looking agitated. ‘I shall have to fetch Gordon. He won’t be pleased.’

  Daz turned back to Michelle.

  ‘You really want to marry George Clooney?’ he asked, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he had heard that evening.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I want to try.’

  ‘Tell him, Gordon!’ The old lady had reappeared with a fraught-looking man in tow. ‘Tell him to put Frank Sinatra on and that it’s our special song. Tell him how we used to dance to it every Saturday when we were courting, and how wonderful we looked.’

  ‘Look, Barbara,’ the man said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go and get some more of that cheese you like whilst I talk to this gentleman?’

  ‘The red cheese?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The old lady turned abruptly and walked off towards the buffet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man apologised, turning to Daz and Michelle.

  ‘It’s okay, mate,’ said Daz. ‘Not a problem. I understand.’

  ‘At least she can remember some good times,’ said Michelle, wanting to say something to cheer up the desperate-looking man. ‘That must be some comfort.’

  ‘If only,’ he sighed. ‘She’s talking about her ex-husband, Gordon. I’m Ernie,’ he explained. ‘She can remember dancing to Sinatra with him, not me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ said Michelle. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you be sorry,’ replied Ernie. He let out a long sigh. Michelle could have cried for him.

  ‘Have you been together long?’ she asked.

  ‘We were childhood sweethearts,’ he said as though it was the saddest announcement ever. ‘I was about to ask her to marry me when Gordon quite literally danced her off her feet. And I stood by and let him.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘Then she called me out of the blue three years ago. Turned out he was a great dancer but a terrible husband. She’d stuck by him until he’d died the previous year. She said she’d never forgotten about me. We married three months later on her eightieth birthday. It was the happiest day of my life.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ said Daz brightly. The gentleman frowned at him.

  ‘Eight months later she was diagnosed with dementia and now she thinks I’m him – her bastard ex-husband who stole her from me over sixty-three years ago.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Daz and Michelle in unison.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ repeated Michelle.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Ernie, averting his eyes from her concerned and awestruck stare. ‘It’s my own fault. Should have married her when I had the chance all those years ago. Anyway, if you could just put it on again and I’ll dance with her. The good thing about all this is that she can’t remember what a rubbish dancer I was.’

  ‘Look after yourself,’ Michelle said as he turned away.

  They watched as Ernie walked over to Barbara and with a small bow offered his hand to her. She took it and he led her to the dance floor, where they shuffled awkwardly as she smiled proudly at Gordon, who was really Ernie.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Daz. ‘That is the saddest story I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Michelle in a daze, following their gentle swaying around the hall. ‘To think he’s probably spent every day of his life regretting not asking her to marry him. It just shows that when it comes to stuff like that you simply have to go for it. You never know what might happen.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Daz, nodding furiously. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, on that note, marrying George Clooney then?’ she said, snapping her head round to address him. ‘I need you to tell me exactly what gets people digging in their pockets for worthy causes.’

  He gave her an odd look before he sighed and closed his eyes.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said, as if exploring the vast cavern of his mind. ‘There is what I call the holy trinity of any decent event.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said eagerly.

  He opened his eyes and leant forward.

  ‘Food, booze, and of course the all-important . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Daz the DJ, of course. Guaranteed for a dazzling event.’

  ‘Right, so that gives me something to work with. Food, booze, entertainment.’

  ‘No, I said food, booze, Daz the DJ.’

  ‘Okay, well, let’s break this down,’ she said. ‘So, food. I did have this idea that maybe I could ask the factory to sponsor it. You know, give us a load of chicken?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Daz, his eyes lighting up. ‘What about chicken-in-a-basket? Why does no-one do that any more? I can do a great chicken-in-a-basket.’

  ‘No way. I’d do this great dish with fresh chillies and sun-dried tomatoes and paprika and rock salt. It’s the best thing you have ever tasted, seriously.’

  Daz stared at her.

  ‘You’re doing that Nigella thing again.’

  ‘What Nigella thing?’

  ‘You go all curvy and sexy whenever you talk about food. Makes me fantasise.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Nigella, of course!’

  ‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’

  ‘Absolutely. I could have said Gordon Ramsay. Now, stop trying to distract me. I still reckon my chicken-ina-basket would beat the pants off your fancy pants chicken any day.’

  ‘No way. I trained to be a chef, if you remember.’

  ‘You don’t scare me. I watch a lot of MasterChef. I know the tricks of the
trade. I can make it small and delicate and put the basket on top of a black slate whilst smearing ketchup all over it with a blunt knife thing. My chicken would beat yours in a showdown for sure.’

  Michelle stared at Daz, her mind racing over the episodes of MasterChef she’d studied, convinced she could do just as well as any of the amateurs. An idea was coming, sparked by her natural desire to be competitive over cooking, given her under-utilised skills.

  ‘You are a genius,’ she declared finally, grabbing Daz’s jacket. ‘That’s it! A cooking competition! A chicken cooking competition!’

  ‘Mmmm, okay, could work,’ said Daz, contemplating the plan. ‘You may have the germ of an idea there, but what about the booze and the DJ? Don’t forget the holy trinity of any successful event. Have I taught you nothing?’

  ‘Well . . . well . . .’ Michelle stuttered. ‘We’ll do it in the evening and get everyone drunk and have a party.’

  ‘And call it Chickens For Charity,’ declared Daz, suddenly swept along by Michelle’s enthusiasm.

  She paused, considering his idea.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ she said finally, punching the air. ‘I love it. I love you!’ She flung her arms around Daz in glee.

  ‘Excuse me, dear,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt, but we’d like to draw the raffle in ten minutes, and then can you play that Sixties montage we talked about?’

  ‘Of course, Clare. Whatever you say,’ said Daz, reluctantly letting go of Michelle.

  ‘Right you are, dear.’ Clare gave Michelle a questioning look before striding off.

  ‘Sixties montage,’ he muttered. ‘I told her. I said I’m very good at reading my audience. It’s the Alzheimer’s Society. They won’t remember the Sixties.’

  ‘They haven’t all got Alzheimer’s, though, have they?’

  ‘I know but let’s make the poor sods who have got it feel terrible by bombarding them with the sounds of their golden years which they can’t even remember. It’s just cruel, Michelle, quite frankly. I told Clare it would be much kinder to do a youthful, upbeat medley that lifts their spirits, including a few great tracks by . . .’

  ‘One Direction?’ she interrupted.

  ‘Exactly,’ he agreed. ‘But would she listen? Well, on her head be it when they’re all slitting their wrists at the Sixties dross she’s asked me to play. Can’t you pretend to be a relative or something and insist your grandpa needs to be uplifted out of his condition by a good dose of

  “Live While We’re Young”?’

  ‘I think I’ve outstayed my welcome already,’ she replied. ‘And I need to get home and start thinking about Chickens For Charity. You’ve been such a help, Daz. Thank you so much. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Any time, matey. I’ll get practising my chicken-in-abasket, shall I?’

  ‘Let me get my hands on some chicken first, hey?’

  ‘Michelle, I’ll do you a chicken-in-a-basket any time, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, Daz, I do.’

  Chapter Ten

  Michelle spent three whole hours crafting a carefully worded ‘suggestion’ to go in the factory’s suggestion box that stood on a table underneath a large poster listing the ‘Employee Values’. The ‘Employee Failures’, as they had rapidly become known, had come about during a hasty brainstorming session prior to a visit from a high-end food retailer. The bosses had been keen to display what a happy, caring, sharing team everyone was, because happy staff would mean happy chickens, and happy chickens would mean they could charge more. On the day of the factory visit all staff had been ordered to wear clean overalls and converse enthusiastically about the intricacies of giblet removal should they be asked. Hence ‘enthusiasm’ had been the first key value forced out during the awkward stand-off between bosses and staff, as preparations required opinions to be asked of people who had never been asked for them before.

  The opportunity for a few home truths had eventually sparked some ‘enthusiasm’ from some of the more vocal workers, as they took their chance to tell the bosses who sat in the offices high above the factory floor exactly how they should be doing things. Unable to tell them to pipe down during this period of having to present a ‘happy team’ face, the boss had eventually found his escape route by offering a suggestion box for all staff to be able to document their ‘helpful’ ideas for consideration. He had then proudly paraded the suits from retail past the poster of values displayed above the suggestion box before taking them into the refrigeration unit, without offering to take them back to get their coats. This tactic ensured that they would only last in there a few minutes before succumbing to the offer of lunch in a local pub with a roaring fire, allowing the boss to take them offsite, away from the potential hazards that lurked around every corner in the form of a member of staff.

  Since that day the suggestion box had remained on its table, gathering dust and not suggestions, as the workers had realised it held no real opportunity to make any material difference to anything to do with the factory. The only suggestion posted to anyone’s knowledge was Little Slaw’s request to take the box home and decorate it as a letterbox to give to his grandkids’ school to post their Santa letters in. No-one ever got back to him on his suggestion.

  ‘I’ve posted it in the suggestion box,’ Michelle replied when asked by Gina what she had done with her Chickens For Charity idea.

  ‘And you call me stupid!’ Gina replied, throwing her blue-gloved hands in the air.

  ‘It’s what it’s there for,’ Michelle protested. ‘How else am I going to get to Mr Evans?’

  ‘Just go and see him, why don’t you?’

  ‘Are you insane? You go up there and you never come out again. In any case, how do I escape the wrath of RB1 and RB2? They’re not just going to let me waltz off to the offices without a good reason.’

  ‘But you have a good reason.’

  ‘What? Excuse me, RB1, but I’m just off to see Mr Evans to discuss how he can help me marry George Clooney. He’d have me in wash-down for the rest of the day.’

  Little Slaw sighed next to them.

  ‘Just him tell the real reason,’ he said slowly.

  A short pause for translation.

  ‘Genius, Little Slaw,’ declared Michelle. ‘Hey, RB1, I’m just off to see the boss man so he can help me stop my daughter having sex. Yeah, that would work.’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly and a little crossly. He leant over and casually pressed the emergency button, stopping the entire production line. RB2 was at their side in nanoseconds.

  ‘Who stopped the line?’ she barked.

  ‘No-one,’ replied Little Slaw without a flicker. ‘This is third time this week. Out of blue. Kaput,’ he continued, his hands raised in amazement. ‘Faulty engineer is what we need.’

  ‘Fault Engineer,’ hissed Michelle.

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Little Slaw. ‘Just what I said. Michelle, go tell upstairs we need Faulty Engineer. She know what she talk about. Off you go, chop-chop. We can’t be hanging here all day.’

  Michelle stood frozen to the spot, staring openmouthed at Little Slaw.

  ‘Now,’ bellowed RB2. ‘We need to reach three thousand units today, and you standing there gawping like a goldfish ain’t going to get us there.’

  ‘You go. You go now,’ urged Little Slaw, nodding vigorously.

  Michelle turned and scurried to the end of the production line before beginning the ascent up the metal open staircase to the gods.

  ‘Way to go, Michelle!’ screamed Gina from the factory floor as she disappeared into the upper echelons.

  ‘Hey, Michelle,’ said Marianne, Mr Evans’s PA. ‘What can I do for you?’ Marianne was as wide as she was tall, and possibly hired to create a physical barrier between management and staff.

  ‘Well,’ Michelle began, ‘is Mr Evans free at all?’

  ‘As you can hear, he is currently having a screaming match with a haulage company, but I’m sure he will be exhausting himself any minute
.’

  Michelle looked through the open doorway to see Mr Evans sitting behind a desk and gesticulating wildly as he talked on the phone.

  ‘What shall I say you want him for once he’s come out and screamed at me to release any residual anger?’

  Just at that moment Mr Evans slammed the phone down and strode out into Marianne’s office.

  ‘If that fat fucker sends me an invoice again for unauthorised fucking transportation, I will not be responsible for my actions. Stupid fucker.’

  He swooped around and stalked back into his office, slamming the door behind him without even acknowledging Michelle’s presence.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Marianne said to a shocked Michelle. ‘What shall I tell him you would like to see him about?’

  ‘I’ll come back at a better time,’ said Michelle quickly.

  ‘Believe me, there is no better time,’ said Marianne.

  ‘Erm . . . okay, well, I want to ask him if he would like to be involved in raising some money for charity.’

  Marianne said nothing, just raised her eyebrows in a fashion that clearly indicated Michelle would have to do better than that.

  ‘I, I . . . mean the factory,’ she stuttered. ‘I mean, I need chicken. I really need some chicken for some terrible atrocities that are happening in the world.’

  ‘Chicken going to solve the world’s problems, is it?’ asked Marianne, her gaze getting more resigned by the second.

  ‘Yes, no . . . I mean, chicken is great, very good for you, of course, who doesn’t love chicken, but you see, chicken could do so much more if it tried, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘No, Michelle, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. Why don’t you start again and just tell me what you really mean?’

  Michelle felt herself deflate. It had all been so clear when she’d written it down on paper and shoved it in the black hole of the suggestion box. Now she was up here on the spot she had lost all power of coherent thought.

  ‘Come on, spit it out,’ urged Marianne.

  ‘Okay.’ Michelle swallowed. ‘You see, it’s for George Clooney’s charity. You like George Clooney, don’t you?’

  Marianne raised her hand and smoothed down her long, dyed blonde hair.