I Will Marry George Clooney (By Christmas)

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘Do you want me to show you the best way to deseed a chilli?’

  Josie looked up at her mum as Michelle tried to give her best encouraging eyes.

  ‘Do I get to use your posh chef knives that you never let me touch?’ she asked.

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Michelle. ‘Go and wash your hands and you can slice the rest of these babies.’

  *

  ‘Like a pro,’ said Michelle to Josie after her fifth attempt. ‘Like a pro.’

  ‘These knives are awesome,’ said Josie, waving a three-incher around her head. ‘No wonder you cook great food with these.’

  ‘There’s a bit more to it than a sharp knife, you know.’

  ‘Did you never want to go back to it, Mum?’ Josie asked as she got stuck into her next chilli. ‘Being a chef?’ ‘I thought about it,’ she replied.

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  ‘I got stuck, I guess, and I didn’t have the guts to do anything about it. Then before I knew it I’d let all that time slip through my fingers.’

  Josie didn’t respond. She picked up the next chilli in silence.

  ‘Josie,’ said Michelle, putting her hand on her shoulder. ‘I know you think this whole George Clooney thing is ridiculous, but I’m not just doing it because of our bet, you know. I had to do something. Anything.’

  Josie calmly slit through the entire length of the chilli.

  ‘I was disappearing,’ Michelle continued. ‘I needed to do something to get out of this rut I’m in.’

  Seeds were carefully deposited in a bowl.

  ‘But most of all I want you to know that if you really want to do something, you can. You shouldn’t get in your own way, like I’ve always done.’ Michelle had no idea if Josie was even listening.

  ‘Josie, don’t you see? You’re fifteen, you can do anything. There is such a big world out there, you just have to reach out and go for it.’

  Josie’s knife stopped mid-flow and she turned to face her mum.

  A grunt accompanied the back door opening.

  ‘Sean!’ cried Josie, dropping the knife on the chopping board and flinging herself at him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Fish weren’t biting tonight, so I thought I’d call in for a drink on my way home.’

  ‘Oh, brilliant. Mum, will you make Sean some hot chocolate?’ she shouted over her shoulder as she disappeared into the lounge with him, virtually jumping with glee.

  ‘Of course,’ Michelle called after her. ‘I’ll make him my extra special hot chocolate,’ she said as she spooned a pile of chilli seeds into a mug.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Michelle leant her forehead against the cold window, watching the raindrops pop up on the pane before they started their haphazard descent. She closed her eyes; the headlamps of the oncoming traffic rushing constantly towards her as they sped down the motorway were making her feel dizzy and disorientated. But when she closed her eyes she could only see one thing. The look of anguish on his face was unbearable as it filled her dark vision. She saw every line around his worn eyes, which were closed as if to block out the sadness. It was not how she had expected the day of her long awaited charity event to end. Not at all.

  *

  Six o’clock that evening had seen Michelle feeling sick for so many reasons she didn’t know where to begin. Firstly she was suffering from obligatory pre-party nerves. She remembered her joint eighteenth birthday bash with Gina, held in the function room of the pub where she worked in the kitchens. They’d slaved all day to make the drab, tired, generally brown interior look like it was a place for celebration, rather than somewhere to contemplate slitting your wrists. Having dashed home for a quick wash and brush-up, which was disappointing in itself, since they had planned to spend at least three hours on getting ready, they’d returned at seven twenty-five, ready to greet guests arriving at seven thirty. It had been one of the most painful half hours of her life, spent gazing round the vast, empty space, thinking that no-one would come. Michelle and Gina had smiled at each other nervously as they’d watched the hands creep round the clock and offered words of reassurance that neither of them believed. Daz had strode up, two bottles of Diamond White in hand, and they’d taken them off him gratefully, sipping long and hard through straws. In those days Diamond White Magic seemed to transform any evening from potential failure into a night packed with high jinks and adventure. And so it had worked its magic that night. Three quarters of the way down the bottle and at precisely seven fifty-five, the guests had started to stream in and the night was off and running, until Daz had switched off his disco at midnight, much to the anger of the party-hungry, Diamond White Magic doused teenagers.

  But it wasn’t her eighteenth party she was waiting for now, and she doubted if Diamond White Magic was what was required tonight to make Chickens for Charity a spectacular success. It was people she needed, and lots of them, and she still had a whole hour until the event started to worry about whether anyone would turn up.

  ‘They’re here,’ Daz announced suddenly, dashing past her out of the enormous doors of the warehouse towards the loading bay at the back.

  Michelle turned to see two men get out of a car and get ambushed by Daz. Who on earth was he so excited to see when he should be holding her hand and panicking with her? She watched him shake their hands vigorously before grabbing a bag off one of their shoulders and leading them both towards Michelle.

  ‘This is Jonny Player!’ he told her excitedly.

  ‘Very nice to meet you,’ she said, extending her hand whilst looking quizzically at Daz, who clearly thought that Michelle should know exactly who Jonny Player was.

  ‘Jonny Player!’ he repeated, absolutely beaming.

  Michelle looked again at the very ordinary looking middle-aged man in an anorak.

  ‘Jonny Player!’ exclaimed Marianne, appearing from nowhere in enough silver lycra to foil-wrap every chicken in the factory.

  ‘I’m your biggest fan!’ she cried, engulfing anorak man in a shroud of silver. ‘Mr Evans and the Mayor are just over here waiting for you.’ She grabbed Jonny’s arm in a vice-like grip and started to haul him across the loading bay.

  ‘Oi,’ cried Daz, grabbing Jonny’s other arm and pulling him in the opposite direction. ‘Jonny is here to see me and Michelle, not the sodding Mayor. What the hell has he got to do with it?’

  ‘Jonny,’ said Marianne, pasting a dazzling smile on her face. ‘Mr Evans is the General Manager of this establishment, and between me and him, we have done everything possible to make sure Chickens For Charity happens, haven’t we, Michelle?’

  ‘Well,’ Michelle began, still desperate to know exactly what was so special about Jonny.

  ‘There would be no Chickens For Charity without me, now would there, Michelle?’ said Marianne.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ Michelle had to reply.

  ‘Bollocks!’ exclaimed Daz. ‘Listen to me, Jonny. Michelle and I have put blood, sweat and tears into this. When Michelle first came to me with her idea to raise money for those poor people in . . . in . . . somewhere abroad, I could have cried, I really could. Her passion, her commitment, her drive, her compassion, her brilliance with chicken is what has made this event what it is today. Michelle, tell him. Tell him it’s all down to you. You deserve this.’

  Deserve what? thought Michelle. Who was this man in the anorak with grass stains on the elbows? Just then she was saved by an explanation from the other man wearing an equally boring fleece who had arrived with anorak man.

  ‘Ready when you are, Jonny,’ he said, thrusting a Radio Derby branded microphone into his hand. ‘We need to get a move on, mate, because you’re due back in the studio in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Jonny, turning on a smile for the first time. ‘Now let me get this straight. So, Michelle, this was your idea and then you’ve had help from all these people around you?’

  ‘Yes,’ gulped Michelle. Now she knew that boring anorak man was the minor local celebrity pres
enter on Radio Derby, she suddenly felt very intimidated.

  ‘So we’ll start with a few words from you and then I’ll get some quality sound bites from your supporters,’ Jonny continued. ‘Shall we take a step over there away from distractions?’

  He led Michelle away from Daz and Marianne, who both looked ready to draw pistols at dawn at each other. They stalked away to opposite corners of the loading bay to review their battle plan and be prepared to pounce as soon as Jonny had finished with Michelle.

  Jonny took her back towards his car, where fleece man had the boot open and was twiddling with some equipment.

  ‘We all set, Jim?’ Jonny asked him.

  ‘All set,’ agreed Jim.

  ‘Okay, Michelle. I’m just going to ask you a few questions about this evening’s event. So relax. This isn’t live, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ squeaked Michelle, smoothing down her hair for no apparent reason.

  ‘So, we’re here in Malton to talk to Michelle about Chickens For Charity,’ said Jonny. ‘So, Michelle, what a wonderful idea to raise money for all the poor chickens out there. Have you always been a bird lover?’

  ‘Er, well no, actually, Jonny, Chickens For Charity isn’t for chickens.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, you see, we’re cooking chickens, kindly donated by this factory, in order to raise money for a charity called Not On Our Watch.’

  ‘So what you’re saying, Michelle, is that chickens are being needlessly slaughtered in order to raise money for an organisation that does not benefit chickens in the slightest.’

  ‘Not needlessly slaughtered, no. This is a chicken factory. We slaughter hundreds of chickens here every day.’

  ‘Er, what Michelle means to say,’ interrupted Mr Evans, appearing from nowhere, ‘is that all Pinkerton’s Chicken Factories are dedicated to being a part of the local communities they operate in, and therefore, when Michelle approached me to be involved in her fundraising campaign, I came up with the idea of a chicken cooking competition using chicken donated by the factory.’

  ‘Amazing,’ agreed Jonny, who was possibly not taking a blind bit of notice of what had just been said. ‘And for which charity will you be cooking chicken tonight? Hah hah hah,’ he suddenly bellowed with laughter. ‘Chicken Tonight? Do you get it? You could have called it Chicken Tonight!’

  ‘It’s all for George Clooney, actually,’ Marianne interrupted, virtually bowling Michelle over in her desperate attempt to be involved. Michelle’s heart sank.

  ‘George Clooney?’ exclaimed Jonny. ‘He’s a charity these days, is he?’

  ‘No,’ Michelle chipped in before Marianne could take it any further. ‘It’s not for him, but we are raising money for his project, Not On Our Watch. They’re an organisation committed to stopping mass atrocities and giving a voice to their victims.’ Michelle prayed she’d said that right. She didn’t want to let George down.

  ‘And what does that actually mean, Michelle?’ asked Jonny.

  Shit, she thought. What did it actually mean? She thought back to the hours she’d spent watching George on YouTube standing up for people who were living a nightmare, in terrible situations, and who had no-one else to stand up for them.

  ‘It’s about standing up for people who are living a nightmare in the most terrible situations, who have no-one else to stand up for them.’

  ‘Sounds very important work when you put it like that.’

  ‘It is, Jonny, it is.’

  ‘And Pinkerton’s Chickens, along with the community of Malton, are doing everything we can to support this very important work, aren’t we, Mayor?’ added Mr Evans. ‘Can I introduce you to the Mayor of Malton, Jonny, who is here along with many of our esteemed councillors to support Pinkerton’s Chickens and its Chickens For Charity event?’

  The Mayor’s chains clanked as he leant forward to shake Jonny’s hand and display a well-practised mock royalty face.

  ‘What will this event mean for the town of Malton?’ Jonny asked the Mayor.

  He smiled through a few seconds of awkward silence before he leant forward to speak.

  ‘We all get to eat some damn fine chicken,’ he chortled.

  Mr Evans slapped the Mayor on the back and roared with laughter.

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Jonny. ‘So get yourselves down here to eat some damn fine chicken all in support of . . . tell us again, Michelle?’

  ‘Not On Our Watch,’ she repeated. ‘Standing up for people who are living a nightmare every day and who have no-one else to stand up for them.’

  ‘How’d it go?’ asked Daz, grabbing her as soon as the interview was over. ‘Was Jonny like, brilliant?’

  ‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘He thought we were raising money for chickens. As if we’d do that outside a chicken factory!’

  ‘Really?’ exclaimed Daz. ‘How do these idiots get brilliant jobs working on the radio? After this I’m going to apply to them again so they can get some real intelligence on the airwaves, rather than the buffoons they seem to have working there.’

  ‘The buffoons are leaving now,’ said Jonny, walking up behind Daz.

  ‘Jonny, mate, I didn’t mean you,’ cried Daz, turning around, red-faced. ‘I meant those idiots down at Malton Radio. Don’t know their arse from their elbow most of the time.’

  ‘Well, when you work for the BBC there is a level of professionalism required, of course. Anyway, best of luck with the chickens,’ Jonny said, shaking Michelle’s hand.

  ‘Loving your work, I really am.’

  ‘Thanks, Jonny,’ said Michelle. ‘And thanks for coming down. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Up the chickens,’ he said, pumping his fist in the air as he got into the car.

  ‘Fucking clueless,’ sighed Daz.

  Michelle did one last check around before the gates were due to open at seven o’clock. For once she was massively grateful for her mother’s need to interfere in everyone’s business. She had single-handedly organised all who were competing in the cook off and Michelle knew she would have left nothing to chance. As she walked over to the line of gazebos, she smiled to herself as she watched Kathleen chastising the rugby team for not having their allocation of paper plates and forks ready at the edge of their table, before getting a comb out of her bag and making one poor guy bend down whilst she tidied his hair.

  ‘It’s all in the presentation, you know,’ she said as he meekly stood in front of her. ‘How on earth will you get people to eat your food with that hideous mess on your head?’

  Michelle went over to check with her dad, who was in charge of the Salted Chilli Chicken she’d entered. She’d had a taste and was satisfied that the couple of extra ingredients she’d added had really made the dish special, despite her mum’s warnings that she shouldn’t do a chilli-based dish.

  ‘It’s bloody lovely,’ said Ray as he put his arm around his daughter. ‘It’s all I can do to stop myself eating the whole lot, I can tell you.’

  ‘But your father hates chilli,’ said Michelle, mocking her mother’s shrill voice.

  ‘One day I will tell her I love chilli,’ he sighed. ‘It’s just her chilli I hate.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell her, Ray?’ said Kathleen, joining them. ‘She’ll never win with a chilli dish.’

  ‘I don’t want to win, Mum,’ sighed Michelle. ‘It’s my event. It would look terrible if I won.’

  ‘As if you’d ever beat the WI anyway,’ Kathleen tutted. ‘And as for that ridiculous slop the fat people are serving up – do you realise they are using tins of mushy peas? Tins of mushy peas, I ask you.’ She turned to walk away and find fault with some other competitors.

  ‘Have you seen Josie?’ asked Michelle, anxious that she should be there to witness what was going on.

  ‘Sean said he might take her fishing,’ said Ray, shrugging his shoulders.

  Michelle thought she might hit the roof. What was Josie thinking? There was a possibility George Clooney could be arriving any
minute and she’d chosen to go fishing with Sean.

  ‘She’ll come, love,’ said Ray.

  ‘She won’t,’ she replied, turning around to go before she gave her dad the full force of her frustration, which he didn’t deserve. She went to find Little Slaw and his calming influence.

  ‘You all set?’ she asked when she found him behind a trestle table setting himself up as chief adjudicator and referee to the proceedings.

  ‘Set, I am indeed,’ he said rising from his chair and taking a small bow. ‘Although I have to own up to a law-breaking accident.’

  ‘Little Slaw!’ exclaimed Michelle, feeling her blood start to boil again. ‘For one night only you are the rule maker here. You can’t go breaking the law now.’

  ‘It was only a small law-breaking accident.’ He pushed forward a large box. Michelle glanced down and recognised it instantly.

  ‘You stole the suggestion box?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. We needed vote collecting thing,’ he grinned.

  ‘Er, where do we buy a ticket?’ came a voice from behind them. Michelle turned to see an elderly couple standing behind her.

  ‘Here,’ she gasped, pointing wildly at Little Slaw. He did the honours and took their money, explaining where they should go to taste the chicken and how to vote for their favourite. As they wandered through into the warehouse towards the gazebos piled high with chicken, Daz struck up the music and Chickens For Charity was off and running.

  For the next two hours Michelle never stopped. First they were running out of forks and she had to find Mr Evans, who was still brown-nosing the Mayor and the councillors, to see if he would let her pilfer the staff canteen for some more. Fortunately she asked him in front of the Mayor, avoiding having her head blown off by the ridiculously inconvenient request. Then she was forced to split up a row that had erupted between the WI and the rugby club. The ladies claimed the boys’ tactics, of offering a free kiss to anyone who promised to vote for them, was against the rules. When neither side appeared to want to back down, even when Michelle said that the WI could offer kiss incentives too, she was forced to seek out Rob, who was stoically manning the bar, and ask him if he could have a word with his rugby pals. He returned shortly after, telling her that she needn’t worry. The rugby team had agreed to charge for their kisses and donate the money to the charity, which the WI had decided, post a mini committee meeting, was acceptable.