I Will Marry George Clooney (By Christmas)

by Tracy Bloom

  Despite her dashing around putting out fires this way and that, Michelle couldn’t help but keep one eye on the gate. She didn’t really know who she wanted to see walk in more, Josie or George Clooney. She also wasn’t sure which of the two would deem the sight that met them more ridiculous. Josie, who would be incredulous that Michelle would ever think that a higgledy-piggledy group of makeshift gazebos, a disco on the back of a trailer and bowls and bowls of fast congealing, unwanted mushy pea curry would ever lead to her marrying George Clooney. Or George Clooney, who surely would be in shock to meet anyone who could think that mushy pea curry could ever be a force for good. All she could keep thinking was that she had to get rid of the mushy pea curry. George would not be impressed she told herself as she threw bowls and bowls of it into black bin liner bags.

  All too soon it was nine o’clock and a small crowd had gathered around her, awaiting her nod to signal they could proceed with the finale of the evening. There was a lively buzz in the air, as Daz’s three rules of successful events seemed to have done the trick. Free-flowing beer had put everyone in a jovial mood, Daz’s Eighties soundtrack for the evening was going down well with the predominantly forty-something crowd, and the food generally was being well received apart from the mushy pea curry. Michelle was feeling satisfied that abandoned bowls of the gloop had been eradicated but felt her momentary pride fade as Little Slaw, Gina and Daz approached her. She realised the moment had come when they would have to proceed with the event without the two most important guests. Little Slaw coughed expectantly then stepped aside to reveal a bored-looking Josie chewing her fingernails.

  ‘I needed help,’ he said. ‘I got hold of her and tell her to be here.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Little Slaw,’ gasped Michelle. ‘Thank you, Josie. I mean it.’ Josie shrugged.

  ‘Sean’s mate rang and said he’d take him fishing up at the reservoir. They cycled, so I couldn’t go.’

  ‘Michelle,’ said Gina softly, taking her arm. ‘Lisa called. George’s PA has been in touch. She gave him the invite but George left his hotel at six to go out to dinner in London. Doesn’t look like he’s coming.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Michelle, stunned. She felt like crying. Ridiculous, she knew. It had always been a long shot. ‘Six o’clock, you say?’ she asked. ‘It said on the invite we’d present the cheque at nine o’clock, didn’t it?’

  Gina nodded.

  ‘Maybe we should wait,’ said Michelle, ‘just a bit longer, just in case.’ She sounded as if she thought it plausible that George would come all the way to Malton for the sake of some chicken. That was because she had to. She’d forced herself to believe he might come because the alternative was too depressing.

  There was a pause.

  ‘No,’ said Little Slaw finally. ‘You finish off now. You do what you said you’d do.’

  Michelle couldn’t even raise her head.

  ‘No sad face,’ said Little Slaw, lifting her chin. ‘Time for celebration. Time to enjoy how far you have come.’

  Ten minutes later she was standing on the back of the disco trailer along with Little Slaw, in his role as chief adjudicator. Also joining them were Mr Evans, who had been asked to give his opinion on the dishes presented, and the Mayor, who was there to be mute and hand over a trophy to the winners, if he could stand up that long given the amount of free booze Mr Evans had been plying him with. Daz had just played ‘The Final Countdown’ by Europe at full blast and the rugby team were having a full-on moshing session down the front whilst the rest of the crowd gathered round them. And it was indeed a crowd. Little Slaw reckoned they had counted over 150 voting slips.

  ‘I told you they would come, didn’t I?’ said Daz, joining her at the front of the stage as they prepared to announce the winners.

  ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she replied, feeling a bit stunned as it slowly started to dawn on her that Chickens For Charity might have been a success. ‘I never thought we’d get this many people.’

  ‘Michelle,’ said Daz, ‘I have lived in Malton all my life. There is nothing that gets this town going more than a dose of healthy competition. But you made this happen, remember that. This is all down to you.’

  She surveyed the throng of people gathering eagerly around the makeshift stage as the music died away. She watched as an overexcited rugby player thrust a bowl of cold mushy pea curry in his mate’s face. Yep, this had really all gone to plan. She would never, ever touch mushy peas again and she wasn’t going to marry George Clooney. Well done, Michelle.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to CHICKENS FOR CHARITY,’ bellowed Daz into his microphone, as if he was on stage at Wembley.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Walter Evans, the General Manager of this fine establishment and the chief sponsor of Chickens For Charity. He will give you his summary of tonight’s chicken dishes before the Mayor presents the trophy to the Chickens For Charity Champion Chefs.’

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ said Mr Evans, accepting the microphone. A few boos could be heard from some of the slightly merry workers who had come along to support Michelle.

  ‘When Michelle and I hatched this plan to figure out how this factory could save lives, along with rest of the wonderful community of Malton, we had no idea this would be the kind of fantastic support we’d get. And I’m very happy that the Mayor and the members of the council are here to share the success of this community event with us.’

  ‘Get on with it!’ someone heckled from the back amid deafening silence.

  ‘And boy, chicken has never tasted as good as it has here tonight,’ he hollered and was rewarded with enormous cheers from the chefs awaiting the results.

  ‘I have personally tasted all the dishes and whilst I have no idea which team has won the vote I would just like to say to the rugby club . . .’ Mr Evans’s words were drowned out as the rugby club went bonkers. ‘The rugby club can certainly handle their breasts better than their balls.’ The lads went bonkers again as if they had already been announced the winners. ‘And as for the Women’s Institute . . .’ The ladies smiled smugly at each other. ‘The ladies of the Women’s Institute have shown me more leg than I ever thought possible.’ Their smug smiles slipped slightly.

  ‘Slimmers United . . . A for effort, and I thank you for highlighting the health benefits of eating chicken, though I’m not sure my wife will think there is much benefit to the amount of mushy peas I have consumed this evening.’ Classy trumping noises all round from the rugby club.

  ‘And Michelle, see me later for the recipe for your chilli chicken. Just tremendous, truly tremendous. Almost as good as the chicken-in-a-basket. Just could have done with a good dollop of ketchup.’

  ‘He has no class, does he?’ muttered Daz to Michelle. ‘Does he not know that you have a scrape of sauce these days, not a dollop?’

  ‘So without further ado, I believe someone has the results of the public vote and the Mayor here can award the prize.’

  Little Slaw stepped forward to hand an envelope to the Mayor, before dipping a small bow and moving back behind everyone.

  There was a painful moment as the Mayor fumbled with the envelope and took out a card before proceeding to squint at it then lean over to Mr Evans to whisper in his ear that he didn’t have his glasses.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ muttered Mr Evans, forgetting that he was still holding the microphone and everyone could hear him, ‘it says the Women’s Institute, you fool.’

  ‘Utter fiasco!’ cried Daz, seizing the microphone from Mr Evans as squeals were heard from the older ladies in the crowd, delighted to hear they had won, however the news had arrived.

  ‘Let’s hear it for the fantastic ladies of the Women’s Institute and their stupendous Supreme of Chicken,’ cried Daz, strutting up and down the front of the trailer. ‘Come on, ladies, let’s get you all up here and present to you the first ever Chickens For Charity Champion Chefs trophy. Come on, boys, let’s give them a leg up.’

  The rugby lads didn’
t need asking twice, too drunk by now to care whether they’d won or not. They all grabbed a grannie in a fireman’s lift and plonked the poor old dears on the back of the truck.

  All Michelle could think was that she was relieved her mum’s team had won. Perhaps there was a chance that Kathleen at least would see the night as a successful one.

  ‘Told you, you shouldn’t have done chilli,’ was all she could say to Michelle, as she brushed past to accept the trophy.

  ‘And to close proceedings for tonight, I’d like to hand over to the founder of Chickens For Charity who would like to thank you personally for all the money you have raised this evening.’

  Michelle took one last desperate look at the gate, hoping that somehow George Clooney might emerge out of a cloud of mist. She had no idea how much they had raised, but there, on hand as ever, was Little Slaw holding an enormous cheque that they had had preprinted just in case George arrived to collect it personally. She couldn’t believe her eyes at the number that appeared in the box. Little Slaw had counted up wrong, surely.

  ‘Thank you,’ was all she could muster, looking bewildered at Little Slaw. He gestured to the crowd waiting expectantly. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, turning to face the onlookers. ‘This is amazing. I can’t believe what started out really as a stupid idea has actually raised this much money for George Clooney . . . I mean, George Clooney’s fantastic charity, Not On Our Watch.’ She was having trouble scraping her chin up from the floor. ‘I never expected in my wildest dreams that this would happen. It’s amazing. You’re all amazing. Thank you so much to everyone who has worked so hard to make this event a success. Including you, Marianne.’ Marianne was on stage now, waving enthusiastically at Michelle. ‘Oh, and I have to thank Daz and Gina and Little Slaw,’ she said. ‘Everyone needs friends like them.’

  At that moment, she spotted Josie at the back of the crowd with Ray, who was beaming, clearly massively proud of his daughter. Josie was staring around her at the crowd and occasionally glancing up as if to check her mother was still there. Despite instigating this entire thing in a stupid effort to marry George Clooney, Michelle had in fact achieved something that even Josie had to have some grudging respect for. As Michelle gazed over to her, Josie raised her hand slightly in acknowledgement.

  ‘Thank you so much, everyone.’ Suddenly Michelle felt exhausted. ‘I will make sure that this money gets into the right hands . . . somehow.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was vaguely aware they were pulling off at a junction now. What time must it be? Three, four in the morning? She was tired beyond belief but sleep refused to rescue her. The night’s events were still churning around in her brain and the enormous cheque behind her in the back of the truck kept stabbing her in the back of the head, prompting her into thinking about stuff when all she wanted to do was not think. She glanced across at Daz. He was staring straight ahead into the night, a serious look on his face as he concentrated on driving. Somewhere from behind her came Gina’s light snoring. Oh, how she wished she were Gina.

  *

  A few hours previously, Michelle had leapt off the back of the trailer, enormous cheque in hand, totally full of herself. For now the disappointment that George hadn’t shown up was drowned out by her euphoria. The event had been a fantastic success. It had been the hardest thing she had ever done but they’d actually raised a shedload of money. It was utterly unbelievable and she was bursting with pride. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt proud. She liked it. A lot. She needed it, especially when faced with a drunken rugby player who had just thrown up mushy pea curry everywhere.

  She buzzed around coordinating the mass clear-up operation as Daz banged out some tunes providing the perfect soundtrack to her uplifted mood. ‘We Built this City on Rock and Roll’, always the perfect tidy-up song, had her humming as she swept debris across the truck park. Plastic glasses crackled and bounced in front of her broom as she cleared up around the extremely untidy makeshift bar which had been manned by Rob all night. Good to his word, Rob had dragged himself out of his maudlin mood to come and help out. Now he was also bouncing off anything that happened to be in his way as he unsteadily picked up leftover crates of beer and ambled across to put them in the back of his car.

  ‘You okay, Rob?’ she asked as he stumbled, the beer landing in the boot more by luck than judgement.

  ‘Marvellous!’ he exclaimed, throwing his arms around her and engulfing her in a bear-hug.

  ‘It’s been marvellous.’ He stood back and held her shoulders, swaying slightly. ‘You’ve been marvellous,’ he continued, grinning from ear to ear. Michelle was glad to see the return of the dimples.

  ‘That’s great, Rob,’ she said. ‘Do you think you should sit down?’

  ‘Nooo. Need to finish the job, get cleared up. Can’t let you do all this.’

  ‘It’s okay, seriously, Rob. Mum and Dad are still here. We’ll finish off. You’ve done enough already. I’m so grateful, I really am.’

  He didn’t reply, just stared at her, an odd look on his face. He’d stopped swaying. She should have known then. She’d seen that look on his face once before, about sixteen years ago.

  ‘Let me kiss you,’ he said suddenly.

  She took a step back in shock.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Please,’ he pleaded, screwing his face up.

  Michelle looked around her, concerned someone might be watching, though a stack of pallets hid them for now.

  ‘It would be wrong,’ she said slowly.

  ‘But why?’ he asked, suddenly standing up straight as though totally sober.

  ‘Because . . .’ she continued, ‘you’re Jane’s.’

  He looked as though she’d slapped him in the face. He reeled back then steadied himself. He was Jane’s and always would be, despite the fact she was dead. She knew, had he not been Jane’s, they could have perhaps stood a chance. He would have just been Rob then. Nice Rob, helpful Rob, actually very lovely Rob – in fact, if she met someone who was exactly like Rob without being Rob, she would have been doing cartwheels now. But he was Jane’s Rob. And there was nothing she could do about that.

  She watched him crumple in front of her eyes. First his mouth went and then his shoulders, before he drew his hands up to hide his collapsing face. The first sob wrenched Michelle’s heart yet again as she watched him fall apart for the second time since he had reappeared in her life.

  She moved to put her arm around him, feeling his body thud against hers as he succumbed to his sorrow.

  She held him until he regained some control with an almighty sniff, raising his head to take a deep, calming breath.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry.’

  ‘It’s just . . . it’s just . . .’

  Oh God, thought Michelle. A sentence following a hesitant ‘it’s just’ was usually pretty monumental.

  ‘It’s just, I cannot tell you how amazing it’s been to be back with you and your family. Your mum . . . your mum . . .’

  Is a right cantankerous old bag sometimes, crossed Michelle’s mind.

  ‘Your mum has looked after me like a son since I got back.’

  ‘That’s because she loves you. Jane loved you and so does she. She sees you as the son-in-law she never had.’

  ‘Amy’s parents didn’t like me,’ he said, taking another large sniff.

  ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘They did. I wasn’t Jewish. They wanted her to marry a nice Jewish boy. I was never good enough for them.’ He looked up, staring into the distance. ‘Bit like my own parents, really. Not good enough for them either.’

  ‘Well, you won’t get any of that with Kathleen. She really does think the sun shines out of your arse.’ Rob managed a small smile.

  ‘Sorry I tried to kiss you.’

  ‘Forget about it.’ She looked away quickly, hoping she hadn’t reminded
him of the last time she’d told him to ‘forget about it’.

  ‘And sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to pour all that out to you. It’s just . . .’

  Here we go again, thought Michelle.

  ‘I know I ran away and everything. Left you all to go back to your old lives without Jane whilst I buggered off and found a new one. Well, I’ve realised how much I’ve missed you all, and being part of the Hidderley clan. I never expected it to feel this way, but coming back and being around you and your mum and dad, and even Josie, just makes me feel like I’ve come home. Back to where I belong . . . to family, even though of course we’re not family.’

  He looked so sad she couldn’t bear it. She should tell him now. He was family; he was the father of her child and therefore tied into the Hidderley clan in a way he had no idea about.

  ‘And it really has been so good to see you again, Michelle,’ he continued. ‘I’ve missed you.’ He caught his breath, as if surprised by what he’d said. ‘Really missed you.’

  They stared at each other. Michelle’s mind cracked and splintered like one of the plastic glasses discarded on the floor. Her thoughts shot off in all directions as she struggled to gain any kind of control over them. What did he mean by that? So he’d tried to kiss her, but that was alcohol. This was words. Words required the engagement of brain. Why did he have to say that, just at the point she needed to tell him something that was guaranteed to make him hate her? And why was he looking at her like that? And why on earth couldn’t she just tell him that he was the father of her daughter?