I Will Marry George Clooney (By Christmas)

by Tracy Bloom

  She only became aware that Rob had reached forward and taken her hand when he dropped it like a stone as Daz and Gina ambushed them.

  ‘Michelle, Michelle!’ Gina shouted.

  ‘Brilliant idea, brilliant idea, brilliant idea!’ they both chanted, jumping up and down like crazed teenagers. ‘What?’ she cried. ‘Stop jumping, you’re making me feel sick.’

  ‘We’re going to go and meet George Clooney now!’ cried Gina, twirling round and round on the spot.

  ‘What? How come?’

  ‘I thought of it!’ exclaimed Daz, raising his hand.

  ‘Yeah, but my Cousin Jack’s colleague’s neighbour’s son’s girlfriend made it possible!’ shrieked Gina.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s ideas that matter.’

  ‘They don’t matter if you have no way of making them happen.’

  ‘You can always find a way,’ Daz shouted, right in Gina’s face.

  ‘Guys, just tell me what the hell you’re talking about,’ said Michelle, glancing furtively at Rob, who had taken several steps back from the two crazy people who’d interrupted them.

  ‘So,’ Gina began. ‘Daz said now we have the cheque we should just take it to George. So I texted Lisa and she found out where he’s staying.’

  Daz took up the story. ‘So I said we should drive down there right now and take him the cheque. If we turn up at the hotel with that baby there is no way he’s not getting his arse out of bed to come down and take it off us.’

  ‘We can’t get George Clooney out of bed in the middle of the night, you idiot,’ said Gina, bopping Daz on the head. ‘No, we drive down now, find somewhere to park and have a kip and then make sure we’re in reception from the crack of dawn, ready to pounce as soon as he gets up.’

  ‘We’re going to meet George Clooney, we’re going to meet George Clooney, we’re going to meet George Clooney!’ Daz and Gina started to chant, jumping up and down again.

  ‘You go,’ Rob said quietly. ‘I’ll finish tidying up and make sure your mum, dad and Josie get home safe. You go and find George Clooney. Go on.’ ‘Will you be alright?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. I can’t compete with George Clooney, can I, eh?’ he said, his faint smile not in any way hiding the look of despair in his eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Michelle, Daz and Gina made an odd sight standing outside the Ballentine Hotel on the edge of Regent’s Park, slightly bedraggled, with a five-foot-high cheque propped up against a lamp post next to them. They gazed upward at the grand building slowly emerging from the darkness as the sun rose over London, with only one thought on their minds.

  ‘To think,’ breathed Gina. ‘He’s in there somewhere.’

  Michelle’s stomach was churning, which could either be caused by the proximity of the man himself or the sausage and egg McMuffin she’d just stuffed down her in the McDonald’s in the next street. They’d sat chewing in silence, all still shattered from an uncomfortable few hours of sleep in the van, parked down a back street. Michelle and Gina were also slightly in shock that whilst their back was turned, Daz had taken Chaz (as they’d named the cheque, for ease and familiarity’s sake) into the men’s toilet with him. The thought of Chaz being handed over to George after recently being in the proximity of a urinal was not a happy one.

  ‘Mint, anyone?’ Daz offered.

  ‘Cheers,’ they both said, agreeing that they couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a Polo.

  ‘Shall we go in then?’ asked Daz, after an acceptable length of time had been spent on sucking on their mints. They were all eyeing up the smartly dressed doorman and wondering if he might be a problem.

  ‘Should we split up?’ asked Michelle, thinking it might allow the scruffy trio to slip past unnoticed.

  ‘No, just follow me,’ Daz said airily. ‘The best way to gain access to somewhere you shouldn’t be is to pretend it’s exactly where you should be. Trust me.’

  He grabbed Chaz and ran as quickly as he could past the doorman and into the jaws of the revolving doors where, due to the size of Chaz, they promptly got wedged in and were imprisoned, unable to move backwards or forwards.

  ‘Help!’ Daz shouted. ‘I’m stuck in here with Chaz.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ sighed Gina, shaking her head. ‘Talk about making a show of us.’ She strode forward and tapped the doorman on the shoulder, offering him a huge grin.

  ‘My friend is a fuckwit and appears to have trapped himself in the revolving door along with a charity cheque we are delivering this morning. Please could you get him out?’

  ‘Of course, madam,’ said the doorman with a small bow. He turned and gave the door a well-practised shove and Daz was propelled forward into reception, landing on his knees on top of Chaz.

  ‘Mortified,’ muttered Gina, sailing through the disabled door to the side of the revolving door as if she were visiting royalty.

  The trio regrouped and contemplated the enormous double-height reception area decked out with the most tasteful Christmas decorations they had ever seen. There was no sign of mismatched, multicoloured baubles, bedraggled tinsel or unevenly placed fairy lights. The festive look was precise, uniform, exclusively white and painfully elegant.

  Feeling more out of place than she ever had, Michelle eyed the bank of white suede sofas. ‘Dare we sit on one of those and wait until he comes down?’ she asked.

  ‘No way,’ said Daz. ‘We’ve not come all this way to sit and wait and probably miss him. We are going to reception to announce our existence and explain why we’re here on this very important mission.’

  ‘No,’ said Michelle firmly. ‘They might think we’re some weirdo fans or something and chuck us out. Much better if we just sit here, and if anyone asks, say we’re waiting for someone, which is absolutely true.’ She stepped forward to take Chaz from Daz and get him settled on a sofa.

  Daz wasn’t going to let go of Chaz that easily.

  ‘But what happens if he leaves by a back entrance or something?’ He pulled the cheque out of Michelle’s reach. ‘They do that, you know, to avoid being seen.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Michelle. ‘George wants to avoid being seen. We go shouting from the rooftops that we’re here to see George Clooney and we’ll be chucked out straight away.’ She reached out and grabbed at Chaz, finally managing to secure it.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ came a chirpy voice as a young receptionist in a suit and a name badge came up behind them.

  They all turned around, dumbstruck, until Daz spoke.

  ‘We’re here to see George Clooney,’ he said confidently. ‘I see. Is he expecting you?’ ‘Yes,’ said Daz.

  ‘No,’ muttered Michelle. ‘But we’ve brought money.’ She pulled Chaz around to show the girl. ‘Look, lots of money for his charity, Not On Our Watch,’ she said, wildly pointing at the name on the cheque. ‘It’s for a very good cause,’ she added as the girl looked perplexed.

  ‘But he’s not aware of you?’

  ‘No, he’s not aware of me,’ Michelle admitted.

  ‘But he bloody should be,’ cut in Daz. ‘This woman has devoted her life to his cause for the last few months. Her life, I tell you.’

  ‘George would want to meet her,’ added Gina. ‘Really, she’s such a lovely person. He’d like her, I know he would.’

  ‘We refuse to hand this money over unless you get George Clooney down here,’ Daz declared, stamping his foot.

  By now, the girl had taken a step back as Daz and Gina advanced on her. A look of panic had started to emerge on her face as she clearly marked them as crazed stalkers.

  Michelle stepped towards her and saw her flinch. ‘Last night we raised all this money for George’s charity and then we drove through the night to get down here so we could give it to him in person. That’s all we want. To be able to hand over some charity money. That’s all, really.’

  The receptionist looked them up and down, assessing the credibility of their case. Michelle was glad she’d scraped the smudged mascara fro
m under her eyes with McDonald’s loo paper.

  ‘I’ll need to speak to my manager,’ the receptionist said, before leaping away in escape.

  ‘See,’ said Michelle, turning on Daz. ‘There’s no way we’ll get to see him now. The manager’s going to come down here and chuck us out.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Daz. ‘Going to get the manager is a good sign, believe me. Get some seniority on the case.’

  They all turned at the sound of staccato tapping heels chasing the determined thud of leather soles across marble as the receptionist struggled to keep up with a swarthy-looking man in his fifties.

  We’re doomed, thought Michelle.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the man in perfect English but with an Eastern European accent. ‘I am so sorry, but George Clooney is no longer staying here. He checked out half an hour ago.’

  ‘Liar!’ shrieked Daz, throwing Chaz on the floor.

  ‘Please, sir, I promise you,’ said the man very coolly. ‘He left early to catch a private plane to his home in Italy.’

  Michelle slumped on a white sofa. So near and yet so far. It was all over. She’d failed.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Epic fail,’ sighed Gina, chewing on her third bacon and egg McMuffin that morning. They had been back in McDonald’s for what felt like hours, eking out food that could be eaten in nanoseconds because they just wanted to be warm and not face the prospect of the journey home and life without George Clooney.

  Daz was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared once again into the loos with Chaz. Michelle and Gina didn’t care any more.

  ‘How can I ever face Josie?’ moaned Michelle. ‘Before all this she thought I was a failure and now I’ll have to admit to her that I am. And she’s going to shag Sean.’

  ‘I can’t believe we were so close,’ said Gina for the millionth time. She hoovered the dregs of her chocolate milkshake up her straw, part of her third breakfast. Michelle had told her they were really fattening, but Gina had clarified that she didn’t follow the Slimmers United regime whilst outside her home county. ‘If only we hadn’t come here for a McD’s we might have actually met George Clooney,’ she said.

  ‘Mmmm,’ sighed Michelle, barely listening now. All she could think about was the cock-up she’d made of things. She’d chased a ridiculous dream to prove a point and now she looked like a failure.

  Eventually Daz emerged from the men’s room, Chaz under his arm, staring at his mobile phone. He sat down next to Michelle without raising his eyes and without taking his protective hands off Chaz. They sat in silence until finally Daz stood up again.

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ he said. ‘If we can’t get to meet George then we’ll have to go for the next best thing.’

  ‘Brad Pitt?’ said Gina excitedly. ‘Matt Damon? Is he here?’ she asked, looking around wildly as if Matt would be having breakfast at McDonald’s just off Baker Street.

  ‘No,’ said Daz. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Follow me, ladies. We’re going to pay a little visit whilst we’re in London.’

  Daz and Chaz led the way down a windy Baker Street. Every so often Chaz got swept away in the excitement and flung himself in the air as a gust grabbed hold of him. As they got to the junction with the A40 and crossed the road, Daz’s intentions started to dawn on Michelle, although Gina was still none the wiser.

  ‘Oh my God!’ squealed Gina. ‘I have wanted to go here all my life. My mum would never bring me because she didn’t agree with them using real skin.’

  ‘They don’t use real skin, Gina,’ said Michelle, gazing up at the enormous building housing the iconic Madame Tussauds attraction.

  ‘Oh they do,’ said Gina. ‘Mum watched a documentary and she said they take a patch from under your foot and then grow skin from it so they can cover the whole body. Mum said it was a disgrace.’

  ‘How old were you when your mum told you this?’ asked Michelle.

  ‘Maybe seven.’

  ‘I think your mum just didn’t want to bring you.’

  ‘No, it’s true, really.’

  ‘Well, let’s go in and find out, shall we?’ Michelle gave Daz a little smile, grateful he’d thought of a way of cheering them all up a bit.

  Half an hour later, after establishing that no real skin was used in the process of creating the frighteningly lifelike wax models, Michelle was lounging on a sofa next to George Clooney with Chaz between them, whilst Daz took photos.

  ‘Tell you what, ’Chelle,’ said Gina. ‘You’ve got great taste in men. Up close he’s fucking gorgeous.’

  Michelle smiled and leant over to touch George’s hand. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you at last,’ she said as Daz leapt around in true paparazzi style, catching every moment of the encounter.

  ‘He looks really grateful, actually,’ said Daz, pausing to check how his photos were coming out. ‘Grateful and bloody photogenic. If he wasn’t such a nice guy I could seriously hate him.’

  ‘Bit quiet, though,’ said Gina, leaning in close to study his face. ‘Look, he’s actually got a few freckles,’ she said, prodding his cheek gently. ‘So cute.’

  A party of Japanese tourists arrived and bustled around them as though they were all connected within an elastic band. Camera flashes filled the air along with a flurry of Japanese exclamations, punctuated by the occasional ‘George’, as they confirmed to each other who was in their presence. Michelle felt embarrassed to be monopolising the seat next to Mr Clooney and got up, to be replaced immediately by three middle-aged women who squirmed and giggled as George looked on stoically.

  ‘We could show this picture to Josie,’ said Daz, handing over his camera so Michelle could see the image of her giving the cheque to George Clooney. ‘She’d never guess we were in Madame Tussauds.’

  Michelle studied the shot. It appeared authentic. George looked as perfect as he always did. Could this help her save face? Could she present this to her daughter as mission accomplished? She looked around the room, designed to make you feel as though you were attending a Hollywood A-lister party. It was full of every famous person you’d ever wish to meet. Well, maybe not Geri Halliwell. But still, everyone was so real it was amazing, and yet it was all totally fake. A fabrication. A complete lie.

  ‘I can’t lie to her,’ she said, giving the camera back to Daz. ‘Not any more.’

  *

  Michelle sat with Chaz in the back of the disco van on the long drive back from London to Malton. She was vaguely aware of Gina and Daz gabbling away in the front and occasionally bursting into song when a big tune came up on the radio. It crossed her mind at one point that her two best friends were lunatics – both slightly deranged in their own way – and she realised she loved them both massively for it. If there were one good thing to come out of the whole George Clooney business, it was that she and Daz had found a friendship and understanding that she was sure would last a lifetime. Of course, Chaz was also a great thing, she thought as she glanced over to him protectively, looking somewhat battered by his adventure down to the big smoke. Now that her pursuit of George Clooney seemed to be over, she could look back over the mayhem of the last few weeks and realise that those numbers on Chaz the cheque were a pretty amazing result. Yes, maybe her motives had been off when she began. Raising money for charity in order to get close to a celebrity was hardly something to be proud of. But whatever, it had motivated her to achieve something to be proud of. Something she hadn’t felt since before she’d realised she was pregnant with her sister’s boyfriend’s baby.

  What was it that Little Slaw had said after Gina’s wedding?

  ‘You must get out of your own way.’

  Perhaps if she’d faced up to who Josie’s father was at the outset, the last fifteen years might have been very different. Now she might be looking at a woman who had made a mistake, faced up to it and moved on. All she’d ever done was back off. All she’d ever shown Josie was how to avoid the difficult stuff until it paralysed you into a corner you couldn’t get out of. That’s why she�
��d gone on this ridiculous journey to marry George Clooney. It was a desperate attempt to get out of her corner.

  As they passed the Watford Gap service station she realised she couldn’t go back to that corner. It was time to show Josie how to deal with the challenges that life threw at you and not let them get in the way of doing what you needed to do.

  ‘Daz,’ she said, leaning forward.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, putting his finger to his lips.

  The song playing on the radio came to an end, then he spoke again.

  ‘Shed Seven,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Seriously one of the best bands of all time and yet woefully undervalued. “Chasing Rainbows” gets me here every time.’ He pounded his heart with his fist.

  ‘Speaking of chasing rainbows,’ said Michelle. ‘Who fancies a road trip to Italy?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ cried Daz.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘We are finishing this mission off if it kills me.’

  ‘Get in,’ said Daz, punching the air.

  ‘Woo-hoo!’ screamed Gina.

  ‘Back up north, driver,’ Michelle ordered Daz. ‘We’re collecting Josie, then Italy here we come.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Beetroot sandwiches.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘What’s wrong with beetroot sandwiches?’

  ‘Everything.’

  Kathleen stood defiantly in front of Michelle, Tupperware in hand.

  ‘They may not have beetroot in Italy,’ she said, grabbing Michelle’s hand and putting the box firmly in it.

  ‘And your point is?’

  Kathleen simply tutted.

  ‘Mum, thank you,’ said Michelle sincerely. ‘Thanks for reminding me that Italy maybe a beetroot-free zone so I must get my quota of beetroot sandwiches in before we cross the border.’

  ‘You’ll be grateful when you’re waiting for that ferry, hungry and in need of a beetroot sandwich.’

  ‘Mum, I can assure you I will never be in need of a beetroot sandwich.’