I Will Marry George Clooney (By Christmas)

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘I think I’ve lost everything,’ she choked out.

  Ugly George moved to put his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Do you want to know what George would say if he was standing here now?’

  ‘Okay.’ Michelle sniffed.

  Ugly George cleared his throat and creased up his eyes in a George-ish fashion before he started to speak.

  ‘Well, anybody who ever built an empire, or changed the world, sat where you are right now. And it’s because they sat there that they were able to do it. And that’s the truth.’

  ‘Up in the Air,’ muttered Michelle.

  ‘Uh huh,’ nodded Ugly George. ‘He really is a genius.’

  ‘You do know it’s not really George saying that, don’t you?’ said Michelle. ‘It’s just his character.’

  ‘Sure. But when George says it, you listen. That’s what makes him a genius.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Michelle. ‘When George speaks, the world listens.’

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’ asked Ugly George.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A week later Michelle was sitting at home alone, channel-hopping on the TV, desperately trying to avoid seeing anything to do with Christmas. Just when she thought she was safe, an elf or an angel or a fake Santa beard would pop out of nowhere and remind her that she was deep into the festive season and facing the loneliest, most depressing Christmas of her life. She’d not set eyes on Josie since she’d got back from Italy, as Josie had taken refuge in her grandparents’ spare room. Ray and Kathleen had been round and collected some of her things, giving Kathleen the chance to launch into interrogation mode.

  ‘Why can’t we get a word out of her?’ she raged. ‘She just sits in her bedroom or disappears out the door without telling us where she’s going. What happened in Italy?’ she asked, banging her fist on the table. ‘I demand to know.’

  Michelle had sat down at the table, shaking, as she opened up and revealed what had driven Josie into this state.

  ‘Rob? ’ said Kathleen, stunned, when Michelle had finally let the cat out of the bag. ‘Rob is Josie’s father?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michelle. ‘Please forgive me,’ she begged, looking down at the twisted, sodden tissue in her hand.

  Kathleen looked away and stared at Ray in amazement, searching his face for an inkling of comprehension as to what was going on. When he said nothing, she turned back to Michelle and drew in a very long breath. Michelle braced herself for the full force of Kathleen’s anger, but it was Ray who got in first.

  ‘Josie couldn’t wish for a better father, could she, Kathleen?’ he said, moving quickly to cover Kathleen’s hand with his and grasp it tightly. Kathleen looked at him sharply and opened her mouth to speak then closed it again. ‘We couldn’t be happier to have Rob as part of the family, could we?’ he said directly to her. ‘It means we’ll get to see a lot more of him, doesn’t it?’ Kathleen continued to stare at him. He nodded his head slowly, staring into her eyes until, as if in a daze, she started to join in.

  ‘You’re right,’ she muttered. ‘We will get to see a lot more of him.’

  Ray whisked her out of the house soon after, still visibly stunned at the news. Michelle hugged her father harder than she ever had as he stood on the doorstep.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘I always hoped it was him,’ he whispered back at her.

  ‘What?’ she gasped, pulling away from him so she could see his face.

  ‘I never believed that cock and bull story you told us about the chef in Scotland,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And I saw the way Rob looked at you sometimes.’

  Then he was gone, hurrying after Kathleen, no doubt preparing himself to guide her reaction to the news in a way that would ensure the future harmony of the family.

  As the days ticked by, it wasn’t her dad’s unexpected words that occupied Michelle’s thoughts but the growing dread that Christmas was fast approaching, and it seemed ever more unlikely that she would be playing any part in Josie’s sixteenth birthday on Christmas Eve. Not only that, she suspected Josie would most probably be spending it shagging Sean. Her mission to marry George Clooney to prevent that happening had totally backfired. If anything, Josie was even more likely to have sex with Sean, given her knowledge that her mother had slept with her dead auntie’s boyfriend. She had hardly presented herself as a model of restraint.

  She had just switched off the TV in response to an advert for Love Actually, making her want to vomit at the sight of Hugh Grant snogging Martine McCutcheon under the mistletoe, when she heard the back door open. Her immediate thought was that it must be an intruder. Searching around for a suitable weapon to defend herself, she grabbed a roll of Christmas wrapping paper and tiptoed towards the kitchen. The door started to open before she reached it and she lifted the laughing snowmen high in the air, ready to thrash the living daylights out of whoever had dared enter her home. Through the door came a bedraggled figure, coat wet through, hair lankly falling on shoulders, red-rimmed eyes staring wildly out.

  ‘Mum!’ cried Josie, rushing forward and flinging herself at her.

  ‘Josie!’ Michelle dropped the snowmen and hugged her daughter with all her might.

  Josie sobbed in her arms. She’d not done that since she was nine, when she’d fallen out with her best mate Lucy over a pencil case. Michelle rocked her gently backwards and forwards, holding her tightly, occasionally murmuring how sorry she was. Eventually the sobs abated and became sniffs and Michelle dug out a tissue and watched her daughter blow her nose, trying to summon up the words that would show Josie how terrible she felt about making her feel this way.

  ‘It’s Sean,’ Josie announced, handing the damp tissue back to her mother.

  ‘Oh,’ said Michelle, taken aback. ‘Right. What’s happened?’

  ‘He wasn’t there,’ Josie sniffed.

  ‘He wasn’t where?’

  ‘Fishing.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I thought I’d go and surprise him,’ Josie continued, flopping on the sofa. ‘I couldn’t find him but his older brother was there, so I asked where he was, and he just laughed at me and told me to try the fishmonger’s.’

  ‘The fishmonger’s?’

  ‘Yeah. So I did. Thought maybe he was catching fish and selling them or something, you know, to save money for our flat.’

  ‘Right, yeah, I’m with you,’ said Michelle. ‘I can totally see why you might think that.’

  ‘So I went to the fishmonger’s and . . . and . . .’

  ‘Was he there?’

  Josie nodded, fresh tears springing to her eyes.

  ‘He was in the back. I could see him. Snogging Ellie Crab.’

  ‘The fishmonger’s daughter?’ Michelle asked, resisting the urge to smirk at the appropriateness of Mr Crab’s profession.

  ‘Yes,’ sobbed Josie.

  ‘Oh, Josie,’ said Michelle, sitting next to her and taking her in her arms again. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He doesn’t even have a fishing rod!’ Josie wailed. ‘He lied about it all, everything, just so he could be with her.’ ‘I really am so sorry,’ said Michelle.

  They sat holding each other whilst the next wave of tears ran its course.

  ‘You were right about him all along,’ Josie said when she was next able to speak. ‘He’s such a loser.’

  Michelle said nothing. She wished she’d been wrong. Anything to stop her daughter going through this kind of heartbreak. Right now there were only two words appropriate to the situation.

  ‘Hot chocolate?’ she asked.

  Josie nodded and they retired to the kitchen.

  Michelle and Josie sat facing each other at the table, blowing the steam off two mugs of chocolate heaven. Michelle peered at her daughter over the rim of her mug, knowing she had to raise the subject that was currently a whacking great elephant in the room.

  ‘You were right, you know,’ she said eventually. ‘I was using Jane dying
as an excuse.’ Josie said nothing.

  ‘And it’s unforgiveable that I allowed that to get in the way of you getting to know your father.’ Michelle felt tears spring to her eyes. ‘I can’t expect you to ever forgive me.’

  Josie still said nothing, just slowly stirred her drink. A tear reached the end of Michelle’s nose and dropped into her mug.

  ‘But I wasn’t there,’ said Josie finally, not looking up. ‘I don’t know how it feels to lose someone you love.’ She looked up. ‘Rob said . . . he said it was a terrible time.

  No-one knew what to do. Everyone was a mess.’

  ‘You’ve talked to Rob?’ Michelle gasped.

  Josie nodded.

  ‘He came to see me. He brought me a teddy bear.’ There was a tear at the end of Josie’s nose now. ‘Said he had no idea what fifteen-year-olds were into but he hoped that I would teach him.’

  Michelle thought her heart would break.

  ‘What did you say?’ she asked.

  ‘I told him I had expensive tastes.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ Josie retorted. ‘God, you’re so easy to wind up.’ She looked up and smiled at her mum. Michelle reached across the table and took her hand. They sat there in silence for a long time, holding hands and sipping hot chocolate.

  ‘I like him,’ Josie said eventually.

  ‘So do I,’ Michelle nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  11.00 a.m., Christmas Eve

  ‘Guess what?’ said Gina from across the conveyor belt.

  ‘What?’ said Michelle.

  ‘They’re only doing turkey-flavoured Pringles. I got some at the Co-op. How Christmassy can you get? I’m going straight home at lunchtime and having them.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Little Slaw, shaking his head as he expertly dropped blue polystyrene trays onto the belt. ‘In Poland, no meat on Christmas Eve, just fish.’

  ‘But they’re crisps,’ Gina protested.

  ‘But you say turkey flavour?’

  ‘It’ll never be real turkey, will it?’ Gina declared. ‘Just, like, pretend turkey.’

  ‘What do you mean, pretend turkey?’

  ‘They actually just taste like stuffing,’ announced Michelle, passing blue polystyrene trays to Gina.

  ‘You’ve tried them!’ exclaimed Gina. ‘You never said!’

  ‘Josie loves them,’ said Michelle. ‘But personally I think they should be called “Stuffing-Flavoured Pringles That Make You Think Of Turkey”.’

  ‘So they’re actually turkey-free Pringles,’ said Gina. ‘See, Little Slaw, you’ll be able to eat turkey Pringles today because they’re actually turkey free.’

  ‘To think this will be the last ever crisp discussion we have,’ said Michelle. ‘I can’t believe it’s my last day on this factory floor.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Gina.

  ‘Nor me,’ sighed Little Slaw.

  They all looked up at each other, feeling a little sad, before they sensed a large presence approaching: Marianne.

  ‘Mr Evans wants to see you, Michelle,’ she barked.

  ‘Why?’ Michelle exclaimed.

  ‘You’d better get up there and ask him, hadn’t you?’ Marianne turned round and strutted off towards the metal staircase without any further explanation.

  Michelle rushed after her, still unwilling to upset Mr Evans, despite the fact that in less than an hour she would no longer be working for him. When she’d arrived that morning and got her overall out of her locker for the very last time, she’d thought she might cry with relief, although she was still a little in shock that she’d actually handed her notice in. But she’d known when she got back from Italy that she had to. Ugly George had as good as told her she had to. Her own daughter had told her she had no excuse to be working there. So she had tentatively replaced the dream of marrying George Clooney with another one. Her own catering business was possibly a long way off, but starting as an assistant chef for an event company would allow her to learn the ropes and get into the swing of things before she branched out on her own. And she really couldn’t wait to swap her time in a chicken factory for time in a professional kitchen.

  Mr Evans wasn’t in his office, but Marianne instructed her to go in and wait. He was just in the warehouse making sure no-one had sloped off early.

  After ten minutes of staring out at the hills behind the factory, trying to work out why she was there, Mr Evans strode in to put her out of her misery.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said, sitting down without looking at her.

  ‘Er, you asked to see me?’

  ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  ‘Er, I don’t know. Is it something to do with it being my last day?’

  He raised his eyes to look at her for the first time.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said eventually, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. ‘It’s about your departing gift.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Michelle, shocked. ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting . . .’

  Mr Evans waved his hand to indicate she should pipe down. She did. A leaving present, from the factory? How amazing!

  ‘You see, I thought it would be highly suitable if you were to leave for all of us here at Pinkerton’s Chicken Factory the recipe for that chicken dish you concocted for that charity event.’

  Michelle’s mouth dropped open in astonishment.

  ‘Sort of like a legacy,’ Mr Evans continued. ‘You know what I mean. So we have something to remember you by.’

  He leant back in his chair smiling and looking very pleased with himself.

  Michelle still couldn’t speak.

  ‘I can see that you’re extremely moved by the gesture,’ he added.

  Michelle found her tongue.

  ‘You want me to give you my recipe . . . for free?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Mr Evans, shaking his head. ‘As a gift, for all your years of service to the factory.’

  She couldn’t quite work out if she was going mad or Mr Evans was actually trying to screw her over. Suddenly, Marianne appeared at Mr Evans’s side and placed a Post-it note in front of him.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, waving a piece of paper behind his head so only Michelle could see it. There were three words written in pink fluorescent pen: CHICKENS FOR CHARITY. Marianne left the room as quickly as she’d appeared.

  ‘Surely,’ Mr Evans continued, ‘it would give you a huge amount of satisfaction to share your recipe with the factory that has kept you in gainful employment for all these years?’

  ‘Do you know what, it would,’ said Michelle, nodding. ‘I can see where you’re coming from.’

  ‘Great, brilliant!’ Mr Evans leapt out of his chair. ‘Marianne, come back in here quick and write down this recipe!’ he shouted through the open door.

  ‘On one condition,’ Michelle added, thinking quickly. ‘No, actually, two conditions.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said slowly, sitting back down again.

  ‘The first condition is that a percentage of any profits made from my recipe goes to Not On Our Watch.’

  Mr Evans swallowed hard. ‘And the second?’

  ‘That you’ll run Chickens For Charity every year.’

  ‘Oh, what a brilliant idea!’ enthused Marianne, coming in with her notebook at the ready. ‘Keeps up your positive image in the community, Mr Evans, and, you never know, you might discover some more fantastic chicken recipes. Shall we say the last weekend in November every year?’

  Mr Evans sat staring at both of them open-mouthed in confusion. Clearly his little plan hadn’t worked out quite the way he’d anticipated.

  ‘Marianne actually got him to sign something saying he agreed to donate some of the profits,’ said Michelle when she slotted herself back into the conveyor line a few minutes later.

  ‘His conscience you prick,’ said Little Slaw. ‘You affect him.’

  ‘I’m not sure he has one of those. But if it means we get to carry on raising money, then
that’s just brilliant. I so wanted to be able to carry on doing something for George, I mean Not On Our Watch.’

  ‘It’s down to Gina next,’ said Little Slaw. ‘When she starts in sales it must be go, go, go to sell Michelle’s chicken.’

  ‘Piece of cake,’ declared Gina. ‘It tastes like heaven and part of the profits go to Not On Our Watch? This is going to fly off the shelves, I tell you.’

  ‘Spoken like a true saleswoman,’ Michelle laughed. ‘You’re going to be brilliant, you know, when you start your new job.’

  ‘Honestly,’ beamed Gina, ‘I can’t wait. Dominic says he’s going to start by taking me to meet all his customers, says I need to start forming relationships with them, whatever that means. I asked Clare – you know, the woman who works for the big hotel chain I persuaded to give us a free weekend break for the Chickens For Charity raffle? Well, we’re Facebook friends now. She told me to just be me.’

  ‘Dominic, despite appearances,’ said Little Slaw seriously, ‘is a smart man. That’s why he give you the job.’

  ‘Well, he said he’s never known anyone get stuff out of his customers like I did for the raffle,’ she said. ‘That’s the only reason he asked me to apply.’

  ‘Your talents were just waiting to be discovered,’ said Little Slaw. ‘You stop getting in your own way, both of you.’ He glanced at Michelle. ‘You come such a long way since you decide to marry George Clooney. Best decision you ever made.’

  ‘It’s certainly changed my life,’ she agreed.

  ‘And you leave factory to follow your dream, your proper dream that I know will come true,’ said Little Slaw. ‘You will make it happen now because you know how to get out of your own way. You learn this lesson from marrying George Clooney, yeah?’

  ‘I’m going to miss your pep talks, Little Slaw,’ said Michelle.

  ‘Well, I learn lesson from you marrying George Clooney too,’ said Little Slaw. ‘Life too short to spend on chicken floor. I shall enjoy my retirement spent with grandkids being up to elbows in poo and Play-Doh rather than chicken. Happy days.’

  ‘Happy days,’ repeated Michelle.

  ‘Happy days,’ agreed Gina.

  ‘Would you come to Josie’s birthday party tonight?’ Michelle suddenly asked Little Slaw. ‘It’s just me, Josie, Mum, Dad, Gina, Mike, Rob, Daz and Greta.’