by Grace Dent
“All one thousand pounds!!?” I gasp.
“Yes. The full whack,” says Claude. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a thousand pounds, have you, Ronnie?”
“No,” I say, a little gobsmacked. “I’ve got £42.50 in my current account. That’s not really any help, is it?”
“But we can give him it in a few weeks when the ticket money comes in,” argues Fleur. “Did you tell him that?”
“Yeah. I told him that,” assures Claude. “He wants it now.”
“What a pig,” I say, for want of anything positive to add.
“He’s just covering his back, I suppose. We’re a bit of a risk to get involved with, so he reckons anyway,” says Claude, being fair as ever.
“Hang on. I’ve got a little fund of cash my gran has put aside for me,” offers Fleur sweetly. “I’m sure that’s more than a thousand pounds . . . ,” she says. “But actually I don’t think I can have it till I’m aged twenty-one . . . oh, God, that’s seven years away, isn’t it?”
“No luck, Fleur, we’ve got until Monday at nine A.M. or he’s canceling our order,” Claude adds bleakly. “In fact, he’s giving our stage and speakers to the Church of Eternal Light, who are holding their annual jamboree that day. They want to book a PA system too.”
After this, none of us say anything for a long time.
In fact, not even Gianni Junior pirouetting about in a black silk shirt can cheer us up.
“ ’Scuse me a minute, girlies,” says Fleur, grabbing her phone and wandering out of the restaurant. Claude and I roll our eyes. This is a fine time for Fleur to choose to go and have a gossip.
“We could ask the bank for a temporary loan?” I suggest, knowing it’s a long shot.
“No bank will give three teenage girls a massive loan. Well, not on a Saturday afternoon, anyhow . . . ,” whispers Claude. She’s already considered that one.
“I thought we could even wash cars to earn the money,” says Claude. “But we’d need to find nearly five hundred folk willing to part with more than a couple of quid within the next forty-three hours. It’s not going to happen, is it?”
“Er, no,” I say.
More silence.
In fact, this time a deafening silence, pierced only by the bill for our pizza plonked down loudly on the table.
More debt. How upsetting.
This is a very big deal for Claude. Her messing up, that is. It just doesn’t happen very often. Claude won’t, or rather, can’t let it happen. There’s been too much fear of the unknown in Claude’s life already; she won’t allow it to occur these days without a fight. Not when a “Things to Do” list or a few well-spent hours researching on the Net can make life so organized.
“How can I tell everyone? How can I tell Liam and Ainsley?” mumbles Claude, blowing her nose on a Paramount Pizza napkin. Then she starts sobbing properly, which always takes me by surprise.
“Oh, come on, Claude, we won’t have to,” I say, knowing full well we might have to. Fleur is outside the restaurant window, walking up and down, yapping on her phone, waving her hands about in the air as she speaks. Suddenly she snaps the phone shut and comes back indoors.
“Well, I’ll have to tell them soon,” says Claude. “They’re all practicing their hearts out. What will I say?”
Claude hates letting people down. If you say you’ll do something, in C’s books, you have to do it. Or else you have to give them about nine years’ cancellation notice.
“RIGHT!” says Fleur. “I’ve been thinking . . . ooh, hang on, the bill . . . actually, I’ll buy this as my little LBD treat.”
Fleur gets out her charge card and throws it down.
“Ta, Fleur,” we both say, trying to smile. Fleur’s a star like that sometimes.
“What we need is a sponsor, isn’t it?” continues Fleur, flicking her blond hair from her face. “Someone who could give us a little helping hand until we get on our feet?”
“Yes, please,” says Claude.
“Someone who’s sympathetic to the LBD and their work.
You know, a person who knows us and knows that we’re cool bambinos who can pull this whole Blackwell Live thing off?”
“That’s exactly what we need,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, come on, then. I’ve got us an appointment with a potential investor in twenty minutes,” Fleur announces, signing her name, Fleur Gabrielle Swan, in big, swirly, proud letters at the bottom of her charge card receipt.
our hero, sort of
“So what you’re saying to me, essentially, is,” begins Paddy Swan, reclining in his plush black leather study chair, “that you want me to offer you an instant, high-risk, unsecured monetary loan? And you’re asking for a thousand pounds?”
Fleur rolls her eyes. Claude and I grin nervously, realizing now how preposterous it sounds.
“You know that’s what we want, Dad. We’ve been through this twice,” says Fleur.
“Okay, okay. I know that’s what you want,” admits Mr.
Swan. “I just like saying it, as it’s by far the most amusing thing I’ve heard all week.”
“Ho, and indeed, ho,” groans Fleur.
Behind Mr. Swan’s bald head, a large framed certificate upon his study wall reads:
PATRICK ARTHUR SWAN
JAMES BOND OFFICIAL FAN CLUB
MEMBER NUMBER 872
There’s even framed pics of Paddy cuddling James Bond castmembers at the last Bond convention he attended.
And he thinks we’re amusing?
“But let me get this straight,” Paddy continues. “Because maybe my senile dementia is taking hold more rapidly than I bargained. You actually intend to spend the money on village idiots like that ‘Killa Blow,’ oh, and that buffoon who lurks around the high street wearing his mother’s makeup?”
“Ainsley Hammond,” says Fleur.
“Ainsley Hammond! That’s him!” Paddy scoffs. “Oh, and that prize numbskull who got up on the school roof last year and had to be escorted down by police.”
“Liam Gelding,” sighs Claude patiently.
“Hoo hoo! That’s him!” Paddy chuckles, grabbing a man-size tissue and dabbing his eyes rather theatrically. “So you’re asking me for money to put on a rock festival where they can play their music. Oh, my giddy aunt! You girls just get worse!”
This is not sounding good.
“Look, Dad, stop being like this,” says Fleur rather firmly. “You sounded really impressed when I told you on the phone half an hour ago. You said you couldn’t believe how mature and responsible we were being by organizing Blackwell Live.”
“Pggghh,” Paddy splutters. “That was before I knew you wanted the shirt off my back. Lordy me, that’s all the Swan family see me as, isn’t it? The Royal Bank of Paddy?”
“We’ll give you it back,” persists Fleur.
“When?” demands Paddy.
“Sunday, the thirteenth of July,” chirps up Claude confidently.
“Hmmm,” says Paddy, reaching for his chunky desk calculator.
“So let me see,” he says, beginning to push buttons with his thick fingers. “One thousand pounds. Loaned on a short-term basis using Royal Bank of Paddy rates of nine percent . . .”
Claude gulps; she’d not even thought of paying back interest on a loan.
“Well, that’s £1090 you’d owe me on the thirteenth,” announces Paddy. “A bargain, I think you’ll agree, ladies. And I’m not even charging you an administration fee . . . BUT I think we should look at the loan’s terms in the event you hit upon problems.”
“We won’t,” says Fleur.
“You might,” argues Paddy. “It might be a tragic failure. And in that eventuality you’ll be seeking a long-term loan, paying the cash back slowly at whatever your pocket money can cover.”
We all stare at him blankly. Paddy is enjoying himself now.
“Now, let’s take my delightful daughter Fleur here as the named loan holder,” Paddy continues, punching numbers in furiously. �
�Fleur Swan . . . with her twenty-pound-per-month allowance, wants an unsecured loan of one thousand pounds at my long-term loan interest rate of twenty-seven percent.”
We all groan now.
“Now, bearing in mind Ms. Swan already owes the Royal Bank of Paddy £347 for her last British Telecom bill,” says Paddy, “and £421 for the Year Eight school ski trip she vowed to pay me back . . .”
Crunch, bash, ker-chunk go the buttons on Paddy’s calculator.
A roll of paper spews out of the machine, covered in figures. “And taking into account that Fleur spends every penny of her allowance every month and begs me for more, I reckon she could afford to pay me back around two pounds per month. Which means it would take . . .”
Paddy presses a final button and inspects the half-meter of calculator roll curled before him.
“Ninety-three years and five months to give me my money back.”
We all look at Paddy mournfully.
“And between you and me, girls, I’m dearly hoping to be dead by then and not still bickering with my daughter about allowances and clowns called Killa Blow!”
Paddy is grinning, but then he notices how sad we all look and his expression changes to something a little more thoughtful.
I don’t want to appear too desperate, so I concentrate on staring at Paddy’s collection of framed family pictures, cluttering the far wall of his study. There’s one of Paddy and Fleur, looking bronzed and athletic, playing tennis in France. And one of Fleur, aged about four, fixed up as a rabbit at a fancy-dress party wearing two shoe Odor-Eaters for bunny ears. (Oh, Lordy, how I’d love a copy of that picture to show to the EZ Life Syndicate.) There’s also a dead nice photo of Paddy on a beach somewhere, looking much younger (and, dare I say it, quite handsome) clutching three tiny, sandy kids to his chest. He’s wearing a big grin, like he’s won a gold medal or something.
“Look, kiddywinks, get out of my office and go and enjoy the day, eh? I’ll get back to you on this one,” he says. “I’ve got important things to do, you’re cluttering up my heavy schedule.”
Even though Paddy is making shooing motions with his hands, no one moves. We’re not being insolent. I just don’t think anyone knows where to go from here. If this means Blackwell Live’s over, I don’t feel much like going outdoors and playing swingball in Fleur’s garden.
Suddenly Claude’s phone lets out a little bleep indicating she has a voice mail; she checks the number.
“It’s Wicked FM,” she announces to nobody in particular in a voice so weary, it’s obvious that the local radio station calling her is just adding to her worries.
“What do they want?” asks Fleur.
“Well, they’ve been interested about Blackwell Live. They want to interview some of us . . . so do the Local Daily Mercury,” says Claude quietly.
“You’re going to be on the radio and in the newspaper?” says Paddy.
“Were going to be,” corrects Claude. “And I spoke to someone yesterday at Look Live, the local TV news program too. They sounded interested too.”
“Hmmm,” says Paddy again, clearly mulling this over.
“See, Dad, there would be lots of good publicity for you if you got involved, eh?” says Fleur. “I can see the headlines: ‘Local entrepreneur Patrick Swan supports good cause.’ That sorta thing.”
“Local entrepreneur?” Paddy repeats, clearly liking the sound of that.
“You could introduce some of the bands too!” says Claude, buttering him up further. “We need someone confident with a good speaking voice. You know, someone with a real air of authority.”
“Authority . . . ,” repeats Paddy, straightening his tie.
“Yeah, we totally need a grown-up who can appear on TV and radio talking about why Blackwell Live’s such a brilliant idea,” adds Fleur, knowing full well that Paddy would love, love, looooove to be a mini-celebrity.
“I could do that, couldn’t I?” says Paddy, beaming. “I could be your official sponsor . . . ah, I can see it now . . . ‘Blackwell Live, brought to you in association with Patrick Swan.’ That’s got a certain ring to it. . . .”
“You’d be a bit like a dark, mysterious, powerful character who everyone is in awe of,” Fleur tells her dad. “You know, Patrick Swan to the rescue! Patrick Swan, the tall, handsome hero who saves the day for the damsels in distress. A bit like—”
“A bit like James Bond,” announces Paddy Swan without a hint of irony.
“A LOT like James Bond,” choruses the LBD, nodding madly.
Paddy seems quite giddy with delight, but then regains his composure.
Shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe what he’s doing, Mr. Swan slowly opens the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a leather-bound checkbook.
“Don’t make me regret this, ladies,” he warns, picking up his silver fountain pen, then pausing only to look up at three sets of teeth gleaming in his direction.
“Okay,” he says. “Who shall I make this out to?”
a totally wicckkkked morning
Things I didn’t know about the Wicked FM “Wake Up with Warren and Frankie” 6-9:00 A.M. Breakfast Bonanza until I visited the studio:1. “Wacky Warren” Hart and “Fun Time Frankie” Foster are not half as sexy as they look in those photos Wicked FM send when you win a phone-in competition. They’re both at least forty. And they wear old tracksuits to work and smoke Regal King Size cigarettes between records.
2. The “Wake-Up Crew” are not, in actual fact, a big gang of their laughing, hooting krrazy mates crammed into the studio, like I imagined. It’s just a tape recording of people cheering. Warren just presses PLAY every time he sees fit. I’m not saying Frankie and Warren haven’t got any real mates. This is just a practicality, as . . .
3. . . . the Wicked FM studio is the size of my bedroom. Tiny. In fact, the LBD, Ainsley Hammond, Liam Gelding, Jimi, Christy Sullivan, Panama and Killa Blow have to loiter in the drafty corridor until it’s our time to go on air plugging the festival. Panama is being extra-annoying at this stage, warming up her singing voice just in case she gets asked to perform. “Doh-Ray-Mi-Fah-So-La-Tee-Doooooooh!” she warbles, as well as batting her eyelashes at anything in trousers and begging for some warm honey and lemon to “soothe her esophagus.” Grrrr. Jimi, the numbskull, slopes off to find her a cup of tea.
4. Frankie and Warren really DO know Panama; she wasn’t making it up. And they think she’s fantastic.
“Annnnd we’re back! Good morning! It’s Wednesday, the second of July! And hey, listeners, it really is fabulous to have the Blackwell Live kids with us this morning on the Wicked 86.4 Wake Up with Warren and Frankie Breakfast Bonanza!” says Warren. “Isn’t it, Frankie?”
“It’s grrrreat!” says Frankie, pressing PLAY on the Wake-Up Crew Tape.
“Woooo-hooo!!!” goes “the crew.”
On the recording, a party-popper explodes and someone honks a kazoo merrily. This all sounds faintly ridiculous now that I’m standing beside it.
“Yup, it’s seven forty-seven A.M. and we’re over the moon to have these amazing kids with us live in the studio,” continues Warren. “They’re putting on a krrrazy-cool live music event to rival Astlebury or Reading Rock Festival on July twelfth in the school grounds, and they wanna spread the word. Don’t you, kids?”
“Yeah,” we all murmur, fully aware we’re Live On Air and the entire town is listening. Jimi is hiding at the back of the group with Liam, whose face is bright red. Ainsley is just peering at “Fun Time Frankie” as if he’s an alien.
Fleur and I aren’t much use either, we’re just grinning. “Thanks for having us! We’re so glad to be here!” pipes up Panama.
“Yeah, really happy,” butts in Claude.
“So, Panama Goodyear, we’ve seen a lot of you in the past year along with your very talented group, Catwalk. Blackwell Live must be an exciting opportunity for you guys to perform,” asks Warren.
“Oh, amazing, yeah!” purrs Panama. “I mean, after we won the Wicked FM Star
Search quarterfinals, we all remarked on how there’s just not enough live music in our community.”
“Totally,” agrees Warren.
“So that’s where we came up with the idea for Blackwell Live . . . ,” says Panama.
This is the most shockingly blatant lie I’ve heard since Fleur claimed her last lovebite was an allergic rash.
“Splagh pghhhh!” grunts Claude, trying to think of a polite way to call Panama a sniveling little liar on live radio.
“Grrrreat!” shrieks Frankie, slightly pointlessly, while also picking a lump of sleep out of his eye.
“But there’s something for everyone at Blackwell Live too,” announces Claude. “I mean, as well at Catwalk, we’ve got five other brilliant local bands. Like Lost Messiah and Death Knell.”
“Yes, I see you’ve got quite a lineup. Have you all been practicing, then, kids?”
“Murrr, mmm, yeah,” mumbles our gang, our shyness simply giving Panama Motor-Mouth more chance to warble on and on.
“Catwalk practice every single day!” shrills Panama. “We’re absolute perfectionists when it comes to our art.”
“Oh, purlease,” mutters Ainsley, finally finding his tongue.
“Well, good to hear that, Panama,” says Frankie. “And we’ve got to go to a record now, so we’ll get back to the Blackwell Live gang later.”
“Woo-hoo! Yeah!! Part-eeeeee!!” cheer the imaginary posse.
“But just one quick question,” cheeps Warren. “I’m assuming that Catwalk, being the local celebs they are, will be the headlining act on the twelfth?”
Warren grins at the Blackwell gang, not understanding the gravity of his question.
After four seconds of silence—which is a very long time indeed when you’re Live On Air—both Panama and Claude speak at exactly the same time.
“Yeah, of course!” squeaks Panama, shaking her glossy brown hair behind her.
