by Harry Hill
‘You too, eh?’ Matt laughed. He was still worried about his sick friend, but felt a lot better for having seen him.
He felt his phone vibrating and fished it out of his pocket.
He took one look at it and a shiver went down his spine. ‘Uh-oh!’ he said, holding it up to show Kitty. Emblazoned on the screen was one word: EXCALIBUR.
‘You’d better answer it, Matt,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to deal with them at some point. I don’t think they’re the type to just disappear.’
Matt took a deep breath and pressed the little green phone icon.
‘Hi, Dickie,’ he said as brightly as he could manage. ‘I’m glad you’ve called, I’ve been meaning to—’ But before he could continue Dickie cut in.
‘Listen, you little guttersnipe! No one treats Dickie Hart like that …!’ There was then a string of unrepeatable four-letter words. ‘You’d better get yourself to the Excalibur offices pronto or you’re not gonna know what’s hit you!’
‘But I—’ said Matt, but the line had gone dead. Matt slowly lowered the phone from his ear and looked at the blank screen.
‘Looks like I’m in ten tons of doo-doo with Excalibur,’ he sighed.
‘Rather you than me,’ said Rob.
‘If you die …’ said Ahmed, ‘can I have your suit?’
Matt punched Ahmed playfully on the arm.
‘Aargh!’ joked Ahmed, clutching his arm. ‘A mean left hook and a comedy genius!’
Matt wondered how on earth he would have got through the last twenty-four hours without his friends.
‘What did he say?’ asked Kitty.
‘Says he wants to see me at Excalibur HQ now,’ said Matt.
‘Do they still have their headquarters in the base of a volcano or have they moved it?’ joked Rob.
‘Very funny. No, they’re in the West End, off Leicester Square,’ said Matt.
‘Well, you’ll have to go,’ said Kitty. ‘No use delaying it. You’re obliged to inform them you’re letting them go …’
‘Sacking them!’ interjected Rob.
‘And they’re entitled to three months notice, but no more. Do you want me to come with you?’
Matt hesitated. He was dreading seeing Dickie Hart again and would have loved some moral support but he knew he’d put Kitty through enough trouble as it was.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, this is my mess and I’ve got to sort it out.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she said nodding. ‘They’ll lay it on pretty thick but provided you read the small print on the contract and there’s nothing out of the ordinary you should be fine.’
‘Ah,’ said Matt, his heart sinking even further.
‘Oh, Matt, you didn’t?’ she said with a real look of concern on her face.
‘I’m afraid I did,’ he said.
‘Better make that twenty tons of doo-doo then!’ said Rob.
‘Have you got a copy of it, on an email or something?’ asked Kitty. ‘It’s just that I could ask my great-uncle Buddy to have a look at it – what he doesn’t know about contracts is not worth knowing …’
‘Yes!’ said Matt, scrolling through his inbox on his phone. ‘Here it is. I’ll forward it you, yeah? Honestly, Kit, anything you can do to help would be great. I’ve just got a very bad feeling about this …’
28
Always Read the Small Print
As Matt sat on the tube from Hammersmith to Leicester Square, he mentally rehearsed what he was going to say to Dickie Hart when he saw him.
‘Hi, Dickie. Listen, I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done for me over the last few days, but I’ve decided that it’s not for me …’ No, he needed to make it sound like it wasn’t anything Dickie had done. ‘Dickie, I’m really sorry, I know that Excalibur are a brilliant organisation but I don’t think I’m ready for this level of top management yet, so I’m afraid I won’t … be … er … needing? No, not needing, requiring? No that wasn’t right either … this wasn’t easy. A little voice inside him wanted to just tell the truth: ‘You’re an awful bloke with bad aftershave who only cares about money, and for that reason you’re fired!’ Ha! He chuckled to himself. That would be like trying to put a fire out using petrol – BANG!
About twenty minutes later Matt was walking up to the frosted-glass frontage of Excalibur HQ. He looked up at the huge building towering above him. He felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t butterflies, he thought, this was two ferrets wrestling!
He pressed the button on the entryphone and while he stood waiting for an answer he studied the names etched in the glass. It was a list of all the various pies that Dickie Hart had his fingers in. There was Excalibur Management, Excalibur Promotions, Excalibur Television, Excalibur PR, Excalibur Motion Pictures, Excalibur Voiceovers, Excalibur Cars, and rather oddly, Excalibur Plumbing Services.
‘Yes?’ came a bored, disembodied voice.
‘Er … Matt Millz. To see Mr Hart please,’ said Matt leaning in close, his breath steaming up the polished steel of the entryphone.
There was a click, then a buzzer sounded, indicating that the door had been unlocked.
Matt hesitated. ‘Oh well,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Here we go!’
He pushed open the glass door and walked inside.
There was a young lad on reception with a haircut that looked like he’d been dragged through a car wash backwards. He appeared to be watching something on his laptop. Matt walked up to the desk and waited. The lad didn’t even look up. Matt waited a little longer. Still there was no response from the kid on the front desk. ‘What a lovely welcome,’ he thought to himself.
‘Ahem!’ coughed Matt finally.
‘Yeah?’ said the kid, still engrossed in his laptop.
‘Er … I’m Matt Millz …’ he said nervously.
‘And …?’ said the kid.
‘Um, what do you mean “and”?’ said Matt.
‘I mean what do you want?’ said the kid, finally looking up.
‘Oh! I’m here to see Mr Hart,’ said Matt.
‘If you’d like to take a seat I’ll be with you in a moment,’ said the kid.
Suddenly the strains of the EastEnders theme tune rang out from the laptop and the kid’s face broke into a broad grin.
‘Nice one! Right,’ he said, looking at Matt. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m here to see Mr Hart …’ said Matt.
‘That’s right, yeah,’ said the kid and lifted the phone.
‘Hello? Chenice? D’ya see EastEnders? Oh man, that Georgie, eh?’ He chuckled, then caught sight of Matt glaring at him from across the room. ‘Anyway, that’s not why I phoned. I’ve got some geezer here reckons he’s here to see Dickie … Sorry, what did you say your name was again?’ he said, breaking off from the phone.
‘Matt Millz,’ said Matt through gritted teeth. How dumb could one person be?
‘It’s Matt Millz. Yeah … OK, I’ll tell him. She says it’s fine to go up. Level …’
But before he could finish, Matt had marched past him towards the lift.
To get to Dickie Hart’s office you had to go up to the twelfth floor then down a long corridor which was lined with photos of all the great stars and TV shows that Excalibur had had a hand in making. Looking at the photographs, Matt realised that ninety per cent of the comics were no longer actually represented by them. The last but one was of course Russel Perkins standing onstage at the O2 Arena. Next to that was a big photo of Matt from his recent photo shoot. Matt looked at himself in his new suit – he looked so excited and pleased to be joining the big agency. How times had changed.
As he approached Dickie’s office he could hear a commotion going on inside. Raised voices, a hand being whacked down on a desk. This didn’t sound very promising. Matt strained to catch what was being said.
‘Yes?’ said the girl on the desk outside Dickie’s office, busy filing her nails, who Matt assumed was Dickie’s PA.
‘I’m here to see Dickie
,’ said Matt. It seemed it might be easier to get an audience with the pope than a meeting with his agent!
‘And you are …?’ said the girl.
Matt rolled his eyes. This really was very trying.
‘Matt Millz – the kid at the front desk just called you …’
‘One moment,’ she said nodding, then she picked up the phone. ‘Mr Hart?’
Matt could hear some more muffled shouting through the door of his office.
‘Yes, I’m really sorry to disturb you …’ said Dickie’s PA. ‘Yes … really sorry … no … I promise it won’t happen again, sir … no …’ She broke off, covered the receiver with her hand and turned to Matt.
‘Mr Hart says he’ll be with you in a minute,’ said the girl and went back to filing her nails.
Suddenly the door to Dickie’s office burst open and Matt could hear what Dickie was saying loud and clear.
‘… and if I ever catch you going behind my back again, I’ll do you so much harm you won’t be able to be funny,’ he bellowed. ‘Now get outta my sight!’
Matt peered into the doorway and wondered who on earth Dickie was talking to in such an insulting manner. A lacklustre figure emerged moments later, his head hung low. It was Russel Perkins. He looked at Matt and shook his head. ‘Good luck,’ he muttered dolefully as he passed him.
Matt took a big gulp, his heart was in his mouth. ‘Maybe I don’t need to do this today,’ he thought to himself and turned to follow Russel P to the lift.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ boomed Dickie’s voice from behind him. Matt stopped, turned and shuffled into Dickie’s office.
‘You … you w-w-w-wanted to see me, Dickie?’ stuttered Matt nervously.
‘Yeah, just a bit, Matt,’ said Dickie from behind his huge desk, leaning back in his chair. ‘Take a seat …’
Matt sat down in the chair opposite Dickie, which was a good twenty centimetres lower.
‘Cup of tea? Or a fizzy drink perhaps?’
‘No thanks, Dickie, I’m fine.’
‘Good,’ said Dickie gently. Matt started to think that maybe this wasn’t going to be so hard after all. Then without any warning Dickie leant across the desk and half screamed, half shouted at him.
‘What the hell were you playing at the other night at the Apollo!?’
Matt nearly jumped out of his skin.
‘I’m r-r-really sorry,’ he stammered. ‘It’s just that I had no material left after I’d done The T Factor, and I knew that if I went out on to that stage I was going to die!’
‘So you got some old codger to stand in for you?’ roared Dickie.
‘Yes,’ said Matt. ‘I mean no. I mean he’s old but he was brilliant!’
‘That’s just the problem!’ shouted Dickie, his face bright red now. ‘Russell Perkins was supposed to be the star of that show, not some old has-been! Look at all this coverage!’ He held up a couple of newspapers, each with a photo of Bobby on the front. ‘That should have been my boy, Russel. Do you realise how many tickets he’s gotta sell? I’ve booked him in to do fifteen nights at the Royal Albert Hall and we can’t give ’em away! He’s gonna lose his shirt because of your selfishness!’
It took a moment for what Dickie had said to sink in.
‘My selfishness?’ muttered Matt, but Dickie was in full flow now and like a pig on a log flume he was stopping for no one.
‘If I tell you to do something, you do it!’ bellowed Dickie. ‘Comprenez? I’m your manager and you do what I say or you’re out!’
‘Ah, well about that …’ said Matt realising this might be the moment to break his news.
‘What about it?’ said Dickie, sitting back in his chair.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking and … I mean I feel that maybe I’m … that is to say we … um … I mean don’t get me wrong … I think you do a brilliant job here at Excalibur management … and I mean just look at how successful Russell is … I’m just not sure …’
Dickie smiled and rocked back in his chair.
‘I understand,’ he said nodding wisely. ‘You’re young, you’re new to this whole scene, it’s only understandable that you have concerns about how things are run in the professional world …’
‘Yes, Mr Hart, but it’s a bit more serious than that. I’m just not sure it’s for me, that’s all.’
There was a brief pause during which a look of consternation slowly took over Dickie’s face as he started to realise where the conversation might be heading.
‘What’s not for you?’ said Dickie.
‘Well …’ said Matt. ‘I’m thinking this is my problem not yours, but I think I might be better off with a smaller management agency …’
‘We know what’s best for you, Matt,’ Dickie cut in with a knowing nod. ‘And what’s best for you is staying here under the protective umbrella of Excalibur Management, Excalibur Promotions, Excalibur Television, Excalibur PR, Excalibur Motion Pictures, Excalibur Cars and Excalibur Plumbing Services – I mean, actually you don’t have to use the plumbing services, that’s optional, but I’d strongly recommend that you do because—’
‘That’s just it, Dickie,’ replied Matt. ‘I don’t think you do necessarily know what’s best for me. That’s why I don’t want you to represent me any more.’ Wow! He’d actually said it. Matt had actually told Dickie he was fired. At least, he thought he had.
‘Sorry …’ said Dickie looking confused. ‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.’
‘Well …’ said Matt. ‘It’s not working out for me here. And so I want to leave.’
‘It’s all going to be fine,’ smiled Dickie completely ignoring him and reaching for the calendar. ‘Now we need to get some TV spots booked in for next month … How’d you feel about Stuff the Week?’
At that moment it was like someone had flicked a switch inside Matt’s brain. Suddenly he just didn’t care what Dickie thought any more, he wasn’t scared of the shouting and the threats, he was tired of having to repeat himself over and over again and tired of beating about the bush.
‘No, Dickie,’ he said, standing up and leaning across the desk, directing his annoyance straight at the hapless agent. ‘I don’t want you to do that, because you’re fired,’ he said. ‘Sacked. Dismissed. I’m giving you the elbow, the order of the boot. I don’t want to be looked after by Excalibur Management any more. I quit!’
That wasn’t how he’d planned it at all, but the words just tumbled out of his mouth in a splurge. Dickie looked nonplussed. Never had anyone’s gob looked quite so smacked!
‘I mean, that is to say – it’s me, not you,’ Matt added in a late attempt to soften the blow.
Matt sat back down and looked across at Dickie who was at a complete loss as to how to react. Then something very odd happened. Dickie’s lower lip started to tremble, tears started to well up in his eyes and he started to cry.
‘It’s just not fair,’ he sobbed, falling forward, head in his hands on the desk. ‘Why does everybody leave me!?’
‘Awkward,’ thought Matt, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He reached into his pocket, fished out a hanky and offered it to Dickie, who took it, blew his nose loudly – Bbbrrrrraaaaarp! – then handed it back to him. Matt looked at the hanky and quietly dropped it in the bin in front of the desk.
‘Listen, Dickie,’ said Matt weakly. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m sure it’s for the best.’ He could see no real reason to hang around any longer and so he stood up and started backing towards the door.
Then the situation took a sudden turn.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ growled Dickie lifting his head from the desk, a look of what Matt could only describe as pure evil on his face.
‘Um … sorry, I thought I’d made it clear that …’
‘You thought you’d made it clear?’ said Dickie. ‘No, mate, you don’t get out of it that easy. As a matter of fact, I’ve been meaning to give you something.’ He tapped his keyboard and his printer sparked into lif
e chugging out a couple of sides of printed A4. Dickie snatched them as they appeared in the out-tray and handed them to Matt with a flourish.
‘Wh-what’s this?’ said Matt, scanning the sheets – there were two columns, one a list of items, the other of figures.
‘That, my little friend, is your bill,’ said Dickie with a self-satisfied look on his face. ‘The bill for all the services that I’ve provided for you up until today!’
Matt looked down it – there were charges for paper clips, photocopying, stamps, a large one for ‘Two suits’, a hefty one for ‘Accommodation’, and an even bigger one for ‘Executive cars’. There was a bill for two hundred quid for four tickets to see Russel Perkins at the O2! There was even one from Austin’s for ‘Fish and chips’ – the very meal that had got Matt ensnared in Dickie Hart’s web in the first place.
‘The cars and hotels?’ said Matt. ‘I thought they were free.’
‘Ha!’ snorted Dickie. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you? There’s no such thing as a free lunch! It was all in the small print.’
Matt ran his finger down the column of figures to the total at the bottom. It was over ten thousand pounds! There was no way he’d ever be able to afford to pay it back.
‘I can’t pay it, Dickie,’ he said, his earlier anxiety flooding back only multiplied by a hundred. ‘I’ll never be able to …’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ snapped Dickie. ‘You’re gonna work it off! I’m booking you into every crummy club in the country and on to every two-bit TV show that’ll have you! And all your fees will come straight to me until I’ve got my money.’
‘But it’ll take me years!’
‘Exactly. And if you think you can just walk away …’ he said, reaching into his desk, ‘remember this?’
With that he produced a manilla envelope. Matt instantly recognised it. It was the contract he’d signed just a few days earlier.
‘Ah,’ said Matt, feeling physically sick now.
‘Ah indeed,’ said Dickie getting to his feet. ‘We have a contract. You signed with Excalibur for five years – and five years is what you are going to serve.’ Matt shook his head in dismay. Dickie was talking about it like it was a prison sentence and right now that’s exactly what it felt like – he’d be nearly eighteen by the time he’d be free of him.