I Will Marry George Clooney (By Christmas)

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘You go to Italy,’ said Little Slaw, taking a step further into the room.

  ‘Please, Little Slaw,’ Michelle begged. ‘I can’t go to Italy. I can’t explain why, but it’s all gone wrong.’ She glanced nervously at Rob, who had walked over to the window and was staring out at Josie. ‘I can’t go to Italy now. I’ll go out there and tell Daz and Josie it’s all off.’

  ‘You go to Italy,’ said Little Slaw, striding over to her and grabbing her by the arm. Forcing her to stand up, he made her follow him to the window to join Rob.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘If you don’t go to Italy now you up fuck big time, I’m telling you.’

  Michelle looked past the small front garden to where everyone was still gathered around Daz’s disco van, awaiting their departure. Daz was in the front, showing Ray what a satnav was, even though he didn’t really know how to use it since he’d only just borrowed it from a mate. Ray was squinting at the tiny screen and then referring to an enormous European road map to check if the satnav knew what the hell she was talking about. Meanwhile Josie, Gina and Kathleen were carefully wrapping Chaz in cling film before Josie loaded it into the back of the disco van, laughing at something Gina was saying.

  ‘You going to tell Josie you’re not going to Italy because you getting in your own way again?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Michelle. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘No, it’s simple. You go to Italy. You deal with Josie. You come back to this.’ He nodded over at Rob.

  Michelle gave a massive sigh. This was all too much. She didn’t know where to turn.

  ‘I look after him,’ said Little Slaw. ‘I give him time. You give him time.’

  Maybe Little Slaw was right. Rob needed to let his new status sink in. Going away for a few days would give him a chance to adjust and maybe even consider forgiveness.

  ‘But you must go now,’ said Little Slaw, tapping his watch impatiently.

  She put her hand on Rob’s shoulder to get his attention. He dragged his eyes away from the window.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘But I will tell Josie everything whilst we’re away. I’ll tell her all about you.’

  He blinked rapidly as if he’d just woken up and couldn’t understand where he was.

  ‘Come on, Mum,’ said Josie, bounding into the room. ‘Daz says if we don’t go now, George might have pissed off again.’ She grabbed her hand and dragged her towards the door.

  ‘See you when we get back, Rob,’ Josie shouted over her shoulder. ‘We’ll bring you a pizza.’

  Moments later Michelle was in the back of Daz’s van, squashed against Josie’s enormous suitcase. Gina, Kathleen, Ray and Sean hovered on the pavement. Past them she could see Little Slaw and Rob still standing in the window. Little Slaw had one hand resting on Rob’s shoulder whilst he waved cheerfully with the other. Daz was in the front, beaming at his choice of farewell tune which was blasting out from the speakers.

  ‘It’s relevant,’ he said. ‘Believe me, you’ll get it any minute.’

  ‘But it’s a football song,’ said Gina, throwing her hands in the air. ‘What the hell has that got to do with you all going to Italy?’

  ‘Jesus, Gina. Do I have to spell it out?’

  ‘Actually, yes.’

  ‘“World in Motion” by New Order was the greatest football song of all time and it provided the theme tune to an epic performance by England in the World Cup in . . . Italy. We will be in spitting distance of the Stadio delle Alpi in Turin. Can you imagine that?’

  Blank looks all round.

  ‘Where Gazza cried?’ added Daz.

  ‘Oh right, yeah, I remember that,’ said Gina.

  ‘Hallelujah!’ cried Daz. ‘Arrivederci, it’s one on one, we’re playing for England, Engerland,’ he chanted. ‘Arrivederci is Italian for goodbye. Arrivederci, my friends,’ he cried with a wave as he turned the ignition.

  ‘Arrivederci,’ he said again as he confidently moved the gearstick.

  ‘Arrivederci!’ he shouted with a salute as he stalled the truck and Chaz collided with the back of Michelle’s head.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Malton to Folkestone: 226 miles, 2 toilet stops, 5 coffees, 4 Red Bulls, 12 Krispy Kreme Doughnuts

  ‘Is this really necessary, Daz?’ asked Michelle as she stood outside Toddington services holding onto Chaz whilst pretending to eat a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

  ‘Oh, she speaks,’ exclaimed Daz. ‘Thought you’d turned into a mute or something.’ He snapped a picture of her on his phone.

  ‘Just tired,’ she muttered. True, she hadn’t uttered a word the entire trip so far. She’d thought she’d got away with it, since Daz had been busy enjoying his playlist of top soundtrack tunes whilst Josie had been doing her best to block it out by plugging herself into her phone and listening to God knows what. Michelle had sat in the back silently reliving the last fifteen years, trying to work out exactly when she should have told Rob about Josie. She couldn’t see when might have been a better time, but it must have been there somewhere, because it sure as hell didn’t feel like a good time now.

  ‘So, how’s that?’ said Daz, thrusting his phone under her nose. ‘Shall I post it?’

  Michelle looked at the picture, which showed her stuffing her face whilst holding a five-foot-high piece of card wrapped in cling film. Underneath Daz had written a post.

  Three go to Italy Part 1: Michelle eats doughnut on way to take Chaz to live with George Clooney.

  ‘Now what’s really clever is that I have my Facebook and Twitter accounts linked, so the minute I post on Twitter it also appears on Facebook. See? Isn’t that amazing?’

  Michelle stared at the screen as her doughnut-eating skills, coupled with an inanimate object with a name, on its way to gatecrash a celebrity home, were broadcast to the world.

  ‘There is no way George Clooney could ever see that, is there?’ she asked.

  ‘George doesn’t do social media,’ stated Daz. ‘Ben Affleck does, though. He’s on Twitter. He might see you and call George and tell him you’re on your way.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so,’ said Michelle sarcastically. ‘Where’s Josie got to?’

  ‘She’s gone to call Sean on a payphone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She can’t get hold of him on her mobile, so she’s worried the network might be down or something and she’s trying his landline.’

  Daz and Michelle looked at each other as a wealth of bad dating experiences passed between them.

  ‘Poor kid,’ said Daz.

  ‘She’ll learn.’

  ‘It’ll be the hard way, though,’ said Daz, shaking his head in pity.

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  ‘His mum says he’s already gone fishing,’ said Josie, climbing into the back of the van, Michelle and Daz having waited another fifteen minutes for her to reappear.

  ‘I guess seeing as I’m not around he must be bored, and he’ll have headed off early so now he’s got no signal.’ Michelle and Daz raised eyebrows silently at each other.

  ‘Bet he’ll call me later.’

  ‘Of course he will,’ said Michelle, putting the van into gear, ready to take her shift of the driving, whilst Daz manned the decks and took them through some Disney Classics.

  Michelle, Daz and Josie stared straight ahead, not daring to move. The music from the opening credits to Pulp Fiction was blaring out. Michelle and Daz were eyeing the volume control furtively but neither of them dared move given the delicate situation they were in.

  Getting out of the UK had been bad enough. There had been a dispute as to whether Daz’s disco van should be classed as a commercial vehicle and thus incur an additional fee. Daz had not helped matters when he’d stated that the intention of their visit was to deliver a large sum of money to a very influential man in Italy. A man who, should he be made aware of the potential delay being caused to the arrival of said money, would be very angry and could no doubt pull some strings and ha
ve the annoying little ticket man sacked.

  Michelle had been forced to apologise profusely for Daz’s outburst whilst throwing extra money at the annoying little ticket man.

  But all that was nothing compared to the trauma awaiting them on the other side of the Channel. The minute they drove off the train in Calais they were waved to one side by customs officials.

  Dogs circled and sniffed whilst mirrors on poles were waved under the chassis. Bags and cases were prodded and poked as Michelle sat, skin crawling, knowing that her utilitarian black underwear would not impress the Frenchmen.

  Josie jumped when they opened the door next to her and pointed at Chaz.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ a gruff voice asked.

  ‘It’s Chaz,’ Josie replied.

  The official stared at her before shutting the door, walking round the front of the van, throwing open the other back passenger door and dragging Chaz out.

  ‘Don’t hurt Chaz,’ murmured a distressed Daz.

  All three stared, horrified, as Chaz was stripped naked of his cling film. Two officials stared, unsure of what they had just unveiled. They glanced back to the truck.

  Daz smiled and waved hopefully.

  ‘George Clooney?’ one of them queried.

  They all nodded.

  ‘You movie makers?’

  ‘We are part of his charity,’ said Michelle slowly. ‘This money is for his charity. We are taking it to him.’

  The two men exchanged a few words in French before one shrugged his shoulders and bundled Chaz back into the back of the van. He slapped the side of the vehicle, indicating they should get out of there.

  ‘What did they say?’ Michelle asked Josie as they pulled off, hoping her GCSE French was up to customs translation.

  ‘They said we looked like we were in need of charity,’ she muttered, busily texting, no doubt to Sean.

  ‘This is the worst omelette I’ve ever tasted in my entire life,’ Josie declared, holding up a greasy piece of yellow rubber studded with flecks of grey. They sat having dinner in the cheap hotel they’d found to bed down in on the outskirts of Calais to prepare for a long day’s drive the following day. ‘I thought the French knew their œufs from their onions,’ she said, just a bit too loudly.

  ‘Shhh,’ said Michelle. ‘Don’t be rude, Josie.’

  ‘But it’s disgusting,’ she said, pushing her plate away.

  ‘Well, I guess a cheap restaurant is a cheap restaurant,’ said Michelle. ‘Just because it’s in France doesn’t mean to say it’s going to be gourmet standard. You do need to eat something, please.’

  ‘If I eat that, my insides will turn to lard,’ Josie declared. ‘Look, it’s dripping with it.’

  ‘Please, just eat it,’ sighed Michelle, too tired to be having her daily battle with her daughter over food.

  ‘Look, I’ll have it,’ said Daz, grabbing her plate and piling the contents on top of his food. ‘Why don’t you pick something else out, Josie, and eat that? Your mum’s right, you need to eat something. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.’

  He beckoned a waiter over and asked if they could have another look at the menu. After a momentary stand-off, during which the waiter shrugged several times, he eventually walked off and thankfully returned with a menu.

  ‘Votre fille n’aime pas l’omelette?’ he asked.

  Daz shrugged his shoulders, unable to speak due to the amount of omelette in his mouth, whilst Josie succeeded in having a coughing fit and spitting Diet Coke across the table. Daz slapped her on the back and looked accusingly at the waiter.

  ‘J’ai demandé simplement si votre fille n’aime pas l’omelette, c’est tout,’ said the waiter.

  Josie continued to choke on her Diet Coke whilst shaking her head violently. Daz finally managed to swallow his omelette and stood to square himself up to the waiter.

  ‘I must ask you to apologise,’ he demanded. ‘For whatever you said in that foreign language you speak.’

  The waiter took a step back as Daz puffed out his chest and gave the man his best Paso Doble face, as practised during Strictly Come Dancing. Shoulders raised, chest out, elbows back, he could give Brendan Cole a run for his money any day.

  The waiter stared back, incredulous, before turning to Josie.

  ‘Je suis tellement désolé que cet homme à la tête d’omelette est votre père,’ he said before turning on his heel.

  ‘And that, my friend,’ said Daz, sitting down and tucking into his omelette once more, ‘is how you deal with rude people like that. Paso face, works every time.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Josie. ‘He was dead scared of you. He just called you an omelette face and then he really insulted me.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Daz, banging his cutlery down on the table. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he was sorry that omelette face man was my father,’ she replied in horror.

  Daz was clearly about to leap out of his chair, track down the waiter and take things a stage further with his Argentinian tango face, but then he checked himself and glanced at Michelle.

  She looked back at him, unsure how they should deal with the waiter’s statement.

  Josie looked between the two of them for some kind of response.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ she said, getting up and throwing her napkin down on the table. ‘Omelette face is my father.’

  ‘No!’ cried Michelle. ‘Omelette . . . I mean, Daz isn’t your father, don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You went out together. It all makes sense now.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Michelle. ‘We went out together when we were teenagers, way before you were born.’

  Josie looked over to Daz desperately. ‘You tell me.

  Seeing as she hasn’t got the guts to,’ she demanded.

  ‘Josie, I wish I could,’ said Daz, switching to a softer Viennese waltz face. ‘Being your dad would make me the proudest man alive. Now it tears me apart to say this, so I want you to sit down before I do, okay, come on . . . sit down here.’

  Josie sat down, clearly upset. Daz grabbed hold of her hands and looked deep into her eyes.

  ‘This is as difficult for me as it is for you,’ he said, biting his lip. ‘But I know you’re not my daughter because I only ever had sex with your mother once, on my eighteenth birthday, and I know that if we had ever repeated that quite outstanding performance there is no way I would have forgotten.’

  ‘Too much information, Daz,’ said Michelle, quietly putting her head in her hands.

  ‘At least it’s some information,’ muttered Josie.

  It’s time, thought Michelle.

  ‘Look,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s go back to our room and we’ll . . .’

  But Michelle never got to finish the sentence as at that moment Josie’s phone lit up and an obscure sounding ringtone filled the restaurant, much to the consternation of their fellow diners.

  ‘Sean!’ cried Josie, seizing it. She pressed the Call Accept button and walked out of the restaurant at a furious pace.

  Daz picked up his knife and fork and wiped the last of the omelette around his plate before popping it into his mouth.

  ‘Thought we handled that well,’ he mumbled.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Michelle had waited up for an hour and a half for Josie to come back to their room so she could talk to her, rehearsing over and over in her head what she would say and how she would say it. When she finally heard Josie swipe her keycard she sat up and braced herself.

  Josie walked in and on seeing Michelle sitting tensely on the end of her bed, immediately went on the defence.

  ‘I was only on that bench outside the restaurant,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t gone off anywhere, I was perfectly safe.’

  ‘I know,’ said Michelle. ‘I knew where you were, I just thought you needed some time to yourself to talk to Sean.’

  Josie gave her mum a confused look.

  ‘I can remember what it’s like, you know,’ said Michelle.
‘With your first boyfriend. I’m not that old.’

  Josie continued to stare at Michelle in confusion. Finally her shoulders drooped, giving Michelle the signal that she must start the conversation leading to who Josie’s father was. But Josie got in first.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Mum?’ she said, planting her hands on her hips. ‘This is not some silly little first romance like you might have had. This is for real. Me and Sean love each other and there is nothing you can do about it. End of.’ She dropped her bag and stormed into the badly lit bathroom, slamming the door behind her and locking it.

  Christ almighty, thought Michelle. Talking to a teenager was like negotiating a minefield. She lay back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling as she listened to Josie go through her lengthy bedtime ritual, dictated by the beauty industry, who claimed that their products would definitely prevent the blight of all teenagers . . . spots. Now there was a whopping lie.

  Somehow, pondering the dishonesty of the advertising industry had caused Michelle to drift off to sleep. She woke with a start as the sun rose and light streamed in through the paper-thin curtains. Looking over to check on Josie immediately, she saw she was still sound asleep, looking angelic, snuggled up to a teddy bear she’d had since she was a baby – her bit of comfort which had seen her through pretty much every trauma in life. Michelle wished that she was as much of a comfort to Josie as that teddy bear. Whatever she did seemed to hurt her. Maybe that was why she’d put off, and was still putting off, telling her about Rob. Whichever way Michelle looked at it, she was convinced that it would hurt Josie, and who would willingly do that to their own child? But she knew that she would have to make the strike soon. Inflict the pain and then pray the wound would heal.

  She tiptoed outside to find Daz sitting on a bench, an enormous map spread out in front of him and a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of pastries holding the corners down. He glanced up as she approached and looked her up and down.

  ‘You slept in your clothes, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually, yes.’ She grabbed a croissant off his plate.

  ‘Me too,’ he nodded. ‘Found a few, shall we say, interest ing adult channels on the TV and fell asleep fully clothed, trying to understand what the hell they were saying.’