“If we are going to be imposing on these guys, I guess you should tell me a little something about them”.
Claire shoots a brief glance at me before returning her attention to fiddling with the car radio. Two things are drawn to my attention by this look. Firstly, Claire now believes that the motivation for my apprehension has shifted: from trepidation concerning us staying in a stranger’s house, to uneasiness about the possibility that the invitation extended our way was polite, cordial, and not intended to be accepted. (If you understood that, pat yourself on the back). This may be the case; I haven’t yet fully concluded my thoughts on the matter.
Secondly, Claire is not watching the road.
I lean over and grab the wheel before we cross the central reservation into the path of the oncoming traffic. Obviously having failed to learn her lesson, Claire turns to me, exhales a slow and exaggerated breath, and then smirks apologetically. She is trying to wind me up, and it works: I can do nothing but shakily point at the road. I swear, that girl is a serious threat to my well being. Tell me, why am I learning to look after other people’s health when I have her attempting to destroy my own?
To her credit, Claire allows me to regain control of my breathing before attempting to strike up conversation.
“They’re really nice”. I point out that this is the only information she has given me so far, and could she please divulge a few more details. “Okay, there are five of them. They just got signed to a record deal, and have been sent to record a few demo tracks. My boss has been put in charge of instructing them on how to be a successful pop group. She was ill today, so I got to go. Umm…what else…?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Well you could start with the fundamentals…how about names?”
“There’s no need to get sarky. Nick’s the youngest; thirteen I think. He’s real sweet. Next there’s AJ, then Brian. They were kind of quiet. Howie is our age, and Kevin’s the oldest: twenty-two? Anyway, you’ll like him, trust me. You’ll definitely like him, hell yeah!”. She nods emphatically to prove this point.
“Are they any good? Like: if I nick various personal effects now, will I be able to sell them for vast amounts in five years time?”
“Oh, they’re gonna be huge. Especially now I’m in charge of their PR!”
I roll my eyes at her. “Only temporarily, you are. Which, can I add, is lucky for their sakes. So anyway…they’re in serious need of a name if they’re going to get famous. That’s a hint for further information in case you missed it”.
“I noticed it. Provisionally, they’re the Backstreet Boys”. Claire notices my expression. “I know, I thought the same thing. But I think they’re aiming for a Take That thing…well, their management are anyway. Lots of sweet harmonies, energetic dancing, big up-tempo numbers and sickly ballads. Stuff like that. So it’s kind of fitting, I guess”.
In an obscure way, Claire is trying to defend them now: the name, the genre of music, the type of people that they most likely are. However, she does not seem completely convinced of her own pro-Backstreet argument. I’m not surprised: she hates Take That. This attempt to endorse a Take That wannabe group is probably not high on the list of things Claire had ever expected to carry out in her lifetime.
I sit and wait. It turns out to be very funny to watch Claire as she slowly begins to realise that she is endorsing a boyband. For a few seconds after she has finished her little speech and directed her gaze (thankfully) to the road, her face betrays little emotion. The cogs start turning, as she gradually comprehends what she has said. Her face scrunches slightly, then without warning, a look that is something midway between shock and panic crosses her features. She glances surreptitiously in my direction, probably in the blind hope that I have been completely oblivious to the last five minutes, but by this point I am trying desperately to stifle my laughter. On noticing this, Claire’s face flames to a colour that matches her hair, and she returns to fiddling with the radio, satisfied only when a Nirvana track is blaring from the speakers.
By the time I calm myself down slightly, Claire has began to laugh herself: a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, accompanied by a slow shake of her head.
“My God, what is happening to me?” she exclaims. “I think all this Florida sun is going to my head!”
In true movie style, she floors the accelerator, and we purr off down
the highway, wind whipping our hair around our faces as we proceed
towards our destiny. Or Orlando, whichever comes first.
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