‘Right…?’
‘I mean… like… this is a veryimportantstory. Only for very important…media.’
Anders and Mrs Ramirez nod approvingly at my improvisation skills. I give them athumbsup.
‘Riiiight,’ Terri Wyatt repeats, clearly not quite as impressed. ‘Look, can you come in or not? It’s a ten-minute slot, presenter asks you about the search for this Chuck character, you tell them why you’re doing it, we give the contact details out on air, everybody’shappy.’
‘Okay, yes. I will do it,’ I say, sensing that Terri is not the kind of woman you act timid around. ‘May I ask what date and time you would like me to be there and where Ishouldgo?’
‘Now. It’s tonight,’ Terri says, sounding slightly exasperated. ‘We need someone here in forty minutes to go on the airatten.’
‘Now?’ Isqueak.
But it’s night. It’s 8.30 p.m. I’ve had threecognacs.
‘Yes,’ Terri says. ‘It’s at Anchorage Studios on 6thAvenue. Look, we wouldn’t be calling you if we could get someone else at such short notice… Damn Ricky Martin for cancelling at the lastminute.’
Ricky Martin.TheRicky Martin. This must be a really amazing radio station for them to have Ricky Martin on! But, oh god, I’m hardly Ricky Martin. Those are some big shoestofill!
‘Um…’ I say, nerves starting to simmer up in my stomach. What if I speak too loudly into the microphone and no one can tell what I’m saying? What if I burp? What if I burp on the radio? What if a random made-up word pops out of my mouth? A word that means nothing. Like fleperty. What if I say fleperty!Fleperty.
Mrs Ramirez grabs the phone out of my hands. ‘We’ll be there,’ she declares and thenhangsup.
‘Argh.’ I stare at the phone. ‘I’m not prepared. I’m tipsy. I have nothing to wear. My hair is afrizzymess.’
‘It’s radio. No one cares what you look like,’ Mrs Ramirez calls from the hall where she’s grabbing my coat from the hatstand.
I stand still and take a deep breath, remembering all of the new things I have done this week. How I’m starting to feel like a totally different person. A braver, more badass Olive. I can do this! Ihaveto!
Mrs Ramirez hands me my satchel. I squint at it, noting Birdie’s letter tucked inside. I don’t even like this satchel. It’s nowhere near ascoolas…
‘I’m taking my bumbag,’ I say firmly, adrenaline coursingthroughme.
‘That horrible pink fanny pack?’ Anders screws up his face. ‘Why?Why?’
I lift my chin. ‘Because I love it. And I’m sick of not being able to wear it in case people stop me in thestreet.’
‘Yes!’ Mrs Ramirezcallsout.
I smile at her. ‘I mean what am I so afraid of? A few people yelling “Watch Me Piddle” at me? Pah! Worse things havehappened.’
Mrs Ramirez startsclapping. ‘Yes!’
‘And it has a holographic sunshine on the front,’Iadd.
‘Ick,’ Anders drawls, pulling on a longdarkcoat.
‘It’s waterproofandhas a secret pocket and did Imentionthe holographic sunshine? Way better than a safe, boring oldsatchel.’
‘YES,CHICA!’
‘And most importantly it’s the safest place for Birdie’s letter,’ I say, grabbing the bumbag from where it lies atop my suitcase in the corner of the living room. I transfer everything from my satchel into it and clasp it firmly around mywaist.
I turn around to Anders and Mrs Ramirez, my hands on my hips in a total superwomanstance.
‘Let’sdothis!’
Anders sighs dramatically, smoothing his ice blonde hair back from his forehead. ‘Midtown. Ugh. The lengths besties willgoto.’
