Chapter 13 You’re only supposed to find the bloody venue!
You’re only supposed to find the bloody venue!
‘It’s a no from Brixton,’ Toby shouts across the room when he returns.
‘Which one in Brixton?’ Fawzia is bent over the table with a printout.
‘All of them.’
She crosses out six venue names from her list. ‘I don’t swear, guys, but Wallahi I’m close to losing it.’
The entire PR team, which is currently the three of us, and the events team have booked the biggest meeting room in the office and have been occupying it for the last four hours.
We are contacting every single venue in London, and somehow, they are all booked for next week.
Fawzia rolls her hijab into a bun to keep it off her face as she hovers over the lists like a hornet. Toby’s shirt is drying on a chair.
‘I am open to some drastic ideas from the team,’ Fawzia requests, but the room is silent.
Drastic. Maybe there is a way I can change our luck if I do something out of my comfort zone. Something not boring. I am willing to try anything.
‘Your face is folded,’ Toby says, sticking a Post-it note on my forehead.
Amid the chaos and worry, he is calm. I can see why Sashka likes him; she always looks for peace, after everything she’s been through. Toby feels like the guy who always has ground under his feet, even if the rest of us are falling. His shirt is dry and back on.
‘What can I do that’s not boring?’ I whisper to Toby.
‘What?’
‘I think my luck changed slightly when I did things that are entertaining to witness. What if I am the reason we can’t get it booked right now? Help me with this, and you are fully forgiven.’
Toby looks as if he is ready to laugh, but then a lightning bolt strikes across his face. ‘I am going to give you two options. Whichever you choose will solely depend on you.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Option one, we go outside and ask random people for venue ideas.’
‘That’s so horrible. I hate intrusive street interviews.’
‘Or!’
‘Yes?’
‘You ask Malik out on a date.’ Toby crosses his arms and looks down at me smugly.
Neither option is great. But not for the reasons he thinks, however. I haven’t messaged Malik because I don’t know whether I see him in that light. I couldn’t possibly see anyone right now, not until I’ve successfully strangled this... whatever this is. It just wouldn’t be fair on Malik.
‘Right, Fawzia, we are going to go out and ask random people on the streets for their favourite venues,’ I shout.
‘Excellent, that’s the energy and passion I am talking about.’
Toby’s eyebrows shoot up, but he steps aside with his arms stretched out, showing me where to go, and then he will follow after.
All of the evening commuters are in a rush to get to the Tube and are extremely annoyed when I stop them for a question, my phone in hand, and my amulet lying quietly in my pocket.
‘I don’t know, sorry.’
‘I need to go.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, babes.’
‘Have you tried that place in Brixton?’
I sit down on a step, face in hands. I have tried to speak to thirty-odd people; not a single one was helpful, and the chime of the bell didn’t go off once. Toby wanted to help, but it needs to be me.
‘I think you’re going about it the wrong way,’ he says, lounging on the step next to me.
‘How else am I going to do it?’
‘Try to get everyone’s attention at once.’ He bobs his head at the street behind our building, brimming with restaurants.
‘No.’
‘Fuko, c’mon.’ He stands and props me up despite my protests.
He leads me into the nearest pub, his hands on my shoulders, arms straight, pushing into my back. ‘You’re surprisingly strong, lass.’
The pub has windows on one side only, requiring all the warm yellow lights to be on, despite the sun still being high.
The wooden rounded bar and stools have not been changed in the last three or four decades.
There are dark lacquered tables, slot machines, and darts.
It mildly resembles the pub from Shaun of the Dead before they were eaten alive. How apt for this moment.
The TV is on. Kick-off for some football league hasn’t started yet, so we have about thirty minutes of engagement before we lose half the crowd.
‘Um, hi,’ I start meekly. Only a couple of heads lift up. ‘Hi, um, excuse me, everyone.’
Toby grabs an empty chair and places me onto it as if I were a display doll.
More eyes are on me. Ugh, this is awful.
Toby hands me a knife and an empty Estrella glass.
I plead with him with my eyes, but he is unrelenting, pointing at the dormant bell on the charm in my hand, making me regret telling him about it.
I clink the glass with the knife. I am more shame than woman at this point.
The pub is now unilaterally glaring in my direction.
‘Hi, everyone.’ I put on a cheerful voice and a sincere smile. ‘Me and my colleague are here on a strange mission.’
I still have their attention. This is a miracle.
‘We are in desperate need of a venue for about a hundred, a hundred and fifty people that has an alcohol license, in London, and is available for next Saturday.’
A couple of heads turn back to football; some tables resume their conversations.
Think, Fuko. What do British people respond to?
‘If we book a venue in the next twenty-five minutes, this man will buy all of the participants a pint.’
The pub explodes with gleeful wheeeeys. Toby stares at me with an astonished look but caves under the pressure of a chant that the patrons begin.
‘Twickenham Stadium!’ A man shouts and points at TV.
‘Hugh, that’s ridiculous, that. You don’t know anyone that could set that up.’
‘I have a cousin in the Richmond Council.’
‘Yeah, he’s a waste officer. What’s he got to do with Twickenham Stadium?’
‘Great energy, gentlemen, keep it coming,’ I say to the table of four.
Toby hangs his shirt over the Today’s Special’s board and uses the acrylic marker to write any contacts that people are giving us.
A woman in the corner pulled out her phone about ten minutes ago and hasn’t said anything since. She has short grey hair, fuchsia painted lips and nails (both fingers and toes), and very strong perfume. She keeps giving me a wink and a smile when I walk past.
‘Called a mate from Croydon. They have a hall for about a hundred people,’ Precious, a school librarian, shouts at Toby.
After a short conversation over the phone, he shakes his head and crosses out the number on his shirt. ‘He doesn’t have a PPL.’
Ah, the damn music licences have caught out three other patrons. The pub groans at another failed opportunity to get a free pint.
‘What about Tooting Common?’ shouts the bar staff. ‘They have some festivals and all that.’
‘Can’t be outdoors. Might get a noise complaint.’ Toby shakes his head.
‘Gentlemen, I believe the search is over.’ The woman with lipstick stands up. ‘I’m Jo. My son-in-law is the owner of a mildly reputable establishment. All the licences, five hundred people capacity, and security available on the day.’
‘What’s the venue called?’ I ask.
‘It’s a nightclub called Judgement.’
No fricking way.
She tells Toby the phone number. He writes it down on the shirt, calls the number, talks to the man, and when he hangs up, he circles the final number he’d written down. ‘We have a winner.’
You would think England had just won the Euros by the volume and happiness of the guttural screams. ‘Get in!’
The men at the table of four link arms with me and sway from side to side. Precious and Jo are clapping us along. Toby heads to the bar and counts everyone involved.
This was completely ridiculous—and the most fun I’ve had in a while.
A faint jingle carries through the celebrations.