Spray Painted Bananas

Chapter 32

The song on the radio is coming to an end. My palms start sweating. I try to focus on my breath. In... out... in... out... It's a local station with probably only a handful of listeners, there's really nothing to worry about.

The radio presenter turns to me, one hand on his huge earphones and blasts me with a high voltage smile. It's supposed to reassure me. It's easy for him, he does this every morning. I've never been on the radio. It was Matt pulling strings. He went to school with this guy. I can't even remember what he said his name is now. Gary? Barry?

'And with me this morning is Amber Thompson, the lady who has been brightening up our city with exotic and completely bonkers bananas. Your exhibition opens tomorrow Amber, are you ready?'

I want to say I was born ready, but that would be a whopping, great lie.

'No, not really.'

Gary laughs heartily.

'I wish I was joking.'

More laughter.

'Now, Amber, tomorrow is the exclusive private view, am I right?'

He knows he's right. He's reading it off a piece of paper.

'Yes, that's right.'

'With a strict guest list, am I right?'

'Well...'

His eyes widen meaningfully. 'Tell me I'm right.'

'You're right.'

I feel like I'm in a pantomime.

'But there's a twist, can you tell us the twist?'

'Yes I can, Barry.

'You mean, Gary.'

Damn. I knew it.

'Sorry, Gary, it's all the paint fumes.'

It's not. I haven't even got around to painting yet.

Gary flinches. 'Remember kids, don't paint at home, it's dangerous.'

'Well, not that dangerous, you just need to open the windows.'

'Let's get back to these wild card invitations which will be left at iconic London monuments! How will people find them?'

It's a good question and one we haven't properly sorted out yet. Originally Elliott had volunteered to take the car, and I was going to jump out at each spot and hand out a couple of invitations to anyone who looked marginally interested. But this morning, Elliott sent me a text message to say his car had a flat tyre, which I interpreted as, his mother had reclaimed it.

'They'll need to look out for red envelopes early in the morning, they'll be in Trafalgar square, around the Tower of London, somewhere on Tower Bridge, The British Museum...'

The invitations are the last thing on my mind right now. I'm sure Aurelia will find a solution. My thoughts are with my papier mâché which is taking ages to dry. My poor hair dryer can't take much more. Six fuse changes in six hours must be some sort of record.

'Amber, we've got some listeners on the line who'd love to ask you some questions,' Gary says, smiling as if he were in front of a camera.

'Great,' I say, and shrink a little lower in my chair. What was my concept again?

'Good morning to our first caller!'

There's a crackle on the line. Gary tries again, 'Hello? Anyone there?'

'Yes, Edith here, my toast just popped so I had to get it,' the voice of an elderly lady breaks through.

Gary glares at the skinny producer in the corner. 'Edith, hello... again.'