Molly Moon's Incredible Book of Hypnotism (13 page)
Read Molly Moon's Incredible Book of Hypnotism Online
Authors: Georgia Byng
“I’m in Heaven, Heaven’s in me.
I knew I’d get to Heaven eventually.”
Then she put on the robe from the back of the bathroom door. It was way too big for her, but warm and very soft, like the towels in the Cloud Nine ads. She walked over to the windows, this time to look at New
York in daylight. The city buzzed away below and beyond. The buildings looked even bigger and Manhattan seemed to stretch farther. A massive poster, hundreds of feet tall, was stuck on the wall of a skyscraper. It was a giant picture of a woman wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket. Underneath, it said,
“Walk like a giant…. Wear Diva Jeans.”
The giant woman made Molly feel extremely small. An attack of butterflies gathered in her stomach. Since Briersville she’d been riding on a wave of glory, and with a spinning head she’d made her bold plans and left the country. But now, in the morning light, Molly didn’t feel quite as confident as she had the day before. She realized that she knew nothing about this city or its inhabitants. She looked at the New Yorkers, far below on the pavement, who were walking along with purpose and determination. Very few of them were idling or stopping. Molly decided she must learn something about this place before she stepped out into it. But before she did anything, she had to have some breakfast, so she called room service.
Fifteen minutes later a skinny waiter pushed a table on wheels into Molly’s suite. It was laid with a white tablecloth, cutlery, and delicate white china plates, cups, and saucers. Two shiny pots were beside two silver domes that concealed Molly’s breakfast. The
waiter handed Molly a piece of paper. “Sign please, madam,” he said.
Molly signed and the waiter left.
Molly looked at the slip. Her breakfast had cost twenty-five dollars! A second swarm of butterflies, great big Amazonian butterflies, filled her insides. She knew that the hotel bill was going to eat up the rest of her prize money quickly. On top of this, she needed money for life in general. For the little things, like chewing gum, ice cream, cotton candy, and magazines. She couldn’t go around New York hypnotizing everyone for everything, because sooner or later someone would see what she was up to, and then she’d be in big trouble.
Molly’s butterflies turned into tummy rumblings. Deciding to think about her dilemma later, she lifted the silver domes. One plate had a sausage on it. This was Petula’s breakfast. The other had four ketchup sandwiches. In the little silver pot was some purple liquid, and beside it was a note that read:
The Waldorf regrets that in America we do not have orange squash concentrate. We do, however, have Granita, a cherry-flavored syrup to which water or lemonade can be added. We hope that this substitute is satisfactory.
Molly sniffed the Granita and poured some into a glass. It tasted okay. The big silver pot had hot chocolate in it.
Soon Molly and Petula were eating with relish.
After breakfast, Molly bit her ketchupy lip and thought. She should approach this money problem logically. Perhaps the TV would help her. So, putting her new sunglasses on, she and Petula settled down for a marathon viewing session.
Molly flicked through the channels, paying particular attention to the ads. She landed in a nature program. On the screen was a nest with three baby birds in it, all squawking for food. The chick in the middle was much bigger and noisier than the others. The narrator’s voice explained: “The baby cuckoo has hatched in the robins’ nest. And already it is growing faster than the robin chicks.”
The mother robin returned to the nest with a worm. But before the smaller robin chicks had time to have a bite, the cuckoo chick snatched it.
“It’s amazing,” continued the narrator, “how the mother robin thinks the cuckoo chick is her own.” When the mother robin flew off, the cuckoo chick started to hop about. And then, with a firm movement, it pushed first one baby robin chick, and then the other, out of the nest.
Molly gasped. So, cuckoos really
did
push other birds out of the nest. Mrs. Trinklebury’s lullaby rang in her head, making her feel uneasy. Was she like those baby robins? She felt more like the cuckoo, the way she’d pushed her way to winning the Briersville talent money. Mrs. Trinklebury’s song had never made much sense to her. Now it made even less. With a little shudder she switched channels.
By lunchtime Molly’s eyes were feeling rectangular. She’d been surfing the channels for three hours and knew much more about America, but she still didn’t have a clue how she would make any money. As for Rocky, Molly didn’t know where to start looking for him. Like a helium balloon with a hole in it, her spirits were sinking lower and lower. Negative thoughts filled her mind. She must have been crazy to come to America.
She got up and opened the minibar to get a drink. Inside were all sorts of things: tiny bottles of whisky, gin, and vodka, and cartons of fruit juice, water, and Qube, too.
“Be cool, drink Qube,
” sang the ad in her memory. Qube would help her. She certainly did need to cool down; she needed to be Qube cool. So she took a can and cracked it open.
Minty, fruity bubbles fizzed up her nose as she swallowed. And as she glugged, the Qube ad came on the
television screen. It was quite something to be drinking her first full can of Qube, at last, and to be watching the Qube crowd on TV at the same moment. Molly smiled.
“Hey, the world really looks better with a can of Qube in my hand.” The white-toothed man grinned.
“Yeah,” agreed Molly, drinking the rest of her can at once, and making a victory sign with her fingers at the man on the box. Suddenly the world really did look better. Molly felt certain that everything was going to be all right. For a moment she felt just like one of the people on the screen. Then she burped and the feeling was gone. The ad switched to one about wood varnish. Molly was left with an empty can in her hand and lots of bubbles in her stomach.
Molly was startled. She’d actually
believed
that a can of Qube could help sort out her problems. Qube and its people. With Qube by her side, she’d felt sure she’d be more confident and able to charm the world. Instead of feeling cool, though, she felt hot and worried and deflated. Molly felt that her favorite ad people had betrayed her, and in a blinding flash she saw that her infatuation with them and their world had been madness. Why, they were completely unreal.
As she watched the next ad, which featured a boy with a scraped knee, Molly thought that maybe she could get
work as an actress. After all, those people in all the ads weren’t real, they were actors, and there were hundreds of ads. There must be lots of work. Maybe she could even get a part in a Qube ad.
As Molly toyed with this idea, a new program started. A man in an orange suit sat on a pink sofa with a huge spongy microphone in his hand. Behind him a large flashing sign said CHARLIE CHAT’S SHOW. The man had a voice so deep that it sounded as if he gargled with gravel in the mornings.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, as promised, we have her here with us today. Please put your hands together and give a very warm welcome to Broadway’s newest star, Davina Nuttel!”
Molly was surprised to see that Davina Nuttel was a small girl of about eight or nine. As she strode onto the stage, the audience whistled and clapped. She sat down, and the red-haired interviewer, Charlie Chat, boomed, “Well, hi, Davina! It’s just grrrreat to have you on the show!”
“Hi, Charlie, it’s great to be here,” came the sugar-sweet voice of Davina.
“So, Davina, let’s get strrrraight to the point. I’m sure everyone wants to know what it feels like to be the star of a Broadway musical.”
“It feels just great,” said Davina, smiling beautifully.
“I love the songs, I love the dancing, I love the story. I love the other actors, I love the audiences, and I love being in Manhattan.”
“You must have a grrrreat big heart for all that love,” said Charlie Chat, and the audience laughed.
“Well, it’s all great, and everyone should come and see the show.” Davina turned to the audience and beamed out a huge, persuasive grin. Her face gave Molly a jolt. She looked a bit like Hazel.
“Let’s see some of it,” said Charlie Chat. On came a sequence of clips. First there was a picture of the entrance of a grand theater with the title of the show,
Stars on Mars
, written above it in neon lights. A slinky black car pulled up outside, and Davina Nuttel, in a fur coat, got out of it. Then the picture cut to some clips of the show. The stage set looked like the surface of the planet Mars, full of big red rocks. Davina Nuttel was dressed in a shining red astronaut’s suit and was tap dancing and singing. It was a space musical. More clips were shown of other parts of the show, one where four large Mars monsters tried to attack Davina. Petula dropped the stone she was sucking and growled at the Martians.
The Chat show audience clapped, and Molly felt some of the thrill she’d felt on the Briersville stage when her audience had applauded her.
“My goodness, that cerrrrtainly was something,” said Charlie Chat.
“Thank you. You know I owe just about everything to my caring, wonderful, self-sacrificing mom and dad.”
“Aahhh,” said the audience.
“And,” said Davina, “to my manager, Barry Bragg.”
“Ah yes,” said Charlie Chat. “And here he is!”
On the screen appeared a man with a center part and combed-down, gelled hair. He had red cheeks and wore a checkered suit and a pair of red spectacles.
“Hi there, Davina and Charlie!” he said.
“Hi, Barry!” cried Davina Nuttel.
“So Barrrrrry, everyone here wants to know, how did you discover Davina?”
“Well, she just walked straight into my Manhattan offices on Derry Street,” said bow tied Barry enthusiastically, “and she bowled me over. You all know how she sings and dances. Well, she just came into my offices and she sang and danced around the room like the li’l bit of magic that she is. It was obvious to me that she was going to be a star, so I introduced her to the director of
Stars on Mars,
and, well, a hit and a half later, here we are.”
Davina laughed, shaking her golden locks playfully. “My lucky stars were out the day I met you, Barry.” She turned to Charlie Chat. “I mean, Barry knows
everyone
in show business.”
The program continued, and Molly watched bright-eyed people come and go. She realized that she really did fancy being an actress for a bit, but not in the ads. They seemed very superficial compared to singing and dancing in front of a live audience. She’d enjoyed all that adulation and applause on the stage in Briersville, and she’d like to experience it again. She bet actors like Davina got paid a lot. Perhaps this manager, Barry Bragg, would be a good person to meet. Acting would be a challenge, but Molly felt sure she could rise to the occasion, especially with her new skills. And what had Rocky said? That she never tried at anything? She would prove him absolutely wrong.
She got up and stretched. Petula did the same. Molly felt as if she’d found a solution. This Barry Bragg, whose office was on Derry Street, wherever that was, could help to sort her out.
As she got dressed, she hummed along to a number from
Stars on Mars.
It really was a catchy tune, and Molly thought what fun it must be to star in a Broadway show.
Molly put on her T-shirt and her old, holey sweater. She pulled on her worn-out short gray skirt, she brushed her curly hair, and she looked at her peculiar face in the mirror, wrinkling her potato nose at her reflection. She locked her hypnotism book in the room’s safe, then grabbed her jacket and whistled to Petula.
“Come on, Petula. Let’s go and get a slice of the action!”
With her own destiny at the front of her mind, and leaving all thoughts of Rocky behind her, Molly left the hotel room.
I
t was scary stepping out of the quiet, snazzy hotel into the busy, dirty streets of Manhattan. Hot dogs, onions, bagels, roasted peanuts, coffee, pretzels, burgers, and pickles filled the air with their aromas. And everywhere there was movement—of people and of traffic. Molly had never seen such a mixture of people in one place; all colors and all kinds. There were the biggest, fattest people she’d ever seen walking past the thinnest. New Yorkers seemed to dress exactly how they felt, without caring what anyone else thought. Molly saw a guy dressed in cowboy chaps swaggering past a woman dressed in sparkly pink hot pants. Molly imagined Mrs. Toadley in a pair of them and smiled, and she thought how Miss Adderstone could walk down the street here in her snipped-up suit, with her knickers
on her head, and everyone would just think it was a new fashion.
For a moment Molly felt very small and unsteady, but then a hotel porter appeared beside her in his brown-and-gold uniform. “Cab, ma’am?”
“Er, yes, please,” said Molly. The porter opened the door to another rattly yellow cab, this time driven by a guy with a thick black moustache.
“Where ya wanna go, ladee?” he said.
“Derry Street,” said Molly as firmly as possible. She and Petula climbed in, and a different taped voice under her seat said, “Meoooow, cats have nine lives, but you don’t, so buckle up.” Molly didn’t need to be reminded, as this driver drove like a madman. They skidded away from the hotel and down one of the main streets that went south through Manhattan. LEXINGTON AVENUE, said a sign, and the driver slalomed down it as if he were in a computer game, laughing like a lunatic every time he nearly hit another car. Molly gripped the seat, and Petula sank her claws into the vinyl.
Above them, on either side, enormous skyscrapers shot upward, great walls of glass and steel. At street level, billowing clouds of steam rose up through grates in the pavements.
Molly looked at the map on the back of her driver’s seat. It was a plan of Manhattan, and she saw that
although most of the streets were named by number, at the bottom end of the island the streets had names, as in other cities. Indeed, twenty minutes and thirteen dollars later, Molly and Petula had arrived in the maze of these streets and been dropped off on the one called Derry. It was a street full of brownstone buildings, more the size of buildings in Briersville, although they still had a distinctly city feeling about them. Molly and Petula picked their way along, looking at names on doorbells. At last they came to a polished bronze sign that said THE BARRY BRAGG AGENCY. Molly was relieved that finding Mr. Bragg had been so simple, although it did mean that now there was no putting off meeting him. She straightened her skirt, took a deep breath, and pressed the buzzer.
“Hello-o,” said a squeaky woman’s voice on the intercom. “Can I help?”
“I’ve come to see Barry Bragg.”
“Come on up to the fifth floor.” The door buzzed open. Molly and Petula stepped inside into a dark, mirror-lined lobby that smelled of oranges and vanilla. They crossed its shiny stone floor to a small elevator. Soon they were at the fifth floor.
“Good morning,” said the receptionist, who looked like a Barbie doll. She cast her black-lashed eyes over Molly, registering her scruffy clothes. Then she noticed Petula. “Ah, so it’s a dog act, is it?”
“No.”
The receptionist looked in Mr. Bragg’s calendar. “I wasn’t expecting anyone this morning,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes,” said Molly, thinking of how she’d made up her mind to see Barry Bragg after watching him on TV. “Yes. I made my appointment in person, with Mr. Bragg, this morning.”
“Oh, I see,” said the receptionist. It didn’t cross her mind that Molly might be lying. “Mr. Bragg will be out in a minute. Please take a seat.”
Molly sat down to wait. She and Petula watched, fascinated, as the secretary took out a makeup box the size of a tool kit and spent ten minutes painting her very pouty lips.
“Well, thank you for coming,” came Barry Bragg’s treacly voice. His office door opened. A young boy with a big duck puppet emerged with his parents. They were all smiling.
“Well, thank you for seeing us,” said the mother. “Shall I call you?”
“He was fabulous, fabulous, fabulous,” said Barry Bragg. “But don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the boy, and his duck said, “Tankya, mister!”
“Oh, Jimmy…. He’s unstoppable,” said his father proudly.
“I see, I see,” said Barry Bragg, laughing loudly. “Well, good-bye—and keep practicing.”
The visitors left. Barry Bragg loosened his pink bow tie and breathed a sigh of relief. “Gee whiz, talk about a tired act.” Then he noticed Molly. “Who are you?” he asked, frowning.
“She said she’d made an appointment with you,” explained the receptionist, realizing slowly that she’d been duped.
Molly nodded, steeling herself for what she was about to do.
“No … parents?” asked Barry.
“No,” said Molly.
“Well, how refreshing!” exclaimed Barry Bragg. “I tell you, the worst part of this job is the parents. Pushy parents. They’re the bane of my life. Gee, a kid on its own is welcome! Come in!”
This was the first time that having no parents had been to Molly’s advantage. “Thank you, Mr. Bragg,” she said as she stepped into his purple-and-gold office.
“So,” said Barry Bragg, eyeing Molly’s scruffy outfit as he sat down on his desk. “What kind of act you got? Some sort of Cinderella thing? I like the raggy getup—it’s got real authenticity!” He opened a cigar box. As he lifted its lid, it started to sing “You’ve Got to Pick-a-Pocket or Two.” He selected a short, fat cigar and bit
the end off, spitting it out behind him, and picked up a lighter shaped like Charlie Chaplin. A flame came out of Chaplin’s hat, and after sucking and puffing cigar smoke into the room, he said, “Okay, kid, let’s see what you can do.”
As the smoke cleared, he turned his blue eyes toward Molly. She was holding a pendulum, which she was swinging slowly backward and forward, backward and forward, and her soft voice was saying, “Just look at this.”
“Oh, so it’s a hypno …” Barry Bragg tried to finish his sentence but couldn’t remember what he was going to say. The pendulum was so beautiful to watch. Its middle was a strangely spinning spiral that drew him toward it. “That’s beautif …” No more words seemed able to leave his mouth, but he didn’t mind at all.
Molly slowly stopped the pendulum swinging and said calmly, “Look into my eyes.”
That was it. Molly’s green eyes zonked Barry within seconds, and Molly set to work.
“Barry, you are now under my command, and you will do whatever I tell you, is that understood?” Barry nodded. Molly smiled. “First thing, I want you to put out that cigar….”
Half an hour later, Barry was talking enthusiastically on the phone. “I’m tellin’ ya, Rixey, she’s fabulous.
You just gotta come see her.”
After a quick cab ride from her apartment, the producer and director of
Stars on Mars
arrived at the Derry Street office. Her name was Rixey Bloomy and she was one of New York’s hottest personalities. She was thirty-six years old and was the most expensively dressed woman Molly had ever seen. She wore a black-leather trouser suit and zebra-skin ankle boots, and carried a matching furry handbag. Her hair was as bouncy as if she had just walked out of a shampoo commercial, her lips were plump and luscious (they had been plumped up by one of New York’s top plastic surgeons), and her eyes were searingly blue. She looked suspiciously at Molly.
“Well, Barry, I know you brought me Davina,” said Rixey Bloomy, “but, honey, this girl’s no looker. Look at her blotchy legs. Sweetie, I think you’re losing your touch.”
“She’s great, she’s great,” insisted Barry. “Even Molly will admit that she’s no beauty queen, but don’t you see, there’s something about her. She’s magic.”
Rixey Bloomy looked astonished.
“Shall I show you what I can do?” suggested Molly.
Within the time it takes to sharpen a couple of pencils, both Rixey and Barry were gazing glazy eyed at her.
“So what I want,” Molly instructed, “is a part in a big
musical here in New York, and I want one that pays well. What have you got?”
“Nothing,” said Rixey Bloomy, her head swaying. “All the—shows we’re—doing have—adult parts in—them.”
Molly faltered. There
must
be some big acting job out there that she could take. She wanted one. More than that, she needed one. She simply had to get some money.
Then she saw Davina Nuttel’s picture on the wall. Molly was reminded again of Hazel. Davina had the same spiteful glint in her eye. Memories of Hazel being mean fired through Molly’s mind.
“Right, then I’ll have Davina Nuttel’s part in
Stars on Mars
,” she said.
“If you—say so,” said Rixey.
“Good,” said Molly. “I’ll learn her songs, I’ll learn her dances … oh, and I want my dog in the show.”
“There—are—no—parts—for—dogs—the—show’s—set—on—Mars,” said Rixey Bloomy.
“Well,
make
her a part,” said Molly. “And design Petula some astronaut outfits.” Petula looked at Molly as if she liked this idea. “And,” continued Molly, “I’ll need all the bills at my hotel paid for I want to get paid
twice
as much as Davina Nuttel. Er, how much will that be?”
“Forty—thousand—dollars a—month.”
“Mmnn.” Molly gulped. “Yes, well, that is the
amount you must pay me. And I want loads of new clothes, because as you can see, mine are a bit shabby, and I’d like a chauffeur-driven car that waits for me at all times, and while you’re at it, make that a Rolls-Royce. And I want a never-ending supply of candy. I’ll tell you which ones I like later. And here’s something
very
important. I
must
meet all the people in the show separately, before we start working, and
all
the people who work behind the scenes, and I really mean
all
of them…. Is that clear?”
The two New Yorkers nodded.
“Lastly, I don’t want to meet Davina Nuttel. Have you got some other show you can put her in?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, never mind…. And why do I want all this?” asked Molly, leaning back in her chair to look proudly at her puppet creations.
“Because you are the most talented kid ever to have hit Broadway.” Barry sighed.
“Because you’re pure genius.” Rixey Bloomy nodded.
Molly shivered inside. This was going to be a mammoth challenge. She hoped she was up to it.