What Would You Say

Part Four

The crowd goes deathly quiet as Niall throws a black cape-looking fabric over the stage.  He sashays all across the raised platform before it settles at the centre.  The cape shimmies down and reveals a seemingly plain cardboard poster that is entirely blank.

“What you see here is a blank, blown-up bank cheque,” Niall explains. 

“And if you look under your seats,” Harry takes over, “you will find blank cheques of your own.  And there will be specialised torches just for this.”

The five magicians smirks in that gorgeous way of theirs as each member of the audience reached under their seats to take out the blank cheque and torches.  Liam and Louis make their way towards the other three.  If the audience looked closer, they would see the sly way Liam and Louis’ fingertips brushed against each other.

“Now, before we get down to business,” Liam says, “we would like to show our gratitude to our wonderful and ever-so-generous benefactor, Mr Simon Cowell.”

“Uncle Simon,” Louis continues, “would you kindly do us the honour of coming down to the stage with us?”

A spotlight searches out Simon and trains on him, momentarily blinding him with bright white light.  The middle aged man in a rather tight shirt—too tight for his age group, as one might graciously add—smiles and stands up descend the stairs.

When he is one the stage, Niall pulls him in for a giant bear hug.  The man returns the hug, albeit a touch awkwardly.  Liam pats his back as they beak their hug.

“Now, Uncle Si, I gotta a kinda personal question,” Louis starts with a serious tone that doesn’t suit his personality. “Do you mind telling us how much you have in your bank account?”

“Which one?” Simon asks, laughing.

“The one in this country, if possible please,” Zayn jokes, winking.

“A hundred and twenty million pounds, give or take a few thousand.”

Louis wolf-whistles. “Wow.  That’s more than all of us in this theatre combined will make in our lifetime!”

“I suppose.  The record label helps.”

“Right.  The famous SyCo.” Louis says in a thoughtful tone.

“So, let’s get to it.” Niall says, clapping once. “Do we have a Marie Swan in the audience?”

A young woman with African ethnicity and long inky hair stands up.

“Marie,” Harry practically purrs, curling his tongue with a French accent. “Do you mind telling us how much you have in you bank?”

As soon as she opens her mouth to answer, Liam interrupts. “Actually no.  Could you count from one to ten?”

“One, two, three—”

“Stop, please.  Does your balance start with three?” Liam asks.

“Yes.”

“Count again, please.  But faster.”

“One, two, threefourfivesixseven—”

“Three thousand and seven hundred-something, yes?”

“You’re right!”

“Again please?”

“One, two, three, four, fivesixseveneight—”

“Three thousand seven hundred and eighty six, am I right?”

“Wow, you’re good!”

“Thank you, love; so do you confirm that you do have three thousand and seven hundred eighty-six pounds in your bank account?”