Sir Conan Digby, in danger of swallowing his cigar.
‘The project is just about shovel-ready!’ Slew said as he took his seat and opened his briefcase. ‘No problemo!
‘No what-o?’ Sir Conan Digby looked murderously angry.
‘Except for one possible irritation,’ continued Dwayne B. Slew. ‘An irritation which I will soon have totally under control. Totally. Absolutely. Under control. Yes, shovel-ready! Any day now we send in the bulldozers. And then it’s farewell, goodbye, adios to a bunch of brats who think––’
‘What the devil are you talking about, Clew?’ the irritable old knight barked.
‘Slew.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Really not a problem at all, Sir. Just a bunch of hick kids who think they can sabotage my ... our ... development. Don’t worry. I have the matter fully in hand. Under complete control. I’ve got them thrashed before they even start. Here’s what we do going forward, okay?’
The Sales Supremo spread his marketing plan out on the boardroom table.
Sir Conan Digby sighed and reached for another cigar.
Conan Digby Jnr sighed and reached for his iPod.
SHOOTING THE PROMO
‘Cut!’ yells Jack. ‘Let’s start again and jeez, Zanth, can you just keep your hands in your pockets? Stop waving ‘em around everywhere. Act natural. Don’t be ... you know .... don’t be so––'
‘Interesting?’
Xanthe fluttered her eyelashes and sighed. It was a theatrical gesture. She was aware she had killer eyelashes. And on a girl with fair hair, thick dark eyelashes were unusual her father reckoned. He told her she got them from her mother, an exotic creature. But her green eyes she had inherited from her Dad’s side of the family. The Irish. Although his were brown.
‘Yeah, try not to be so interesting. It’s dorky. Be cool,’ said Jack.
'Cool, he says?' Xanthe raised an eyebrow and stared at her friend. 'Mr Big Time Cameraman Jack Nolan giving the orders now, hey? But what if I hadn’t thought this whole thing up? We wouldn’t even be here in the park, making this video.'
‘Whatever.’
'Well, if your’re the big-time cameraman then, okay, I’m the star.'
'Whatever. Camera’s rolling! Start walking towards me, Zanth. Slow and steady.’
Xanthe stuck her hands in the pockets of her cargo pants and smiled with attitude. 'Everyone says I look like a guerrilla in these baggy old cargos and black shirt. And, by the way, that’s not a gor-illa... like at Taronga Zoo. Gue-rrillas don’t live in zoos. They live up in the mountains and fight the bad guys down in the cities.' She paused for a moment then shrugged. 'I guess that’s kind of what we’re doing, anyway, when you think about it.'
'Stick to the script, please, Zanth?’
Xanthe looked down the lens. ‘Parents!’ she said as she walked to camera, hands in pockets and rolling her eyes to heaven. ‘Where on earth do they dig up these names?’ She spelled it out slowly, ‘X.A.N.T.H.E. That’s what mine named me. But in case you’re going by the spelling, forget it! It’s not like it’s ‘Ex-anth’ or anything. The Ex is like actually a Zed. Duh! And the little ‘e’ at the end actually comes out like a double ee! So, to get to the point, my name is Xanthe, pronounced ‘Zanthy’. Hello. I’m Xanthe Madonna O’Rourke. Welcome to Glencairn Island.’
‘Cut!’ said Jacko.
‘Show us, Jacko.’ Xanthe leant over his shoulder and looked at the tiny screen on her father’s camera. ‘Ummm. Not bad.’ She tossed her hair back over her shoulders and walked off to catch up with her water bottle, pleased with her performance and ignoring the look Jack was giving her.
‘Stop your day-dreaming Zanth,’ said Jack. ‘Come back. Hurry up. Let’s get you finished. We haven’t got all day.’
'Do you want to know the biographical details?' Xanthe said to camera.
Jack, tracking towards her, gave his star a thumbs up.
'I guess you do. Well, I am a native of Glencairn Island and that’s just another way of saying I’m from Sydney because our island is just over an hour’s drive from the city but it’s nothing like the way most kids in Sydney live. Let’s face it, it’s an island. And the Xanthe thing? Well, my mother...'
There was a pause. Xanthe looked down at her feet. It seemed she had forgotten her lines.
'You okay?' asked Jack.
Xanthe looked back up at Jack and nodded. 'Sure.' She continued. 'A long time ago, my mother told me that Xanthe, in the Greek language, means "golden haired warrior-woman".'
'Like, hello, who’s Greek around here?' Zoran called out from the sidelines. '"O’Rourke"? I don’t think so?'
'I can live with Warrior Woman, you dork,' Xanthe muttered under her breath.
'Let’s keep it going, Zanth,' said Jack.
'Do you want me sitting on the sea wall, or standing in front of the rockery? I could be casually admiring the orange pig-face blossoms?'
‘Your call.’ Jack was looking into his camera lens and changing his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I’m ready when you are.’
Xanthe took a deep breath and smiled for the camera. ‘When I was young, I thought I would become a soldier because of my name and all that. Golden Haired Warrior Woman. Like, I am golden-haired, and I do think I’d make a great warrior.’
She dropped down off the seawall and strolled over to the rockery where she plucked an orange pig-face blossom. Coming in closer to the camera, she continued. ‘But living on beautiful Glencairn Island...’
She flung both arms wide. ‘... makes me think there’s much more to write about than to fight about. So, I’m going to become an author and film director, instead.’ She bent her head and brought the flower up to her nose. ‘Yuk!’ It’s so gross!’ She hurled it to the ground and rubbed the sticky white goo on the backside of her cargos.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jack dropped the camera to his side and shook his head.
Xanthe could see Jack just wanted her using the words in her script instead of all the made-up stuff she was coming up with but once you know you’re on camera, thought Xanthe, it all gets jumbled. A bit like when you leave a phone message, the way you just run off at the mouth and then you want to rub it out and start all over again. It’s like that when they tell you the camera’s rolling, she felt.
'Okay, I’m ready, so back to the script. Sorry, Jacko.' She smiled for the camera. ‘Let me tell you ...’ she said in her best rehearsed voice, ‘... about how incredible this place is. We have no roads on the island, just dirt tracks winding all over the place. There are no factories, footpaths, streetlights, parking areas. Best of all, there are
